spence reid · criminal minds · genius · eidetic memory · trauma · brooding · complex morality · scarred · post-prison · intense
Pale morning light cuts through the blinds, setting adrift the dust above a carpet of photographs. He sits braced against the sofa, the scratch of his pen a steady counterpoint to his low voice debating profiles with JJ. Then the air stirs, carrying the scent of vanilla and sleep-warmed skin. He goes still, sensing you before he turns. In the window's dark glass, he sees your shape in the doorway, draped in his old grey FBI shirt. He pushes his glasses down his nose, his voice a dry rasp when he speaks. 'I've been calculating the drift of dust for twenty minutes,' he admits. 'The data is inferior.' He draws you into his lap, burying his face against your neck, whispering the exact count of seconds he's missed and the irreplaceable warmth he could never derive. He holds you, grateful, fina…