Would You Still Love Me The Same? || S.R.
characters (so far): Reader, Spencer Reid, Luke Alvez, Emily Prentiss, OCs
relationships (so far): Spencer Reid x Reader
tags (so far): angst, established relationship, minor Cat Adams/Spencer Reid/Reader, Canon Divergent, AU - Mafia, angst with a happy ending, first person pov
chapters: 2/?
summary:
Shortly after her execution was scheduled, Cat Adams came up with one last plan to ruin my husband’s life. As much as I hate to admit it, it was a brilliant plan, not to mention well executed.
There’s just one itsy bitsy little detail she forgot to account for:
Me.
snippet:
I took a shuddering breath and it hit me that I haven’t used the bathroom in ages.
And so I finally did. And when I wiped myself clean, I could (almost) pretend the blood on my hands was period blood.
But when I went to wash my hands, I couldn’t pretend anymore. There was no more denying that the blood on my hands wasn’t from my period. It wasn’t my blood at all. The soap that smelled like it belonged in a hospital turned a sick pink color as I scrubbed, trying not to have a Lady Macbeth moment in the middle of BAU’s bathroom. But fuck, for a few seconds, I could have sworn the blood on my hands wouldn’t come off, no matter how hard I scrubbed. But it did. And I know it did because the hot water ran red, then pink, and finally clear. But I still kept scrubbing. As if the soap and hot water could wash away the feeling of her hands on mine, of her skin on mine, of the memories we made. It couldn’t, but nevertheless, I tried. Only when the scalding water nearly burned me did I stop, exclaiming as I yanked my hand from under the sink.
“Are you alright in there?”
“I’m okay!” I responded to the agent posted outside the door. I turn the knobs to make the water run on the cooler side of room temperature and all but waterboard my hands under the stream.
Sufficiently washed and cooled off, I wash my face, with water only, as quickly as possible, mindful of how sensitive my hands feel. I dry myself off with some paper towels and turn to the clothes waiting for me.
As I remove my soiled clothes and slip on the spare ones Emily brought me, the observation I made when Emily first gave me these clothes gets catapulted to the forefront of my mind. It’s like my brain won’t let me ignore it now that I’m face to face with the clothes. With Spencer’s clothes. A plain black t-shirt that reads ‘FBI’ across the chest in big bold letters and — yeah, okay, I don’t think this one is actually his. But the sweatpants definitely are. They fucking smell like him. Book pages and lavender and something that’s distinctly Spencer. The sweats are really long, not surprising given how freakishly tall he is, but still. I have to roll them up a bunch of times so they actually fit, which isn’t easy given how they’re cinched at the bottom. The hoodie Emily brought me is also definitely Spencer’s. It smells like him, yeah, but it’s also got the ‘Caltech’ logo emblazoned on the front and Spence’s the only person I know who went there.
