Flight Risk | Spencer Reid

IV

In which airplane food is heavy and the context of a case is disappointing.

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Arthur stands waiting for her outside the jet stairs. "So you're on speaking terms again?"

She freezes, hands still lifted in the middle of adjusting her cap. "What do you mean?"

Arthur gives half a shrug and begins climbing up into the plane. He's not one to pry into the lives of other people, but she's discovered he does make occasional exceptions to this rule. "Simply that you seem much happier to be around Dr. Reid today. Your scowl is gone."

Her face flushes and she's grateful he can't see it as they file into the cockpit. "We talked, yes. I think we've reached an understanding."

Arthur gives a noncommittal, mmmm, and gets to work adjusting Geff's controls. She does the same, going through routine checks, only to be interrupted by a quiet, "Just be careful. I don't want you getting hurt."

Y/N blinks, then looks down quickly. She doesn't ask him to elaborate; Captain Dobson isn't one for sentimental attachments or expressions. The fact that he's saying this at all speaks volumes. It makes her happy, to know he considers her someone close. The BAU is obviously close-knit, she's heard them refer to themselves more than once as a "family." But the two of them, bound by similar schedules and shared challenges, they're something of that sort too. Perhaps that makes them distant cousins of the FBI.

The team boards the plane, they're cleared for takeoff, and it's all smooth flying and blue skies for a solid three hours. They're both tired, and the thought of being able to go home and sleep in her own comfortable bed lifts her spirits – until the cockpit door slides open and Agent Rossi steps in.

"I'm afraid I have some bad news," he says. "We just got word of a case in Houston. Two previous victims and now there's a kid missing."

A kid. Oh, god. Rossi looks genuinely apologetic, but Arthur nods.

"We'll change course immediately." Rossi murmurs a thank you, then slides the door closed once more, muffling the voices of the other agents, already discussing the case behind them.

Y/N follows all orders, gets in touch with the air traffic controller, telling Indianapolis Center that they'll be changing directions and heading for Houston. Other than exchanges with ATC and instructions to shift speeds and change controls, they fly in silence. It's a heavy quiet, weighed both by an acknowledgement that somewhere, something horrible has happened, as well as the fact that they won't be going home tonight.

It's harder for Arthur, he has a boyfriend to go home to, people who need him. She has less attachments, but has no desire to spend more time in a small motel once again. Still, things could be worse. It's important work.

"I think we've still got lunches prepared that I could heat up," she offers. "What do you want – the chicken or the pasta?"

"Pasta," he replies, without missing a beat.

"You always take the pasta."

"I'm the captain. When your epaulets have four stripes, you can claim it first."

"I don't know why we even bother with the chicken," she grumbles. "We both hate airplane meat."

"You know the rules. We can't have the same meal."

Y/N carefully clambers to the sliding door. "I know. But honestly, how many planes have gone down as a result of the food?"

"There have been some close calls. Japan Air, 1975, omelets. Overseas National, 1982, tapioca. British Airways, 1984, hors d'oeuvres." She rolls her eyes, but begrudgingly goes to fetch the saran-wrapped meals. Slipping out of the cockpit, she catches bits and pieces of conversation as the team begins to work. The previous victims were a little older, most in their early and mid-twenties. All women with blonde hair.