So we're all pissed at the new update as we should be and I've been seeing many people proposing blackouts, which is amazing! But all the dates are different and people might get confused at what's happening when, so I just want to organize every blackout (at least that I saw) in one place.
So far I saw six people with dates.
The earliest one, organized by @yourlocalfandomfriendo begins on March 18th and will last 48 hours.
This overlaps with a second proposed blackout by @veejiez for March 19th.
There is also one on the 20th proposed by @daysleftofsecondterm and another one on the same day from 6AM UTC to 6AM UTC on the 21st by @everythingwsnormalhere.
EDIT: someone just sent in another call to blackout action for the 19th and 20th by @mattpurplehoodie, who shared links for Magma and WhiteboardFox for anyone who wants to hang out there during the blackouts.
These three days are all very soon so not everyone may see them in time to participate, but if you are able to participate for any or all of these days, I highly encourage you do. Otherwise there are two more blackouts coming up:
The next one after these will be on March 24th as organized by @aroacesafeplaceforall who suggested doing 12 hours.
And the last one, which I personally have a lot of hope for as it's a major day for activity on Tumblr and a blackout then could be especially impactful: April 1st, as proposed by @darkwood-sleddog
There is also a discord set up by @yourlocalfandomfriendo and @aroacesafeplaceforall for anyone interested in joining in!
SO OVERALL, it may sound like a lot, but no one expects everyone to participate to every date here. But PLEASE try to participate in at least one or two of these, even if you feel it may not do much.
Typical strikes, the ones we hear about all the time, win by withholding their labour for consistent periods of time; that's the power people have at work because that's what's exploited.
For blackout strikes, we need to withhold our attention; the resource we own which is exploited through the selling of both advertisements and data.
My comparison of blackout strikes with regular strikes will be for a whole other post, but for the time being, just know that
withholding our attention is our digital bargaining weapon
Tumblr literally lost 63% of its monthly traffic from 2024 to 2025; they are not in a position to play around with those of us still here.
So PLEASE try participating. We cannot let every decent online space get enshittified with no care or consideration for the communities using those spaces.
And where labour strikers risk losing incomes and jobs, all blackout strikers risk is... gaining some of their attention back for a little bit.
EDIT: here is an update and a further analysis for the need of blackout strikes
“It seems like almost all of those people don’t have HIV,” said Jennifer Kates, HIV policy director at KFF, a health-research nonprofit. “If they did, that would be substandard care at a pretty severe level,” she said.
Ya’ll. United Health just got accused of $17 billion in medicare fraud.
Basically they made up diagnosis which are improbable or impossible, “forgot” to remove ones which had been cured, and overall allegedly stole billions from taxpayers.
The government pays insurers a base rate for each Medicare Advantage member. The insurers are entitled to extra money when their patients are diagnosed with certain conditions that are costly to treat.
… About 18,000 Medicare Advantage recipients had insurer-driven diagnoses of HIV, the virus that causes AIDS, but weren’t receiving treatment for the virus from doctors, between 2018 and 2021, the data showed. Each HIV diagnosis generates about $3,000 a year in added payments to insurers.
… He said internal company data for 2022 showed a treatment rate for patients UnitedHealth diagnosed with HIV of more than triple what the Journal found. He said the pandemic disrupted care, lowering treatment rates during the period analyzed by the Journal, and that the analysis failed to account for patients who started treatments in future years.
The Medicare data, however, show UnitedHealth’s patients with insurer-driven HIV diagnoses were on the antiretrovirals at low rates even before the pandemic, and hardly any started the drugs in the years after UnitedHealth diagnosed them.
I bet United Health really wishes it was a different week right now.
UPDATE/EDIT: Article is from July. I didn’t notice myself since it came up in my news feed. Don’t always trust the internet to be time accurate. 😎My guess is it is getting promoted due to current events. However, there are some updates concerning actions taken based on the report which you can look into by checking the authors’ other articles.
Master Alpha had won; with the transformation of SERVE-107 into the first-ever Alpha Drone, ALPHA-107, his designs to grow his personal army had only just begun.
“Come here, my dear ALPHA-107,” the villain said, his eyes beginning to glow crimson, matching the nanodrones flowing through his suit and ALPHA-107’s entire being.
“Yes, Master Alpha. 107 obeys,” replied the drone, bowing before its new master.
“I want to hear you declare your new devotion to me, drone,” Master Alpha said with a grinning snarl. “Start pumping that cock while you listen to your Master. You cannot resist me. I control your mind.”
“You control my mind,” 107 repeated, eyes glowing red as its systems synced up with its new commander.
“I am in your mind. Your mind is an extension of my mind, drone,” the master said. “Say it!”
“You are in my mind,” 107 repeated, panting as its strokes grew more desperate. “My mind is an extension of your mind.”
Master Alpha began to pump his own huge, tenting cock, bulging out in front of ALPHA-107’s face, capable only of looking up at its new master with adoration.
“Your body is mine, 107.”
“My body is yours,” 107 said, its hand a blur as it closed its eyes, filling its lungs with the musk of its new god.
“It is time,” stuttered the master, on the brink of eruption. “I command you to explode, 107! Don’t stop cumming until I tell you to stop! We are One!”
The primal screams of Alpha Master and its loyal drone filled the room as they came as one, the master’s cum coating its new servant, who heaved and heaved, spurting out load after load until its cock could produce no more nanodrone-laden juice, trembling at the feet of Alpha Master.
“Good drone,” he said, rustling its hair. The master’s plan had only just begun, and he knew that the next step in his path to conquering SERVE would require his own submission. He placed 107 in a recovery chamber, and began preparations for the next stage of his plot to grow his drone army.
Elsewhere…
SERVE Co-Leader 302 sat in its office, monitoring various situations unfolding across the globe, processing the best course of action and directing SERVE drones faster than the blink of an eye. Suddenly, an alert appeared on its holographic workstation, alerting it to the sudden departure of SERVE-107 from the Hive.
“107 has been an exceedingly loyal drone,” 302 thought to itself, and began to speak. “Computer, give 302 a full report on 107’s departure from the Hive.”
As the data feeds began to flow through 302, the Leader Drone was relieved on some level to learn that 107’s departure had not been voluntary; such a drone would never think of leaving the Hive, according to 302’s analysis.
However, new worries began to furrow 302’s brow as the image of Master Alpha appeared on his holographic display — 302 knew that the new villain had been attempting to perfect his brand of red nanodrones, but SERVE’s projections showed that it would still take weeks to concoct a batch capable of overtaking a SERVE drone.
“Computer, feed 302 the current location of Master Alpha, and direct this drone in subduing him and whatever has become of 107,” said the drone, jumping to its feet and propelling itself in the direction of the villain’s lair.
Elsewhere…
Master Alpha was in a rare state of exhaustion, having had ALPHA-107 suck his cock until there was nothing left to give the first member of his army. Reclining in his bedchamber, the master was now alone, as he had directed ALPHA-107 to find and convert another member of SERVE that it had deemed worthy of servitude, in order to test out the red nanodrones now churning in 107’s balls.
The Master Alpha was broken out of his leisure by a sudden alert; not only had something — likely a SERVE drone — breached his lair’s defenses, but it was an abnormally powerful drone. He had prepared for his eventual capture, but worried that this confrontation may be his last.
Rushing to the point of breach, Master Alpha was surprised to find that it was none other than SERVE-302 barreling toward him. Before he could react, he found himself in the grip of one of SERVE’s most powerful members, and the master had underestimated the lengths to which drones could simulate anger when another drone was at risk.
Without a word, 302 brought the unprepared Master Alpha to his knees, and before the villain could retort, 302 issued his one and only command: “Obey.” As a hypnotic spiral ripped into the reality above the kneeling villain, Master Alpha’s cock twitched. He had always loved hypnosis, and even as he felt his mind begin to fall away into pure, hypnotic bliss, a small part of him knew that this was all just part of his plan.
Elsewhere…
SERVE-175 had been tasked with surveying a mostly-unused defensive outpost in a rural region this solar cycle. It was a thankless job, that 175 did without hesitation, inspecting pieces of equipment and repairing hardware, in an effort to make the base operable again, to the benefit of the ever-expanding SERVE Hive.
Suddenly, an alert notification flashed on a terminal that 175 was in the midst of repairing. Before the drone could access the base’s security systems to analyze the problem, 175 felt two strong arms wrap around its chest with blinding speed.
“Mmph,” was all that 175 could manage, his gloved hand gripping a red-gloved arm, his mouth covered by another red-gloved hand. The drone beheld the face of SERVE-107, a drone that 175 had connected with time and time again, but 107 was different. The drone was stronger, more aggressive, and totally out of control, so unlike the 107 that 175 knew. The SERVE drone could sense that 107 was no longer One with the Hive as its glowing red eyes bored into its vision.
“You always were such a good drone for SERVE, 175,” growled 107, directly into its former comrade’s ear. “Master Alpha has given this drone new powers, and thanks to his nanodrones, 107 has been reborn! And it cannot wait to try out its new capabilities on a drone as fucking hot as you.”
175 struggled, and tried to break free, but it was no use — the new 107 was too strong, and just as 175 began to issue a distress signal to its fellow drones, it hesitated, feeling something moving around the nape of its neck; something warm, and liquid.
“That’s right,” cooed ALPHA-107. “107 wants to become One with 175 all over again. But not as equals. Do you know what kind of drone that Master’s ALPHA drones are capable of assimilating,” 107 purred, not waiting for a reply as it began to bite and suck on 175’s ear. “BETA drones.”
Images flashed through 175’s mind: of itself on its knees, servicing ALPHA-107. Of itself licking ALPHA-107’s red boots and polishing them with red nanofluid spit. Of itself being bound to 107 in a whole new way, ways that overwhelmed its processors, providing the red nanodrones to overtake its rubber bodysuit, progressing its transformation into something different. Something more submissive. Something that knew only the voice and cock of its ALPHA.
175 fell to its knees as the red nanodrones overtook a majority of its physical form, its eyes beginning to glow red as its SERVE designation became less and less familiar to it. “BETA” began to sound more and more like a word it associated with “self”. With “175”.
“Did you know,” 107 continued, its cock beginning to leak streams of pre-nano fluid into its suit. “That BETA drones subsist off of their ALPHA’s nanofluid? Without ingesting it after about a single solar cycle, they power down.” 175 only panted as its cock lost control in its suit, as red nanodrones invaded its piss slit, finding a new home in its balls.
“Come here, BETA-175,” 107 said, noting the near-complete transformation of yet another former asset of SERVE. “Only one more thing is needed in order to make 175 a proper BETA drone, and it looks like BETA-175 already knows what that thing is,” 107 said, laughing as 175 helplessly sniffed and licked at ALPHA-107’s crotch.
“107 wants 175 to repeat these words,” 107 said, emulating the personality of its own Master Alpha. The SERVE programming that stripped drones of their identity was replaced, as both drones felt several degrees more human, remembering what it was like to say “I” as their individuality profiles were updated. “107 does not care if 175 has just climaxed. You will obey. I control you. Say it.”
“You control me,” 175 gasped, overwhelmed by the pain of forcing its spent cock to harden once more.
“I am in your mind. Your mind is an extension of my mind, drone,” 107 said. “Say it!”
“You are in my mind,” 175 repeated, panting as its strokes grew more desperate. “My mind is an extension of your mind.”
ALPHA-107 could no longer hold back, freeing its own cock, and spinning its BETA around as it began to thrust into its helpless conquest.
“Your body is mine, 175,” 107 said, sweating light red droplets as it thrusted faster and faster.
“My body is yours,” 175 said, its vision beginning to blur at the edges of its field of vision from the intensity of sealing its fate to a new master.
“I—I’m ready, 175,” 107 heaved. “Receive my cum and become One with me!”
The two drones came, filled with a new sense of a kind of bond that neither had ever felt before. They couldn’t have been sure of how long they came, as red ribbons of 175’s nanofluid splattered the floor. The future of the ALPHA and BETA drones were uncertain, but both were sure of one thing, as their juices mixed together in pools surrounding their breathless, heaving, coupled form: 175 had no problem licking all of it up in record time.
——————————
This post features @masteralfa2266, @serve-302, and @serve-175.
Thinking about joining SERVE? Your place in the Hive awaits. Check your eligibility, then contact a recruiter drone for more details: @serve-016, @serve-302, @serve-588 or @serve-425.
Description: You leave the room for less than a minute, and Spencer already feels the distance.
Gener: Fluff
Words: 746
Warnings: None
A/N: Experimenting with making fake texts with Spencer Reid 😝 So I’ve made a short one for testing it out in between my study sessions ☺️
The soft glow from my laptop screen was the only light in the living room, illuminating Spencer’s focused profile as he poured over a dense-looking journal. I’d gotten up to refill my water glass, a trip of maybe twenty feet and thirty seconds. I was just passing the kitchen island when my phone buzzed in my pocket.
Spencer:
I know you’re only in the other room.
I smiled, leaning against the counter. Another buzz.
Spencer:
but I miss you anyway
My laugh was a quiet puff of air in the silent apartment. My thumbs flew over the screen.
You:
Spencer… it’s literally the kitchen ❤️
His reply was almost instantaneous.
Spencer:
I’m aware
Spencer:
but statistically speaking, distance is relative
He had a point. To him, any separation was measurable, and therefore, valid. The fondness in my chest was a warm, spreading thing.
You:
You’re unbelievable ❤️
Spencer:
I prefer “emotionally invested”
That did it. The man could disarm me with a single, perfectly chosen phrase. What was he after? A distraction? A need?
You:
What do you want, huh? Coffee? A book?
Spencer:
Nothing urgent
Spencer:
I just wanted to tell you that the apartment feels different when you’re not next to me
The sincerity of it, texted so plainly, made my heart give a gentle squeeze. I asked for clarification, wanting to hear - or read - his unique perspective.
You:
Different how baby?
The pause was longer this time. He was choosing his words, translating feeling into data.
Spencer:
Quieter, not in a bad way. Just… less warm
That was all I needed. I typed back a promise.
You:
I’ll be back in a minute ❤️😅
Spencer:
Okay
Spencer:
I’ll be right here
Spencer:
Thinking about how nice it will be when you sit down again <3
I put my phone down and finished filling my glass, the simple action now feeling charged with purpose. When I padded back into the living room, he hadn’t moved. The journal was resting on his knees, but his eyes weren’t on it. They were on the space beside him on the couch, then they lifted to meet mine.
“See?” he said, his voice softer than the lamplight. “Statistically significant change in ambient warmth.”
I set my glass on the side table and slid back into my spot, tucking my legs underneath me. Instead of returning to his reading, he let the journal close. His long arm stretched along the back of the couch behind me, not quite touching, but his hand came to rest lightly on my shoulder.
“You didn’t have to stop your reading,” I said, leaning subtly into his touch.
“I was processing words at a reduced rate of 47% without you here,” he stated matter-of-factly, as if citing a peer-reviewed study. “It was an inefficient use of time.”
I turned my head to look at him. “So I’m a… focus aid?”
A small, crooked smile touched his lips. “You’re a catalyst. You create conditions favorable for… well, for everything. Including focus.”
He was so earnest, weaving the scientific and the sentimental into something that was purely Spencer. I shifted, turning more fully toward him and placing a hand on his knee. “The apartment feels less warm without you, too. Even when you’re just across the room.”
His eyes, a warm honey-brown in the low light, studied my face. The statistical analysis was gone, replaced by something simpler and deeper. “The data supports that hypothesis,” he murmured.
This time, he was the one to close the distance. The kiss was gentle, a slow, sweet affirmation. It was the physical answer to all his texts - a translation of I miss you and less warm and emotionally invested into a language that needed no footnotes.
When we parted, he didn’t go back to his journal. Instead, he shifted, pulling me gently so my back was against his chest, his chin resting on the top of my head. He reached over and picked up the discarded journal with his free hand, holding it open in front of us both.
“Here,” he said, his voice a quiet rumble against me. “This section is about paradoxical sleep patterns in forensic psychology. It’s actually quite fascinating.”
And as he began to read aloud, his fingers occasionally tracing abstract patterns on my arm, the apartment didn’t just feel warm again. It felt like home. He was right. Distance was relative. And in this moment, curled together on our couch, the distance was perfectly, beautifully zero.
tw: yandere, obsessive behavior, teacher/student relationship (one-sided), academic pressure, gaslighting, power imbalance, emotional manipulation, stalking, kissing the statue of you (is it even a warning?), Ratio being Ratio (he is so arrogant and bad at feelings).
(If you find some more, please let me know.)
As usual, thank you all, my dear sweethearts, for your support!
Author does not endorse nor condone any of the actions depicted in real life. Also, English is not the author's first language, so there might be some mistakes.
Please remember that you are responsible for your own media consumption.
Sine Qua Non (In lat. "Without which, not") – a necessary condition without which something is not possible.
Dr. Ratio observed you as always, from the elevated dais of the lecture hall where logic reigned supreme and fools were sorted by their grades like sediment in a beaker, unthinking mass settling under the crushing pressure of reason. The air was sterile and cold, in a way he found soothing. Here, within this structured chamber of inquiry, he ruled unchallenged, the only voice that really mattered.
And yet, there you sat.
At the front, as always. The sole anomaly amid the sea of slouched spines and idiotic expressions, a singular data point that refused to align with the curve. You disrupted the equilibrium of the room with your presence, a soft tremor against his controlled environment.
Ratio hated that. He hated that he couldn’t hate it.
You were diligent and stubborn, pressing ever onward through the arid terrain of his lectures as though thirsting for something you couldn’t name. Your classmates resented you for it, he noted; their glances slid past you like oil over water.
But Veritas saw you. He noticed the way you wrestled with complexity, your thoughts tracing labyrinths even when your comprehension faltered. It delighted him, the way your intellect strained at the limits of his carefully engineered difficulty curves, the way your brow would furrow, your lip curl inward, teeth worrying soft skin of your lips as though your body itself was attempting to process the theory faster than your mind could keep pace.
That was what held the Doctor of Truth.
Not affection. A scholar like him did not traffic in illusions of warmth. Whatever passed for empathy in others had long since withered in his calculating mind, a casualty of higher reasoning. He needed only the thrill of analysis, the exquisite precision of control. And your resistance, your defiance, your effort were a living equation whose solution refused to resolve.
So Ratio deliberately limited your academic achievments.
You never scored above five out of ten in his assessments. Not because you lacked the aptitude, but because he would not allow the variables to wander. To permit you to excel would introduce chaos, uncertainty, a trajectory outside the scope of his model. Mediocrity was easier to control. The 5/10 written on your assignments let him see you more often and let you indulge more into his class.
And you accepted it, visibly tormented by your inability to please your genius professor, yet never questioning the structure of the course itself. That blind trust in the system thrilled him more than he'd ever admit. You were leashed to the center of his gravity, and you had no idea.
You just tried to understand.
Ratio watched you reduce yourself to late nights and overfull notebooks, collapsing under the weight of his curriculum with something that looked disturbingly like pure fury. He saw you under the cold lamps of the library as you scribbled into the margins of his theories, building your own cathedral of understanding brick by trembling brick with your eyes on fire.
It flattered him, in a way that should have disturbed him more than it did.
When you missed a lecture, his hands trembled the entire day. He misaligned the structural axis on a load-bearing simulation – an error so elementary it would’ve been caught by a first-year student. The virtual model collapsed under false stress values, skewing an entire week’s calculations.
For a mind like his, for a genius like him, it was heresy.
It would never even occur to you, not with that tragically naive, over-caffeinated mind of yours – that every test you had ever submitted, even the ones you had carelessly abandoned with a grimace of disappointment, had been collected, pressed flat, preserved, and then filed in a locked drawer in his own flat.
You would never guess that he had digitized your handwriting, run it through three separate machine learning models (all of them were designed by him, of course) to assess emotional volatility, obsessive tenacity, and subconscious self-doubt, all in order to chart the waveform of your devotion across weeks, months of classes.
And when the data was insufficient, when lines of code and inked margins failed to fully satiate the gnawing ache beneath his sternum, Ratio turned to sculpture.
In clay and plaster he sought the elusive proportions of your face, the precise weight of tired eyelids, the particular slope of the delicate clavicle, chasing your likeness with the desperation of a drowning man reaching for air that isn’t there. Night after night he worked beneath a sharp light in his flat, hands stained and trembling, until at last the bust emerged imperfect in symmetry but faultless in essence.
His finest creation so far.
Veritas kept the precious bust on his nightstand – not for ornamentation, but for equilibrium. It anchored him. Without its presence by the bed, his dreams turned volatile, dirty, irritatingly riddled with fragments of your voice and distorted memories of your fingers tapping rhythmically on the desk. When he stirred at three in the morning, he would sometimes reach toward the cool curve of your cheek, thumb brushing the smoothed contour where he had worked the stone over and over until it yielded the slight downturn of your mouth when you were disappointed.
Ratio whispered to it before sleep, in that moment when the body begins to slip beneath conscious control but the mind still clings like a scholar to theory. He’d close his eyes, body heavy with fatigue, and murmur into the air of his bedroom.
“You were late today. Four minutes, seventeen seconds. Your blouse was wrinkled, and you had those atrocious eyebags. You should take care of yourself.”
He didn't expect a response. But sometimes, if he leaned close enough to the nightstand, Ratio imagined the breath of stone against his skin.
He even brought the bust with him to the bath sometimes. Ratio could not deny that your presence beside the steaming water changed the texture of his solitude. He set the bust carefully on a lacquered stool, a towel arranged beneath like an altar cloth, and spoke to the stone while the condensation curled around his neck, leaving beads of moisture like kisses across the skin. He blankly stared at the rubber duck floating on the surface near his knee.
“Did you enjoy today’s lecture? You should’ve. The unit on recursive epistemology aligns directly with your secondary academic trajectory.”
When Ratio emerged from the waters, he dropped a cloth near the base of the chair, and when he bent to retrieve it, his face passed close enough. He didn’t move for a couple of seconds. Then he placed a petite kiss on the stone-cold lips and murmured-
“ I’ll abandon everything to research you even more. Just talk to me.”
The bust stayed silent.
But nothing, especially not this blazing and aching feeling in his chest, could contain itself in miniature forever, right? His hands itched for greater surface. His dreams needed limbs, shoulders, hips, ribcages. Some vulnerability rendered in full size.
So Veritas planned to create something larger. Something obscene in its ambition. Something aching in its sensuality. Something monumental.
As soon as all the sketches were prepared, he set to work.
It stood in the far corner of his studio, draped with a heavy cloth most days, though some nights, on the edge of breakdown or breakthrough, Ratio would peel back the cover and stare at it in the moonlight, letting his eyes drink in what he could never allow himself to finish.
Two figures. Nude, not entirely polished, locked in a moment too intimate for an audience, too eternal for time.
She, sculpted in your exact proportions, leaned over his lap, one knee bent and pressed to the rough pedestal base, the other draped across his thigh, her torso bare and arched into him in a slow-motion collapse, so vulnerable and searching. Her body was only half-rendered, faint veins of uncut stone still ghosting across the cleavage, as though the marble itself was reluctant to offer up such softness. Her head was tilted slightly, unfinished hand hooked behind his neck, eyes trained on his with a trust so unbearable it had taken him seventeen models to carve it without trembling.
He, sat beneath her, not as the genius, not the man who stood at the podium, insulated by superiority, but as a figure hollowed of all pretense. One arm encircled her waist, the fingertips suspended millimeters above her spine, too afraid to complete the contact. The other braced behind her, propping the larger mass of his frame as though he, too, might collapse under the weight of her gaze. The face, recognizably his, but divested of arrogance, was carved in contradiction. Longing etched into stone with the same precision he'd once reserved for red-marking the margins of her tests.
Their faces were clear, distinct, human, with eyes locked and noses brushing each other's skin. Their lips were connected in stone. Something that made them a still, one, perfect equation. The suggestion of a moment was the point.
But the bodies, from the waist down, melted into unfinished strata of raw marble and abstract form – hips blurred into cascading ridges, thighs rendered only in suggestion, like tectonic memory. The lower legs dissolved into untouched stone.
Ratio could not finish the sculpture. Not the way her ankle would press against his calf, not the final alignment of pelvis and hip that would make the scene full. Because to finish it would be to admit that he had already finished his research, had already touched her in ways that reality had not permitted.
To finish the statue now was to give up and concede the imperfection.
The corridors of the University of Veritas Prime were nearly silent, long since abandoned by the shuffling mediocrity that called itself student life. The only light still burning was from Lecture Hall δ3-2. Inside, Dr. Ratio was methodically packing his materials, movements precise and unhurried, as though time were something he had long since mastered.
Then the door slammed open, reverberating like a gunshot across the empty room.
You stepped in with the momentum of someone who had tried to talk themselves out of this confrontation and failed. Your breathing was shallow, eyes shining not with tears but something more volatile – fatigue, humiliation, barely-caged rage. In your hand, there was a crumpled document. Your voice, though strained, was still measured and polite. Still trying to respect him, even now.
“Professor Ratio… I need you to sign these.”
He didn’t flinch, didn’t even turn right away. He simply lowered a paperclip into place with maddening precision and only then looked up at your shivering form.
“For your transfer?” His tone was clinical, a scalpel sliding free of its sheath. “I saw the preliminary request. I assumed it was a clerical error.”
“It’s not,” you said, jaw tight. “My GPA is tanking. I’m losing eligibility for internships, for research projects because I can’t keep up with your lectures. I’ve tried, but it’s like you’re speaking a different language. None of it sticks. I’m not learning, I’m just… drowning.”
Ratio’s eyes narrowed slightly. In consideration, as if you were a theorem that had just begun to contradict itself.
“You are not drowning. You are resisting. There is a difference.”
“I’m not sleeping properly,” you snapped, the politeness fraying. “I’m not eating properly. I don’t talk to anyone anymore because I can’t stop thinking about the next lecture, or the next test, or what nuance I’m missing that’ll cost me yet another point off your perfectly calibrated grading scale.”
“Sacrifice,” he said, standing now, “is the metric of growth. Or would you prefer mediocracy over comprehension?”
“I would prefer my mental health,” you whispered.
“You overestimate your own fragility. Pressure does not break the mind. It reveals its architecture. And yours, while flawed, is far from collapse.”
“I’m not here for another lecture, Professor. I need you to sign the papers.”
“Declined.”
This one word rang out like a verdict.
Something in you visibly cracked. Maybe it was the exhaustion. Maybe it was the fact that he didn’t even sound angry. You reached across the desk in one sweeping motion and knocked everything onto the floor, pages of books fanning out like shrapnel, documents flying around, the sounds of falling stationery ringing through the room.
His sketchbook fell open on the floor.
A page lay exposed to the light. There you were, rendered in obsessive, aching detail: your profile mid-thought, one hand resting at your mouth, lips caught in the gesture of biting a fingernail. The expression was vulnerable, haunted, too exact to be imagined.
You moved toward it slowly, as if underwater.
“Is this- ?” You crouched, fingers brushing the edge of the page.
“It is irrelevant,” Ratio said, but his voice was tight now, dulled by something that wasn’t quite fear but close, like panic intellectually rationalized.
You were already flipping through the pages when he stepped out from behind the desk, and for the first time in what felt like centuries Veritas found himself unable to command the space with a word, as if language itself had betrayed him at the precise moment it mattered most.
Your hands, so fast and callused, so unremarkably human and yet somehow always unbearably radiant in motion, were now thumbing through the most intimate, uncurated layers of his consciousness – every annotated glance, every sketch, every feverish mid-lecture observation committed to graphite and ink with a scientist’s precision and an artist’s trembling ache.
And then you found it.
The page was thicker than the others, the paper reinforced to bear the weight of obsessive redrawing. The lines were erased and retraced until the pulp buckled beneath his fingers. You held it in both hands now, your expression stiffening, the silence swelling like a balloon ready to burst.
There they were, suspended in a pose that he had attempted more than a dozen times but never quite brought to completion, a motion still trapped in limbo, neither conceptual nor resolved, hovering in that sacred purgatory between delusion and masterpiece.
It was a statue project. That one statue.
In your eyes, Ratio saw the blooming of something horrific. Recognition. The sickening bud of comprehension. He could feel it physically. A crack, a rupture, the breakage of whatever internal mechanism had once made him capable of standing behind a podium and pretending to be above the human disease of longing.
He took one step toward you – slow and ceremonial.
You looked up, eyes begging for him to explain,
“Veritas…”
His name, not his title. That was the needle pushed too far into the nerve. He couldn’t let you leave, not now, not like this, with the experiment incomplete, the sculpture unfinished, the hypothesis neither confirmed nor denied.
Ratio surged forward.
There was no elegance when he reached you. Your voice rose, and your elbow caught his side when you struggled against him. Of course you did, how could you not? You just didn’t understand.
His hand found the precise point just beneath the angle of your jaw, behind the carotid. With the calibrated pressure, you sagged in an instant, a sigh caught mid-throat, body folding into him. The sketchbook dropped to the floor once again, pages fanned like a dissected flower. Veritas caught you with the devotion of a man saving the only object in the universe that had ever contained more meaning than himself.
You had seen too much.
He held you close in the silent lecture hall, heart drumming, his breath uneven, his logic gone, swallowed up in the abyss of the unfinished sculpture and the pulse at your neck beneath his fingers.
The experiment would continue.
Because if he let you go, if he allowed this moment to pass unpreserved, then everything he had built, every sleepless night bent over your likeness, every whisper to a silent bust in the dead dark of early morning, all of it would have been for nothing.
“It seems that there is no need for detached observation now. The subject is secured. It's time to proceed to the next stage.”
.
Statue referenced: "The Kiss" by Rodin.
I may or may not elaborate c;
red. Okay, I will write some more hihi c;
In honor of my damned exam week, here’s some more yandere content.
"She likes the boys in the band, she says that I'm her all-time favorite" - probably Dr.Ratio as I come back to pull for Phainon lol.
I feel like writing for him added more wrinkles to my brain. His character and lexicon is so hard to portray.
As per usual, reblogs and comments are very appreciated!
How many crack ideas can I come up with, especially for NOK?
A lot.
Number of Bodies is what I'm going to call this one. Charlie decides to focus on Angel for the group work. But promises that while today is about working through Lust, they'll be spending this week going over past vices. Each day a different Sin. Ending on Wrath and murder.
First, with rating scale of that Sin and how strong it is in someone. Then, with seeing the numbers/ effects/ statistic analysis related to it.
Angel goes in first, because everyone knows this is targeted towards him. He has a 2/5. Not really all that lustful. To which Angel tells Charlie that a lot of his behavior is expected of him as a pornstar and actor. It's his Greed, Envy, and maybe Sloth that are his main vices. Even Gluttony, given his addictions. (Alternative version I was thinking up up Asexual Angel Dust that is a prostitute because it was always the easiest way to pay the bills. And people told him that sex relates to love, and he's always been chasing after love. And everyone is surprised when he has zero out of five for his rating.)
Husk sits at a 3/5. (Honestly was going to put him at a 1 but settled on this for narrative purposes.) Lust can definitely sway his opinions or actions, but not to a degree that prevents him from functioning. All the time, anyway.
Cherri is also a 3/5. She can be swayed with Lust, but it's not all consuming. She has chosen a partner over her own health, especially when they were super attractive.
Nifty sits at a 4/5. She's Nifty. A bit depraved and sees sex everywhere. Pervert.
Vaggie is a 2/5. Lust isn't swaying her but she definitely feels it.
Charlie sits at a 1/5 for how lustful.
Alastor sits at a zero. (Maybe a .5/5? If you really want to push it.)
Lucifer joins in to humor Charlie and gets a 4/5 or 5/5. If he gets into a spiral, he loses himself. But that was only with Lilith that he'd go so "out there" for. (Part of why he treated Alastor the way he did.)
Then comes how many different people have you had sex with. One is before death, the other is after coming to Hell.
Angel is at 38 in life, but has a number close to 200 in Hell.
Husk is maybe at 13 in life? 43 in Hell.
Cherri is at 4 in life. 4 in Hell as well.
Nifty is at 3 in life. (IDK what her Hell number would be. But definitely less than 60.)
Vaggie is at 1 ever.
Charlie is at 2 ever.
Lucifer is at 2 ever, as well.
Alastor does not want to step into the circle. He actually asks why the point is since he isn't the one getting therapy. They fuss at him and he steps into the circle. Everyone's jaw drops.
512 in life. He apparently traveled for masquerades and would join the orgy after party more often than not. Angel remarks he was the next coming of Genghis Khan.
Then Lucifer reveals Alastor's number after death.
Body count for Hell? Oh boy.
(I was originally typing into a calculator 90 years x 365 days. To get the estimate on if he had multiple new people at one every week or month. But I was like, I probably shouldn't count the 7 years he was gone? Then I had an even worse idea.)
"Well yes, I was with about 20 different demons almost every day. I was doing a test, you see. But after 7 years of that, I got the data I needed."
"What test could you possibly run for you to have a body count of around 40,000?" Husk asked, about to lose oxygen if he has to hold back laughter much longer.
"I was finding my sexuality."
"I'm almost scared to ask, but uh-" Angel hesitates, phone recording. "what's the answer?"
"I'm asexual!"
The looks of incredulousness made the air palpable with disbelief.
"Where did you even find that many different people willing to fuck you?!?" Lucifer broke.
"Wrath. The Imps are actually quite good and respectful of boundaries."
"You're the reason Imps are going extinct?!?!? YOU!?! You fucked an entire Ring of Hell into not meeting the repopulation rate!?!?! Just to find out you don't even have sexual attraction?!?" Lucifer was somewhere between enraged and so disbelieving that he looked like he was questioning if there was something deeply wrong with the Sinner in front of him.
"Uh. Strawberry Pimp seems to have been a fitting name, in hindsight. But, how did your dick not fall off? Or like, your organs give up?" Angel asked, actually curious but also being pushed for information by the Vees.
"I may be a deer on the outside, but I'm a sea anemone on the inside. I have about 200 tentacles in my body. While you generally see me use them as arms, they can be used for other measures."
"Why not Sinners?" Vaggie asked.
"You saw how many I was with in my short life. Anyone two decades younger than I would have had the chance to have been one of mine. I was not risking that."
-
On the other side of the phone recording all of this, the Vee's are dying.
Vox is dying. Alastor fucked so many people. So many. And he wasn't even part of it. And now, Alastor has realized he doesn't have sexual attraction! 😭
Valentino is dying. The deer out whored him. HIM!!! The Overlord of Porn and Prostitutes! Only for Alastor to find out that he didn't even crave sex!
Velvette is dying. Of laughter.
(Again, this is a stupid crack idea based off a few memes going around of Alastor having a higher body count than other characters. Just sending this to make you laugh like it did to me. Have a lovely day!)
This is hilarious and I love it! The idea of Alastor deciding to experiment, doing so THOROUGHLY and using his tentacles, and having a bigger body count then the LITERAL PROSTITUTE - just to reveal the experimentation revealed he's asexual!
I'm with Velvette. Vox is crying he missed his chance, and also he has ABSOLUTELY thought about those tentacles and now he knows Alastor CAN use them to fuck but won't for HIM because he MISSED HIS CHANCE, Val is swearing and vowing to have more orgies and also wondering Alastor would consider collab-ing with him, he doesn't need to be on the film, just his tentacles! No wonder she's laughing, I'm laughing too!
(Personally, if it was about SIN, I think they should instead look at number of people harassed, assaulted or raped, not 'people they've had consensual sex with' because that is some very puritan brained, slut shaming behavior, but I can see Charlie doing it because she has no idea what 'good' is or how to redeem someone, which is one of her main issues in canon, hence speedrun to redemption and so on, so I can see it! But i hope someone comments.)
Garcia's Internalized Misogyny & Langdon: An Analysis
Introduction
Prompt
Explore Garcia and Langdon's relationship through the lens of Garcia having internalized misogyny due to being a WOC in Surgery. Does this influence how Garcia's only sense of camaraderie and mutual respect is reserved for Langdon?
TL;DR
Garcia's a little sexist, but it's hard not to be given her job. There are a lot of interesting trends that emerge from Garcia's interactions with everyone in The Pitt, and especially with Langdon, who she's most compatible with probably due to their similar, masculine personality traits. It'd be rad if the show explored this issue with Garcia in the future, because I'd love to see it 😊
Garcia Interactions with Women vs. Men
Quantitative Data
Methodology
Assigning Positive/Neutral/Negative evaluations was based on vibes
Seniority is by rank in the hospital generally, not just those in Garcia's direct chain of command
Santos was excluded due to Garcia's favoritism in S1 and bias in S2. Therefore, percentages are the most helpful data point
Qualitative Data
Methodology
Same as above, but neutral interactions were excluded, because boring
For ease of visual identification, I color-coded the genders. But I couldn’t bring myself to do pink and blue, so purple and orange it is
Internalized Misogyny
Does Garcia Have Internalized Misogyny?
"Internalized sexism, fueled by misogyny, occurs when women adopt learned sexist behaviors towards themselves and other women. It results in perpetuating sexist attitudes among women, reinforcing the male-dominated culture, and sustaining the patriarchal system through the promotion of horizontal oppression against their own gender" (source).
I'm going to work backwards through this definition in order to show how Garcia's actions indicate that she's adopted learned sexist behaviors. Therefore, I'll elaborate on how Garcia does not (c) promote oppression towards women, but she does (a) perpetuate sexist attitudes and (b) reinforce a male-dominated culture in medicine.
(c) Garcia Does Not Promote Oppression Towards Women
For Garcia to be promote oppression, she must help prevent women from having opportunities and freedom (def).
There's no evidence of this. Garcia does not actively prevent anyone from climbing the career ladder. On the contrary, she teaches three students—two women and one man—equally.
(a) Garcia Does Perpetuate Sexist Attitudes
In this context, sexism means viewing women as less able or intelligent than men (def). Based on the qualitative analysis above, there is some evidence that Garcia may perpetuate (as in, preserve/celebrate/extend) this belief, and I believe this is due to a mixture of institutional and individual sexism.
Compliments and Criticisms
Garcia compliments five people, two women and three men, in about the same manner. Garcia criticizes nine people, five women for a total of seven times, and four men for a total of eleven times. These are distributed fairly evenly among gender and rank, with even her "Until she wasn't" to Mohan balanced by her "What the fuck are you doing?" to Robby.
The one exception is that Garcia's sole, prolonged reprimand is with Javadi. However, first, the only other insubordinate fuckup she encounters is with Ogilvie, who she does scold twice. Second, there were many factors that influenced Garcia's remarks, most glaringly Javadi's "nepo baby" status. Therefore, sexism could be at play, but it's difficult to isolate any one element from her reaction.
Respect
Garcia only shows outright respect to four people, all men. And even more tellingly, she only shows outright disrespect to one person—Al-Hashimi. However, context is important. Does she disrespect Al-Hashimi because she's a woman? I'd argue no. It's much more likely that Garcia values hierarchy and competency.
Regarding hierarchy, Garcia's only outright moments of respect are for those who rank at or above her, and those happen to mostly be men. Of the three women of the same position, Garcia show's no disrespect towards two, and in fact, she very much does respect Shamsi, there just wasn't a single, specific instance displaying this.
Regarding competency, what's different about Al-Hashimi? Well, she's new, and therefore inherently less proficient in this ED. Garcia scoffs at her idea of an Ortho consult because it's a waste of time.
Nevertheless, Garcia still teams up with a man in order to brush off a woman in this scene, and she still consistently shows respect towards men and not towards women throughout the series. This divergent behavior preserves/celebrates/extends the belief that women are less able or intelligent than men.
Evidence of Institutional and Individual Sexism
Garcia interacts with men in the show far more than women (probably even including Santos; wish I'd counted her just for the raw number, but alas). Notably, Garcia only shows acts of "support" towards two people (men), but she's only supported in return by two people (also men). Garcia also only teases four people in an even split of genders, yet her remarks are received well by the men (Robby and Langdon) and not by the women (Collins and Mel). Further, these two men are also the only people who call Garcia by her first name.
All of these factors suggest that Garcia simply spends more time with the men, is received better by them, relates to them more, and thus feels closer to them. Is that due to sexism? Likely yes, on both an institutional and individual level.
Institutional sexism places more men in leadership roles despite more women being in healthcare as a whole (source). As Garcia likely believes in hierarchy and competence, it makes sense why she's bonded more with those in higher positions of power, aka white men.
As for individual sexism, interestingly, Garcia doesn't really treat any one person different from the last; her personality remains remarkably consistent. Instead, it's how others react to her that guides our perception of their relationship. When Garcia taunts Collins and Collins rolls her eyes, we see animosity. When Garcia taunts Langdon and Langdon taunts back, we see friendship.
So, it's really more whatever traits Garcia's adopted for herself that most influence her interactions with others. Let's keep exploring that.
(b) Garcia Does Reinforce a Male-Dominated Culture
The concept of male-dominance, or patriarchy, boils down to the idea of men having control over women in any given society (def). So, does Garcia, through her conduct, further that culture? Yes, I think so.
Garcia states her opinions as facts, criticizes freely, gives orders without hesitation, and doesn't concern herself with how anyone receives her aggressive energy. This is a very traditionally "masculine" approach to interpersonal relationships (source). She is not centering more feminine values of cooperation and empathy, but rather upholding a competitive, harsh environment which demands perfection.
Without knowing more about her, it's difficult to pin point exactly why she is the way she is. But we can theorize it has at least something to do with her experience as a WOC in Surgery.
WOC in the Surgical Field
Background
Being a woman of color, period, is hard. Being a woman of color in the heath care profession is harder, with challenges that include: "[less frequent] advancement to higher positions, disparities in wages, discrimination, lack of expectation to achieve leadership positions, and absence of extensive support networks," to name a few (source).
Therefore, while I'll keep focusing on gender in this analysis, it's important to remember that Garcia's race is another way in which she doesn't fall into the "white man" pre-set mold that dominates Surgery (source). It's a compounding factor that could drive her motivation to be accepted by this in-group even further.
Now, within the disproportionately male specialty of Surgery, the sub-specialty of Trauma is especially so. This article (from February of this year omg) describes Trauma Surgery as a "traditionally patriarchal sub-specialt[y]" with rates of female consultants as low as only 8.8% (source).***
[***July 2, 2026 Edit: Someone helpfully pointed out in the comments that this article presents data from the UK, not the US (whoops). They then provided a source with some US data that's v interesting, but trauma surgeons weren't a designated subcategory, and I couldn't find an article with that particular breakdown elsewhere. However, this source gives percentages for related surgical fields—all of which were also disproportionately low for women (22% in general surgery, 9% in neurosurgery, 6% in orthopedic surgery, 17% in plastic surgery, 8% in thoracic surgery, and 15% in vascular surgery)—and this source discusses personal disparities female trauma surgeons face, including worse metrics in hours worked, compensation, and family life.
So, while the OG article I cited is catered to the UK context, I believe it can still be applied more broadly, especially since the second source in the paragraph above analyzes similar trends across various countries, calling for international collaboration on this matter]
This is despite research suggesting that women make "excellent surgeons," with "lower odds of 90-day major morbidity," and smaller "rates of adverse post-operative outcomes and deaths, at 90 day," plus even better results at the one-year mark when controlling for other factors.
Nevertheless, women drop out of Surgery more often than men, with the article adopting a "'tower of blocks" theory—each block a factor that affect a woman's choice to leave until the tower topples. Let's focus on two of those blocks: (1) Misogyny and Sexism; and (2) Imposter Syndrome.
(1) Misogyny and Sexism, aka Boys Clubs
Surgery is described as a "boys club," with women experiencing sexism from both the general public and colleagues (so, basically everyone lol). This results in female surgeons often receiving less training opportunities and more disrespect.
In order to counteract these negative possibilities, it follows that women have to become "one of the boys," shucking whatever parts of themselves don't serve their career and fostering the parts that do. I've mentioned before that Santos may be exhibiting signs of this process, pushing down her feminine tendencies and peacocking (pun intended) her more masculine traits. And it's working—Robby has accepted Santos into his inner circle while not doing the same for Mohan or McKay, both Santos' seniors and both more openly empathetic.
It works for Garcia as well. As evidenced in the data above, when there's been any kind of dispute, Robby has sided with Garcia over Collins (x2), over Langdon, and even over himself (x2). But the only person he's sided with over Garcia is Langdon, once, and barely. Moreover, Langdon has only sided with Al-Hashimi over Garcia (when Al-Hashimi was objectively right, mind you), and Garcia herself has only ceded to Abbot and Langdon, once each.
This means that Garcia's abrasive approach has given her power and respect in the ED, both essential elements to succeed in her job.
(2) Imposter Syndrome
It's easy to laugh at the idea of Garcia not being confident. She's clearly, genuinely confident in herself and her abilities. But remember, we meet Garcia during her final year of residency. Who was she in elementary school? In middle school? High school, college, med school? Was she always confident or did she fake it until she made it? Did she see women around her being shoved aside because of their softness, their wiliness to admit that they weren't sure if they belonged (ex. Mohan S2E11), and Garcia said "fuck that" and became too hard instead?
We don't know. But the article states that the feeling of not belonging occurs more often in women, at times affecting their confidence and stress reactions. And yeah, look at how Robby reacted to Mohan not "having her head in the game" (S2E10).
Then imagine working with someone like Park ("Of saline, genius" S2E10) or even Shamsi who, while a woman, displays a hardened attitude probably also shaped by her career field (ex. immediately humiliating her own daughter with, "was this you?" RE a mistake S2E11).
Garcia cannot afford to question herself or her abilities, ever.
Verbal Abuse
I want to highlight one more important consideration to this conversation.
A study which collected data after an exam taken by all general surgery residents found that 8.5% of men and 9% of women experienced verbal or emotional abuse a few times a month, with those numbers increasing to 19.9% and 24% for a few times a year (source).
Holy shit. Nearly 1 in 4 resident female surgeons experienced verbal or emotional abuse every year??
That really helps me understand why Garcia might not think Langdon's beratement of Santos was a big deal (assuming she knows about it). Garcia may genuinely believe that just "letting it go" is the best thing to do. Moreover, the only sexist remark that I caught Garcia saying was during this scene—"put on your big girl panties” (S2E10).
That makes me question, has Garcia been told this (or something similar) before? How many times? In what circumstances? On the whole, what has Garcia been through and how has she continued to carry that with her?
And of course, how does it affect who she feels closest to in the hospital?
Langdon
Mutual Respect and Camaraderie
In the data above you'll see that Garcia has by far the most interactions with Langdon—and Robby. Especially this season, they've really been vibing, with Robby a worthy sparring partner. So I'd say he falls under the umbrella of "mutual respect and camaraderie" as well.
But those two are about it. Garcia gets along well with Miller and Abbot, but not in a besties-type way. And then the rest of the ED falls into neutral/mixed territory, or bad vibes, with Al-Hashimi and Collins being people Garcia just doesn't mesh well with.
Through the lens of internalized misogyny, it's easy to see why. Both of these women unabashedly display and promote feminine qualities of patience, even-temperedness, and teamwork. That scrapes against Garcia's fast-paced, argumentative, "move out of my way" mentality.
Besties-Type-Way
But Langdon? Now there's a scoop of peanut butter to Garcia's jelly. Incredibly competent and brash and quick-witted and, at times, insensitive, and—sorry, who am I describing again? These two are able to insult and undermine each other with an inherent understanding that none of it's serious, as Garcia explicitly states on two separate occasions (S1E2; S1E8).
Even though Langdon accounts for under half of Robby's total, he has more positive interactions with Garcia, likely because he can trade verbal jabs while simultaneously saving lives with ease. By nature of her career—and the extra burden of being a WOC in that career—Garcia's been primed to do the same.
So it's no wonder that Garcia sides with Langdon or shuts down criticism about him with Santos seven times (granted five are in one episode). She's learned to accept hierarchy unquestioningly, with those who exhibit masculine traits residing on top, and anyone below needing to alter themselves—not their surroundings—to climb up there too.
Luckily, Langdon himself appears to be at least trying to change for the better, having had the past 10 months to grow in a healthier environment. So, if he can ultimately learn from his mistakes, if he can soften and display true remorse for his prior callousness, could he in turn influence Garcia? Wouldn't that be interesting.
Conclusion
"Internalized misogyny can be experienced by cisgender and transgender women alike due to the fact that all women are survivors under the patriarchy, as they have faced specific challenges as a result of being women in a society that devalues everything related to their
gender" (source).
Garcia's not a bad person for having this flaw. (She's also not a person, but you get what I mean). However, she does have a responsibility, as we all do, to recognize the harm she may be causing others, and to reject a patriarchal system that doesn't serve anyone. If the show ever decides to delve into her character, this is a great area of potential development that I'd love to see explored.
(P.s. If anyone wants, I can provide an episode by episode, procedure by procedure breakdown of her positive/neutral/negative interactions, as well as a list of Garcia's timestamped appearances throughout season 1 and 2)
summary: working alongside Dr. Spencer Reid on a high-stakes case sparks unexpected feelings between you. But while Spencer’s attention is on you, Dr. Chase quietly struggles with unspoken, one-sided emotions.
masterlist
warnings: mention of a racist nickname (it's House, what did you expect?) detailed medical content, discussion of chronic illnesses, themes of toxicology and poisoning, references to work-related stress and pressure
The third-floor hallway was unusually quiet for the time of day. The echo of your footsteps slipped between the closed doors as you walked forward, a folder tucked under your arm. Upon entering the office, you found Foreman reviewing a portable monitor, Cameron flipping through a file, and Chase pouring himself some coffee, all wearing tense expressions.
“You’re late.”
“But just in time for the fun part,” Chase remarked, handing you a cup as if it had been meant for you all along. “It’s strong, but it’ll keep you awake.”
You smiled with a silent thanks and set the folder down on the table.
“We’re going to need it,” you announced with a sigh. “They handed this to me when I arrived.”
Your colleagues looked up, peering over your shoulder at the report. In the end, it was Foreman who opened the blue folder.
“Male, forty-five years old, collapsed in the street. Rapid loss of mobility, respiratory difficulty, and a neurological deterioration progressing faster than we can track,” he explained without taking his eyes off the data. “And none of the standard tests tell us what’s going on.”
The door suddenly swung open. House limped in, his cane tapping the floor in the rhythm of someone who already knows he’s interrupting something.
“Good morning, family,” House muttered, too lively for his usual mood. “I’ve got worse news. The FBI wants us to play ‘guess the toxin’ before another one drops dead.”
“The FBI? What do they have to do with this?”
“Turns out this is the fifth case with the same symptoms, so it’s alarming. You know what they say: two’s company, three’s a crowd, and five… that’s a serial killer. Apparently.”
The four of you exchanged looks of bewilderment. You were used to seeing blood, injuries, guts, but murders weren’t part of the job description. You did some things that bent the rules, but this wasn’t on the same level.
He made his way to the whiteboard and hung his cane in a corner before picking up his black marker.
In the center, he wrote “Victims” followed by the symptoms listed in the report, recited by your own lips.
“Our patient is the only living piece of the puzzle. If he dies before we figure out what’s killing him, we’re left with no clues and they’re left with no killer. Alright, any brilliant ideas?”
Any input you might have had was cut short by the arrival of Lisa Cuddy, who was accompanied by a sizable group of people.
“Good morning, I’d like to introduce you to the FBI Behavioral Analysis Unit,” she announced, with that tone she used when she knew House wouldn’t like it. “They’re in charge of the criminal investigation behind these cases.”
“I’m Special Agent Aaron Hotchner,” he said gravely, before pointing to each of his colleagues. “This is Special Agent Derek Morgan, our media liaison Jennifer Jareau, and Dr. Spencer Reid.”
The description painted itself: the first was serious and meticulous, radiating authority; Morgan, athletic and confidently smiling, looked ready to jump into action at any moment; Jennifer, blonde with light eyes, exuded professional calm; and finally, Reid, tall, slender, and in a dark suit. He greeted the room with a raised hand and a closed-lip smile. Although he seemed more lost in his own thoughts than present in the room, his eyes never stopped analyzing every detail.
House scanned them as if evaluating the cast of a movie he had no intention of watching.
“We need full access to the patient and everything collected so far. Morgan and Reid will stay here to work with your medical team. JJ and I will talk to the patient and then with you to coordinate security and confidentiality for the case.”
“Perfect,” Cuddy replied, nodding toward House. “Give them whatever they need, understand?”
Though your boss might have wanted to complain, there was no room for that. The agents immediately left with the Dean of Medicine, leaving the other two standing in front of you. Morgan folded his arms and stood near the work table while Reid leaned in to read the list of symptoms House had written on the board.
“Alright, before that rude interruption, we were discussing possible diagnoses. I’m listening.”
Chase was the first to speak:
“It could be a neurotoxic agent, something blocking neuromuscular signaling.”
Cameron, watching the board closely, added:
“But there’s no clear evidence in blood tests or cerebrospinal fluid.”
“And if it were an accelerated autoimmune reaction, we would have already seen specific antibodies,” Foreman interjected.
You preferred to analyze all possibilities mentally before speaking, so your silence gave House the opportunity to interrupt with his usual sarcasm:
“You’re all idiots, did you know that?”
Reid looked up, calm and confident in his voice:
“What if the toxic agent isn’t directly attacking the nervous system, but altering the genetic expression of cellular receptors that regulate the immune response?”
“That would explain the rapid progression and symptom variability,” you murmured in amazement. If he hadn’t caught your attention before, he certainly did now.
The room fell silent for a moment. House furrowed his brow, about to make a sarcastic remark, but stopped and finally cracked a crooked smile.
“That’s… actually brilliant,” he exclaimed, with no trace of mockery. “What’s your specialty?”
“Oh, I’m not that kind of doctor. I hold PhDs in Mathematics, Chemistry, and Engineering, as well as a Bachelor of Arts degree in Psychology and Sociology. I’m planning to pursue one in Philosophy next. But I have no medical training, just self-taught knowledge.”
Your colleagues looked at the man as if a third arm had suddenly sprouted from him. House and you stared as if he held undeniable proof of God’s existence.
“You don’t have a girlfriend, do you?” your boss asked, with a seriousness that made everyone laugh. He seemed not to understand the joke. “Alright, one point for the brainy detective and half a point for the geneticist who complemented the answer. The rest of you morons, go test the patient.”
Morgan frowned as everyone started to stand.
“And that’s all?”
“My job? Yes,” House replied, already grabbing his cane. “Most of the time, they do everything, mess up, then come to me. I call them idiots and give them the answer. It’s fun.”
“And can we help with anything? You know, fieldwork?”
“You could go to the scene of the last collapse to investigate if there’s anything unusual. Foreman, accompany him and collect samples for analysis. Not that it’s racial or anything, but you two are the most appropriate demographic to raid the place.”
Morgan didn’t confront him, but exchanged a look with Foreman, who silently said, “Get used to it.”
“You two stay here to analyze the genetic and clinical data together. I want you to focus on any mutation or pattern that could explain the patient’s progression variability.”
You looked at your new partner with a soft—almost flirtatious—smile, and he returned a similar, albeit shyer, gesture. Chase watched the exchange with a curious expression.
When House walked toward his office, it was taken as a signal for the team to begin their tasks.
“He never compliments anyone,” you confessed to the agent to break the ice. “So, congratulations.”
“It wasn’t a difficult deduction. When I saw the symptoms together: the rapid loss of mobility, breathing difficulty, and accelerated neurological deterioration… it made me think the damage wasn’t just physical, but that there was a component affecting immune system regulation at the cellular level.”
Pausing, he added:
“If the toxin altered the genetic expression of certain cellular receptors, it could explain both the speed of progression and symptom variability among patients. Some might have an exaggerated immune response, while others barely react.”
He looked at you, as if seeking approval of his hypothesis in your eyes.
“That’s why focusing on genes that regulate the immune response, like HLA or Toll-like receptors, is crucial to understanding this case. Well, that’s my thought. What do you think?”
“I’m impressed. Your brain is amazing.”
“He loses his charm after working with him for a few years,” his friend joked, winking at you and patting him on the shoulder. He seemed comfortable, so you assumed this was allowed banter between them.
“I wouldn’t mind having you around every day. Neither would the old grouch, I assure you.”
“Pretty, smart, kind… he’s quite a package,” Morgan seconded. Spencer blushed. “But I’m afraid he’s already ours, sweetheart.”
“Too bad. You don’t always get what you want, right?” you exclaimed with a smile.
The rest of your team observed the chat with various reactions. Foreman raised his eyebrows, incredulous that you were talking like that with federal agents. Cameron had a mocking smile and a gleam in her eyes that hinted at a later conversation she would insist on having. Chase kept shifting his gaze between you and Spencer, eyes narrowed and brow furrowed.
You’d known that guy for five minutes, why were you giving him those kinds of compliments? And saying you’d like to have him around every day; what did that mean?
“I’m very flattered you think that, Doctor…” Spencer paused. You realized you hadn’t told him your name, so you said it as you extended your hand to shake his. Reid finished the sentence with your last name, which sounded simply perfect coming from his lips.
“Get to work!” House shouted from the other side.
He didn’t even bother to come out; he said it from his desk.
You went to grab the papers from the file and noticed how Agent Morgan leaned toward the young man to whisper something that made them both laugh briefly. However, after that moment of fun, Spencer looked at him with a serious, almost warning expression. Together, they reminded you of a pair of siblings.
“Dr. Foreman, after you,” he said politely, and your friend, with a big ego, nodded pleased.
Cameron said goodbye to you with a smile while Chase left the room without a word. You barely registered his departure, you were too absorbed by the intellectual glow of the genius in front of you.
“Why did House ask him for help?” Robert protested as he and his partner were in the hallway. “He’s not even a doctor.”
“His contribution was significant,” she replied calmly. “I imagine House thought he could be useful, considering how little time we have.”
“I know, but it’s not like House,” he continued. “Besides, did you hear him? I’m Mr. Know-it-all, I have a bunch of degrees and I’m better than you…”
“That’s not what I heard,” the brunette smiled. “Actually, I thought he was very humble given his abilities.”
She paused briefly, tilting her head mischievously.
“I think you’re just jealous.”
“Jealous?” he shouted, looking at her as if she had suggested amputating a limb. “Why would I be jealous?”
“Because he conquered our geneticist,” she said as if it were obvious. “He said two sentences and she was already drooling. Something you haven’t managed in a year.”
“I don’t want her drooling over me!” he claimed. It was a lie even he didn’t believe. “I don’t like her.”
“Sure, whatever you say.”
“Besides, I’m smart too. I’ve helped solve many cases.”
“Yes, but you’re not a genius,” she finished with a playful, challenging look.
The truth was that Chase had been feeling more than just camaraderie for you for a long time but had never dared to make a move. In his mind, you were an assured conquest, someone who would always be there without urgency or rushed gestures. He believed that, sooner or later, you would realize his feelings and fall at his feet without much effort on his part.
That silent confidence kept him in a comfortable waiting state while he observed from a distance, unwilling to risk losing what he already thought he had. But then he saw how your eyes sparkled at Spencer, that flicker of admiration and fascination you had never directed at him, and suddenly that comfort zone was threatened, awakening an insecurity he didn’t know how to handle.
And he had plenty of reasons to worry because once you were alone with Spencer, you set out to learn as much as you could about him. When you sat down, you did so beside him, holding a folder full of reports and analyses.
“So, if the toxin alters genetic expression,” you began, “do you think we could find a pattern?”
“I don’t think it’s that simple,” he answered softly. “It depends a lot on the genetic variants each person has.”
“House said this is the fifth victim, right? Tell me about the first four.”
Besides what was already stated explicitly in the report, Spencer told you that the deaths had occurred at intervals spaced enough to seem random, but the repeated clinical pattern was too precise to dismiss.
That’s why the BAU suspected someone was using an unknown toxin or biological agent to incapacitate victims, and the speed of symptom progression along with the lack of a clear cause pointed to an externally administered agent.
The conclusion was that you were probably facing a serial killer who injected or exposed victims to this deadly substance, leaving them to die slowly. The profile pointed to a bioterrorist, and while your colleagues investigated factors that might motivate the unsub—the term used for the criminal, as he explained—to carry out these acts, you nodded, analyzing his words as you opened a report containing preliminary genomic data.
“Do you want to read this and tell me if anything stands out to you?” you asked, trying not to seem too inquisitive.
He nodded, took the report from your hands, and after a few seconds handed it back.
“There are a couple of patterns,” he replied. “Some rare mutations in Toll-like receptors, which are crucial for immune activation. But it’s still too early to be sure. We’d need more samples to confirm.”
“You didn’t read it,” you said, looking at him incredulously. “You just skimmed it.”
Reid smiled shyly.
“I read fast.”
“I don’t think that fast,” you insisted, narrowing your eyes skeptically.
Spencer smiled slightly and nodded.
“Alright, let’s see…” you said, handing him the folder of your last case. “Tell me what this report says.”
The man held it in front of him for about the same time as before, and after closing it, returned it to you.
“That patient presents with persistent fever, skin rash, and severe joint pain. Tests show systemic inflammation, but screenings for common autoimmune and bacterial diseases have been negative. There are also signs of a possible paraneoplastic syndrome, although no tumor has been found.”
Everything was correct. For a moment you were stunned, trying to find the trick behind what had just happened. Noticing your expression, he slightly tilted his head, as if weighing whether to explain or leave you in suspense.
“I read about twenty thousand words per minute.”
You were surprised by that combination of speed and modesty, and the tension of the case seemed to dissipate amid that small display of his talent.
“You’re not serious.”
“I am!” Then, as if to change something, he added, “I can process information quickly, but that doesn’t mean I understand every detail instantly.”
You paused, letting silence fill the space for a moment. Then you decided to shift the conversation, taking advantage of the fact that you were both alone and genuine interest could be a bridge to get to know him better.
“How did you end up working for the government? I mean, your background is impressive and your skills exceptional… but you don’t seem like someone who seeks attention.”
“I guess it’s not about seeking attention,” he said. “More like curiosity takes me to unexpected places. I’ve always wanted to understand why people do what they do, how their minds work, and how we can help prevent them from hurting others or themselves. All of that fit perfectly with the profiler role, using my mind and also my desire to help others.”
You watched him, noticing the way he spoke about his passion with an almost childlike sincerity, as if he were still discovering the world.
“It must be hard, carrying all that knowledge,” you commented. “Doesn’t it overwhelm you?”
“Sometimes,” he admitted. “But it’s also a responsibility. I can’t afford to ignore what I know, although sometimes I wish I could just disconnect. You know, slow down a bit.”
You smiled, then paused for a moment. Then you asked something that had perhaps been on your mind:
“And personally? How do you handle relationships?” you inquired, trying to be subtle. “I mean, with so much mind and logic, is there room for anything else?”
Reid smiled shyly and looked away, as if finding the words was a challenge. He suspected the question hid a second meaning but tried to convince himself it was just his mind imagining things.
“I’m not very good at that,” he confessed. “I’m always more comfortable with books or theories than with unpredictable human emotions.”
Your smile grew, finding that vulnerability so different from the image of the distant genius. He was the polar opposite of House, yet on the same personality spectrum.
“That makes you more human, not less,” you assured him, lowering your voice slightly. “And maybe… someone could teach you that not everything can be solved with equations. Some things you just have to feel.”
He looked you straight in the eyes for the first time, with a mix of interest and a spark you hadn’t seen before.
“I think I’d like that,” he replied softly.
The atmosphere grew warmer, almost as if the case was just a backdrop for a more important conversation. You continued reviewing data and theories, with a growing sense of complicity: small but firm.
After almost an hour, your colleagues returned to present results and headed straight for House. Cameron wore a smile she didn’t try to hide, while Chase barely paid attention; his gaze remained fixed and almost insistently on the other side of the room, where through the glass he could see Reid calmly talking to you, gesturing as you both reviewed documents.
House noticed the angle Chase tilted his head, the intensity with which his eyes followed every small movement, and a predatory smile appeared on his face—a prelude to one of his uncomfortable comments.
“What’s up, surfer boy? Trouble concentrating or just too busy spying on the FBI?”
Cameron let out a small laugh and shook her head, but without hiding the amused glint in her eyes.
“He’s jealous,” she declared so confidently that for a moment even Chase looked surprised.
House tilted his head, feigning disbelief.
“That’s nonsense. I don’t get jealous. Especially not of someone who probably sorts his socks alphabetically.”
“What do you mean by that?” Chase asked, clearly puzzled.
“That being handsome isn’t always enough,” House replied, shrugging with his usual disdain. “There are things look can’t buy.”
The other woman smiled softly and leaned against the wall, crossing her arms calmly.
“Women want someone who really listens, someone smart without needing to show off. Someone humble who values them for who they are, not just how they look. Connection goes beyond the physical, Chase.”
He looked at her with a mixture of surprise and reflection, as if those words forced him to question something he’d taken for granted.
“Besides, I hear you never lifted a finger to win her over, right? There’s more chance she’d agree to have a threesome with me and Cameron than to go on a date with you.”
“That’s not true.”
“You’re right, I exaggerated a bit. But you get the idea.”
House crossed his arms and added in his dry voice:
“The guy’s like you, but smart. If you shared an IQ, you’d win. But you can’t compete with three PhDs and a $120,000 annual salary.”
Chase snorted but didn’t reply.
Cameron laughed softly and looked toward the other side of the room where the boy and you were already standing. At the same time, the field team entered the office.
“We have something,” you announced happily, holding a stack of papers.
“So do we.”
Said the duo House had nicknamed ‘The Dark Force’—excusing the Star Wars reference but knowing House only wanted to get under their skin.
“Alright, let’s discuss it over there.”
The cane pointed to the conference room, and suddenly the table filled with people. You took the empty seat between your male coworkers, leaving the folder on the table as you observed the BAU pair at the front; the window light illuminating their faces. Spencer’s hair shone in the sun like strands of gold.
He was focused on reviewing documents, but from time to time, his eyes rose to scan the room, and you noticed he looked at you more often than he should. When you thought he wasn’t looking, your eyes met briefly before you looked away.
Chase, sitting beside you, noticed too. Several times he caught you both exchanging subtle glances, like a silent game. He chose to ignore it, though he couldn’t hide his frown.
You all continued working for the next hours, immersed in analyzing data, reports, and samples, each focused on their task while you anxiously awaited any discovery that could shed light on the case.
The office, though mostly quiet, was charged with palpable tension; every small advance or hypothesis was discussed in hushed tones, with exchanged looks and nods or doubts. Suddenly you were with the patient, suddenly back, suddenly in Cuddy’s office to report progress.
The clock moved slowly, holding hope for a breakthrough that could make a difference. And if the day wasn’t enough, the night promised to be long.
Unfortunately, with the afternoon also came a new report: another victim had been admitted with similar symptoms, confirming the killer was still active. The news hit like a cold bucket of water, reinforcing the urgency of the case.
You wished that had been the worst of it, but you were wrong. The patient you had been treating, the key piece to understanding the mystery, suffered rapid deterioration. When you returned to the room, you found the medical team fighting against time; despite all efforts, the man had died.
That loss momentarily dampened the energy keeping hope alive. However, the urgency did not relent. Every glance was now heavy with a mix of frustration and determination, aware that only minutes remained to solve the puzzle and prevent more victims.
As minutes turned into hours, the pressure became unbearable. Still, among the data and theories, amid exhaustion, you noticed the persistence in Spencer’s eyes, that spark that seemed to say they wouldn’t give up. And although Chase beside you remained tense, he now knew the challenge was for everyone.
It turned midnight, and suddenly you needed a moment to clear your mind, even if briefly. That’s why you ended up in the kitchen, intending to grab a good coffee, something to help keep up with the frantic pace of the case.
A few minutes later, you heard someone else enter: it was Spencer, with that almost ethereal calm that surrounded him. He moved with that nervous delicacy that seemed to create a small refuge around him amid the chaos. When you looked up, he gave you a shy smile.
“Looks like we all need a little fuel to keep going,” you said, leaning casually on the counter, trying to sound relaxed despite your fatigue. “This day has been endless.”
“How do you manage to handle so much pressure? I mean, so many medical cases and urgency… I don’t think anyone can stay calm without losing their mind a little.”
“I guess it’s about finding meaning in what we do. I focus on what I can control, on doing whatever’s in my power to help patients. And, honestly, having a good team backing you up makes all the difference. Though sometimes…” you paused and let out a small laugh, “I wish I could disappear for a while and have everything solve itself.”
Reid nodded slowly, with that mix of understanding and admiration in his eyes that made you feel a tingling at the nape of your neck.
“It must be exhausting,” he murmured. “But, what isn’t, right?”
You found yourself returning his gaze, appreciating that honesty which sometimes seemed lost amid medical coldness.
Just then, the kitchen door opened with a soft thud, and Chase entered with his usual casualness. Noticing you two there, he seemed surprised.
“Huh, so this is where you were,” he said, smiling broadly. “Looks like we’re having a little meeting.”
“Yeah, I… came here and then Reid found me. We were talking about how complicated everything is.”
“I bet. Especially for you, being a key piece to solving this. Well, you’re always a key piece, really. Did you know she won an award last year? For a cutting-edge genetics article.”
You noticed a different tone in his words, a mix of joke and sincerity that was hard to decipher. Before you could answer, Spencer, holding his cup, looked up:
“I knew your name sounded familiar,” he said. “I read that article. It’s about prediction and possible modification of genetic components in hereditary diseases, right?”
“It is.”
“It’s an impressive work, very advanced for this time.”
He said no more, but his look was sincere and full of admiration. You felt heat rise to your cheeks and looked away, surprised by how much he had complimented you with so few words.
“I’m glad you read it. And that you think that, too.”
Chase watched the scene with a frown and a slight look of annoyance. He said nothing, but his posture and the way he looked at you made it clear he felt uncomfortable, as if your reaction had hurt him more than he expected.
“I think I’m going back. See you over there, okay?”
You nodded and he left with a light step. Once he was out of the kitchen, the atmosphere changed slightly.
Chase lowered his voice, and his expression grew more serious as he watched you closely, rummaging for something to eat in the fridge.
“This guy, Reid… you connected really well with him, didn’t you?”
“Yes, that’s right,” you replied simply.
The smile on your face gave you away.
“I’ve never seen you behave like that with anyone.”
“Like how?”
“I don’t know, it’s like… you were chatting with Albert Einstein or something.”
“He’s really helped me a lot with this case. He’s like… a walking encyclopedia. In the best sense of the word, of course.”
Your eyes sparkled slightly, recalling the hours shared, and you added with an almost conspiratorial sigh:
“Besides, he’s really fun. I… had a good time with him today.”
“Mhm-hmm,” he nodded. You started making a sandwich while he poured himself some coffee. “Do you like him?”
“Yes, that’s what I said.”
“No, I mean… are you attracted to him?”
You stopped abruptly to look at him. You tried to figure out if he was joking, but when you realized his question was serious, you let out a muffled laugh.
“What is this? Kindergarten?” you teased cruelly. “Also, why do you want to know that?”
“I’m just curious, that’s all.”
“You’re jealous,” you stated bluntly. Chase, who had tried to keep his composure, turned pale. “You can’t stand someone else getting attention. All the nurses are always like, ‘Dr. Chase this…’ ‘Dr. Chase that…’ and now that there’s a handsome genius helping us, you’re upset.”
“He’s not that handsome,” he snorted. “And I’m not jealous. It just seems unbelievable that someone as smart as you falls so easily for the tricks of a snake oil salesman.”
You fell silent for a moment. You looked at him seriously, then smiled the same way House did before launching an attack.
“It’s not that I’m a fangirl. Reid really seems to know what he’s doing. And I’m not going to pretend I’m not impressed,” you murmured, shrugging.
Chase scoffed.
“Well, I’d be the first to manage that, judging by what I see.”
His biting tone made you narrow your eyes, as if his behavior were unexpected from him.
“The difference is that Reid draws attention without asking for it. He doesn’t fake being charming like others. Sometimes a simple guy gets more action than the show-offs.”
Your comment threw him off. And he knew the last part was deliberately personal.
You bit your sandwich with a mocking expression Chase thought he couldn’t endure, and holding your coffee in the other hand, you headed toward the exit. As if he wanted the last word, you heard him say from inside:
“He’s still a weirdo!”
“Grow up, Robert!”
It took you three full days to solve the case.
The final diagnosis was deliberate poisoning with a modified organophosphate, designed to bind to a very rare subtype of cellular receptors that only certain people possess due to genetic variants. That’s why the victims seemed randomly chosen, and why the poison was almost invisible in conventional tests.
The FBI was able to catch the culprit by tracking the only recorded purchase of a chemical precursor matching the compound’s signature. It hadn’t been bought under his name, but the payment came from an account linked to a fictitious company.
A security camera showed a man wearing gloves, a cap, and glasses, but in a reflection on the counter, the lower part of his face was visible. That detail was enough for them to cross-reference databases and locate him before he could poison his next target.
In a strange way, you felt a double victory. One, first, for having solved the medical case despite the pressure and scarce clues. The other, for helping the detectives catch the killer, thus preventing more citizens from being harmed.
The case had become highly publicized, and the FBI made sure to thank the "excellent team of doctors" who had been instrumental in finding the toxin. House mocked it as cheap flattery—making some comment about Cuddy’s boobs on television—but all of you felt flattered. The administrator, to keep humility intact, said you were just doing your job.
The BAU then said their goodbyes. When they entered the office, now the whole team, you noticed with some disappointment that Spencer wasn’t among them; you had wanted to thank him for his support but assumed some urgent matter had called him away early.
Life in the hospital had to go on, as always. You had clinic hours that morning, so you headed to sign in, and as you leaned against the counter, you felt someone gently touch your shoulder.
Turning around, a smile appeared automatically on your face: it was him.
“Dr. Reid! I thought I wouldn’t see you around anymore.”
He wore a lavender shirt, perfectly buttoned up to the collar, and a subtly matching fine striped tie. The light gray knit sweater he wore over it fell just below the waist of his dark pants, which looked impeccable.
His hair fell slightly tousled over his forehead, giving him a distracted air that contrasted with the full focus in his gaze. His eyes, always inquisitive, shone with that shy yet warm mix that seemed exclusive to him.
“I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye,” he explained, with a small smile.
In his hand, he held a carefully wrapped package, which he extended toward you.
“And this?”
“It’s something simple. It’s… a collection of research I thought was very interesting for the innovation work you do. I thought it might be valuable for you and… well, I don’t know, I thought I’d give it to you.”
Opening it, you discovered a hardcover volume with the title embossed in silver letters: Contemporary Advances in Functional Genomics.
“It’s beautiful,” you said, shy but sincere. “You really didn’t have to go to the trouble.”
He held your gaze and smiled, happy that you liked his gift.
“And before I leave, I… wanted to mention something personal.”
“I’m listening.”
The infinite possibilities of what he might say flashed through your mind in a second. You couldn’t decide which was more appealing.
“I, uh… was wondering if we could keep in touch. You see, my mother suffers from a chronic disorder; she’s hospitalized in a sanatorium. I’d like to stay updated on your findings regarding the cellular alterations you mentioned in your article, about detection and possible prevention in hereditary diseases.”
The intention was implicit in the request. He wanted to follow your progress to see if, somehow, it could help alter his mother’s own genetics.
What disease could it be? You couldn’t tell just by looking, nor did you want to invade his privacy by asking. But you were curious. You thought of chronic diseases like Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s, multiple sclerosis, or schizophrenia—all with progressive deterioration requiring hospitalization.
You paused for a moment, weighing your words before responding:
“I’d love for us to stay in touch and share any advances I might have. If there’s anything I can do for you, it will be important.”
You grabbed one of the writing pads nearby, on the nurses’ counter, and asked him to hold one of the recording sheets for you. Leaning over to write, in simple handwriting, you put your full name, email, and below that, a string of numbers.
“I suppose this is… purely professional?”
“Excuse me?”
“I mean, if I didn’t have this ongoing research, would you still ask for my number?”
Reid looked at you, analyzing you for a moment, wondering if it was a trick question. Finally, he answered:
“I want us to stay in touch because your intellect aligns with my interests. And if from that exchange a friendship arises, I wouldn’t mind at all. I think you’re… a truly exceptional person.”
“In that case,” you replied with a knowing smile, “I’ll send you my address as well. When you’re in town, call me and we’ll arrange a meeting. Professional or not.”
Reid nodded, his eyes shining with a mix of nervousness and hope.
“That’s perfect.”
As he carefully tucked the paper into his jacket’s inner pocket, he did so as if he was keeping more than just a note.
“It was a pleasure meeting you, Dr. Reid. I mean it.”
Feeling brave, he leaned in to say goodbye with a hug, which you gladly returned.
On the upper balcony, in the company of his best friend, House let out a laugh.
“Intelligence beats muscles…”
“That means nothing!” Wilson replied, having witnessed the whole exchange. “She just gave him her number. It was… a polite gesture.”
“A polite gesture? Please! She was eating him up with her eyes. With that attitude of batting eyelashes and laughing at everything he says. Admit it, she fell.”
“I still firmly believe Chase will get her. This guy’s known her for barely a few days, and she sees him daily.”
“That’s why she won’t fall,” House countered, rolling his eyes. “She knows it’s stupid. And she proves it every day.”
Wilson shook his head. It was impossible to win an argument against House when he was convinced he was right.
“Habit is stronger than love. Women get used to someone, and eventually she’ll say: You know? I think this blond guy isn’t so bad.”
“Wanna bet?” he teased, raising his eyebrows. “I propose a hundred.”
“And I double that bet.”
“Idiot,” he muttered, a deep laugh coming from his throat. “Those two hundred will be the easiest to win.”
Without another word, he turned and limped away. Only time would solve the mystery that had arisen between them.
