puzzles of a heart | spencer reid ✓

two

The rain began in the early mornings.

Spencer was sure that he was the only one awake within the shabby town, listening to the steady rhyme of the hurried drizzle. He leaned against the window sill with the blanket draping over his shoulders, trying to maintain a steady body temperature enough to make himself comfortable. The surrounding woods were coated in a layer of unspoken silence, scattering fog in pair with the falling precipitation. The waning gibbous cast a faint glow through the glass, illuminating the lighter strands of Spencer's caramel hair.

It was bittersweet, gazing out the misty panes of the glass to the forest beyond. Spencer was glad for the stillness of his lone presence, and the comfort of his home positioned on the edges of the woodlands in Virginia. It felt like home, it was home. 

He waited for the sun to rise above the trees and clear the haze of the night, but not wishing for the rain to cease its appearance. He pulled on a sweater with Caltech embroidered at the front, he had lived in that thing during his years at university. Making his way into the kitchen of the single-story house, the floorboards creaked under his weight. Spencer prepared a jam sandwich and slipped out of his bedroom window onto the roof, his slippers squeaked against the wet surface and he felt his heart pound furiously in his chest. Okay, Spence, don't slip and fall to your untimely death.

He sat on the ledge and watched dawn approach the solemn night, a soft glow of amber and cherry sangrias. The sandwich had been long finished when the first ray of the sun swept the tip of the treetops. He spontaneously made a decision to drive to the supermarket after the night of sleeplessness and tangible emotions. His fridge had been emptied from his long departure in Pittsburgh for the latest case, with his job, the milk had always gone bad before he had a chance to finish it. 

"You good, dear?" The Walmart worker inspected him from over the register, bagging the groceries and goods choppily, scanning the items at the speed of a snail. She couldn't stop talking about a numerous of bizarre things and had dove into a detailed recount of her weekend of hunting. Spencer nodded along with her words, putting in his own two cents of knowledge but mostly remained silent. "So, my husband later grilled the deer and we ate it around a fire. Oh poor thing, but it was delicious. Ah, a catalogue, young man? We have an excellent gift guide for your loved one."

Spencer dug around his pockets for his wallet. "No, I'm okay, thank you. I, uh - don't have a girlfriend."

The plump lady pressed at the cash register lazily and took his bills. "A charming man like yourself, I would've expected a nice lady at home. But, it could also be a gift for your mother? Auntie? Grandma? Opportunities are endless. Take it."

He took the bags of groceries and noticed the catalogue she slipped in one of the bags. He doesn't throw it out when he got back to his car, instead, stashed it in his glovebox without a lingering thought.

---

Spencer was to be at the private airstrip twenty minutes ago. He was speeding down the winding roads, his knuckles white against the wheel. He was terribly behind time, and moreover, he had let Hotch down. He was stressing and resisted the urge to beep at the slow drivers of Quantico. Hurry up. Please, oh, man... Hotch is going to lose his job at this rate.

He fingered the phone in his left hand and debated informing his supervisor of this mishap, but Spencer decided against it. Breaking the news was the last thing he planned to do to ruin Hotch's precious weekend with his son. Maybe if he could just get to the private airport within the hour and do some extensive damage control, perhaps the outlook of the circumstances wouldn't be so severe. 

"Private flight 394 from Washington DC, arrive time 17:32. Proceed to airstrip 3," the air control officer mumbled over the radio communications and Spencer was hurrying towards the distant shape of the jet immediately after his car was searched and waved through the gate. His chest was racing, he didn't mean to doze off from fatigue while reading Oscar Wilde. That simply wasn't Spencer, but then again, it was him: he was late and there were no excuses.