Angel [spencer reid x reader] ✔

𝟿.

warnings: mentions of domestic violence, mentions of blood

"Y/n?"

He looks at his co-worker standing in his doorway, water dripping off the ends of her hair. Her body shakes slightly, her arms crossed in front of her torso. She's not wearing a jacket, so she must be freezing. His eyes sweep over the cut on her forehead, still bleeding, then to the bruise under her eye, then landing on her neck. Dark purple bruises rest on her neck, no doubt from a very tight grip on her throat. She looks up at him, her eyes glassy.

"I-I'm sorry, I d-didn't know where else t-to go." Her voice is slightly raspy, speaking between slight sobs.

"Hey, it's okay, it's okay," Spencer comforts her, opening his door all the way up. "Come on, we need to warm you up, you have to be freezing."

Y/n timidly steps into his apartment, and Spencer makes sure to deadbolt the door behind him. He turns around, facing her, and there stands—in the middle of his apartment, dripping wet. She must have walked here. Shit, he doesn't even know how far away she lives.

Spencer walks toward her slowly, not wanting to frighten her with any sudden movements. His hazel eyes look down at her, searching her blood and tear stained face.

"I'm gonna go get some of my clothes, okay? And a towel. You need to dry off and change; I don't want you to get sick."

She nods slowly, and Spencer gives her a gentle smile before walking into his bedroom. He rifles around his dresser, pulling out a warm sweater and a pair of sweatpants. He decides on giving her a pair of his boxers, just in case. Grabbing a fresh towel out of his little closet by his room, he walks back into the living room, Y/n in the same place he left her.

"Here," he says, handing her the clothes and the towel. "My bathroom is through my bedroom, straight back and to the right."

"Thank you," she whispers, gripping the clothes before walking back into his bedroom.

He watches her go, sadness swirling in his chest for her. What the fuck had happened? He isn't going to pressure her for answers—she doesn't need pressure right now. She just needs someone to be there for her.

He heads into his kitchen, filling up a glass of water from the Brita for her and deciding to make her some hot tea just in case she wanted it. He refills his kettle, turning it on, waiting for it to heat up and go off. Grabbing another mug out of his cabinet, he places the tea bag in it, leaning against the counter as he waits. After a few minutes, the kettle switches off, and he pours in the hot water, scooping in a couple teaspoons of sugar. He doesn't know how she takes her tea, but he does know she puts sugar in her coffee, so that's enough for him.

He brings both of the drinks into his living room, setting them on the coffee table before walking back into his kitchen. He always keeps a first aid kit with him—but he's never really had to use it. He pulls it out from under the sink, taking it into the living room with him and sitting on his couch.