Lillian walked in, delayed from the unreliability of the metro, fingers fidgeting on her lap as she anxiously awaited the reprimand sure to come from her boss, who was sporting a stern lip.
Another finger, interlocking with hers underneath the heavy circular table stilled her heartbeat, reducing it from an ever increasing staccato, down – maybe not down to, but attempting to reach legato. The boy next to her juxtaposed her boss perfectly – his small twitching smile and tousled light hair as opposed to the furrowed brow and neatly combed opaque hair of Aaron Hotchner. The natural entrapment of Spencer Reid’s harmonious nature kept her undisturbed by her reprimand, and she readied herself for the presentation of the case by a colourful – in appearance and personality – Penelope Garcia.
Despite her proportionate lack of anxiety compared to 15 minutes before, Spencer’s large hand remained intertwined with hers, kept under the table discretely as he confidently stated facts and statistics that correlated with the case. It remained there, as she listened to Garcia explain how 4 people, 3 women and 1 man, all of high-risk nature had been reported missing over the course of several days. It fidgeted with her rings, as Garcia continued to explain how the bodies had been left on the boundary of the woods, unceremoniously dumped with no indication of care, or remorse for the violence. She felt light traces of circles and figure of eights in her palm as the self-assured and bold voice of Derek Morgan took over from Garcia to explain how each victim had signs of extreme blunt force trauma, and sexual assault. Each movement over her hands aided her in not becoming overwhelmed by the violent acts being depicted on the screens ahead of the table.
The case sent them beyond the state line, over to California, where by the 3rd day, Lillian discarded her blazer, instead opting for a structured white shirt, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and tan neat trousers that attempted to keep her cool. A pair of sunglasses with thin gold frames laid on her nose, sliding down from the decided instability of her makeup in the sun, shielding her eyes from the glare.
Next to her, a rare sight was observed, Spencer had ditched the cardigan, and had followed her lead and similarly moved his sleeves up from around his wrists, his own dark sunglasses perched on his face.
Lillian was aware that Spencer was not bad-looking. She never thought he had been. However, confidently, in this moment, she could boldly state that Spencer Reid was hot.
For someone who so adamantly hated physical education, enough to grant him exceptions from the required levels of it for their job, his forearms peeking out from his sleeves painted an entirely different story. Perhaps over the last half a decade the number of hours in the field had upped his stamina, but the only mentally coherent thought Lillian could express in her mind was a subtle desperation to see if underneath his shirt there was a similar situation.
The positively mind-numbing job of waiting besides the alley the victims were kidnapped, in case the unsub revisited, combined with the scorching heat, was Lillian’s justification for the unequivocally raunchy thoughts flashing through her mind. She only hoped she wasn’t outwardly indicating them. She wasn’t sure quite how Spencer would react if her knew of her daydreams; them sweltering, less because of the heat, more because his tender hands tracing across her stomach, skimming across the top of her underwear, his lips attached to her neck, moving from her shoulder, to her collarbone, across her jaw to that sweet spot just behind the ear, coaxing a gasp from her lips.
“Are you okay?” spoke the concerned voice of Spencer, a hand on her shoulder – far too close to her neck – jolting her from her own mind.
“Oh, sorry, yes I’m fine. Think the heat is just getting to me” she relayed back, cheeks ablaze as if she had just been caught red-handed.
“This is pointless. The unsub made minimal effort to hide the bodies, he knew they would be found within 48 hours, him revisiting isn’t on his agenda. I’ll call Hotch and see if we can help JJ and Prentiss with their lead from the financial records Garcia pulled” he announced, eyes flicking to her, waiting for her to turn the ignition and begin the agonizingly concentration-requiring journey across town.
Lillian and Spencer were by far the closest out of anyone on the team, normally chatting away to each other at every given opportunity, resulting in multiple light ‘ahem’s’ from Hotch when he deemed them both veering off topic. This nature was not present in the car as she drove, him worryingly glancing at her, and her lack of conversation as she felt the air in the car becoming slightly too stuffy to breathe.
The fresh breath of air she inhaled as she reached the police station where the rest of the team were situated jolted her back to reality, each one sharing their findings from the morning to each other. A profile was quickly assembled, an arrest was made, the team all joyous from the uncannily quick case, all eager to celebrate.
The evenings celebrations took them to a bar in the city, a short walk from the average hotel they had been residing for the last few days, each person holding a drink Rossi had bought individually suited to them. Rossi, a top shelf Whiskey that he had also adamantly forced Hotch to join him with. JJ sporting a glass of white, complimented by Emily with red. Morgan with a beer in each hand, Garcia producing a highly flamboyant and highly alcoholic cocktail, completed with an umbrella perched on top. Lillian had somehow managed to convince her strait-laced Spence to join her in an Espresso Martini, his caffeine addiction swaying him into accepting the glass, possibly helped by the lack of burning aftertaste due to Rossi’s insistence on Grey Goose vodka making an appearance, rather than the cheap Smirnoff Lillian was used to.
1 glass followed another, which followed another, and soon there was not only swaying on the dance floor, but Lillian’s in vision as she erupted in giggles every time Hotch made a subtle, uncharacteristically dirty joke. Spencer was not far behind her, 3 buttons having slipped open to expose his collarbones, hair all over the place as if someone had frantically run their hands through it.
God, she wished she could run her hands through it.
That thought, which was not a thought, was supposed to remain inside her head, and not be vodka-inducidly expressed, directly to Spencer.
To his credit, she did not receive a recoil in fear, or a look of extreme discomfort. Instead, whilst the team had meandered off getting drinks, dancing, or just becoming entirely missing in the case of JJ and Emily, she was sat at the slightly hidden table, body thoroughly too close to Spencer’s as she ran her fingers through his curly locks.
Although she had had enough drinks to brazenly touch his hair, she was not so blackout drunk that she failed to see the darkening of his irises, blending with his pupils, or the slight openness of his mouth as he struggled to bring in more oxygen to counteract his rosy cheeks or the suffocating tension between the pair.
The tension seemed to exacerbate her current state, as she daringly made a comment that decidedly did not release the strain.
“You looked incredibly hot today”.
This was followed by a rapid realisation, and a quick stuttering sentence that followed:
“Not like, only today, obviously you always look good, but not in a weird way – like you’re not ugly –“
A laugh interrupted this vomit of communication, and a smirk adorned the face of the boy – a handful of years ago so full of stutters and shyness, now somehow entirely unbashful and flirtatious, quite potentially exaggerated by the alcohol consumed.
The look in his eyes, accompanied by this comment sent her spinning into embarrassment, but somehow unable to tear her vision away from the hold his eyes maintained with hers. The only exception to this tethered link, was when his eyes glanced to her lips, a contagious action that she subconsciously reciprocated. Whilst the tension between the pair had reached unmanageable levels, instead of the awkward breakaway and unspoken promise to never speak about this again, a sentence broke from his lips that she wholly did not expect.
“You should be kissed and often, and by someone who knows how”.
The sheer shock of hearing that particular quote be in admission during this moment, kept her frozen. Not only due to the implications it held, but by his utter confidence as he seemingly considered himself ‘someone who knows how’. Somehow, she managed to stutter out a meek “G-gone with the wind”, as if her repeating the source of this quote would somehow aid her in the solution to her current predicament.
In some such way, a spout of courage, sourced from either her adrenal gland or the martini she took a large gulp from, flooded her veins.
“A kiss may ruin a human life”.
Spencer had barely managed to utter the name “Oscar Wilde” before his lips found hers, heatedly kissing her, the strong arms she had admired earlier wrapping around her waist, her fingers he had paid such attention to back in Quantico threading through his hair.
The light swipe of his tongue against her bottom lip coaxed a small noise to emit from her throat, startling her into the realisation of their very public nature.
She felt his hand enclose hers, as Spencer tugged her towards the exit, stopping quickly beside the wall just outside the doors. She felt her back hit the bricks, not registering any pain, too distracted by the attachment of his lips in an all too familiar place, her shoulder, her collarbone, her jaw, behind her ear. She had never felt so thankful for the small thin straps of the figure-hugging dress she had worn for this humid evening.
The very physical reminder of her earlier daydream spurred the wandering of her hands underneath the hem of his shirt, tracing the absolutely distinct structure of his abdomen, pleasantly confirming her previous suspicions. It was milliseconds after she felt the ghost of his hand up her short dress that she felt him pull away slightly.
Before she could begin to get insecure or distressed about the implications of his pulling away, he spoke:
“The hotel room is 280 feet away, accounting for both of our current intoxication levels, that’s approximately 3.73 minutes, 4.72 counting to my hotel room door”.
With a broad, mischievous grin adorning her face she teased “Spencer Reid are you trying to take me back to your hotel room”.
For the first time in many years, Dr. Spencer Reid’s math was wrong. He did not account for the motivation they both had to take them that 280 feet, and they reached his hotel room door in 3.23 minutes.