mia @lukewearingbeanies - Tumblr Blog

over heels 🕊️

summary: a gideon hasn’t stepped foot in the BAU since jason disappeared. you’re his niece, fresh on the job, and you step in carefully and calibrated with steady shoes and an intention to separate yourself. you expect to see a singular face you know and for your last name to precede you. what you don’t expect is to spend the whole day almost meeting a man in scuffed Converse and then learning, right on your way out, that that man is the face of a name you’ve already known for years.

genre: angst (kind of, not really? near genre-less intro chapter lol)

w/c: 5.5k

tags/warnings: reader is jason gideon's niece, reader's first day at the BAU, derek morgan being a flirt as his natural base state but dw he and reader are NOT and never will be interested in each other, being lowkey rude to spencer reid and then dipping, mentions of gideon's disappearance and Ruminating On It Against Reader's Will ™️, ignoring emotions, no use of y/n

a/n: here she comes world, pls be kind to her... gideon!reader you are already so loved by me <3 i'm soooo excited to finally share chapter one after sharing the meet the reader post like six weeks ago lol. intro chapter! meeting everybody! let's get it started!!!

gideon!reader masterlist 🕊️

The first time you wore heels - real ones, with the small, skinny stiletto, the ones that take some effort - you were nineteen. A college student, going on a first date to a restaurant just off campus, and you were wearing classic black heels your mother had gifted you for your birthday earlier in the year. Simple. Normal. Easy.

You met him at the restaurant, the heels in your bag. Changing into them just around the corner made the most sense. You took five steps rounding the curb before losing your balance and slamming your thigh into the corner of a small, metal table. He wasn’t looking, thank god he wasn’t looking - and you wobbled your way slowly, painfully to the front where he was standing. You said hello, you hugged, he said your dress looked nice.

Your dress. And he hadn’t even glanced down at your shoes once. You’d know - you’ve known your entire life how to track a person’s eyes without ever intending to know it, one of many things you learned to notice and never unlearned - and the heels didn’t even register to him. You hobbled, endured a few hours of arch pain, and collected a bruise on your leg for nothing, and doing things for nothing was never something you were particularly good at.

The heels made their way back into your bag just around the same corner and into the depths of your closet on campus. They followed you move after move, apartment after apartment, just in case you needed them; your mom always said it was good to have a reliable pair of simple heels on hand, just in case. Your uncle always preferred to stick to the same three pairs of shoes. These ones know my feet, he would say. You have a closet full of shoes - way too many pairs of overworn sneakers, boots for any occasion, a ratty pair of flats when the occasion requires something a little more formal - and you never understood what he meant by that sentiment more than after that date.

The last time you wore heels - real ones, with the small, skinny stiletto, the ones that take some effort - you were nineteen. They have existed in the depths of many closets in many apartments since.

It makes sense. It’s always made sense. You’ve always preferred the ground to be steady underneath your feet, at least as much as you could guarantee.

So, when you walk into the Behavioral Analysis Unit in Quantico on your first day, 7:45 AM exactly, you show up in loafers. Dark ones with a slight platform underneath them - not a heel, too stable, too easy - sturdy, dependable, clean, ones that only slightly give off your heel with every other step. Ones that could know your feet if you gave them the chance to. You step out of the elevator on the sixth floor, across the small hallway bank, and through the glass doors with your gaze focused low, silently scanning the other footwear choices you see to plan ahead for how likely it is that you can get away with a more casual choice in the future. Or how likely it is, god help you, that you’ll need to fish out the fucking heels.

It’s cool and white and bright, brighter than you expected. You remember your uncle’s complaints about the sulphurous yellow overheads and wonder if he was still here when they evidently changed the lighting.

“Dr. Gideon.” You’re broken out of your thought and your eyes draw to the source of who just called your name, but not before a brief flicker of another musing - I wonder when someone last said the name “Gideon” in here - crosses your mind. It’s Aaron Hotchner, Hotch, and it’s a face you haven’t seen in a long while - the only familiar face you’re expecting to see, the only familiar name you’re expecting to hear. He’s visibly older since the last time you saw him - unsurprising, it’s been a number of years - and something in your chest tightens at the sight. A reminder of how things used to be and an indicator of how they are now. “Welcome in. Come up to my office.”

You pull your bag - black, worn with patina on the straps, nearly hanging on for dear life - tighter over your shoulder and walk across the bullpen, along the side and up the small ramp, pointedly ignoring the eyes you could feel flicker up to you at the mention of your name. When you step into his office, you shut the door behind you. Always assume a closed-door conversation unless you’re told otherwise, you hear from a voice in your head. You have a feeling you’ll be hearing that voice more now, and it’s fine - you’re not sure you’re even remembering it right anymore, anyway, so it’s not quite as cutting.

“Hotch,” you greet, professional and not too warm, not too familiar. “Good to see you.”

He’s standing to the side of his desk with a demeanor that you’d expect from the Unit Chief of the BAU, a demeanor distinctly different than the off the off-the-clock one you remember from years ago.

A sliver of that version breaks through, and it almost seems out of place - his face softens and he gives you a smile, fond and small but undeniable. “It’s good to see you. I won’t undermine your first day by welcoming you with a hug in front of the team.”

You laugh, surprised, and drop your head - it’s the first sense of calm, however fleeting, you’ve felt about this entire situation in days. “I appreciate it,” you say, relaxing just a notch. “I’m already mentally preparing for the name preceding me out there.”

“You’ve earned your place here,” he says, retreating to behind his desk and back into the work persona he almost seems more comfortable in. “Don’t doubt that, and don’t let anyone make you feel otherwise.” He nods at the window overlooking the bullpen. “Nobody out there wants to see you fail. You may see some familiar faces, and they’ll certainly want to see you thrive.”

“You’re the only familiar face, to be honest,” you say ruefully, thumbing at one of the straps of your bag and glancing down at his desk. “I knew names. Not faces.”

And it was intentional. Your uncle would always tell you stories about the team, the cases over the years, the different agents that came and went through these very doors, and never once did you see a photo. It was your preference - it was more fun to craft a story in your head, to imagine what these profilers looked like, to profile them yourself based on the details you had, and never once check to see if you were right. But you know Hotch. You’ve known him for years - nearly a decade of seeing him at your uncle’s house, from a freshly minted BAU agent to becoming the Unit Chief, and seeing all of the pressure from that reality melting away with a scotch in his hand in Jason’s second armchair. He would ask where you were thinking of going to college and offer a letter of recommendation, what you were thinking of studying and be entirely unsurprised by your answer of forensic psychology, what you thought of a case long closed and share a look with your uncle across their glasses that you learned to read as she’s like you. And that notice, that connection, used to make you brim with pride.

Now, it’s tinged with a sour taste that you’d rather not look at all too closely.

“Well, familiar names, then,” he amends, grabbing a file from his desk. “At any rate, I’m glad you’re here. I’d give you a rundown, but I’m sure it wouldn’t be anything you haven’t heard before, and I trust you read the paperwork sent to you ahead of time.” You did. Of course you did. You’re an academic at heart; there’s not a single line of a single paper that comes your way that you don’t read, and read again, and read a third time for subtext. “I just wanted to greet you first before the welcoming committee does.” He looks up again with another smile, humorous but fainter this time, one so slight it wouldn’t register as such to anyone who didn’t know him. “Go get settled in; your desk is roughly in the middle with what seems to now have a small plant on it.” You turn and look through the glass to see a succulent sitting in the center of a desk roughly in the middle and a woman in a pink dress and - god damn it - heels that are at least three inches high scurrying away.

With a raised eyebrow and an amused twitch of a smile, you turn back to Hotch. “Welcoming committee?”

He exhales something that someone might argue could almost be a laugh. “Something like that. Don’t be alarmed if you have a basket or twelve on your desk by the end of the day.” You let out a breath of a laugh of your own and turn to the door; your hand just gets to the handle when he says your name and you turn around. “You’re here for a reason. You probably recognized your vetting process was a bit expedited, but that doesn’t make you any less qualified for the job. I knew what I was doing when I prioritized your application. You’re also not the first person to receive an exemption from some of the requirements.” And when he looks up at you, there’s that Unit Chief demeanor, the one you anticipated, the one you’re sure you’ll see nearly exclusively after today. “Don’t make me regret it.”

You nod once with a tight-lipped smile and push down on the handle. “I won’t.”

“He’d be proud if he knew you were here.”

And there it is. You’re halfway out the door, turned away, when he says it, and you pause. You falter for just a fraction of a second before schooling it back - a tick of the jaw, a blink, a swallow, and an exhale - and responding drier than you mean to before walking back out into the white of the bullpen. “Yeah. If he knew.”

݁⋆⭒˚.⋆

“Did I hear Hotch right earlier? We’ve got a Gideon back in the house?”

You’re sitting at your desk for no more than two minutes, the succulent with its accompanying Welcome, new agent and friend! note pushed gently to the side, when you look up to find the source of the voice.

You don’t bristle - it’s not something you like to do if you can help it, and you can help it, you have plenty of experience helping it - you just give a smile that you hope isn’t as forced as it feels and stand as you reply, “You heard right. Nice to meet you.” And you extend your hand, giving your name, title and all.

The man whistles low and shakes your hand - strong, firm. “Another doctor. I might be outnumbered one day.” He drops his hand and flashes a smile, warm and welcoming. “Derek Morgan. Brains, but not that kind. Just brawn, mostly.”

“Don’t flirt with the new girl,” a new voice says, and you turn to see a woman with dark hair and a wry smile walking over. You glance down - black booties with a tall heel. Shoe analysis sample subject two - results unclear - leaning towards a negative outcome. “Don’t mind him. He can’t help it.”

“I’m not flirting,” Morgan argues, and you’re really not all that convinced. “Don’t mind her. Ninety percent of what comes out of her mouth is giving me shit.”

The woman, who’s fully made her way over to your desk now and is leaning her hip against it, exhales a laugh with a smirk. “The other ten percent is invaluable life advice. I’ve heard it’s confusing to tell which is which,” she replies drily. She extends her hand to you. “Emily Prentiss. Welcome to the team. Don’t report him to HR - that’s just how he sounds.”

You laugh and shake her hand, mentally noting the two names you remember and trying not to let it show. “Noted. I won’t cause a scene on day one.”

“Don’t write it off so early,” Morgan says, grinning. “The morning is young.”

“The morning is about to get started,” you hear, and the three of you turn your attention to see Hotch standing outside his office. “We’ve got a case. Remote consult for now, but we’ll see how it progresses. Conference room in five.”

Prentiss sighs audibly and gives you a look, equal parts sympathetic and intrigued. “So much for a slow start.” She pushes off the desk and nods behind her. “C’mon, Gideon. Let’s get you a coffee before you’re thrown to the wolves.”

݁⋆⭒˚.⋆

Three minutes later, with a coffee that serves only as a means for caffeine in your hand, you and Prentiss walk into the conference room - large glass windows, a roundtable in the center, a display screen on the far wall - and see a new face sitting - blonde hair, kind eyes, and small kitten heels.

You briefly, painfully, think to yourself that you’re going to need to request desk duty, lest you twist your ankle on the field.

“You must be the new agent,” she says, smiling, standing and leaning just enough to offer her hand. “Jennifer Jareau. Everyone calls me JJ.”

You go through the motions - same introduction, same handshake - and when you say Gideon, something brief flashes in her eyes. You remember her name. You know she is - was, apparently, if she’s sitting here with files in front of her - the team’s media liaison that worked with Jason for several years, and that she’s relatively young, probably only a few years older than you. You know she, like the others you already met this morning, is on the long list of folks who were left behind, left to wonder.

“It’s so nice to meet you,” she says, warmly, and you can tell she actually means it. “Welcome to the team. If you need anything, genuinely anything, let me know. It can be a lot, and a lot of questions can seem like they’re not worth asking when they actually are.”

Your lips twitch up in shy amusement before you can help it. “Is it worth asking if I need to wear heels to the office? Because nobody needs to see that, but the women here are three-for-three so far, so the odds seem against me.”

She laughs, bright and surprised, and shakes her head as she sits back down. “Absolutely not. I’m used to running around in these things,” she wiggles her foot back and forth, “but there’s really no dress code here besides looking put together in whatever way that means to you. Hotch wears suits and dress shoes daily. Prentiss wears a blazer or a tee, depending on the day. Morgan wears henleys so tight they may cut off his circulation.”

“I haven’t heard any complaints,” Morgan replies, striding into the conference room. He glances down at your shoes. “You could wear orthotic slip-ons and be fine. If you can run in ‘em, you can wear ‘em.”

You sigh in relief, audibly, and sit in a chair on the other side of the table. “You both just removed sixty percent of my stress for the day.”

“If that’s all it takes,” Prentiss says, sitting next to you, “you’ll be just fine.”

Hotch and the woman from earlier - the one you assume left the succulent and promptly scurried away - walk in, with him settling in at the head of the table and her spotting you and pausing just past the doorway.

“Hello, hello,” she starts, and from the tone in her voice coupled with her outfit, you feel pretty confident that you know who she is immediately. “You must be Gideon.” She says your first name, like it’s a critical piece she meant to say out loud, and hurries to drop her things on the table by the screen. “You’re a doctor. I’m telling you information you already know about yourself - it’s part of my whole thing - I’m the only one who knew exactly who was coming besides Hotch, background checks and all that, and I am so excited you’re here.”

“And you must be Garcia, I assume,” you say, smiling gently, tentatively. “I’ve heard you have enough information to be scary but enough personality to negate it.” You pause, and your face falters slightly. “Sorry. That was- that was supposed to be a joke, but in a complimentary way. Like-” you cut yourself off and sigh and visibly deflate an inch in your chair. “Nevermind.”

And in response, Garcia just laughs while she walks over to your chair. “That is extremely complimentary, and I knew exactly what you meant, and I’m thrilled my legacy expands beyond these spectacularly spooky walls.” She leans down and hugs you from the side of your chair, and you physically freeze for half a second before reaching back up and returning it in perhaps the most awkward hugging position you’ve ever been in. “Again, so happy you’re here. The more, the merrier, and we need more merry in this place.” She lets go and backs up, seemingly unfazed by the awkward angle, before click-clacking her way back over to the screen.

“Let’s get started,” Hotch says, and you’re grateful for what seems to be the end of the first-day introductions. You never were good at, or fond of, icebreaker pleasantries. “Has anybody seen-”

“The kid’s been in the file room for thirty full minutes looking for something,” a new voice says, but it’s familiar. You could place it, you think, if you thought about it hard enough. “I just buzzed down to him; he’ll be up in a few, but he can catch up. Always does.” The voice walks in and when you both look at each other at the same time, something in you falters. Because of course you could place that voice. But it’s a voice you haven’t heard in years - at least fifteen, you think - and it’s a face you, quite frankly, didn’t prepare yourself to see.

Because last you heard, David Rossi retired. Evidently, that was short-lived. Evidently, one of the earliest ghosts from your uncle’s life in the BAU has come back to haunt the place once again.

He looks at you and says your name like you’re the last person he expected to see. Not disappointed, not glad, just- unexpected. Hesitant, uncharacteristically so. Like he also thought that the last time he saw you - still a child, still listening to stories about how the BAU was founded from two of the very founders like you were hearing superhero stories before bedtime - was the last time he would ever see you. “It’s been a while.”

You exhale a near-laugh that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Something like that.”

The hesitance evidently passes as quickly as it came, and he gives you that nod of acknowledgement you remember all too well before sitting. “Welcome to the team. This room could deeply benefit from some good old-fashioned nepotism knowledge transfer.”

And you know it’s not even meant as a slight, coming from him, as much as it may sound like one. You know Rossi - you at least used to. It’s a compliment wrapped in his dry tone, a kind acknowledgement in fewer words and more deniable language. You give him the same nod back and turn your attention to the folder that’s been placed in front of you.

Hotch pulls the room back to focus. “It looks like you’ve all met Dr. Gideon already. She’s joining us from Georgetown and the DC field office with a specialized focus on criminal psychology and scene analysis - MO, signature, the works.” He looks at you and nods once, which you return, before turning his attention back to the room. “Garcia, you can begin.”

And she does, and for maybe four minutes, you fall into the comfort of analysis. Problem scoping. The beginnings of falling into the work, into the unanswered questions, that you’ve always loved.

Four minutes of comfort, it seems, is all you’ve been allotted.

The door creaks open and another agent - the kid, you presume, mentioned earlier - hurries into the conference room, murmuring a small apology as he finds an open seat across the table from you. The first thing you notice is how young he looks, Rossi’s nickname really wasn’t kidding; he’s got an almost boyish face with brown hair that looks like a hand’s been run through it too many times. As he folds himself into the seat, shoving a weathered messenger bag under his chair and dropping a pile of files and books onto the table in front of him as silently as possible, you also notice how uncharacteristically non-FBI he looks. It’s not the height that gives you pause; it’s the almost apologetic nature with which he seems to shuffle through the room, his long limbs seemingly just along for the ride. You wonder if he’s new, too; maybe another recent hire still fumbling his way around the department, finding his footing, learning how to carry himself. He crosses one leg over the other and grabs the pertinent file for the case, and you clock the scuffed Converse he’s wearing. A twitch of a smile starts on your face, and you make a mental note to wear your own tomorrow; at least you won’t be alone in it. He catches your eye and gives you a small, almost awkward smile, and you’re sure the one you return is nearly identical.

The initial case brief rolls on for a short while longer, fifteen minutes at most, and it’s mostly preliminary guiding questions and observations, notes and suggestions the team can pass along to the requesting field office before any call is made on officially pulling you all in beyond a consult. The team, you realize quickly, truly does function as a unit; everyone clearly has their specialties and is clearly here for a reason, and the reasons blend well together, even on a surface-level consult case like this. You can’t help but note Converse-guy’s deep knowledge of geographic profiling, and you make another mental note to ask him to give you a rundown of the basics at some point; geography, or the analysis of such, has never been your strong suit.

At the end of the brief, the team starts to file out with no further action for now and the guidance to spend the morning finishing up paperwork from last week’s cases. You and Converse-guy are standing, you tossing your things back into your bag and him nudging his files and books into a manageable stack to carry.

“Gideon,” Hotch says, and you can’t help but notice the almost sharp silence that comes from across the table, the shuffling of the stack pausing immediately. “You can take the opportunity to get mandatory trainings out of the way today. This might be the last slow morning you see for a while.”

You nod. “Noted,” you say, and you tug your bag over your shoulder. You open your mouth to introduce yourself to Converse-guy, figuring you might as well get the whole yeah, Gideon, you heard it right, yeah, Jason’s my uncle, I know, BAU founder, hard to find anyone in this department who hasn’t heard the name even in passing like it seems you must have, out of the way, but he pulls a file from his pile and darts over to Hotch, showing a page of something and murmuring questions. You tell yourself you’ll find him later and make your way out of the conference room, back to your desk, coffee in your hand gone lukewarm already.

݁⋆⭒˚.⋆

Most of the first day passes quickly and painlessly, all things considered. You take your badge photo and finish your trainings just before lunch, which you eat at your desk with a single headphone in; Garcia pulls you into her “lair” in the early afternoon to show you what she can do for you, which, the answer is pretty much anything; Morgan and Prentiss pull you over to review a report they’re writing up and give you a rundown; you avoid eye contact with Rossi, which is not all that hard to do when he’s clearly letting you have it; JJ invites you for a walk and asks about you - where you grew up, your time in the field office and what you did before that, your aversion to heels - and tells you about her life in return, mostly her son Henry; Hotch checks in on you precisely once and murmurs a one-word acknowledgement before going back into his office; and you try and fail to almost introduce yourself to Converse-guy three times. He’s barely been at his desk all day, and when he is and you tell yourself to get up in two minutes and go say hello like a normal new coworker, he ends up on a phone call, or heading to the breakroom for another coffee with a frequency that seems genuinely concerning, or running files in and out of the bullpen. You’d think he was avoiding you if you knew each other already.

The day winds down, eventually. Most of the team has dispersed and gone home for the day, with Morgan, Prentiss, and JJ filtering out and tossing goodbyes your way. Garcia’s down the hall, she told you earlier she’ll be here until you leave in case you need anything, which is a kindness you weren’t expecting but also aren’t arguing. Hotch is in his office, behind a closed door, the sign of a man who doesn’t need a goodbye at the end of the day and doesn’t leave until the work is done. You’re at your desk, filling out your firearms qualification paperwork to get it on the schedule.

Rossi’s the next to leave, and you look up at the sound of him leaving his office before you can help it. You meet each other’s eyes and give each other a single nod, an acknowledgement of a day completed. It’s all he does before looking ahead and keeping his stride, and you look back at your desk, silently grateful.

It is, unfortunately, a short-lived feeling of gratitude.

You hear it when you’re signing your own name at the bottom of the last form, and you have to pause after writing the e because it genuinely stops you in your tracks.

“Night, Reid. Don’t stay here too late.”

Reid.

There’s only one person left in the bullpen besides you and Rossi. Converse-guy.

“You say that every night,” Reid replies, and the sound of his voice lands differently now that you know who’s speaking.

“And I’ll keep saying it until it sticks, kid.” Rossi walks out the glass doors, and you finally bring your pen back to paper, at least for long enough to finish signing your name, the slight disconnect in ink in the cursive of your last name staring back at you like a taunt.

Spencer Reid. You feel like a complete moron for not putting two and two together yourself. He froze when Hotch said your name. His geographical profiling knowledge is something you heard about for years and then, today, witnessed firsthand. He’s visibly young and clearly bright, and you already know he’s two years older than you. Earlier, you’d have thought he was avoiding you if you knew each other already, except you do know each other already, in a way, so he was avoiding you.

You can’t blame him. If you knew it was him earlier, you’d have almost introduced yourself zero times instead of three.

You finish signing and dating each paper and slide them into the folder. You had planned to hand them into Hotch before leaving for the day, but now you can’t imagine spending another second in here today beyond what’s absolutely necessary. The forms can wait. Getting the hell out of here cannot.

The scrape of your chair against the floor as you stand is louder than you intended and you don’t look over to see if he’s noticed. It’s not of interest to you. Nothing about him is. You grab your bag, drop your coffee cup in the small trash can adjacent to your desk, and head towards the bullpen doors.

You make it. You really almost make it.

“Hey.”

You could keep walking. You’re one step from the door, your hand almost at the handle; you could just take the last step and act like you didn’t even hear.

Your body pauses before you make the conscious decision for it to. When you turn, you see Reid spun around in his desk chair, legs crossed in it, facing you. Before you can stop the thought, you wonder how he can even fold his limbs in to fit like that. His hair looks more unruly, and he’s a bit more rumpled, than before; the natural progression of a long day at work that you’re less than pleased you’re still here to see.

He says your name. Just your first name. “You’re–” he pauses, visibly considering whether to continue and if so, how. “You’re his niece.”

His. He can’t even say your last name, or your uncle’s first. You’re not sure you’d want to hear it, anyway.

You nod, twice, and adjust the strap of your bag on your shoulder, failing to think about your reply before it’s out. “You’re his prodigy.”

It lands. You watch it land. If it were anyone else, you’d probably feel bad about it. “That’s-” he pauses, starting too quickly, which you already know is, apparently, his natural state. He’s quieter when he continues. “That’s not exactly accurate.”

“Accurate enough,” you reply with a shrug. You should turn around and leave. “You heard my name and avoided me all day.”

Reid winces at that, almost embarrassed. Good, you think, before you can help it. “I didn’t know what to say to you.”

You take a breath and just look at him for a few quick seconds. He looks nervous, uncomfortable, and curious all at once. You almost wish you cared. You tug your bag tighter again, just to have something to do with your hands. “I didn’t say I minded. Now that I know.”

Now that you know who he is. He shifts in his chair, the discomfort now further manifesting physically, and looks down at his hands in his lap. “Okay.”

You take a beat, standing there, before nodding once and turning back around. The door’s open and you’re halfway out when he adds on, seemingly unable to leave it at that.

“He talked about you a lot.”

The hand you have on the door handle tightens and your jaw ticks before you can stop it. You’re glad you’re facing the elevator. He talked about you a lot. Jason talked about you a lot to his team. Of course he did. He told you he did. He couldn’t stop telling you how proud he was of you, how much of himself he saw in you, how glad he was to tell his team about “the Gideon that would really make the name for the family”. You would’ve asked for details, years ago. You have no interest in details now. You have even less interest in details from Spencer Reid, of all people.

“He talked about you too,” you start, voice even. “He talked about a lot of people.” You, once again, see the clean exit ramp, and you, once again, don’t take it. “I guess that didn’t exactly guarantee a goodbye for anyone but you.”

Without waiting for a reply you don’t want to hear, you make your way out of the doorway, the door falling shut behind you and the elevator waiting ahead. You push the down button and wait impatiently for it to come, to take you away from a first day that went about as far from what you expected as it could have.

You didn’t think you’d have to be reminded, at work, of who your uncle chose instead of you. You didn’t think you’d ever have to put a face to who actually got a goodbye through a letter left in Jason’s cabin.

You decide, as the elevator doors close in front of you, that you’re giving yourself the day to ruminate on it. Spencer Reid has exactly today to infiltrate your thoughts. Tomorrow you’ll show up, and he’ll just be a coworker whose name carries baggage you’re not checking, and you’ll keep to yourself, and you’ll be just fine.

You’re good at being just fine.

༘⋆

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