COVERT : Spencer Reid (II)

34

I try not to think of my ex-boyfriend while on dates, but sometimes it can't be helped. Today for instance. If it weren't for that damn letter, which I have already shredded, my attention could be fully devoted to chess. As it stands, I can't concentrate on the move Spencer made with his knight because my mind is thinking of the call from Luc Levesque which could be coming in at any point in the next few days. He said he'd like into it, as he always does, and I suppose if he does call it's of little importance because Spencer doesn't speak French and Luc's English is scratch. It's fine. Maybe I'm not, but this is fine.

"You're not paying attention," Spencer pulls back from the board, reading his hands on his knees.

He's right. So, I shake my head, "no."

"What are you thinking about?" he asks. "Are things going well with Bastian?"

We have avoided talking about my brother storming into the bullpen last week. Roommate troubles, was how I explained it to the team. Morgan went on a tangent about his personal space and the distraction was thankfully enough. Of course, that probably wasn't substantial for Spencer. He has his eyebrow quirked casually, and I'm nowhere as good at reading people as he is, but this doesn't feel casual.

"I quit therapy," I tell him.

He cocks an eyebrow, "yeah, we haven't had a chance to... well, I suppose it wasn't going well then. Why did... was it a bad fit for you or something else?"

Right, I had only barely mentioned therapy to him. I did tell him though. At least that managed to come out.

"Bad fit," I sigh. "She was... well, she'd talk to me about things I didn't think were relevant. And four what I was paying her, it wasn't worth it."

If he can tell I'm lying, he doesn't say anything. He just nods. Dating a profiler should've been on my last list of things to do. Maybe it was, but it's Spencer. I've come to expect that he can read me. It's difficult to imagine not having him with me, but I've never been imaginative. Even this part of him, the part that notices all the things that I want to hide. It's him and therefore it's mine.

Maybe I hate what we've become, but it's entirely my fault.

"Do you want to keep playing?" he asks.

When I said, he moves me into checkmate, in just the one move. I stare at the border and stifle a laugh. I was in check for three turns, and he announced it but I had forgotten.

"Do you always go this easy on me?" I laugh when his face starts to flush. "Don't answer that."

He grins back at me. It's a flash, too rapid to really think about deeply. I get up.

"Do you want water?" I call out to him as I enter the hallway.

"Yes, thank you," he calls back.

I cross the threshold into his kitchen and move to the freezer. My fingers crack the ice tray. I pull out a cube and stand over the sink. Cool water seeps in between the cracks in my fingers. I close my eyes. Without trying, I can feel my pulse. I swear it is so strong that it's even in my eyelids. It whooshes in my ears, the sound of waves hitting the shore. As much as I like travelling, I've never desired to go to the beach. Too much sand, too hot, and the smell of sunscreen is horrific. Worst of all is the sun. I prefer DC. I prefer Québec, even. Any place that is cold. After dinner, we blew out the candles, so now I stand in the dark, my hand freezing, and then my body goes rigid.

It's not grounding. I'm below ground. I'm in a basement.

Warm hands snake around the front of me. Spencer leans in, and I smell his coconut shampoo. I drop the ice, and it clatters in the metal sink.