Criminal Minds Imagines

don't want to miss a thing | spencer reid

It was a well-known, yet rarely discussed, fact that Spencer Reid struggled with sleep.

Whether it was the lingering nightmares of misdirected "I love you's" and gunshots and Maeve, the longing for Dilaudid or the threat of schizophrenia, or even just the whirring of a brain that can't quiet down, it was clear that Spencer Reid struggled with sleep.

It was clear in the dark circles that always hung under his eyes, the mussed hair, the clothes from the day before. It was clear, if you knew where to look.

And Spencer Reid was the only thing you looked for.

The flight home was one of solitude; of quietly reading over case files (Hotch and Rossi), of listening to music (Derek and Emily) and reading a book (you), and staring out the window (JJ). It was quiet, until it wasn't.

The silence was broken by a small noise of distress, no louder than a whisper, but you heard it. You knew how to look, how to hear for indications that Spencer was struggling to fall asleep, stay asleep, or wake from being asleep. You knew how to navigate nightmares, how to temper the symptoms of withdrawal, how to calm the fears.

Tonight, you'd need to rely on your navigation skills.

The noise was only a gasp, followed by a mumble that drew you out of your book and out of your seat. He was lying down on a cluster of seats, arms tucked in towards his chest. His feet began to kick at the air, an indication of the setting of this particular nightmare.

He was back with Diane.

And you were instantly putting your book away, pulling the blanket out of your go-bag designated for times like these, and sliding next to Spencer. You didn't hesitate. Delicately, you drew the blanket over the two of you; it barely reached his feet, but it was enough.

Your fingers meet his hair and push through the strands, untangling knots and memories of Maeve. The mere touch of your fingers is enough to pull a sigh from his mouth, breath gently fanning your face. Your touch is enough. You are enough.

It's only once the crease in his brows unfurrows and his fists uncurl that you shift. One of your hands meets his, your thumb sliding down to measure his pulse. His heartbeat slows, fingers twitching between your own.

You press a kiss to his forehead, before resting your head against his shoulder. Spencer's free arm slides over your waist, wanting you close even in sleep.

And finally, you hear the soft exhale that means he's dreaming again, and finally, you give yourself permission to fall asleep.