Futile the Winds || s.reid

1. I Am Not Used to Hope

Some time earlier

***

Spencer woke with a start to the crack of thunder, rain battering against the windows, and a cooling bed beside him.

He immediately sat up. His heart hammered in his chest as he glanced at the time on the glowing digital clock on his nightstand (3:22am, he noted grimly), and he swallowed before rubbing his eyes. Every nerve on his body was set alight, and though he knew the rapidly growing anxiety in his body, pulling his muscles taut and making him restless, was irrational...

He glanced at his nightstand where he kept a spare loaded pistol. Just in case.

And if you had noticed he'd put it there, you hadn't made any comment about it.

Then he shook his head and swung his feet off the bed and onto the plush carpet.

Spencer swiped his glasses from his nightstand and put them on. Then he walked past your desktop setup, now shoved into the corner of your bedroom, and to the bedroom door, following the dim light that spilled out from your old office.

Another crack of thunder echoed through your apartment, and as it faded away, Spencer heard a quiet whine followed by murmuring. He slowly made his way to the door and poked his head around the frame.

His eyes softened.

He found you seated on the small toddler bed shoved in the corner of your old office—now a temporary bedroom for Hope—with your back against the headboard and your daughter sitting in your lap. The nightstand lamp cast a warm yellow glow across the room, and you had a book open (the second Narnia book, Spencer noted). You hugged Hope between your arms as you softly read to her.

Then Spencer noticed Hope's puffy eyes and moisture glistening on her cheeks in the soft light. Hope clutched a large stuffed tiger salamander to her body, and Spencer couldn't help but smile to himself.

He'd given that toy to her, along with a few amphibian and animal research encyclopedias that he'd found buried deep in his own book collection. As soon as he got home after meeting her that first day, he'd called Garcia and asked her to find the stuffed animal and order it online for him (after Garcia had finished bawling over the fact that you were finally back in DC). Hope liking tiger salamanders was one of the few things he knew about her at the time; it seemed like a safe bet.

And he'd never forget the look on her face when she took it out of the bag. Immediately, she'd squealed and clapped her hands together with delight, and she announced, "It looks like a Fitzgerald. I'm naming it Fitzgerald!"

"Like F. Scott?" Spencer had asked, not really expecting a legitimate response.

But Hope had surprised him by shaking her head and scrunching her face up. "No, like Ella."

And when Spencer had cast his gaze over to you with his brows raised, you had just shifted on your feet and shrugged. "She likes jazz music."

Spencer had filed that away in his ever growing mental list of facts he knew about her (and grinned to himself about the fact that his daughter knew and appreciated great jazz musicians).

Now, Fitzgerald (or "Fitz," as you all had become accustomed to calling him), was cradled in Hope's arms and held tight to her little body. Despite Hope's precociousness, she was still just a child. That was never more apparent than when she was in your arms.

It was also never more apparent than now specifically, when Hope's eyes flickered to the doorway and locked with his, and her immediate response included her eyes welling with tears again, letting out a quiet distressed whine, and turning her face into the oversized black t-shirt you were wearing.