Spencer Reid didn’t often get taxi’s back from work, not if he could help it. But a late night and a desperate desire to fall into his bed had warranted the need for one. So, he sat straining his eyes as he attempted to read the workings of Ernest Cline in the dim and passing streetlights.
Each set of traffic lights gave him a quick minute of reading, allowing him to get through at least a few chapters before the taxi would speed off and the darkness would once again fall over the backseats of the cab.
It gave him a few seconds of peace, and Spencer only realised how long this set of lights had taken when he noticed the stillness surrounding him. The rain at first had been barely a whisper on the windows reflection. But once he’d noticed it, the rain became a storm. The wipers fighting against the threat of drowning. Above the rain, the wipers, and the static of the radio, he hears a voice.
Gentle and almost melodic, it calms the rain on his ears. Spencer’s desperately searching for the owner of the voice, the book in his hands now forgotten as his dark eyes strain to see into the darkness outside his window.
There, he catches a glimpse. A glimpse of white, of glitter and magic as thick fabrics, layer upon layer disappear among each other with each movement of her body. Moonlight, dancing on the satin, fish tears hung among the flowers woven into the tangled locks of hair. A bride, marred by the heavy Virginian rain calling out to the empty streets.
Outside it was a storm, But in the silence of the taxi he noticed that the driver too had been watching her with an amusement on his lips.
“Fucking tourist weddings. Never ends well.” He muttered, turning away and looking up to the lights which had turned back to red.
Spencer didn’t respond to him. Instead he turns back, watching the woman as she peers around, lost and confused she moves softly. As though she were afraid of trampling the ground. Spencer, enthralled by her image and his own desire to help, finds himself opening the door and stepping out into the rain.
“Excuse me” He calls out to her, a feeble hand attempting to brush the rain from his eyes as he slowly approaches the stranger. “Do you need help? You look a little lost.”
She looks to him, and Spencer could have sworn that for a second their positions were changed, that he was one who was lost. The two now standing together in the road, he can see the softness of her smile, the innocence in the trust she instantly gives him.
“You could say that.” She admits, letting out a small nervous laugh. “I was meant to meet my fiance. Here. Or near here. It’s our wedding day you see.”
Frowning for a second, he thinks. It was strange enough to see a person alone here at night, but a bride to be. Unheard of. His mind racing as he thinks of all the possible venues. But this part of Virginia lacked the charm for a tourist wedding, and there were no venues that he believed she’d even consider. Lost, he speaks up.“Perhaps you could call your fiance? Or do you have the address, we could get you a cab…” He offers, glancing back to his taxi and the impatient glare of the driver.
“Oh no, I don’t think that Edward would hear us.” She looks back up to him, inadvertently ignoring his suggestion. “Do you know where we are…uh sorry, I don’t know your name?”
“It’s uh…Doctor Reid. But you don’t have to call me Doctor...”
“What would you like me to call you? Reid?”
“Just Spencer.” He fumbles slightly and is instantly glad for the darkness as he feels his cheeks burn, the doctor extending a slender hand towards her. But instead of taking it she dips slightly in a curtsy, her skirts filling her hands.
“Spencer” She repeats, the girl not taking her eyes from his as she introduces herself. “Y/N.“
“Well, Y/N, we’re in Virginia.”
“Virginia?” Her question echoes against the night, Spencer watching as the rain clings to the stray hairs that frame her face. “Where’s that? How far are we from Andalasia?”
For a moment, Spencer forgets the soft strands pressed to her cheeks as the question stuns him. He frowns, repeating the name to her. It wasn’t a place he’d heard of and for Spencer to not know, that means something. But the rain beating down on his shoulders had gotten heavier, and thunder had rolled above them, bringing a halt to their conversation as the two ducked at the sound.
In their silence he began to feel the chill of the rain settling into his clothes, the once quiet street now burning with noise as the taxi driver pounds on his horn, practically muffling the thunder and the shivering breaths around him. And two sentences later he’s back in the warmth of the taxi. This time squashed against the masses of the mysterious brides dress.
"That’s what I’m saying, Morgan. She seems confused or even delusional. It might be possible that she’s suffering from a form of psychosis.” Spencer paces through his kitchen, his voice hushed whilst he stirs the mug on the counter.
The drive back to his had taken an uncomfortable 15 minutes, most of which had been spent trying to work the courage up to ask Y/N questions. When that first failed they sat in silence. But she couldn’t be described as relenting. Once the passing scenery had grown the same, she turned to face him with a thousand questions on her lips. Asking him of Virginia, of what he did, seemingly fascinated with ideas of his mundane.
He’d admit it was somewhat endearing, seeing her excitement at his descriptions of his commute to work, listening to how she points out the good of what he does. Even if it did admittedly catch him off guard.
Reaching his building they began the arduous climb to his apartment. Spencer holding the strangers veil as she led the way up the stairs. On the journey up he gained the courage of questions, he’d asked of her home. Asking of the nuances and the politics of a seemingly non-existent utopia
She described how she lived, how she’d grown up. Spencer learning that politics in her ‘country’ were under the rule of their Monarchy, the girl giving names of people Spencer had never heard of. As they climbed higher. She stopped and Y/N peered from a window. “I’ve never a seen anything so high.” Y/N looks away and up at Spencer. “It looks almost like it is entirely the night sky. If it wasn’t so colourful.” The thought seems to excite her as she giggles, Y/N waiting for Spencer to catch up with her on the stairs before she continues walking.
“How long have you known your fiance?” he asks her, watching for her reactions. After all he wasn’t stupid, even if his IQ did seem to drop whenever he met pretty girls, he was still aware of the dangers of allowing strangers into his apartment, he’d even seen theses consequences of people misjudging character and doing just this. Yet even he, a skeptic, would admit this felt different.
“Oh, three days.” She shakes her head with a small smile, her voice laden with a dreamlike tone as if she was reminiscing on that weeks worth of memories.
“Three days? Surely you can’t be marrying somebody you three days ago.” He pauses before adding, “You know statistically speaking, couples that have dated for periods shorter than 6 months have a higher divorce rate than couples who have dated for longer periods. Often it’s actually due from a lack of knowing one another. Having a quick marriage can often allude to characteristic traits such as impulsiveness or impatience. Which often lead to disagreements, and personality clashes.” He stops as soon as he realises that he’s been rambling. Sneaking a glance towards her as she simply shakes her head, the smile still unwavering on her face. And for the first time, something didn’t feel
“I mean, how well do you really know him.”
“Oh, you only have to know what’s in their heart. You learn of each other in marriage, if you love each other it won’t matter” Her skirts twirl with her movements, twisting around her as she looks to Spencer. “And I know that he’ll come for me. And then we can go back to Andalasia and put this behind us.” Her voice, although still melodic it’s insistent, determined. But naive.
Pacing in his kitchen, Spencer listened to Morgans suggestions and theories. He believed that she was perhaps delusional, even suggesting that this ‘Edward’ wasn’t real. Either that or a cult. But he left Spencer with the advice of getting her help and out of his apartment before she causes trouble.
Stirring his tea, Spencer hangs up. Sneaking a glance out of his kitchen and towards the girl, she’d taken perch on his sofa, the leather practically lost as her dress seems to swallow it. Taking a small breath, he carries the mugs towards the front room, speaking softly as he does. “Y/N? I’ve made you some tea, and I can call you a taxi to your home or to the airport whilst you dry off.” As gentle as the doctor himself, he places the mug down before looking to her, a frown settling on his face.
She’d fallen asleep.
He first clears his throat, the sound barely reaching the walls of his apartment. Then he steps closer, one hand held close to his chest as the other reaches forward in an attempt to wake her. Still no luck.
Stepping back, he looks to her. To the peace on her face and the lilt of each of her light snores and for a second he was almost worried for her. For her mysterious and possibly non-existent fiance. Hoping for her sake that he’s real.
Letting out a small sigh, he walks over to the lamp and switches it off. Stood alone in the darkness he gives himself a last chance to wake her but ignores it. Instead he finds his way to his bed in the darkness, considering placing his armchair in front of the door before he sleeps but deciding it seemed like an over-reaction, after all she doesn’t seem physically imposing, especially dressed as a bride.
Even if that night he’ll admit to having slept with his gun beside him.