RUBATOSIS. spencer reid

| eight

SYLVIA CONNELLY.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING
I woke up feeling like a brick had been thrown at my head. And for a few minutes I truly did believe a brick was thrown at me—I mean, Spencer Reid did stay overnight after all. I was probably dead now, wasn't I? The man probably killed me in my sleep. I mean, he'd been way too generous, with the food, and the "goodnight, Sylvia" thing—there must've been a catch.

Oh, and him just staying in general. I mean, I knew he was only doing it because Hotch wanted him to look after me, but I mean, really? I assumed he'd be gone by morning, because God knows Spencer Reid could give less of a fuck whether or not my lungs collapsed in the middle of the night.

But hey—I was generous last night too. I said sorry, which was honestly the nicest thing I've done to him ever since...well, ever since I've met him. And even if he forgave me, I was still expecting his apology.

Being grateful for this man and him kinda saving my life / bringing me food barely even crossed my mind when I woke up that morning. The moment I managed to open my eyes, I caught a glimpse of him laying on the couch a few feet's away. And god, I had the biggest urge to just throw a shoe at him. Spencer's stupidly symmetrical face laying on his hand, his right cheek squished cutely—disgustingly cutely—against it. His full and plump lips were parted and let out soft and quiet breaths, and his pert little nose twitched every now and then, his entire face scrunching up.

I lightly scoffed to myself, tearing my eyes away from him. Why was I even staring? I guess part of me just hoped that I could wake him up with the power of my staring just to infuriate the man a little.

It was also painful to look at him as well—his leg was crammed into the sofa, which was also ten times too tiny for his long body. And honestly, part of me felt guilty for making the poor guy sleep like that. But hey—I already said sorry last night so I was pretty much good for the next five years.

I shrugged and slowly sauntered to the bathroom to clean myself up. I coughed a little as I did so—my throat and nostrils honestly were still burning from the cyanide, but otherwise I felt pretty okay. Well, that is until I felt a wave of nausea through me and scrambled over the toilet, retching up the gyros and falafel from last night inside of it.

I groaned in pain at the my burning feeling throat, standing and rinsing my mouth in the sink. Another wave of weakness hit me with full force but I grabbed onto the sink, slowly blowing through my mouth to regain composure. Then I wobbled away, stabilizing myself on the doorframe when I grew even dizzier—and with one push from the door I surged out of the bathroom.

But my journey was interrupted when I crashed into something hard, yelping as I prepared for my impending fall. Two arms suddenly went around my waist, and I peeled my eyes open only to be greeted by the oh-so-lovely face of Doctor Spencer Reid. He was curiously looking down at me—almost glaring—with our faces just a few inches from the other. I wore I wasn't even breathing at that point and was about to pass out any second.