Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ever since I was little, I've had this fixation on fate, obsessed with things that could easily be waved away as coincidence. It's not that I don't believe in coincidence, because sometimes things are. That's what I've learned the hard way. Sometimes, the boy you like having the same taste in movies or favorite color doesn't mean you're meant to be. 

It's odd because I'm not even religious. I just think there has to be a reason things happen sometimes. A reason why my alarm didn't go off in the morning, even though I'm certain that I set it. It only caused me to wake up ten minutes later, a negligible amount, really, but being thrown off schedule somehow snowballed into leaving the house 30 minutes beyond routine. For most, I imagine 30 minutes would be enough for real lateness, but my routine is built the way I like it-- with lots of wiggle room.

Heading straight to work, as I really should've, would still leave me with some spare minutes to burn. Yet, I'm not walking through the city streets in that direction. There is one aspect of my morning that I find non-negotiable. As much as it's spiraled into a stereotype, a joke, I cannot live without a cup of coffee. Which is stupid, because I'm risking being late for a cup of black coffee. 

One thing I hadn't expected, even though everything is a little off kilter, is the fact that the coffeeshop I frequent is a lot busier at 7:30 than at 7. This annoys me, because I don't have much time to spare, yet I'm trapped in a line behind upside-down lattes and extra foam when I know that my drink can be ready in less time than it takes them to order.

God, I know I sound insufferable by now. But I should be allowed, because I'm running late, and the only thing that's going to get me through the day is making me even later. 

I only work a few days out of the week, at some shitty gardening magazine that I couldn't force myself to give a shit about. The dream was always to be a freelance photographer, to do what I love and make money, somehow. I guess I am doing that, taking pictures, cashing paychecks. I just didn't realize it would be pictures of fucking plants. I would kill to get a job at literally any other magazine at this point, but it's like I've found a niche that no one else does, and the few times I've been scoped out for other opportunities, it was more plants. 

There's no reason for me to need to be on time, if we're being realistic. It's the principle of the matter, though-- and if I ever find a better opening, I don't want to lose it because Gardening Inc. only has bad things to say about me. 

By the time I've reached the front of the line, I've begun to accept my lateness. The workers know me, and there's a cup of joe waiting by the register, and my mere $2.16 total is already flashing across the machine. I pull 3 ones out of my pocket and tell them to keep the change, even though I don't need to, because I do this every time.

When I turn to leave, there's a clumsy rush in every action I take, a laziness that only comes when you're willing to sacrifice everything in order to gain speed and efficiency. Maybe that's why I trip over my untied shoelaces, which by the way, would've been tied if my alarm had gone off, but I was more focused on getting out of the door (that same laziness permeating into my morning routine from the moment I woke up). I can feel myself falling in slow motion, and my first instinct is to hold my coffee a little higher, as if I were trying to protect something of real value.

I think it would've worked too, that I would've tumbled onto the floor with a loud smack and felt the concrete against my face, but my coffee would've been victoriously above my head, only a few drops of the hot liquid jumping from the lid. I only think it would work, but I have zero proof, because before I could hit the floor, some guy in line behind me just had to reach out and grab my arm. 

It keeps me from falling, but it causes the coffee to slip from my hands and hit the ground instead. It explodes, or if I'm being less dramatic, splashes, and my socks are now stained brown, like when you would try to tea stain paper for a stupid school project. 

When I look up at the man, I now see has a bit more strength than you would expect from such a scrawny guy. He's got this brown hair, light brown, a little like coffee with a dash of milk, maybe. He's wearing a sweater vest, which I'm realizing has a splattering of coffee across it from the initial trip of my shoe laces. 

"Are you alright?" He asks, and there's a small stitch in between his brows, like he's actually concerned. 

"No." I say, point-blank, staring at the mess on the floor, an employee rushing over with a bucket and mop.

His espresso brown eyes only look confused, if not a little more concerned. There are more questions somewhere behind his stare at me, and I can see how they buffer on his lips, but he doesn't speak aloud before I do. 

"My coffee is gone."

His brows straighten out, and I think that he could be handsome if he were to find a better way to style that long hair than just pushing it back out of his face, or if he didn't dress like he was coming straight from a librarian's convention. 

"I could buy you another," He offers, scrambling to reach into his pockets, as if it's his responsibility. The annoyed part of me (the one who's been ticked off ever since I came to the conlcusion that I was the dumbass who forgot to set my alarm), wants to tell him that it very much is his fault, because if he had just let me fall, I would be sore and embarrased, but I would have a coffee still.

I sigh, checking my watch, only to discover I have roughly ten minutes before I need to be at the office, and about a fifteen-minute walk ahead of me. 

"If only," I sigh, leaving behind a mess of coffee and a poor underpaid worker cleaning it up. 

I rush out the door and to the office. The whole while, all I can think about is how I'm going to need to find a new place to go to, because my 84-cent tip was not enough to justify the amount of clean up.

My talent for speed walking surprises me when I arrive just on time, cutting those pesky five minutes out of my walk. 

Cecilia is waiting for me by the front desk, sipping a coffee (that I know is unbearably burnt and bitter) out of a mug that looks perfectly unused, despite its daily use.

"You're on time today, Mia," She notes, checking her watch, one of those vintage-looking ones, the really small ones that girls used to go crazy for in the 90s. 

I fight not to roll my eyes at her, because she's my boss, not a friend, no matter how much she tries to joke around as if we're buds.

"I'm always on time."

"No, Mia, you are always early," She corrects, leading me back into her office, away from the open layout of desks and full-time employees. "Unbearably so."

The door closes behind us, and we're alone in her office, which looks like a tornado has run through it. She takes off her blazer jacket, draping it against the back of her chair, but it slides off once she turns away from it, and it falls onto a pile of crumpled papers.

"Coffee?" She offers, absent-mindedly, as she pours herself some more.

I only made the mistake of saying yes once.

"No, I'm alright."

But, oh, how close I was to repeating history. 

As much as I need my caffeine hit (I would say, 'like a drug,' but caffeine is a drug, so nothing's funny about it), nothing is worse than the garbage she runs through coffee liners. Whatever it is she's brewing is suspiciously coffee scented and coffee colored, but it is NOT coffee. Not to me, anyway. 

"Jonathan is out today-- more unpaid leave-- so we'll have to work without him for now."

"Again?" It's like the third time in the last month he's been out while I'm here, even though he's essential to the team. 

"He said something about his mother being sick again," She sighs, tapping her manicured nails against the table, "Cancer."

"Oh," I try not to appear so standoffish, but I'm still standing awkwardly around the door.

"Oh, gosh, what am I thinking?" She says, laughing nervously as she runs a thoughtless hand through her hair, tangling the curls that must've taken a solid chunk of time to perfect this morning. "Let me show you what we have planned for next month's release."

Given that it's only the first day of THIS month, what she has to show is only the roughest of drafts. Nothing is put together yet, but there are sketches and drafts of paragraphs. 

"We want to continue our monthly flower focus, but we're struggling to find one that survives in December," She stares at the blank pages before her, the working title of 'monthly flower pick' still scrawled out in big sloppy letters, "Or at least one we didn't already use in the last few years."

"But that's a Jonathan question."

"Exactly," She exasperates, throwing the file onto the desk. There's a mountain of files beneath it. 

"So what do you need from me at this moment?" I ask it softly, while picking up the discarded file, like I'm just trying to help her out. What I really want is to get a task so I can get the hell out of here. 

"Would you mind staying here...?" She asks, quietly, "Just for today-- help with the research?" 

Again, she asks like she's my friend, a buddy, a pal, but she's my boss. I don't really have the choice to say 'NO I ACTUALLY HATE PLANTS AND IF I HAVE TO STAY HERE ANY LONGER I'M GOING TO EXPLODE' so I nod, and smile like we are friends and give a quick, "Yeah, of course."

I leave her office, closing the door behind me, and sit at the desk that is officially mine, but is not mine at all. If possible, I try not to stay at the office, which is pretty easy when my job is taking pictures of things that are outside the office. Maybe I was being dramatic when I said I hate plants. I don't actually. At least, before I got this job, I would say I had an appreciation for the green things in nature (outside of, say, slugs and toads), but I think I know too much now. 

There were probably about twenty minutes where I tried to follow the task at hand. I kept searching for any flowers that survive in winter, but if they hadn't been used in a prior December, they were used in a prior November or January. It felt pretty pointless, especially because once Jonathan comes back, he'll be able to answer it like it's so easy. He'll say it like it's obvious: "Oh, you guys didn't think of snowdrops?" and we'll all sigh and start to put together the spread, and I'll go out to take pictures of any snowdrops to use. My favorite is when we can't even find the plants I'm supposed to be taking pictures of, so they have to buy stock images instead. The only reason that I'm here is because they would rather just send me out to run their errands. My rate is cheaper than buying a hundred single stock images for commercial use. 

It's nearing dangerously close to our lunch break when I hear the sound of the front door opening, the painful screech of the hinges that need a little oil. It's not often we get anyone coming in, which is just shocking, right? Who wouldn't want to go out of their way to talk to the people behind the gardening magazine that you see at the lobby of your dentist's office? Who doesn't want to buy one from our stands at the front, because buying them at the grocery store is too easy? All of that's to say that I don't even look up at the person, because it's not my problem. Except it's everyone's problem, because Jen took her lunch early, leaving the front desk empty, and Cecilia has not emerged from her office yet.

After way too long, whoever walked in clears their voice and asks hesitantly, "Um. Excuse me?"

The man standing awkwardly at the front entrance is none other than the guy from the coffee shop. It's him with an added accessory-- a pair of painfully academic glasses, the kind where the frame cuts out at the bottom of the lens. They match his whole 'librarian from the 50s who just stumbled out of a time machine' look. He's still got the ghost of a stain on his sweater vest, like he tried to dab it out, but it persists in a few spots.

"You," I stand from my desk, excited to have a break from sitting at my computer scrolling through images of winter flowers pretending to care, "You're the reason I didn't have my coffee this morning."

"What?" He looks offended, falsely accused, "You're the one who tripped--" He coughs a little, clearing his throat again, and reaches into his pocket, pulling out what appears to be a wallet or something. 

Is he seriously going to pay me back for my coffee?

"Look, you don't have to--"

"I'm here with the FBI."

His wallet unfolds to be a badge, an FBI badge.

"I need to ask you some questions about one of your coworkers, Jonathan Dirk."

I manage to read the name on the badge in the few seconds he has it out in front of him: Spencer Reid.

"Jonathan?" I look around to see that all of my coworkers have their heads down in their computers, clearly not interested in talking to the FBI, "What do you need to know about him? He isn't here right now, his mom's sick."

Agent Reid (is that what I should call him?) looks very different now than when he was at the coffee shop, despite nothing changing in his appearance aside from some glasses, like the guy at the cafe was Spencer. This, however, is definitely Agent Reid. He's very serious, and his eyes hide what I can only imagine are a lot of gears turning in his head. 

"He said today that his mom was sick?" He prods, brows furrowed in thought.

"Yeah, said something about cancer? According to my boss, that is." He doesn't say anything for another second, "Why are you asking about Jonathan?"

Out of everyone here, I think he's the only person I wouldn't expect the FBI to come questioning me about. He's all smiles and daffodils and helpful hints and taking over the work I don't really want to do. Everyone else here is desperate enough for money that they would steal candy from a baby if they thought they could sell the candy for a solid buck.

"Jonathan Dirk is our prime suspect in a homicide case involving the murders of 4 people." He says it so matter-of-factly, like he is certain that Jonathan is a murderer, "How much knowledge of plants is required to be employed here?"

"Required? None." I chuckle, although it's more because I don't know what else to do, "But Jonathan is the expert around here. He knows everything."

"Everything about gardening?" His forefinger and thumb tap against each other quickly, like he's thinking, "Or everything about plants in general?"

"Both," I struggle to understand how this guy could be up for murder. "He grew up on a farm, and he was always tending their greenhouse. He went on to major in like plantology or whatever, he dedicated his whole life to it."

"He said that he had a degree?" I nod, and he pulls out his phone, and it only takes one button press for him to be connected to another line, "Garcia, can you see if Dirk ever had any degrees, something like Botony or Plant pathology?"

A moment of silence passes.

"So he attended NYU but never got a degree... that's why we didn't flag it earlier..." He chews on his bottom lip for a moment, "I think I know where this guy might be located. Can you run a search for any large greenhouses in New York? The one we're looking for is on a farm, and it should have a large variety of plants, and it would take a lot of upkeep."

"No," I interrupt, and it's like Agent Reid forgot I was still standing in front of him, because he jumps a little, "He didn't grow up in New York, he grew up in North Carolina."

"Garcia, scratch that, search in North Carolina. Look for any farms under his father's name, look for any purchases that may flag the greenhouse." He bites at his bottom lip again, and this Garcia person must not have any good news, because he looks stumped.

I try to think back to anything that Jonathan might've told me about the farm, the greenhouse, but to be honest, I never really listened. He was always going on about some plant or another; it just got easy to tune out his voice.

"It's not his dad's farm," I suddenly remember him saying that, how his father died when he was young, "It was his uncle's. He learned everything from him, the greenhouse was his..." The name is on the tip of my tongue, and I force myself to remember one of the rants Jon would give before quoting, "Uncle Stu!" 

"Thank you," Agent Reid says before turning away a little, "Garcia, check under the name Stu or Stuart, the farm belonged to his uncle."

This time, when things go silent, I assume it's for the better. He says thanks to whoever is on the phone, and turns to me again.

"Thank you."

It's all he says, turning towards the door to leave. He must have places to be, important places, but I still stop him.

"Agent!" I don't dare to use the name he never gave to me, and he looks back at me anyway, waiting, "Did he really do it?"

He looks down, pursing his lips. He doesn't look happy to say what he does.

"Yeah. I think he did."

With that, he's gone, and all that's left is the squeak of the hinges as the door slowly closes itself.

Chapter Text

In about fifteen minutes, everyone has taken their lunch, like nothing happened, but something DID happen. Jonathan is being suspected as a serial killer, and everyone's just going out to lunch like it's no big deal. It's been such a strange morning thus far. I don't think I've been able to predict what might happen next from the very moment I woke up. Just a lot of surprises. I hope that moving forward, things can be normal.

It feels very normal when Cecilia emerges from her office, hair neatly put back into place, blazer buttoned to perfection. Her heels clack loudly against the floors of the practically deserted office, but stop abruptly when she notices me.

"Mia?" She takes a detour from wherever she was headed to (probably another 'bowl' place for lunch), "What are you doing here? It's your break."

I recline my chair back as far as it will go, "Yeah, I know."

She tucks her hair behind her ears, a nervous habit I can tell she hates, because every time she does it in front of a client, or one of her bosses, she immediately pulls the hair back out, fixing it. 

"What was all that noise earlier?" There's an eagerness to her question. I'm certain she thinks it was a breakthrough on the Flower of the Month. Or just anything. She wants one of us to not be so useless for once. 

But since everyone is gone now, I'm the one who has to break the news, "It was an FBI agent."

Cecilia blinks hard a few times, long, mascara-coated eyelashes fluttering up and down, "WHAT?"

"Yeah, so... Jonathan is a serial killer."

"WHAT?" Those barely fixed curls are being massacred as she runs her hands through her hair, eyes wide in shock.

"That's just what they're saying," I try to comfort her, a hand on her shouder, "It's not confirmed whether he is or not."

"Oh god..." She sounds sick, looks like she's going to be as well, "I can't believe this..."

"I couldn't either, he just didn't seem like--"

"No, Mia," She shakes her head, and I swear I can see the beginnings of a tear forming in her glassy eyes, "You don't understand what this means... Jonathan isn't coming back."

"Oh." 

She lets out a long, frustrated groan, which somehow only feels more overdramatic given how empty it is in the office right now.

"What are we going to do without him?"

I shrug, because what do I know? I still state the obvious, "We'll have to put out a listing for a new expert."

"Yes, but--" She looks down at my desk, the mock-up file, how empty it is, "We need this ready ASAP to get it out to print before December-- there's no time to find someone before then."

She bites at her nails, and I almost tell her to stop, because she'll ruin the perfectly even layer of pink gel polish on them, but I don't think it's my place. I take a second to really look at her, the stressed biting of the nails, hair tucked behind her ears, blazer and pants beginning to wrinkle at every joint, and I feel kinda bad. I've never seen her so stressed, and I've made it through two summers trying to meet deadlines and compete with all the big-name magazines that think they can cover gardening when they're really just home decor or lifestyle-centered. 

Internally, I let out a giant sigh, and it feels like dropping 10 pounds of dignity and shame.

"I can work full-time until we find a replacement," Her head perks up, and she stops biting her polish, saving it, "I can help pick up some of the slack, try to keep things smooth."

God, I hate being a good person. This is the last thing I thought I would be doing, and I consider going down the Jonathan route if it means I don't have to show up tomorrow at 7:30 with everyone else.

"You would do that?" Cecilia asks, and there's a look in her eyes, glossed over, which can only be described as 'puppy dog eyes,' "Oh, thank you, Mia!"

She throws her arms around me in an unexpected hug. It almost flips the office chair back, reclining it further than it was meant to be pushed, but she stands up rather quickly, like she's embarrassed.

"I'm going to pick up a Mediterranean bowl, do you want to come with?" She asks, fixing up her hair and smoothing out her blazer. 

If it weren't a Mediterranean bowl, it would be a burrito bowl, or a smoothie bowl, or a poke bowl. I think she wants to be one of those LA girls, but New York just isn't avocado toast and sunshine and yoga classes the same way she treats it as.

"Oh, no thanks," I wave it off, but she gives a disappointed glance and a small pout, "I just want to get ahead of some of this work."

"Alright, then. Don't work too hard, Mia."

I nod and turn back to the computer, as if I'm really trying to work right now.

Okay, I do work, but it just feels like no progress. Every time I try asking around the office to see if anyone has any ideas, it's all blank. We're never going to finish this issue without Jonathan, not just the Flower of the Month; we're just going to get none of it done. I've been trying to clean up and build on the ideas Cecilia has, and I started contacting anyone we might need to give quotes or to interview, but there's so little out there to find about gardening when it's approaching a solid New York winter.

It feels like a blur between the time everyone gets back from lunch and the time they all start slowly heading out. I envy them greatly for getting to leave at 4:30, but since I clocked in later, I'm stuck here. My hours are usually sporadic and rarely in-office, so I'm not used to all the downtime that's beginning to suffocate me.

The cruelest part is when Jen at the front desk leaves, because it means I'm the last one in the main office. She makes such a big deal out of leaving, too. She announces it and jingles her keys, telling me that she won't forget them today. Jen is a little older than everyone else, and it seems that every time I'm here late, I see her stop back in about ten times to look for her keys. 7/10 times, she already has her keys with her. 

Jen is gone, and I have another five minutes, but that doesn't stop me from packing everything up, locking the files in my desk, and just pretending to look busy as I throw out any trash just to kill the time. 

From behind me, I can hear that annoying door screeching again, so I call over my shoulder, "No, Jen, you didn't forget your keys."

"Who's Jen?" It's the voice of a man. A quiet, mouse-like man, but still, a man.

"GAH," I jump, startled, and turn around to see that it's Agent Reid. "Oh. It's you."

Well, it appears to be more of Spencer. He has the glasses, but there's more of a casual look on his face, an expression only a step above neutral. He's holding two cups in his hand. Both are from the place down the street, where we bumped into each other.

"Here," He crosses the threshold from the lobby to the office, handing me one of the cups, "To make up for the one I knocked over this morning."

"I was totally the one who tripped first, though." I take it, giving him a questioning glance at the cup of black coffee, "It's 5 pm, though, are you trying to kill me?"

"It's decaf," He gives a smile, or what I would think is adjacent to a smile for him. His lips are technically in a straight line, but I can see the intent behind it. I think. 

I hold back my true thoughts, that there's no point to coffee without caffeine.

"Thanks. Is yours decaf, too?"

"Tea," He holds up his cup, even though I can't see what's in it, "It's peppermint, so it naturally doesn't have any caffeine."

Through the corner of my eye, I can read the clock on the wall saying that it's hit 5, which means I can officially leave. 

"Is this all that brings you here, Agent?" I ask, holding the door open for him. 

"Doctor." He says it quickly, correcting me.

Without really thinking, I begin my walk home, "So you're not FBI?"

"No, I am," He's following me, and I can't tell if he really thinks about it either, "I have a PHD in Math, Science, and Engineering as well as a Bachelor's in Psychology and Sociology."

"No way," I shake my head, "There's no way."

"I really do," He says it quietly, like he's used to people not believing.

"Oh, I don't doubt you," I laugh, "There's just no way you're probably like the same age as me, and all I do is work for the shittiest gardening magazine."

"I think your job sounds fun," He has a way of speaking that doesn't make you question his honesty. You can tell that he means exactly what he says; an earnest tone in his voice, an honest look in his warm eyes. 

"I don't think my job sounds fun-- especially because I know nothing about gardening," a chuckle escapes me at the absurdity of my situation, "You get to go around fighting all the bad guys, catching murderers, that sounds more interesting."

"Interesting? Yes. Fun?..." He pauses, staring down at his tea, conflicted, "We arrested Jonathan, in case you were wondering."

"Did you do it? Chase him down action-movie style?" 

"No, actually, it wasn't even my team that arrested him. He was at the greenhouse in North Carolina, so we sent the local PD there to find him." It's that honest way that he speaks, like everything is fact, that makes me question him more. There's no way he's allowed to just say all of this right now.

I still try to see how much I can get him to say, though.

"Why didn't you guys do it? No fancy jets?" 

"No, we have a jet, but..." There's hesitation, like I'm starting to reach the line of where he's not sure what to divuldge, "Normally, by the time we find an unsub, they have some sort of hostage, and it's better if we keep the situation under our control, but we found it very unlikely that Jonathan would have anyone else there with him, or any risk at all, really. It made more sense to stay here as a team."

"Unsub?" 

"Unknown Subject. It's what we call the people we chase before we know their names."

"So..." I'm not sure if I'm allowed to ask, "What did Jonathan do? I mean-- like-- y'know?"

"He poisoned them."

"Oh." His bluntness is refreshing, and maybe that's why I keep thinking he's so honest; he's just not sugar coating anything. I don't think he's watering it down for me.

"We tracked the Unsub-- Jonathan-- because the plants he used aren't common in the US," He has another moment where he pauses, like he knows he's saying too much, but he keeps going, "We had to run mutiple tox screens on the autopsies to find out what it was, because we couldn't even figure out cause of death. When we suspected Jonathan, it was because he fit the profile we built, but he didn't have the expertise on plants that we had assumed; he just worked at Gardening Inc."

"Profile?" I can't help but pick out the only words that don't ring a bell for me. Okay, look, I'm a young girl living on her own in New York-- I listen to enough true crime to stay in the know. There are just some phrases that don't seem familiar.

"My team creates profiles for serial killers. We look at their behaviors and build guidelines for who we estimate the unsub to be. For example, we profiled that Jonathan would be someone with a high level of knowledge regarding plants, especially rare plants, most likely someone with a job relating to it, or someone with a degree in plant pathology. He would likely be someone who could get along pretty well with their peers, but would struggle socially outside of work."

"Woah." I guess I don't know what I was expecting to hear.

"I'm sorry," His face scrunches, like he regrets saying as much as he did, "I've been told I have a tendency to talk too much."

"No, don't apologize." My coffee feels like it's growing colder in my hands, or maybe the outside is just slowly turning my hands to ice faster than the coffee can work to keep them warm, "I'm just still kind of shocked that Jonathan... That he killed four people."

"Five, actually." He corrects.

"Earlier, you said four."

"Earlier, we thought it was four." His statements are short again, like he's scared to fall into another rant.

It's a little frustrating when I'm trying to prod him for information that is most definitely confidential. 

"What happened?"

"We missed his first victim-- his mother." 

"But his mom is alive?" She has cancer, she's been sick, that's why he's been taking time off to go home ever since the beginning of fall.

"That's just what he told you guys," He sips his tea again, and even though I'll always reach for coffee, a part of me wishes I had a warm cup of peppermint tea instead. "He poisoned his mother three months ago. He kept taking time off to go back to North Carolina for the funeral. He was also tending the greenhouse every time, bringing back more of the plants he needed."

"You think you know a guy..." I trail off because we've walked all the way to my apartment. "This is my stop." 

He looks at the building, like being snapped out of a trance, almost. "Oh. Glad you're home safe."

"You aren't a stalker or anything, right?" I ask, leaning halfway through the front entrance, "I just have to check."

As if he's caught off guard, he smiles, more than the one I thought was a smile earlier, "I'm the guy who catches the stalkers."

"Hm. Alright." I give him a little wave before heading inside, "Bye, Doctor."

He waves back, but says nothing else. 

I turn to actually get inside the lobby, but I can't help the way I swivel back to watch him. It seems he has the same idea, because we make eye contact before he looks forward, acting like it never happened. A part of me wants to ask for his number, his name, his email, I don't know. It seems a shame that we likely won't talk again, but he's down the street, and it would be plain weird to stop him now. 

Stepping into the lobby, I peer out the front window and find that I can still see him walking, just barely in sight. He looks back again, but once he sees I'm no longer on the front doorstep, he turns around and walks until he's out of sight. 

Now this, this is what I call fate. 

It all HAS to be connected. The way I forgot to set my alarm last night, which made me half an hour late. Which is why I saw a different crowd of people in the cafe, and also why I ended up tripping, but I spilled my coffee on the only damn guy in the place who would be willing to try and stop me from falling face-first onto the ground. And sure, maybe that's all coincidence, the type I'm not supposed to get hung up on, but it turns out that guy's an FBI agent looking for one of my coworkers? There's no logical explanation for that. It's beyond coincidence. It's fate. 

Fate was what brought him back with a decaf coffee in hand. 

Chapter Text

The next morning, I'm at the coffee shop at the same time I normally am.

Now that I'm working full-time, I have to start at 7:30. This means that my slow mornings of sipping coffee and taking leisurely walks into the office are gone. It's a grab-and-go and drink-it-on-the-way. 

A part of me is disappointed to see how empty it is, despite how angry I was the day prior at how busy it was. Today, I know that the empty store only means that there will be no Doctor Spencer or Agent Reid getting some sort of peppermint tea or coffee.

I look for him on my way out, as if he'll be walking up as I leave, a complete coincidence (after waking up, I'm too scared to call it fate), but I see no such thing.

I'm not quite sure what I expected.

Chapter Text

One day in, and I've come to the conclusion that FULL TIME SUCKS. Still, there's no progress on the things that matter, and a weird tension is building in the air as it starts to sink in that Jonathan is gone for good. Unfortunately, he was the backbone of this place, and single-handedly running the magazine (sorry, Cecilia). 

It's the hours that I can't handle the most, I think. I'm starting to feel chained to my desk, and even if I don't do it, I keep myself sane by reminding myself that I could get up and walk away whenever. 

There is only one way I can think of to cope with the situation I have placed myself in. And that is, going back to the cafe before it closes to grab another coffee. Decaf, as per the recommendation of Doctor Spencer Reid.

It's late enough that I'm sure there are some old people eating dinner already, and I'm waltzing into Coffee Inc. for a nice cup of decaf. The store isn't as empty as I would've thought. Lots of people are working, hiding behind laptops and books and coffee cups. Something about the community of it all makes me want to join in.

So I pick up my decaf, even though I feel a little bad, because when the workers saw me, they poured my regular cup (albeit a bit confused), and I had to tell them that I didn't want my usual. Probably the first time I've ordered anything else over the greater part of 3 years. And I walk over to an empty table by the window, and stare out of it while trying not to burn my tongue. 

A part of me wonders if Spencer will walk in, that he always gets a coffee before work, a tea after, or something like that. I don't see him, though, and the longer I stay, the more people start to clear out, until I'm one of the last. 

I'm not sure what exactly it is that makes me look up when I do, right as someone walks outside into the setting sun, but I peer longer than necessary at the community books and magazines. Maybe it was just because I can recognize the cover of October's Gardening Inc., but I admire the way it blends in among the other magazines it's displayed with. I mean, I'm the one who took the cover photo: a pumpkin and some other crops from some farm just outside of the city, if I can remember correctly. A basic choice, but that was around when Jonathan started using all of his sick days, and we had to make some of our decisions a little quicker, and without his advice.

There's a piece of paper sticking out of the copy, small, like a sticky note. I try to go back to people watching out the window, but it's only a few seconds before I'm standing up to grab the magazine. I mean, it's my work in there, I wanna see what the people have to say.

Running my fingers over the cover, I look closer at my work, and I can appreciate what this job has done for me. We're approaching three years, and I have taken more covers than I care to remember now. I never thought I would make it that far. Even if it's just mediocre pictures of vegetables or flowers and whatnot.

When I open up the pages to the note, I find a blue sticky note with pen scrawled out on it, handwriting that is simultaneously messy and neat. It's stuck over the seasonal gardening tips, written by Jonathan, the one the cover alludes to. There are more pictures of that farm, some of the people tending it. It was actually a fun day, if I can recall.

The note reads out: "The truth is rarely pure and never simple." - Oscar Wilde (From your not-stalker)

I know it must be from Spencer, and I see that he's underlined a few sentences from the page, personal anecdotes from Jon. He wrote about how pumpkins were great for making soup-- that his mother used to make the best, and it would remind him of Halloween night, coming home after trick or treating. He said there was nothing better than a mother's love. 

The worst part is, I think he means it. Maybe I'll never know why he did what he did, but I know that the Jonathan who came to work every day was not the Jonathan capable of doing all of those things.

I slip the magazine into my bag, giving another once-over to the note left in it. Stealing from the community section is not my brightest moment, so I make a mental note to leave behind a copy of each month's release to make up for it. I just want to read over what Spencer underlined again.

Maybe fate only allowed us to meet the once (well, it was three times), but I think it's just as fine to be confined to a little sticky note.

Chapter Text

In the mornings, I can catch a glimpse of him, of Agent Reid. It's always some time a little past 7:30, when I'm all warmed up at my desk, the same time we ran into each other when I first spilled coffee on him (which is starting to feel like a lot longer ago than a week). He's always got a Coffee Inc. cup in his hands, and I always imagine that it's a coffee.

Maybe it was fate that intertwined us, but it was just that once, and I can only assume it's for a reason. Things weren't supposed to work out again; otherwise, they would've.

Work hasn't gotten any better, unfortunately. No one has gained an expert-level knowledge of plants over the last seven days, and thus, our Flower of the Month page is blank, and we are starting to get real close to our deadlines. Too close to have nothing done. Cecilia has left her office maybe three times (that I've seen) over the last two days, and I almost think it's for the better that she doesn't watch this all go down in flames. It seems that I won't witness her leave again today, because my shift ended like fifteen minutes ago, so I really should head out. I don't even think I'm getting overtime for this. Yet, I'm the last one in here again, trying to check another database of winter plants for something I might've missed.

I give up, logging out and locking up my desk. Cecilia's door is still shut, window covered by her drawn blinds, and I can't help feeling bad for her. She's doing her best, but she lost her secret weapon.

The door opens, and just as I've done about a dozen times over the last week, I call out over my shoulder, "You got your keys, Jen."

Except instead of hearing her little, 'Oh. I do!' There's a familiar, deeper voice instead.

"Sounds like Jen has a problem."

It doesn't scare me as much to hear Reid this time. I turn around and find him standing in the lobby, two Coffee Inc. cups in hand, warm enough that steam is funneled through the hole in the lid. 

"She does," I smile, skipping over to him. It's not funny how bad I need a coffee right now.

He hands me one of the cups, sheepishly, and holds the door open. As much as I want to ask why he's here, I don't think that's how this works. Asking would ruin it. 

"Why gardening?" He blurts out before we're even five feet from the door. 

"Hm?" I hum in response, as if I hadn't heard him.

"You said you don't care about gardening, so..." He gestures to the building behind us as we walk, "Why work at a gardening magazine?"

"Money?"

"Well, yes, money, but," He pauses, like he's thinking of another way to word it, "Why this magazine? Why one about plants?"

I prepare for my response, taking a long sip of coffee, which warms me inside. It's a welcome feeling when I'm able to see every exhale puff up in front of my eyes.

"Well, I don't write for the magazine, for one, so let's get that straight," I leave out the part where I write sometimes, because I try not to, "I take all the pictures-- not all, but you know what I mean."

"Photography?" He asks, and it almost sounds rhetorical, like he doesn't want an answer; he's just saying it to himself. 

His eyes are sizing me up, or it feels like it. I want to slice into his brain to see what it says. I've got the same thing on that I do every day, a button-up with a sweater thrown over, a skirt, and Mary Janes, as well as a couple of layers and tights to stay warm. Does he think it's too artsy, obvious I'm trying too hard? Or is it too plain, uncreative?

"My dream was to find a way to make photography work, and so I applied for a bunch of magazines-- not really expecting any of them to take me in so early in my career, but Gardening Inc. needed a freelance photographer and..." I sigh into my coffee and try not to think too hard about all of the teenage dreams I crush every day I go into the office full-time, "Two years later, and I literally cannot find a place to take me that isn't entirely plant-related, so I'm stuck."

"You really can't find anything?" He's trying to hide it, but I can see the hint of a laugh pushing through his words. He finds it funny. I probably would too if it wasn't happening to me.

"No, I can't. My portfolio is 90% gardens and greenhouses and farms, which only appeals to our competitors' magazines."

"Then build your portfolio." 

God, it's that same bluntness, the one that makes him honest. He speaks in a way that makes everything feel a lot simpler.

"I would, but I don't have any time, especially not now," I groan, running a hand through my hair, and I can't help but feel like it's such a Cecilia thing to do. Her stress must be rubbing off on me.

"Why not?"

"Because I work full-time now," My work problems feel very stupid when I'm talking to the guy who catches murderers. "Ever since Jonathan-- you know-- I've had to take on all these extra hours in the office to try and pick up the slack, but we're royally fucked. We still have blank pages for a magazine that needs to be sent out for print in a week." 

"One guy can't do it all," Spencer notes, obviously, "So how come you guys are so behind?"

"Well, it's only two pages. The Flower of the Month spread. We can't figure it out."

He nods, like he's starting to understand, "And Jonathan was the expert."

"We're stuck trying to find a flower that blooms in December, without the one guy who had gardens year-round."

"What about poinsettas?" He suggests, innocently.

"December 20XX," I sigh, remembering that spread, even though it was before my time, "It can't have been used in any other Flower of the Month spotlight."

"Oh. I can see how that's an issue." 

Spencer has a hand to his chin, like he really is thinking about it. I think it's nice how he cares so much about this random predicament.

"We've reached my humble abode," I say, quietly, stopping in front of the building.

"I hope you can figure out your flower problem."

I almost hate how he can say that like he means it. He's probably clocking out from a shift where he just took down like 3 murderous criminals, and he seems genuinely concerned about whether or not we can think of a new flower to put in our little magazine.

I don't say any of that out loud, I just step halfway into the door, "Thanks."

We both wave, and once again, he's gone. I have a feeling it won't be the last time I see him.

Chapter Text

As a general rule, I try not to spend that much time in my apartment. There's no particular reason; no evil neighbors or leaky faucets or roaches, I just find it a little too easy to never leave if I let myself. 

That being said, I've been lying on my couch for the past few hours, my laptop in front of me. There are remnants of research, and it's open to my backlogged files of unused pictures. The only way we can save time is if we use pictures from past shoots. My collection is growing faster than I can find ways to use it. 

All of that is abandoned, because I got too entranced by the TV in front of me. It wasn't on purpose or anything, but there's some sort of FBI wannabe show playing. I just flipped channels to the first thing that looked interesting, and it just happened to be about high-stakes FBI cases while overly young, attractive actors get to flex on each other.

Knock Knock Knock

I check the time, and it's late, late enough that all of these CSI cop shows are starting to get to me. 

Knock Knock Knock

It can't possibly be some crazy psycho killer, or at least that's what I tell myself-- because they would just break the door down. So I peel myself away from the couch cushions, muting the TV, and pull the chain deadlock. Even if it isn't likely a killer, I don't want to risk anything.

Carefully, I open the door to look out, and I'm staring straight at a maroon sweater vest. I don't need to, but I look up, and I can see the newly familiar coffee hair and espresso eyes staring back at me.

"Oh." It's Spencer Reid, because of course it is. 

I close the door, momentarily, and undo the chain lock. If it were earlier in the night, I'm sure I would have something witty to say, but I lean against the door frame, waiting for him to announce his reason for showing up. 

He only says two words, and he says them rather quickly, "Helleborus Niger."

"Are you allowed to say that?"

"Christmas Rose."

"What?"

I'm a little lost.

"I went through all of the past Flower of the Months that occurred in winter," He says it succinctly, not stumbling over himself, "You guys never used Christmas Roses."

He's got a little smile on his face, a sparkle in his eyes. Strangely, he looks like a puppy, one who's waiting for a treat, knowing they've done well. 

"You what?"

"You sounded like you needed help."

I almost wish I did have a treat for him, like a cookie or something.

The very least I could do, say thanks, is on the tip of my tongue when something of greater importance enters my mind.

"HOW DID YOU FIND MY APARTMENT?" 

His eyes go wide, and he looks away. I might as well have yelled 'bad dog.'

"I may have pulled some FBI strings..." He trails off, a pink hue covering his face, before his eyes focus on something inside my apartment.

"Are you watching FBI: Most Wanted?"

"What?" I look back to see the show still playing, just muted, "No."

I pull the door closed a little more, cutting off his view into my apartment.

"Do you know what time it is?" Except I don't wait for him to answer, "It's 9:30."

He shrugs, "I just wanted to let you know." 

God, I can't continue with this dog analogy thing, because I just feel bad that I can't give him anything in return.

"Thanks..." Never thought I would have an FBI agent at my door, but here we are, and it feels a little more awkward than I would've predicted, "Do you want to come in or..."

"I'm good." He smiles. But he just stands there, hands tucked behind his back, shifting his balance nervously. "Bye, Mia!"

As if that's all, he turns to walk away. Once again, realization hits me a second later than it should.

"HOW DO YOU KNOW MY NAME?" 

My neighbors must hate me. Maybe not having any evil neighbors means that I'm the evil one.

Spencer freezes, but retreats to my doorway, standing exactly where he was a second ago.

"You told me you're the main photographer at Gardening Inc.," He says it patiently, voice steady, "Your name is all over every issue."

"Oh." I feel a little stupid, "Yeah."

He wrings his hands together and then shakes his head.

"I should probably introduce myself-- I don't think I have. My name is--"

"Spencer Reid."

He takes a step back, eyes wide.

"How do you know MY name?" 

My bad.

"You showed me your FBI badge last week." 

"Oh," He looks like he feels a little stupid, "Yeah."

I almost want to laugh. He's the one showing up to my apartment late at night, unannounced, and he's acting like I'm the crazy one.

"I'll leave you to your show, then--" He says, starting to back away.

"Shut up!" I almost close the door on him, but I have more decorum than that. "I'm not watching anything."

"No, no, it's okay," He's got a grin on his face that says he's trying not to laugh at me, "Agent Adam Davis is very conventionally attractive, I see how--"

"Ew. Ew. No. Stop." 

"So Agent Thomas is more your type?"

"I swear to god, Spencer," I say it like a warning, although I don't know of what. 

"Alright, Alright," He backs down, but I can see the chuckles escaping his lips, "FBI: Most Wanted is actually pretty accurate in its earlier seasons."

"Yeah, I'm sure," I say, rolling my eyes, "And everyone looks like that in real life, too."

"So they are your type?" He asks, smirking, but he does it in a way that makes it seem like a smile that's been cut off. It doesn't feel as mischievous as it is.

I wave, an impatient stare set on him.

"Goodnight, Reid."

"Goodnight, Mia."

He smiles, for real this time, waving.

I watch him leave, turning down the hall and out of sight, although it's not without looking back. I lock my door again, even the chain, and I just kinda stare at it for a minute. Should I be concerned that he managed to find my address? Probably not.

Actually, I'm overjoyed. He just saved my ass. I'm opening my laptop again, typing in the words 'Christmas Rose' into a search engine.

Chapter Text

The Manila folder feels smooth to the touch. Heavy, too. I knock on the door to Cecilia's office with my free hand, even though I haven't seen her since I clocked in this morning.

From inside, I can hear a crash of some sort and a faint cursing before she calls out, "One second!"

I have a feeling it's best not to delay this news.

"It's me," I answer, knocking again, lighter this time.

"Come in!" 

So I do. If I thought that it looked like a tornado ran through her office last week, then I'm not sure there's a natural disaster that could possibly explain how it looks now. Papers at least had a place last week, but now, they seem to be thrown around, a layer of discarded and crumpled ones lining the floor and the desk. It's rough. 

She sighs as she sees me, "Close the door, please." 

I do, but watch as she runs her hands through her hair, turning a mess into something even messier. For once, it looks like she might have forgotten to curl her hair this morning. There are still clear attempts at curls that are a day old by now. She falls back into her chair, and I swear I can see the hints of tears pricking her eyes.

"We've never missed a single month." She says the feat as if it's disappointing-- or perhaps she's too disappointed to sound like anything else, "Gardening Inc. has never once sent an issue out to print late. Never."

I try to say something, but she does a 180 in her chair and pours herself another cup of coffee. 

"I know that we're a small magazine-- we haven't been around very long. At least not as long as most, but--" She chokes on her words, drowning them down in her shitty coffee, "But it's special to me."

The folder feels heavier in my hands the longer I stand barely beyond the door in her office, but she doesn't give me a chance to get a word out. That might not be the right way to put it, because she's not interrupting me per se, but she's got such a sad look on her face that I struggle to say anything.

"I'm going to be the first to fail."

I clear my throat and grip the folder a little tighter, willing it to let me speak.

"Christmas Rose." 

Cecilia sits up, a hopeful glint entering her eyes, or it could just be how the tears shine in the light.

"Repeat that?"

"Christmas Rose."

"Mia, I swear to god, please tell me that's--"

"The Flower of the Month?" Cecilia is on the edge of the chair, and my response is what will either send her jumping for joy or falling to the floor, "Yeah."

"And it grows in winter?"

"As the name suggests, yes."

"And we haven't used it before?"

"Never once." This is a fact I double-checked in our archives this morning, even though I trust Spencer.

"And they're roses?" She sounds skeptical, and I can only imagine she doesn't want to get her hopes up too high. Typical roses can't grow in winter. Some winter roses can, but, as you can imagine, we've already covered those.

"They're buttercups, actually. Real cute."

Cecilia stands up, moving slowly, like she's stuck in molasses. There's a glazed-over look in her eyes.

"Mia." She steps around her desk, facing me, and places her hands on my shoulders, "I love you."

It doesn't feel appropriate to say that when I wasn't the one who figured it out. 

"I already contacted our usual greenhouse just outside the local library, and they should have some in bloom right now. They're willing to let me stop by and take any pictures as long as I'm there during working hours. If we can get together a list of anything we might need while I'm there, I can do a photo run."

A lot of words to use instead of the truth, although none of those are lies. It doesn't feel right to take the praise, but it doesn't feel right to admit an FBI agent helped out without me asking, either. So I prefer to spew off all of the things I really did do.

"Did I say that I love you already?" Cecilia asks, squeezing my shoulders a little.

I hand her the folder, which feels suspiciously light now. "I have a mockup of the spread here that you can look at. I already have Tyler and Anise writing what they can, and Kylie is doing any of the excess research, although obviously I can get any information about the best environments for them when I collect quotes at the greenhouse."

Cecilia carefully takes the folder from my hand, opening it. Her eyes scan the page, the sketches I have of the flowers, the pictures I would try to use, and the boxes where I want to insert text. A real title now. It's mere steps from being done. There's this smile on her face, not one of the ones I'm so used to seeing. It's not there just to be polite, to save face. She's good at those, great even, enough that you wouldn't be so surprised to see her on the front of a magazine cover (one that's not about plants). This smile isn't as big, bright, or large, but it feels more real.

"What would I do without you?"

"I'm just doing my job, Cecilia," I smile back, and despite how nice it is to see her mood shift in an upward direction, I know my smile isn't quite as real as hers.

"No, you aren't, Mia." In most situations, this would imply I'm overstepping, but she says it as if she's so grateful that I can't even begin to process it like that, "This is all outside of what we hired you for. None of it is your job." 

Oh, wow, I didn't realize. I thought photography was about researching and managing a team of co-workers. But I can't complain, I suppose. I'm the one who offered myself for full-time, and I'm the one who spent time outside of work on this issue. It's all my fault.

"It doesn't have to be, though," She sets the file down on her desk, on top of a pile of other things, "I've been wanting an assistant--" She corrects herself, "No, someone to work with me. To do what I do, split the work."

This offer doesn't sound too great to me, and Cecilia can see the doubt on my face, I'm sure.

"Your name would be next to mine on the cover; it would have a hefty raise, but also an increase in hours." She realizes that the last point isn't really a plus, "But it wouldn't be as much as I'm doing now, because I would split the work, get things done faster." That same smile crosses her face again, this time, it appears more hesitant, though, "The job is yours, if you want it."

To let it go would be stupid, idiotic, maybe even beyond that. If I want to rise up and get to another magazine, showing that I have experience doing more than just taking pictures could be exactly what I need. Show everyone that my talents stretch beyond fucking plant pictures.

Except they'll only want me for the exact same thing Cecilia does. Management, research, and organization.

"I'm sorry." A part of me can't believe what I'm saying. I know that one day in the future I'll regret this, that I'll get older and tired of taking pictures, and I'll want to settle into a job just like this, and this might be closing off that path. When else would I get an opportunity like this? Never, if we're being honest. "I can't take the job, Cecilia. I want to take pictures, and the more time I spend in the office, the less time I have to focus on that."

"Oh," She says quietly, and I feel like I'm breaking her heart.

I'm breaking a part of mine, too.

"Let's just focus on replacing Jonathan right now."

She nods and takes a deep breath, ignoring the rejection, "Yeah, I can do that."

"Alright, then," I nod back, and my hand is on the doorknob when Cecilia stops me.

"You know what, Mia?" She has some pep to her step again, even if it appears a touch forced, "We should celebrate."

"Celebrate what?"

"The progress we've made on this month's issue!" The more she thinks about celebrating, the more excited she gets. "We can go out and get drinks, have some fun!"

"We really shouldn't fall behind, we're just barely catching up..." My hands are twitching to reach for the door again, but I try to hold them back.

"Are you kidding me?" She waves the idea away, "Aside from the photos we need, which you can take as soon as tomorrow, we're basically ahead of schedule with the amount of work you've done."

Now I'm really wishing I hadn't done so much. I mean, it wasn't my job, right?

"If we need photos tomorrow, then I probably shouldn't go out drinking," I beg her to take a hint.

"You can work whatever hours you want, Mia!" She argues an impenetrable defense, "You're freelance. You don't need to stay full-time anymore, since we're ahead."

I don't say anything, not for lack of trying, I just can't think of how to counter that. It's like she sees that I have no more excuses.

"I'm not taking no for an answer. We're gonna celebrate tonight!" She's dancing already, to no music. It's quite a sight, to be honest. She's still a mess, her office a wreck, and she's dancing. 

"Alright." 

"You'll go?" She asks it like I have an option.

"I'll go."

Oh boy.

Chapter Text

The music isn't loud; it only registers to me once I actually open the doors. The bar is a small affair, close enough to my apartment that I just walked over, even though I would prefer not to drink anyway. I can't even remember the last time I was out drinking, although it must've been when I was still in college.

I spot Cecilia leaning against the bar, sipping something. It's just her, alone. More done up than I was expecting, although once I think that, I can't help but think it was a silly thought that she wouldn't be dressed to the nines. This is the same woman who comes to work on a daily basis with curled hair and manicured nails. It makes me feel shabby, the fact that she looks so nice. I just threw on jeans and the nicest top I could find off the pile on my floor, but next to her little black bodycon dress, I must look like I've stumbled blindly out of a Kohl's dressing room. I want to run.

I want to, but Cecilia spots me and waves me over.

The walk to where she stands feels like it's a mile long, and with every step, I'm more aware of the fact that it's only us here. I don't know, I thought she would invite the whole office out or something. I'm a few minutes late because I didn't want to be the first to arrive. How was I supposed to know I'm the only one? 

Cecilia downs the last of her drink as I walk up, holding the empty cup as she opens her arm for a half-hug. It's a polite gesture, but I feel like everyone in here is looking at us, thinking that I don't look like the kind of girl who would be hanging out with her. I've got my unwashed hair thrown up in a ponytail that might as well just be a blonde mess. It's embarrassing.

"Mia!" She says, a smile across her painted lips, "You're here!"

The music isn't loud enough that you need to shout over it, but I think her enthusiasm is what has her so loud.

"Hey! Sorry I'm late, I thought the bar was closer than it is, haha," I laugh, and hope she doesn't see through it.

"Of course, I just got here a minute ago," She slides her glass to the bartender, "Drinks are on me, so order up, girl."

"Oh, alright." 

I'm not sure what the most appropriate drink to order would be. I planned to get a soda or water and pretend like it was something else, but that doesn't work as well when it's just us here.

"A rum and Coke, please," I tell the bartender, who nods. I add on quickly, "Diet, actually. Please."

"Come on, Mia," Cecilia tugs on my arm, "You should order margs with me, I don't want to be the only one drinking tequila."

"Oh, I'm just watching my sugar right now."

It seems to get her off my back, "I'll have a Mai Tai then."

"Have you ever been here before?" I ask, trying to break the silence while we wait for our drinks.

"A couple times," She says, but the way she says it makes me think she comes out more than she wants to let on, "My friends love coming to the trivia nights here every once in a while."

The bartender slides both of our drinks over, and Cecilia takes a hefty sip the second the glass hits her hand.

"So..." She eyes the room as she asks, "Have you been here before?"

"Oh, no. I don't usually drink."

"Hm. Okay. How do you usually spend your weekends, then?"

"I stay in, mostly."

There's just something that isn't right about sitting here with my boss, drinking and talking about our personal lives. Or maybe it's just the way the rum is burning my throat in a way that's become so unfamiliar, and it sits in my stomach like hot coals. 

"I thought you would be out taking pictures or something, I don't know," She chuckles into her half-empty Mai Tai, "With the way you were talking earlier, you sounded like someone who would be taking pictures for a nature magazine or something, like those wildlife ones."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I try to keep the edge out of my tone, but it sort of leaks out.

"I just mean-- it sounded like you were working somewhere where people would really appreciate the pictures you take, but I mean, no one buying Gardening Inc. actually buys it to look at the photos."

"Yeah."

Not sure why I'm here, how she managed to get me out here tonight. Luring me in with these fake offers of higher management positions to make me think I'm some equal to her or something. She barely thinks my job is real. She must think I'm stupid for sticking around for so long.

"You really should--" She stops what she was saying, her eyebrows flying up, hand over her mouth, "Total smoke show behind you, playing darts, look."

I do. It's a large guy, like big, like muscles. Straight out of some gym magazine about manliness and strength. He's dark and bald, but in a way that makes him cooler, and not look a decade older and balding.

"Is he cute?" She asks, as if she hasn't already said that he thinks she is.

I turn back around, not really caring to even catch the guy's face, "Sure."

"We should go up to him then," Cecilia smiles, as if that actually sounds fun to her.

"Together?"

"Yeah, you can be my wing-woman."

I've never once been asked to back someone up before, and I'm certain I'll be terrible at it.

"I don't know..."

"No, please!" She flags down the bartender, "We have to do shots before we go up."

"Oh, I'm still okay," I assure her, pointing to my drink, barely touched.

She holds up her fingers in a two for the bartender, "Don't make me do both alone. You have to."

"Alright."

I agree, but only because she's grabbing onto my hand, and I don't want her throwing down two shots before trying to get that guy's number, or whatever it is she wants to say to him.

The glasses are placed down, and I regret my decision before I even have the chance to pick it up. I've only ever done one shot before in my life, and that was when I was a junior in college, and my boyfriend at the time told me to do one on my 21st birthday. I swear to god, I almost choked on it, and it hurt.

Cecilia takes her shot first, and it's with an ease that tells me she's the same as those girls I used to see at those parties, the ones who were drinking way before it was legal for them to do so, the ones who knew what it felt like to be blackout drunk before their orientation.

"Screw it," I say out loud, even though I don't really mean to, and I throw back the shot, thinking back to days of cough syrup or antibiotics.

"You ready?"

I nod as if I could ever be ready to go up and talk to some random dude at a bar, and all of a sudden, I'm following behind her, holding my same rum and Coke. 

The guy is at a table with a group of people, a few guys, but mostly girls. He seems like a gamble, because it's likely one of them is his girlfriend. The women are gorgeous, so if they aren't, it's even more likely that he's gay. 

Cecilia just saunters up to the table like nothing, curls bouncing as she walks; it's impressive. She approaches the guy, and her voice goes a little low, and it's only loud enough to hear if you're listening.

"Hey," She greets, her face in a neutral expression, "Are you not worried about global warming?"

"What?" He asks, turning to face her better, confused.

"Because you are making it hot in here." She continues to say it deadpan.

The table erupts in a low 'ooooooo' as they size her up, clearly egging her on. The guy seems surprised for half a second, but recovers, a smirk crossing his face. He's probably got some equally cheesy line, so I take my chance to get a good look at the table.

I scan through, three girls, all gorgeous, sitting together, the ones cheering for Cecilia, then sort of in the corner is the other guy, and he's--

"COFFEE GUY??" My voice surprises me, and I don't know why I call him Coffee Guy, because I know his name, but it's the first thing to slip out of my mouth.

He seems to have just noticed me, too. 

"Mia??"

One of the ladies, blonde, eccentric, with red glasses and a fun updo and patterned dress, makes a face, eyes wide, gasping. Reid shoots her a look, which causes her to cover her mouth and utter a quick, "Sorry!" with a voice that sounds so sweet that her whole demeanor reminds me of cotton candy. Maybe it's the baby blue dress and pink heels.

Spencer stands up, sliding out of his chair to greet me. He gives me a side hug, not so dissimilar from the one Cecilia gave me earlier, yet it causes everyone at the table to make faces at each other. It even causes the guy Cecilia is talking with to get distracted from their conversation, looking over at us.

"Does Prettyboy have a Ladyfriend?" He asks, his voice smooth in a velvety way, it fits with the way he holds himself, like he's a big lady's man.

Cecilia raises her eyebrows at me, seemingly wondering what's going on that's messing with her game.

"Spencer," I say, even though it elicits another (albeit quieter) set of ooooos from the girls, "Why don't you introduce your friends?"

"Co-workers," He corrects, glaring at them as he does, "They're JUST my co-workers."

They all pout at this, laughing amongst each other.

He starts with the other blonde girl, who's tiny, yet it doesn't make her look weak. She still looks like she could beat me AND Cecilia in a fight if she wanted to, "This is Jennifer--"

"You can just call me JJ," She waves, and has a sweet smile that tells me that looking scary doesn't mean she needs to be scary. 

He moves on to the cotton candy girl, "This is Penelope."

Penelope looks like she wants to jump up and hug me, but she doesn't, which makes me grateful.

"This is Emily," He gestures to the last of the women, she's got dark hair and high cheekbones. Everything about her has a sort of mysterious vibe to it, a smoky eye to match. She smiles and waves just as the others did, but it's clear she's more hesitant to accept outsiders in. 

"Lastly, we have Derek." He gestures to the guy Cecilia has been talking to.

"And now who are you two gorgeous ladies?" Derek asks, smirking and raising an eyebrow.

"This is Cecilia," I say, gesturing to her, and she fluffs up her hair a little, acting like she's on show, "She's my boss. We're out celebrating tonight."

"Celebrating?" JJ asks, excited, "What for?"

"Yeah," Emily adds, settling in, "I'll buy a round of drinks."

"Oh, I'm still working on my drink," I hold up my sad rum and coke, "But you guys go ahead," I wave Cecilia in to join them.

"Don't mind if I do," Cecilia shimmies over, but hovers close to me for a second, whispering, "Thanks for the in, girl, you didn't say you knew them."

I whisper back, "I didn't realize-- but they're all FBI, just to let you know. He's the agent who stopped by last week."

Cecilia nods, smiling, "Oh, yeah, cool. I'm hearing they've got money AND they're hot."

Before I realize, she's off dancing with Derek, and I find myself sitting at the table with a bunch of FBI agents. I'm across from Spencer, which is how I've realized that he's only had water, and no one even pushes him to order a drink when they do. 

"How do you know Reid?" JJ asks, drawing me in after a conversation I mostly tuned out because I didn't really understand what was going on.

"We met the other week." I'm not sure what he would want me to say, and I have a hard time reading his face.

They don't push, but it's clear how all of the girls are on the edge of their seats, wanting to know more.

"Reid doesn't normally bring girls around," Emily points out, and he looks like he might be dying a bit inside.

"To be fair, it's not like he was the one who brought me here-- it's just a coincidence." I try to fix it a bit, but he still shifts awkwardly before standing up.

"I'll be back," He says, and disappears into the crowd that started forming.

Penelope leans in once she can't see him; she has an urgency that shocks even the girls with her, "Did you guys bang?"

The question causes JJ and Emily to look at each other, wide-eyed.

"WHAT?"

"Reid never calls in favors, and I mean never," She rants, "But last night he called me and asked if I could find the apartment number of a certain Mia Williams, said he knew which complex, too-- just needed the number. I assumed it was something stupid-- like he was returning a book you lent, but after seeing you, I have to conclude that it's because he got laid."

"No..." I can't even begin to compute what is happening. "It wasn't like that."

Emily has a concerned look on her face while she laughs, unlike JJ and Penelope's excitement, "He didn't follow you home, did he?"

"Yeah, you could say that."

Spencer returns, another water in hand, "No! I am not a stalker."

He slides back into his seat, even though his brows are furrowed, and he's got a defensive look on his face. I think it's the most I've seen him stray from Doctor Spencer or Agent Reid; it's like some secret third thing. A Spence, maybe. Someone who isn't so worried about the professionalism or the logistics of it all, I guess. I can't explain it. It's a bit addicting, though, unlocking another side of him.

"He just appeared at my door out of the blue last night, even though I never gave him my address," I say it innocently, omitting most details that start to explain it.

"It wasn't like that, guys! I swear!" He's caught off guard by it, and the girls clearly get what I'm saying, a hint of something mischievous in their eyes.

"It's okay, guys," I nod, like I'm tapping out, "We already agreed that he's not a stalker." 

The hint of something silly is drained from Penelope's eyes as she looks between Spencer and me, concerned, "What do you mean you 'agreed'?" She asks it quickly, scared she's been pulled into something darker than she thought.

It would be a good time to actually tap out, but it's too fun. 

"Well, I asked if he was stalking me, and he said no." I smile as I say it, looking at him.

They all look to him, and his open jaw, all bug-eyed, and he can't even explain it. 

I'm the first to break, laughing. Once I do, everyone else does. 

It only takes a second for him to join in as well.

Chapter Text

It starts to feel like a blur. Something about this group of people has me forgetting they're all government agents, and it has me laughing more than I ever have. That's probably a dramatic way to put it, but earlier, I was already feeling a little tipsy, and now that I have a second drink in front of me, it's starting to hit harder.

Emily is the first to leave, saying something about a long day, and disappears. JJ gets a call from her boyfriend and heads out not long after, needing to return home to him. Penelope is the last one standing, at least 4 drinks deeper than I am, just from what I've been watching, but she gets into a cab. I make sure of it, watching from the window to be sure that she's alright. 

Spencer and I are the only ones at the table, and I stopped being able to spot Derek and Cecilia from the table long ago.

My head feels too light on my shoulders, and my vision blurs at the edges. I'm drunk, that much is clear to me. So I finish off that second drink anyway, and try to get some of my bearings together. 

Across from me, I can see Spencer standing up. He heads around the table, and I almost say goodbye, but he pauses next to me.

"Come on," He nods towards the door, and once he sees my struggle to stand up straight, he offers a shoulder for me to lean on, grabbing onto my side, "Let's get you home."

"You're not a stalker, right?" I ask, even though I don't know why. The question sounds stupid in my head and on my lips, where all the words blend a little at the edges.

"No, I'm not," He says, and although his voice is flat, I swear I can see his lips twitch up, like they want to smile, but he won't let them. He pulls out his phone and quickly calls someone, holding the phone to his ear, "Hello! Can I get a cab--"

"No!"

He muffles the phone with his shoulder, "Why?"

"They're too expensive."

"It's okay, I'll pay." A sound comes from the phone, and so he picks it back up, "Yeah, sorry, I would--"

"No!"

This time, he doesn't even ask why; he just gives me a confused look, waiting for me to explain.

"I already owe you like at least two coffees at this point, I can't owe you a cab fare, too."

"It's not a problem," His honest voice almost convinces me.

I'm sure he can get away with a lot with a voice like that, smooth and real. He doesn't throw it to sound any deeper like most of the guys I know. 

The keyword, though, is almost because he doesn't convince me to take a taxi. I shake my head.

He sighs and hangs up the phone without another word to whoever's on the other line. 

That's how I end up with an arm around his shoulder, walking down the streets of the city. My focus isn't on the way I have to lean against him to keep from falling over, because it's mostly on the not falling over part, and I'm trying really hard to walk in a straight line, but I can tell that it isn't really a straight line. 

"You're drunk," He states, as if it isn't obvious.

"Yeah?"

"I only saw you with two drinks the whole night."

"I had a shot, too."

"That's still a reasonably small amount of alcohol."

I shrug, "I don't drink often."

"Are you a lightweight?" I can't tell why he's asking all these questions, if he's just that curious, or what.

I shrug again, "I don't drink often."

He's silent, and I'm still just watching the sidewalk beneath me, trying to place my feet where normal steps would land. Except, I'm starting to realize I don't really know where normal steps would land, but I know it's not whatever my feet are trying to do.

"I suppose you could also get drunk if you were to drink on an empty stomach."

Now I'm silent, and I choose to pretend he didn't say anything. I focus on the left-right left-right of it all, even if I'm not quite sure which side is my left, and I don't want to do that hand trick right now.

"Did you?"

I shrug.

He has a second where he buffers, but it's just like a second before the dam opens, because he starts going, suddenly, "Eating carbs and fats before the consumption of any sort of alcoholic beverages helps the body metabolize the alcohol quicker. Eating carbs now would still help with the absorption of the alcohol, but it isn't as effective as making sure you've had a well-balanced meal beforehand."

"Ok." The forever-passing cracks in the concrete are starting to get boring, but I don't dare look up.

"You know, you should still eat before you go out drinking, even if the goal is to feel the effects of the alcohol kick in faster. Although it may work, and you might be able to get drunk off of less alcohol, the hangovers are often worse when the system has nothing to fight off the alcohol with." 

I nod, "Ok."

My feet stumble a bit, but I think it's just because I still can't quite remember this whole walking normal thing.

"Have you eaten anything today?" 

There's not enough room left in my head for lying, when I need to walk too, so I shake my head no.

"Why?"

It's like I can feel his eyes burning into the back of my head. I can almost see those eyebrows knitted together, and a curious look on his face, or something. A part of me is aware of the fact that I could just look up and see his face, but that scares me too much.

"Busy at work..." It's not a lie, "Worked through my lunch."

"Okay, so what about breakfast?"

"Coffee."

"Dinner?"

"Lost track of time before I went over to the bar."

"You're probably going to have a bad hangover."

"I know." Whatever his weird concern is, I wish he would've tossed me in a cab at this point.

"Drink lots of water once you get home, and in the morning, you should take some ibuprofen or Advil to help with the headache."

"Ok."

He adds on to his last statement, "Don't take the ibuprofen until you've had something to eat, so take it with your breakfast. Ibuprofen damages the lining of the stomach when you take it alone and--"

"Ok. Bye." I cut him off, my apartment complex only mere inches from my fingertips.

"Can I walk you up?" He asks, quietly, like he's trying not to be a stalker, I guess.

I almost say no. But I remember the stairs I have to take to get up, and I think I would probably eat shit before I made it up even one flight.

So I nod, and I don't let go of him, even as he struggles to get the door open while lugging me around.

Walking was hard enough on flat ground, but it's near torturous on stairs, when every step has a few inches to land on, and has to also move up a bit. I still think I'm not that drunk, but I can barely get up, even with the help of Spencer. Help is putting it lightly. He's basically carrying me with how little I'm capable of functioning right now.

My door reaches me before I know it. 308. 

"Thank you, bye," I say, even though I'm still leaning against him, and he's going to wait until I'm inside.

I struggle to get the keys out of my purse and barely refrain from asking him to do it.

"Do you have work in the morning?" He asks, as I dig through mints and chapstick.

"Not really."

"What does that mean?"

I see my keychain before my keys: it's a flower. My sister bought it for me when I first got the job at Gardening INC. At the time, it was just a 'pretty flower' but now I can't see it without thinking of how it's a Madonna Lily. I'm still not Jonathan, so I can't say much else about it, but this job has taught me some things, even if that keychain was supposed to be a reminder of my first magazine, not my forever one. I just can't seem to escape it.

"It's a photo day, so I don't have to do anything in the morning." I manage to unlock my door on my own, pushing it open. I shift my weight on my own, surprised at how heavy I can feel when I'm not relying on Spencer, and so I lean on the doorframe instead, "Thank you, bye."

"Bye, Mia."

There's a look on his face that tells me if I draw this out, he'll want to say something else, so I close the door on him. I lock it, and don't even bother turning on any of the lights. Lights are stupid anyway. The door to my room seems so far away, and I can see my couch much closer. I weigh the odds, and the odds tell me that the couch is right there.

I collapse onto it, and I have no memory of closing my eyes, but everything after that is blank.