Chapter Text
When you leave the office that night, it's half-past seven on a Friday in November. You and the rest of the team have the weekend off, and while Penelope and the others had gone out for drinks, you'd gotten back from a case in Miami that morning and had said no to the offer when she'd made it.
You had really just wanted to get home, if you were being honest. You told her you couldn't swing it because of plans already made with someone else, but Garcia didn't need to know that those plans were a glass of wine, Loops 'N Threads Classic Cotton and a crochet hook to work up some dishcloths in lieu of anything too expensive for your aunts Christmas gift, or that the someone else you had plans with was your DVR so that you could catch up on the five episodes of Prison Break you'd missed because of the way that cases and work had been piling up.
She also didn't need to know that the wine your mother had given you would have a spot, or that after you were caught up with Prison Break you'd probably order and eat your way through an entire pizza from Antonios while watching a documentary about lemon sharks. Your Friday nights were your own, and even though you adored everyone on the team, you would seldom give up your Friday night ritual of doing a craft while watching whichever cable TV you needed to catch up on or whichever one the network of your choice had been running a marathon of, even if giving it up meant giving up dinner, drinks, and laughter amongst yourself and the rest of the team.
So, as you and Spencer are heading out—Spencer had declined Penelopes offer but hadn't specified his reasons as to why—he looks at you with a knowing sort of smile.
"Crocheting and Antonios?" he asks, quirking an eyebrow.
You nod once, lips pursing just a little while you mentally ready yourself for any oncoming judgement. "Mhm," you nod. "I have a bottle of red I wanna drink, so it'll be a tipsy crocheting night, I think."
"That sounds fun," he says. "Enjoy it."
"What're your plans for the night?" You ask. You've been with the team since six months after Spencer had joined up. You'd joined, under Hotch's wing, at the age of nineteen where Spencer had joined up under Gideons when he was twenty.
He shrugs. "I was thinking about calling my mom, seeing how she's doing," he says. "I try to call her at least once every so often and I do my best to write, but—it's just—"
"Maintaining those kinds of relationships isn't that easy," you nod. "I mean—my parents just live in my hometown so the circumstances are different, but I get it, even if it's to a lesser degree."
You don't really talk to your parents, and they don't really talk to you, and it's been that way since you went to the FBI Academy when you were eighteen. You came to DC after being hired by the BAU and they stayed in Maine, and things have been like that in the five years since you left the state.
"Your mom came around recently, right?"
You nod. "She was in town for a bit, but she came down while we were working on a case so I only got to see her a few times before she was heading back to Maine." She'd come up at the start of October, while you were working a case out of state, and she'd left six days after you'd returned from the case. In that time, you'd seen her at breakfast, lunch and dinner on three separate days. She'd left you the wine as a gift because she hated red and needed to pass it off, but you loved red wine so it was fine.
"Was it a good visit?"
"It was—well—it was fine," you laugh.
"That's the nicest way to put it?"
"Calling it fine is me being stellar," you laugh again. "Being kind, being gratiuitous, even. It was less than fine, but it could've been worse, and other visits of hers have been by miles."
Your relationship with your mother has been somewhat contentious since you were a teen, but she comes down once every few months and unless a case or something better comes up, you usually try to book Christmas off to spend it with your parents and sisters in Maine. This year, a bigger part of you than not is hoping that Christmas is disrupted by a case somewhere completely out of Maines reach, like Nevada or California or even the likes of Alaska, which has got to be some snowy hell storm in the wintertime, though you can't say.
"You gonna go down for Christmas?" Spencer asks, laughing a little. He knows some of what your relationships with your family are like—knows that you and your mother have a difficult time finding common ground, knows that you and your father don't get along but have found some weird little middle ground where you can exist without screaming at each other. He knows that you and your older sister are sort of friendly but only really mildly close, and that you and your other older sister don't talk often and see each other even less than the sparing conversations you have throughout the year—and he always looks at you kind of pitifully when your mother gets brought into the conversation, but there's been less and less pity as the years have passed, more sympathy.
"I don't want to," you laugh. "I really, really hope we get a case in Nevada or somewhere that even my mother wouldn't be able to justify asking me to drive down to Maine from. Like—I'd love it if we got a case in Alaska the day before Christmas Eve, honestly. I know it's not gonna happen, but—Christmas with them, my aunt, and my uncle? No. I can't subject myself to that without a whole lot of booze."
Spencer laughs, shakes his head a little bit. "You'll be fine," he says. "I won't hope that a case comes up at Christmas, but if one does, I'll buy you a victory tea."
"Why?"
"Because I know you love your family—you're hardwired to love them—but you hate Christmas with them, and I don't really like the thought of you being where you don't want to be because of family ties and guilt."
You laugh. "If it gets too dreary, promise you'll answer my call?"
"Yeah," Spencer nods. "Of course, but what if I call you first?"
"I will answer so quick," you laugh again, shrugging. "Seriously. Whether it's you or Hotch, I will take literally any excuse I can get to slip out from whichever room I'm in to the back porch just so I can talk to someone who isn't my aunt for a few minutes."
"Looking forward to that," Spencer says.
You smile, turning away as you do to hide it. It feels like an awesome ending to a mediocre day and you're grateful for that.
-
When your phone rings at five o'clock something along the lines of five weeks later, it's Christmas Eve. You've spent the last couple of hours alternating between cheap screw top rose and a jack and coke, occasionally swapping both options out for a hot chocolate that you spike with kahlua and a splash of baileys, and when your phone rings, the sound of it is a welcome reprieve.
You tuck a mug of boozed up hot cocoa into your right hand, answering the phone with your left as you dismiss yourself out to the back porch, standing amidst snow that's, by that point, a couple days old. A fresh coat is due to fall any day now, but by the time it does you'll probably already be back in DC.
"Hey," you greet. "How's Christmas on your end?"
"It's good," Spencer answers. "How is it on yours?"
"It's amazing."
"You've been drinking?"
"Jack Daniels, cheap rose, and the occasional spiked hot chocolate," you laugh a little. "It's making everyone more tolerable."
"Thats good," Spencer says. "Don't forget to drink water, though. It'll make you less hungover tomorrow morning."
"Yeah," you nod. "I've drank plenty of water—hangover headaches are fuckin' awful, and I don't feel like dealing with that tomorrow morning. A headache on top of dealing with my aunt? I couldn't put myself through that kind of torture."
"How've things been with you and your mom?"
"So far I haven't done anything to piss her off yet, which is surprising," you laugh. "Normally she's leaping down my throat the second I do something like use a tone that she thinks is amiss or defend my dad where she doesn't agree with him. I'll say something stupid and she'll yell at me before midnight though, I'm sure."
"Try to be a little optimistic," Spencer says. "I mean—just—take it easy. Don't do anything too nuts, okay? I know you well enough to know you have Prison Break on one of the DVRs in that house, and I also know that you know your own limits. Don't push yourself past them."
"I won't," you say. You know yourself well enough to know that you're probably lying, but you brought your needles and a skein of yarn so worst case you can just knit and keep your mouth shut, hopefully not miscounting any of your stitches in your drunken state. "I'll call you tomorrow, okay? I get in around ten on boxing day too, so—coffee?"
"Coffee," Spencer says. "Merry Christmas, Y/N."
"Merry Christmas, Spencer," you respond, hanging up the phone thereafter. You stay outside for another few minutes, drinking your hot chocolate, watching the sky and prolonging the time between then and your next interactions with your relatives.
Eventually, when you go back in, you're met with a sly look from your aunt and a suspicious look in your mothers eyes, while your father and uncle chat about current events and your sisters are busy in a game of Uno.
"You got a boyfriend?" Your aunt asks, her smile cheeky.
You grimace. "No!" You say, beelining for the kitchen and the bottle of Barefoot brand zinfandel. "No—it's—it isn't like that. A friend had planned to call and I didn't say no."
"Oooh, a friend," your mother teases. "That's quite vague, Y/N."
You nod, finishing the last sip of hot chocolate in your mug and rinsing it out, setting it in your favored corner of the kitchen counter and reaching for the wine glass you'd left in that same area.
"Intentionally so," you laugh. "You two are so nosy. I love you both to bits and pieces, but—it's not anything like what you're thinking. The friend is a coworker."
You reach for the bottle of zinfandel and pour an amount that just barely skirts the edge of avoiding being obscene, putting the cap back on and leaving it on the counter along with the rest of the alcoholic companions that will reside on the counter top until at some point tomorrow, when the drinks are switched out from booze and beer to soda and water.
"You two will be an item in five years, I guarantee it," your aunt says. "Seriously. You don't be vague about someone with your family unless there are feelings there, Y/N."
You laugh a little more, taking a sip of your wine and debating rummaging through the fridge to find the brownies that you'd hidden in the back of the fridge for when the drunken cravings kicked in.
"I've been vague with you people about women coworkers," you retort. "I've been vague about mentors who are older than Dad. I'm vague about lots of things."
"You should open up," your uncle says. "Nobody likes a closed off little snowflake who wants to appear mysterious."
"Trust is earned," the older of your two sisters retorts. "You have to trust people to want to open up to them."
"Do you not trust us?" Your mother asks, looking at you with pain in her eyes.
Not like I did when I was a kid, you think. "I do! I just—work life and family life are two separate things to me. If I were as open as you guys want me to be, telling you work stories and funny office anecdotes, you'd all want to hear less about my job."
"Being an FBI agent can't be that hard," your uncle retorts.
"You say that as a man who's never watched someone you love like a sibling get shot at," you retort. "You've never seen someones body missing parts, or seen someone who narrowly evaded a serial killer shaking with grief and with survivors guilt already starting to manifest. I love you all, but not one of you understands what it's like, and I wouldn't wish you did across a thousand lifetimes."
Nobody knows what to say, but the look in your eldest sisters eyes is clear—she's proud.
"Well maybe you should work in a different area," your aunt says.
"I wouldn't trade my job or my coworkers for anything," you respond. "The plus sides make up for the drawbacks tenfold."
Things go a little quiet after that, and you eventually grab the bottle of Zinfandel and retreat back out to the back porch, not caring how cold it is.
You stare at the sky for ages, drinking your way through the entire bottle of zinfandel as you do. You're half asleep when your phone rings again, and you pick it up as you make back inside, figuring the rest of your family had gone to bed as well.
"Hey," Spencer greets. "Just calling to check in again."
"Hi," you respond. "Everyone else has gone to sleep, I think—nobody is in the kitchen or the living room, and if I don't hit the hay I'll be dead on my feet tomorrow morning."
"Do you have any sports drinks around?" Spencer asks. "The electrolytes in them will help replenish the potassium and the salt that you lose after a lot of drinking. Bouillion soup also serves the same purpose, and water is basically universally known as the one thing you should consistently drink between alcoholic beverages."
"My mother gets a twelve pack of the fruit punch Gatorade, puts it in the fridge and normally will make the drunkest of us chug a bottle before we conk out, so I'm gonna grab one and then chug it and head to bed. Thank you for calling to check in, Spencer. It means a lot."
You head for the fridge and keep to your word, opening it and grabbing one of the gatorades.
"It's no problem," Spencer says. "I've know you—how long now?"
"Four entire years," you laugh, closing the fridge and pressing your forehead against the metal door of the freezer on top of it. "Oh, God. Four years of working at the BAU. That is a surefire way to make me feel old."
"How old do you think you'll feel when you've been working there for a decade?"
"Absolutely, positively, ancient," you say. "Oh my God—thirty three? That is not an age I can picture. Asking me to picture that while I'm drunk feels like such a low blow, Reid."
"How about twenty-eight?"
"I'm starting to think you just like the sound of my voice," you retort, laughing a little as you compose yourself just enough to turn your phone onto speaker and set it on the counter. You lean against the counter and take the screw top off of your Gatorade, sighing a little. "Are you asking me if I have a five year plan, Dr. Reid?"
"Yeah," he says. "Yes is the answer to both your statement and your question."
"Well, in five years, I'll be twenty-eight," you start. "I'd like it very much if I were still on the team, and if I am, that means nine years at the BAU. I'm going to get better at knitting and finally stop knitting things for people who don't offer to buy the yarn or otherwise compensate, I think. I make things free for ungrateful people too often. Maybe even adopt a kitten or take in a shelter dog. Fuck—Reid, I can't really even decide what I'm going to do in the next five minutes, let alone the next five years."
You chug the Gatorade as you think about it—a bigger apartment would be nice, one that's closer to work would be nicer still. One with a good view of the city, maybe a library or a liquor store within walking distance, if not a Michaels or a Joanns.
You've always been more of a cat person but you have a ridiculously insurmountable softspot for greyhounds and pitbulls, so if you thought you could take in an animal in the coming years, you would have the knowledge and the background to give them a good home.
You'd maybe want to change up your hair color, if the drunken opportunity presented itself. A change in appearance feels like the sort of thing a person finds necessary at the age of twenty four, in the last year before the brain fully develops and stuff starts changing bit by bit.
"I think I'll still be on the team," Spencer says. "I know it. I love what we get to do everyday, Y/N. Helping people? Saving lives? We do good. We're good people."
"What else do you think about the next five years?" You ask, your voice quiet.
"I think I'll still be living in my same apartment, and that I'll still bicker and get into prank wars with Morgan," Spencer says. "I think I'll still play chess against Gideon on the jet home, and I'll still love to learn anything I can. I know for sure I'm still going to be trying to get you to watch Dr. Who with me, though I hope you agree to watch it after five years of attempts at cajoling you to."
You laugh, and the air takes on a somber kind of tone. "Maybe," you say. "Not likely, but maybe, Reid. Look—I'm going to go to bed so that I can just deal with tomorrows probable hangover head on, but thank you for calling me not once, but twice tonight. I really needed some company that wasn't a little bit of an asshole."
"Yeah, of course," Spencer says. "I—well—merry Christmas, Y/N."
"Goodnight, Spencer," is how you bid him adieu, hanging up the phone thereafter. You throw the gatorade bottle into the recycling and head off to the room you'd claimed, turning the TV onto a low volume and falling asleep with The Muppet Christmas Carol beginning to play in the background.
-
"How was everyones Christmas?" Garcia asks, practically buzzing with excitement as she comes out into the bullpen. Spencer is leaning against your desk, the two of you talking about nothing in particular when she comes around, and Garcia looks at you with a happy grin. "How was Maine?"
"It was Maine," you shrug. "Snowed. A lot. In turn, everyone in my family drank. A lot."
"Oh," Garcia shakes her head. "Too many people and too much booze is God awful."
You shrug. "My parents, my sisters, and my aunt and my uncle hardly felt like too many," you say. "And the amount of booze in which I indulged hardly felt like too much."
"You had a lot," Spencer retorts, looking at you skeptically. "I got a text Christmas morning, if memory serves—"
"A text to thank you for being so nice," You fire back, cutting him off. "Totally not asking you for hangover cures. I would never."
Spencer shakes his head, laughing slightly. You grin, taking a sip of the tea he'd brought you that morning.
"Yeah," he says. "I didn't get a text asking for the ultimate hangover cure-all. I guess I must've remembered it wrong."
Your grin widens, and you nod. "Guess so. How were things with your Mom?"
"They were great," Spencer says. "I had a good time."
"I'm glad," you respond. "Your mother sounds pleasant."
"She is," Spencer nods. "I'd hate to spend more than an hour with yours though."
"She's comin' here in June," you fire back, leaning back in your chair as your grin morphs from grin to smirk. "Be careful for the next six months, Reid, or I'll invite you to dinner with her, myself, and my father."
"That sounds like some form of medieval torture," Derek fires, laughing. Spencer shakes his head.
"Not if Y/Ns there," he murmurs. You take another sip of your tea to avoid seeming flustered to the rest of the team, and Spencer sighs when JJ comes around. You sit up in your chair, already anticipating her next words.
"We have a case," she says. "A series of deaths in Witchita. Briefing room in ten!"
You and Spencer exchange a look. There are only a few days left of it, but it looks like the last of 2005 is due to be a whirlwind.