𝗶𝗻𝘀𝗲𝗰𝘂𝗿𝗲, spencer reid.

xxix. wasted time

TWO YEARS LATER

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ LILAC EVANS

I LET OUT AN ANNOYED GROAN,
slumping onto the counter and slamming the washcloth into it.

"Li, you good sis?" Terrence Walker, my coworker, asked from the cashier. He was a chirpy and friendly gay man with pink hair. When I got this job we bonded over our love for Smirnoff.

"I hate men." I muttered, turning to his amused face. "And I hate how you already assume you don't count."

"Why would I?" The man shrugged nonchalantly. "I'm superior."

I chuckled, getting up and shaking my head. "Shut it." I told the man, grabbing a few empty glasses from the tables.

"Did the Brads come again?" Terrence asked, and I smirked at the nickname we created for the group. They were a couple of college students who visited this bar often, normally to hit on and harass any attractive female in the proximity.

"Did you not notice how loud they were?" I asked him, wiping down the bar.

"Maybe you should file a restraining order." He said.

"Or, I can just pick a fight sometime." I snickered, cracking my neck. "I've been working out. One punch and they're done for."

"You scare me." The man shuddered. "And the fact that you'll be in the FBI in a couple of months is terrifying, Lilac. I'll have you know that I will be burning my fake ID."

I laughed with amusement. "Terrence, you can live a year without alcohol before you turn of drinking age." I chuckled.

"I really can't." He grimaced. "Alcohol is my only lover."

"Me too buddy." I snickered, patting his back as I walked past the man. I checked the time, looking up to the few people that were sitting in the booths, our only customers left. "We close in 15 minutes. Need me to call a cab?" I asked them.

"All good. I'm designated driver." The woman said, patting a man's back. I frowned with slight pity, turning away and into the back to put some stuff away.

It'd been two years since I graduated Georgetown. Two years since I gotten this useless job as a bartender, barely making enough to get me by. I quit my last one because my manager was being an absolute creep to me and I couldn't stand it.

It has also been half a year since I decided I wanted to join the FBI and started my training.

I didn't know why. I hated guns and I hated the trauma that going on that one case caused me. I suffered for months because of it, but I healed. I got strong, and I was proud of myself for picking myself back up from the ground. And I guess I was addicted to feeling in control like this—I knew that if I joined the FBI and truly made peace with my trauma by confronting it—I'd be happy.