Spencer had come to stay over, because the case he'd been on was so horrific he couldn't even talk about it. He just showered for the better part of an hour, swallowed the soup she made him as if he didn't even taste it, and then he curled up in bed so she could wrap herself around him.

She'd always been the big spoon - even the first time they slept together, back in her big, airy bedroom in the Professor's house in Pasadena, in a big bed with a duckdown quilt and sheer drapes over the windows to let in the breeze, he'd curled up so she could wrap her arms and legs around him, with his face tucked against her neck and those long hands pressed flat to her back. Since coming home from overseas, since losing her leg, she'd felt like she wasn't really up to the task, but Spencer had gotten good at tucking himself under her left leg and pressing his face to her neck so that part of his cheek was against her scars, so she didn't feel like he was avoiding them (hard, with his hands smoothed over her back, or his chest pressed to the wreck of her breasts), but nuzzling his nose to the unscarred skin of her throat so she could really feel it.

She woke up alone, though, and the bathroom was still a little steamy and there was a fresh pot of coffee in the kitchen, so she figured he hadn't been gone long. She had today off, had all week off because she had a whole bunch of hospital appointments for her scars and her breasts and a new prosthetic to get through, and it was simpler to just take a few days off and do them all together, and Spencer should have had today off after being away on such a tough case, but he'd obviously been called in.

Last time she'd lived in DC, it had only been for three months, so she hadn't had a chance to figure out Spencer's schedule - her own was pretty simple now, she hadn't been cleared for field duty and probably wouldn't be, ever, between her leg and the way her scars limited her mobility, and probably would even after she had some of them removed, so she was on a strict nine-to-five, barring emergencies that required her expertise.

When they needed someone to talk down a suicide bomber or ideologue, in other words. That PhD in psychology was coming back to bite her in the ass all the damn time the past six weeks or so, cutting into her rehab time, her time with Spencer, stealing away her weekends so she couldn't visit Mom and Benjamin. It was good work - amazing work, she was making a real difference, and was in a lot less danger than she had been overseas, or even than she had been in the New York office or in LA, but it still felt unfair. She'd already lost so much to this damn job, and they'd given her a desk job as a reward... And then taken back that reward, because her damn doctorate was just too valuable.

"I'm going to find a teaching job," she grumbled at the potted rose Mom had given her as a housewarming gift. It was one of those weird hybrids, the same purple that Spencer used to wear all the time, and it left the sweetest scent in the kitchen whenever Spencer wasn't around, drowning out the smell of everything else with the tar he called coffee. "And when I do, I'll have weekends off to visit Mom and Ben, and I can pick up hobbies. Maybe I'll even learn to cook - when was the last time Spencer or me actually cooked a meal for one another?"

When she had eaten, and showered, and fully woken up, she was a little embarrassed to have been talking about her life to her pot plant.

"Looking good," the doctor said. "Going on your latest round of tests, the reconstruction surgery is a very distinct possibility in the near future - a little more time with your dermatologist, though. To make sure the scarring is healed fully, even the deep scarring."

Marianne rolled her eyes, pulling back on her bra - one of those ugly mastectomy bras, because even if she hadn't had an actual mastectomy, the scarring had left her in more or less the same condition as if she had done - and then her shirt before hopping down off the table. The docs here in DC were much nicer and more considerate than the medical team had been overseas (Say "in Iraq," Marianne, her therapists voice echoed in her head, stop distancing yourself from your trauma, it won't help), but she supposed that was understandable. The doctors here had the time and space and lack of artillery attacks necessary to give each patient a quiet, calm environment in which to heal, whereas the medics back overseas were more or less operating one big emergency room, all the time.

"So I'll have boobs for Christmas?" she said, straightening her hem and scooping up her purse. "Because honestly, doc, they'd do a lot for my self-esteem."

Spencer had done a lot for her self-esteem, too, but it was unhealthy to base your self-image completely on one person's perception. Even someone as perceptive as Spencer.

And then her phone rang.

Reid's girl was pacing in the waiting area when Derek came to look for news about the kid - in those boots, she was just about as tall as Reid, and looked a lot better rested than she had the last time Derek'd seen her.

"Well hello, Miss Marianne," he said, putting up his hands when she spun and her hands went for the gun on her hip. "Fancy seeing you here."

"They wouldn't- All they said was that Spencer was hurt," she said, her hands scary-still at her sides and a muscle in her jaw tick-tick-ticking away. "What happened to him, Derek Morgan? What did you let happen to him?"

"Hey now," he said, crossing his arms. "We didn't let anything happen to him-"

"Spencer is a capable field agent," she cut in. "He's smart and he's a better shot than anyone gives him credit for, and he's a lot stronger and fitter than he gives himself credit for, but he has the self-preservation instincts of a goddamn chicken. So I'll ask again. What did you let happen to him?"

"He got between the UnSub and his target. Took a bullet to the knee. He's going to be fine, Goodwin, you know he is."

"I don't- I don't know anything right now," she said, digging into her enormous purse to take out a card. "Call me as soon as he's out of surgery, I have to- I have to go. I have to go."

She pressed the card into his hand and took off before he could say no, wait, Hotch is dying downstairs, and he was left wondering just how long ago Reid's girl had picked up all those physical scars, because she sure as hell hadn't healed up psychologically.

"Hey, asshole," Spencer heard as he drifted awake. No narcotics, he thought, horrified by the too-familiar warmth and numbness of everything but Marianne's tight grip on his hand. "Come on, Spencer, wake up. Let me know you're okay."

He opened his eyes, more or less, and turned his head to look at her. She'd been crying, and her cheeks were still hot when she raised his hand up to kiss it.

"I was so afraid when they told me you'd been hurt, Spencer," she said softly, shifting her chair closer. "I thought- I was so sure-"

"Hey," he said, patting the bed beside him - trust Marianne to stay on his right side, away from his bad leg, so she could climb up beside him and tuck herself around him without hurting him. "I'm fine - I have a couple of screws in there but I am good."

She leaned up so her mouth was at her ear, and if he wasn't kind of high right now he would be so into that.

"It doesn't count if there's a medical purpose," she whispered, stroking her fingers up and down his throat. "You're still on track, Spencer, I promise."

She'd know - she'd been drugged into oblivion just to get her home from overseas, and he knew that had been hard on her. She'd assured him that she'd squared everything with her sponsor, and he knew better than to ask, so he'd left her to her own devices. He'd trusted her, just like she trusted him.

"You look really hot today," he told her, feeling really sleepy. "I like your boots."

"No sex until your leg heals up," she whispered, and he could feel her smiling against his ear. "Not unless we get really creative."

Spencer's mind bloomed with all kinds of creative scenarios, and he fell asleep smiling.

Derek found Miss Marianne in the kid's room when he came back from sitting vigil with Hotch, just like he'd guessed he would. She was sitting by his bed, real leg crossed over the prosthetic and a book in some language that wasn't English in her hands.

"Hebrew," she said, noticing his look, smiling a little as she took off her glasses. "My mom's a professor of Hebrew Studies, I'm Jewish and a genius - it was the second language I learned, after English. First was Latin."

Yep, definitely Reid's kind of girl.

"I'm sorry about earlier," she said, marking her place in the book with what looked a lot like an AA coin. But that wasn't any of his business. "I didn't mean to- to snap at you like that. PTSD. Sorry."

"Wanna talk about it?"

"Can't," she said, shrugging. "Counter-terrorism, remember? It's all confidential. But I, uh, I lost my whole team when I lost my leg. All six of us were travelling together with two Marines as an escort, and I was the only one to get out. Ten months ago. I spent four in hospital, then three as an outpatient in a physical therapy centre here in DC. I've only been back to work three months. Desk job, because they can't send me into the field anymore."

"Well," Derek said, pulling up the other chair and settling in with his coffee, "you ever want to talk around it, just let me know."