nina cried power [SPENCER REID]

eight.

CHAPTER EIGHT:
NINA'S VISIT, IN EXCLUSIVE HD AND FULL TECHNICOLOUR

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Head swimming, Spencer Reid almost collapses through the door when he gets home that evening. Hotch hadn't kept his temper in the car, and the words of his superior ring through his head as he pulls the chain across on his door, then heaves his bag off his shoulder and drops it unceremoniously to the wooden floor.

Unprofessional? Personal vendetta? Blossoming obsession?

He knows as he drops to lie on his sofa, that Hotch is only saying this because of his relationship with his father. Smothering his face with a pillow and huffing out hot air into it, as he props his long legs over the arm of his sofa considering it's too small for him, Spencer regrets the day he ever let anyone on the team know about his family history. Personal vendetta. Against shitty fathers? What was wrong with that?

And obsession. That word makes him furious. Obsession, with an unsub -- not only is it a ridiculous accusation based on slippery evidence (because, really, in what universe is getting mad at a pedophile evidence for obsession with an unsub?), but Hotch sure as hell is one to talk, considering what happened with Foyet.

Besides, Hotch himself has seen him identify with unsubs before, and every single member of his team knows it's understandable.

But is that what it is? a piece of his brain nags at him. Identifying with her? Or is it something else?

Like what? he asks himself.

Obsession. 

Well. Maybe being obsessed with this case wouldn't be such a bad thing. It's the case of his lifetime. It's been given down to him and his team from some mysterious figure who outranks them entirely -- that almost makes the obsession understandable.

Friday nights usually consist of reading a couple of books with a glass of wine, maybe listening to the radio or watching a documentary, but he can't be bothered to move, simply breathing into the woollen surface of the cushion he's smushing over his face in defeat. His mind won't shut off enough to do anything else; he knows already that all he'll end up doing is staring blankly at the moving TV, or the blurred words on a page, and losing himself in his thoughts.

Nina, Nina, Nina.

Her French face, the confidence, the sight of her in Italy -- there or not there? Smiling at him. She knows him.

Maybe his thoughts summon her. Like the kooky people he's met on jobs occasionally who believe you can walk into another's dream, or believe that your soul can call out for another's, or believe your mind can manifest thoughts in theirs. Maybe that shit's all true.