Spencer Reid | Oneshots

Funny Thing Fate ☁️ (M)

Summary: Autistic!Reader is tipsy and lost in D.C. when she spots a man she thinks might be able to help.

Rating: Mature (16+)

Content Warnings: Alcohol, crying, being/feeling "left behind," piggy back ride (implied weight of Reader), kissing

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I used to believe in fate. Granted, it was never really the kind of fate I saw depicted in romance movies or the works of Sylvia Plath. I believed in fate because we existed. Human beings, standing on a rock hurtling through space with a consciousness and the ability to comprehend the astounding circumstances that led to our existence. Knowing all of that, it would be hard not to fall a little in love with the idea that everything happens for a reason. That each terrible thing, each second of suffering, is meant to bring us an equally incomprehensible joy.

But despite being happy with my life generally, I didn't really believe in fate anymore. The idea made more sense when viewed as a coping mechanism for a cruel world; a way to survive devastating pain. It had become hard for me to believe that turning left instead of right was a predetermined decision that would change my life forever. At least, beyond the fact I would have slightly different memories of that night.

Most days, the walk home was just that: A walk home. Nothing particularly strange or memorable happened beyond the ordinary. It wasn't a bad thing — ordinary things could be beautiful, too. I was just starting to enjoy them again, actually. And as lovely as that was to start seeing beauty in the world again, it didn't change my new perspective.

Fate was just a tool to get by. So as I stood at a crossroads that night, trying to decide if I should just walk the normal path home, or take the longer route despite the late hour and weary eyes, I chose the former. It wasn't fate, I told myself. It was just the logical decision.

It wasn't fate. I didn't believe in fate.

"Excuse me, sir?"

The tiny voice was almost drowned out by the dulcet sounds of car horns, drunken idiots, and terrible live music. But I heard her, with a slight waver in her voice and a slur to her words. It wasn't the cadence or the timbre that drew me to her, it was something else. Something powerful. Something like the gravitational pull felt by a planet that had found its sun after eons of searching.

That was almost how I looked at her, too.

"Hm? Me?" I don't know why I was acting unsure, considering she was doing her best to look at me while she spoke. Her eyes would dart to mine every few seconds, then fall back down to my feet. Don't ask me why I looked down too, because I wasn't sure myself. It felt like the right thing to do, to hopefully grant her the comfort of one less pair of prying male eyes. It was a Friday night in Washington, D.C. There were a lot of them.

"Yeah, can you help me?"

My hope to provide her with some reprieve failed to overpower my desire to look at her. From my peripherals I saw the way she moved, her hands wringing and shaking the anxiety from her body like one might treat unexpected rain.

You aren't supposed to look at the sun directly, and even in my attempts to learn more of her face, I managed to abide by that very basic rule. I never looked her in the eyes for long, instead, I gave my brain the chance to acknowledge and enhance the fall of her hair or the crease in her dress.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"I'm lost," she answered. That was all that she said, like a creature from a storybook or a princess from the legends. There was no other explanation provided. She was simply lost. And although my mind insisted on comparing the statement to every fable and romance, I resisted the urge to deify her.