Powerless

Chapter 7

a/n: ok so this chapter kind of focuses more on the character (in this case, reader's) backstory. or at least starts to!!! so its a lil dark but then gets better i promise!! 

trigger warning blood, death, trauma, violence

also contains A LOT of smut. like a lot. detailed. sorry not sorry. 

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The unmistakable crack of lightning jolts you from your sleep, gasping in surprise. Sitting up, your eyes adjust as you look out the window to see torrential rainfall. A particularly loud boom causes you to squeal. 

As a young child, you loved the thunderstorms. Your mother would sit with you on the couch, crafting charming anecdotes about angels bowling as the two of you counted between cracks and booms. She would snuggle you tight and let you sleep in her bed those nights, humming lullabies as you drifted to sleep. 

But sophomore year of high school, your whole world fell apart to the soundtrack of heavy downpours and thunderous booms. 

Before, the sound of a storm brought you feelings of safety.

 After, it transported you back to the way your mother had called out your name. The way your older sister's body hit the ground with a thud, reminiscent of the thunder echoing in the background. Storms made you think about the way you had counted cracks of lightning as your shaky hands pressed into the bullet hole on your abdomen, waiting for help to arrive. 

The storm was why he got away. A power outage at the police station made it harder to track his getaway car, and even once you were lucid enough to share his identity he had fled the country. 

You hate thunderstorms. 

"Are you alright?" Spencer's voice interrupts the vivid memories running through your mind, a sympathetic look in his eyes as he flicks on the light. You wipe your eyes and nod, bringing your knees to your chest and leaning against the headboard. 

"Did I wake you?" you ask, suddenly embarrassed. The clock reads 2:37 am. 

"No, the giant boom did," he shrugs. "I just wanted to come in and check on you. I know you don't like thunderstorms." 

You think back to your first month on the BAU, where an unexpected summer storm had hit as you drove to a crime scene with Morgan, Prentiss, and Spencer. He had noticed your shift in body language, reassuringly squeezing your shaky hand as the SUV made its way through the storm. 

Neither of you spoke of it again. There was no need to.

"I'm fine," you lie. He looks at you knowingly but doesn't challenge your answer, instead opting to sit next to you. As if the slightest movement would cause you to jump, he slowly moves his arm around your shoulder, pulling you close. "I just really don't wanna talk about it."

"We don't have to talk about it," he finally says. "Just let me sit here with you." 

You give in, laying your head on his lap with your eyes focused on him. The thunder and lightning was further apart now, and the rain isn't falling with the same ferocity. Still, Spencer's fingers gently running up your back make you forget the world for a moment, hints of peace flashing in your mind. 

"I never pinned you as a romantic," he interrupts your thoughts as he reaches for the book splayed out across your bed. The Love Letters of F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald. "It's interesting, because he gets all the credit for being a fantastic writer. And sure, he was. But she was exquisite. And yet they don't teach about her in school."