spencer reid who always lets you take that one window seat, even though it's his favourite spot on the jet.
spencer reid who will make as little noise as possible to ensure you are able to sleep.
spencer reid who stops breathing when you inevitably end up leaning on him.
spencer reid who will shift, carefully, in his seat, disregarding his own comfort so you can rest your head on his shoulder.
spencer reid who, when asked, continues to tell the team you aren't a couple, and that he is just being polite to a coworker in need.
spencer reid who starts packing a blanket for you in his go-bag.
spencer reid who offers to read aloud to you one evening when your headphones die. the human voice, he says, is proven to be as soothing, if not more so, than music.
spencer reid who realises after two weeks that you've been lying about your headphones dying on almost every flight, but continues to read to you anyways.
spencer reid who has been reminding himself that you aren't a couple more than he has been reminding the team.
spencer reid who makes you coffee when you wake up: triple shot, two sugars, six ounces of warm milk. he has never asked how you take your coffee, but he gets it right every time.
spencer reid who keeps a notebook full of potential date ideas. each one comes with its own list of pros and cons, as well as the statistical likelihood of you saying yes.
spencer reid who is always too afraid to ask.
spencer reid who views your friendship as the most important thing in his life; something fragile, and something he cannot risk ruining with the devastating weight of his feelings.
spencer reid who is content to live with the constant ache of wanting more, who will savour these fleeting moments thirty thousand feet in the air, and who will continue to sacrifice his comfort, and the space inside of his bag, for the sake of yours. because these moments, however brief, mean everything to him. you mean everything to him, even if he cannot yet find the courage to tell you.
Pairing: Sebastian Vettel x Dead Wife/Female!Reader
Summary: His wife has been dead for a handful of years but every now and then Sebastian goes walking in his sleep. Sometimes he walks into the kitchen and sits down at that same spot you’d spent your mornings sipping coffee at. Sometimes he’d even sleepwalk into your old office and sit in your chair. His therapist said it’s as healthy as anything, that grief had its own way of expressing itself.
Until that night he dreams of you with him— except, unlike times before, it feels very, very, real.
Warnings: Major Character (is) Dead/Death. Hurt. No comfort. Majority of Plot is in the summary and that’s all. Who proof reads? Hallucinations. Grief. Rituals. Spirituality. Obsession. Extreme Dark themes. Kissing. 18+ content. I cannot stress how uncomfortable and unsettling this is. PLEASE Do not read if uncomfortable.
A/N: basically Seb hallucinated his wife being with him. More of a comfort fic than anything else. Hi guys! Please let me know if you liked / didn’t like this! It came to me, weirdly and ironically enough, in a dream I had during an afternoon nap. I also very much so felt inspired to continue to go through with this idea by the Billy Joel song. As always, your comments, reblogs and likes are appreciated beyond words! Have a blessed week! - A.
Sebastian hadn’t listened to Billy Joel since that final night you two were together.
You were more spiritual than him, and with glossy eyes and a wine-filled smile you’d make him dance with you to The River of Dreams claiming there was something religious in the song with the way it spoke to you. He swore he hated the song, but really he didn’t.
Now, as he hides away all his social media posts and deletes nearly everybody’s contacts, as his house—your house—remains eternally silent he’s reminded of those days you’d giggle at him and coo at his greying stubble.
He’d admit, under thin sheets and away from a prying sun, that he was scared to get older. You’d kiss him and tell him that he didn’t need to be, that you two were destined to grow older together because there was the hope you’d be together for every life.
He believed you then. He didn’t really believe you now.
So like a sadistic routine, as he gets up with a groan when his back cracks, he begins to turn off the porch lights. Locking the doors and the windows—not before making sure the bees are tucked away nicely, you’d kill him if he didn’t—he made his way slowly up to bed.
The record player you’d brought with you when you moved in was still freshly sat there, taunting him almost. That same Billy Joel single was waiting to be played, a mocking look on its face as he moved to get ready for bed.
Brushing his teeth, stood in the bathroom, picking at the patches of grey in his beard, at his hairline that seemed to be aching a little more away from him with each day—
In the middle of the night.
He shook, like a dog being scared, as he suddenly heard that man’s voice playing from the bedroom. He rolled his blue eyes, huffed out your name and told you to stop playing around. He was too tired.
Sebastian did that often, speaking to your spirit as if you could hear him from the other side, it brought him comfort. His therapist had told him it probably wasn’t the best idea he’d had, but she could let it pass for a while.
One year turned into two, and then four. And then six.
He counted each day without you like a kid counting down for Christmas. As the vinyl stopped its crooning, with a satisfaction he hadn’t felt in a while blooming inside of it, and he turned off the bathroom lights, he found himself a little more hopeful than usually.
As always the man had yearned for sleep more days than not. If he was lucky then he’d come face to face with you again— sitting on those hills under the sun, giggling over his racing days. You’d coo, he’d roll his eyes. You’d kiss. You’d be alive.
But before he could settle, he turned to your photograph on his bedside—smiling wide and sat on a familiar park bench with an ice cream cone in your hand—and pressed his fingertips to your face softly.
Usually, like he did now, he’d spray your perfume and body spray on the pillow, your pillow, next to him. He’d stocked up enough time to last him a lifetime.
A promise of being together soon on his lips before setting the photo frame down and turning the lamp off.
It started slow, like always, him drifting off.
He hadn’t been out of his pyjamas for a few days, too tired and exhausted mentally to get dressed just to stay in the house. He heard your voice in his head, “Seb— you’ve gotta change!”
And he feared for the day he’d stopped seeing your eyes and hearing your voices. For the days he’d forget he was even married once. But his wedding band remained an anchor, you’d never be forgotten. Not until Sebastian’s time came, which arguably wasn’t something he wanted to wait for.
As his eyes closed, a smile on his face at that familiar feeling settling inside of his stomach. That one he got whenever he was just on the brink of falling asleep—like when he dreamt of falling off a building a few times—which he usually hoped would end up with a dream of you.
“Seb?”
His eyes fluttered open when he first heard it. A soft whisper, one full of smiles. One that made his own grin stretch—
“Seb?”
A little louder as he blinked himself awake, a frown flickering on his face—
“Sebastian!”
You.
He knew it was you, who else could it have been? That same voice, that same giggle. And as he turned his head, there you were in your usual nightwear with a big grin on your face.
He looked at you liked he’d never seen you before, like that first time, blue eyes wide and mouth a little open.
And then, before you could slip away, his mouth was on yours. Hands on your jaw, cupping both sides as if you’d slip away at any moment.
You smiled against his lips, kissing him back as equally as passionate. He blinked back whatever lump was forming in his throat—
“Where did you go?” You muttered against his mouth, fingers brushing against that familiar stubble you’d loved for so long.
“What do you mean?” He frowned, fingers grasping your jaw tighter. Stay here. Don’t go.
You smiled at him, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek again— and then his jaw, and then his lips. Over and over. He fluttered his eyes closed, and when they opened he was right back there.
That same vinyl, the same one he’d ignored for those six years, playing in the corner.
In the middle of the night,
I go walking in my sleep.
Then your voice, as clear as day—even as night was snuggly settled in outside—whispered from above him.
dededos
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romaincrisis
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