❝spencer, all this week you've been holding my hands. what about your germ thing?❞
❝you were more important.❞
hazel finley is a liar. but she's a damn good one. and she's especially good at telling when other people are lying. she's the newest memb...
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❝How can I begin anything new with all of yesterday in me?❞
LEONARD COHEN
✩
2.4 : spicy thai chicken soup
THERE ARE DAYS WHEN YOU WAKE UP, HAPPY AND RESTED AND READY TO MEET THE DAY, AND YOU EXERCISE AND EAT WELL AND DO ALL THE HEALTHY PERSON THINGS. There are also days where you wake up, sneeze four times, cough up what feels like an entire lung, and realize far too late that there is not a tissue box to be found in the house.
The latter is how Fin's morning started, which is just fantastic.
Holding a wilting square of toilet paper to her nose–which is running faster than Usain freaking Bolt–Fin dials Hotch's number and waits for him to pick up.
"Aaron Hotchner."
"Guess who?"
"Finley?"
"Hotch, I can't come in today. I'm coming down with something."
Hotch sighs on the other end. "Sure."
"Oh, my god, I'm not kidding." Fin wonders how in the hell he can't hear that her voice sounds like Kermit the Frog smoked cigarettes. "My head feels like someone poured cement in through my ears, Hotch."
"Okay, okay." Hotch is very clearly busy. "Feel better soon, and call me when you're ready to come back into work."
So Fin makes an exhausting trip to the nearest grocery store to buy the largest package of tissue boxes they have, and then promptly falls asleep halfway through a cup of peppermint tea and The Princess Diaries.
When she wakes up, it's past noon and she still feels like crap, so she pops a pre-made batch of chocolate chip cookies into the oven and grabs Emma off the bookshelf for a quiet re-read. But about fifteen pages in, her head starts to pound, so she downs some Advil with the last of her cold tea and falls asleep again mid-Seinfeld.
And then there's a knock on her door. Fin jerks out of a half-sleep, runs a hand through her hair, and blinks, trying to focus on the clock face in the kitchen. It's almost six o'clock. Who in the world is at her apartment?
"Who is it?" she attempts to yell, and it comes out sounding half-Kermit, half-Al Pacino.
"Um, it's Spencer? I brought you some soup–Um, it's not special soup or anything, but it's spicy, so I thought it would help–But you don't have to– Oh. Hi."
Spencer Reid is standing awkwardly on her doorstep, his face halfway between a smile and a grimace, holding a grocery bag in one hand and a stack of books in the other. His tie is slightly crooked and almost clashes with the deep maroon of his shirt, and Fin can't believe it's possible for him to get sexier each time she sees him.
