Flight Risk | Spencer Reid

V

In which important words are shared in a bookstore and on a plane.

.

She arrives slightly out of breath to the bookstore-café. "Sorry, it's really not like me to be late!"

Reid offers her a smile as she jumps into the order line beside him. "It's okay, I know."

"Yeeqin locked herself out of the apartment again so I had to run back to open it for her," she sighs, shaking her head. A soft flush colors her cheeks and he's not sure whether it's from running or from embarrassment. Or perhaps she too is as nervous as he is to be meeting here. Because this means stepping over some sort of unspoken line, it means something more real. Whatever it is. Reid still isn't sure what this is, but he knows that there is something about her smile that makes his chest tighten and that there are few people he looks forward to talking to as much as Y/N.

He realizes that aside from that evening in the hotel lobby, he's never seen her wearing something other than her pilot's uniform. She sits before him in a floral-print sundress and a bomber jacket that is ever so slightly askew, exposing the skin of her left shoulder.

"Yeeqin is your roommate?" he asks.

"Yeah. And I love her to bits, but I swear even though I'm the pilot, she's the one whose head is always in the clouds." And it strikes him that for someone who loves the sky so much, Y/N is incredibly down-to-earth. "But enough about me," she laughs. "How are you doing, Doctor?"

Her use of his title always seems to make his heartbeat quicken no matter how many times he tries to ignore it. "I'm good. Really good. It's, uh, nice to be able to see you without there being a case."

"It is nice, isn't it? Knowing that talking with you doesn't mean someone is in imminent danger. I can feel a lot less guilty about enjoying it." He wants so badly to ask what she means by that – if she enjoys seeing him the way friends do, or if she enjoys being with him a little bit more than that – but he's too afraid to know the answer. Afraid it might be less and he'll feel disappointed. Afraid it might be more and he won't be – because what is he even hoping for here? What is he supposed to be hoping for, if anything at all?

They order drinks – a mocha with he pours far too much sugar into, and chai latte she carefully sprinkles cinnamon in. They walk through the bookstacks together, drinks in hand, browsing and chatting as they go. She tells him how she fell in love with The Little Prince as a child and how she found the idea of being a pilot fascinating, even then. He tells her about the books his mother used to read to him when he was little, Medieval texts and Proust and The Canterbury Tales.

"That's pretty intense reading for a kid," she says.

"Well I can read 20,000 words per minute. And the eidetic memory helps."

She shakes her head in disbelief. "Right, our certified genius. You know I'm jealous. I don't think I'll ever have enough time to read all the things I want to read. But you? You can read anything you want."

"These days it's mostly casefiles," he says ruefully.

"Good thing we're here then. We'll have to find you some lighter words to keep in that beautiful brain of yours."

It's so easy with her. He finds himself telling her about his mother, about how she used to be a professor of literature until her disease got worse. And when he explains she has schizophrenia, she doesn't give him a look of pity. As if he's broken somehow. Her eyes soften and she says, "It has to be hard, caring for a parent. You must love her a lot. And I'm sure she's really proud to have a son like you to carry on all her best stories."