songs: "august" by taylor swift and "fourth of july" by sufjan stevens and "daddy issues" by the neighbourhood

j u n i p e r

We agree that lunch would be best, rather than just grabbing coffee. Reid and I had a hard time deciding where to go initially, but finally, we settle on an Indian food place he recommends.

"I promise, you won't be disappointed with this place," He says excitedly.

"Yeah?" I say, turning the AC down. I have goosebumps everywhere, and frankly, I'm not sure that it's from the AC but I need to make it look like it is. "How do I get there, Reid?"

"Call me 'Spencer.' And in two miles, turn left. Take that all the way down to seventh light." Spencer continues to rattle off directions and I do as he says, listening to him talk enthusiastically about the restaurant. "I'm sorry, I haven't let you speak in fourteen minutes and you were the one who wanted to meet with me. Sometimes, I can get carried away and . . . "

I cut him off. "Stop. Don't apologize for that. Honestly, it's refreshing to meet someone who talks just as much as me. I can get so passionate about things. Once, when I was sixteen, my mom asked me about my newest language study and timed how long it took before someone could get a word in with me." I laugh to myself, remembering how excited I was to talk about Swedish idioms and exact Swedish to English translations.

I glimpse over at Spencer as he asks, "How long did that take?"

"Thirty-nine minutes. It was my uncle who finally interrupted me. I was so mad that he interrupted to ask my mom about where the family dog was." I laugh nervously. "It's so silly, but I ignored his calls for two weeks and spitefully got a cat after that."

I park the car, but neither of us make a move to exit my car. "You have a cat?"

"Three, actually." I reply sheepishly. "Socks, my first cat, is a tricolor Aegean. She's got these mismatched sock patterns on her back paws, so I felt as though the name fit her. She's my silly girl. Socks also has an obsession with my sock drawer, so she definitely knows what her name is."

I pull out my wallet, where I keep little pictures of my family and cats. I show him the picture my mom took when I first brought Socks home. I'm smiling widely, holding the tiny kitten in my hands close to my face. Socks was a shelter kitten, so she's always been very loving towards me.

"She's so little." He says quietly, gently taking the photo from me. "You were sixteen in this picture?" Spencer asks. "You're wearing a Harvard sweatshirt."

"Yeah, I was technically in my first year, but I was a decent amount through my bachelor's in psychology at the time. I graduated high school a year before that." I take another kitten photo out from my little collection. "This is Cinnamon. She's a shaded cameo Norwegian Forest Cat. Sometimes they're referred to as red shades. I got her as a kitten, too. She's three now, but she still acts like a kitten. Cinnamon's bigger than Socks, but Socks is definitely like her mom. Two months ago I got another kitten. This," I hand him another photo, "is Luna. She's an Asian semi-longhair. I was only supposed to have her for a couple nights, but her owners felt like she was a better fit with me than them. They had a toddler and he was terrorizing her." What I don't mention is that I was cat sitting for them and they were actually in the foster program. My poor baby Luna.

"Do you have any pictures of the three of them together?" Spencer asks, giving me back the pictures.

I shake my head. "No, unfortunately. Socks is too busy being a second time mom to sit still for even a moment with Cinnamon and Luna." I smile looking at all three of my babies from when I first got them. "They're such sweet cats though. Luna's breed is known for their jealousy towards other animals, but I think that it may help to raise her with the other two." I gingerly put the photos back in my wallet. "We should go in, shouldn't we?"

Spencer looks surprised. "Oh, yeah. We should." We both hop out of the car and walk in. Spencer and I are seated in the back corner, which is perfect. "Is it alright if I call you by your first name?" He asks as we settle into the table.

"Juniper? I don't see why not. Actually, if you want me to call you 'Spencer,' then you better not call me anything other than my first name." It burns my heart that I say that. Not with the nightmares that plague me.

"Alright, well then, what did you want to talk about?" Spencer asks.

I fidget with my hands nervously. I want to shrivel up in a dark corner and never come out because I am so embarrassed about the nightmares and the paranoia. "I have horrible nightmares. Well, actually, it's not just nightmares. Everywhere I look, every turn, every corner, I feel like all I see is Miranda Dracar's face and I can hear her voice. I'm plagued with the faces of the men in that prison I went to with Hotchner and Prentiss."

"You shouldn't be embarrassed about that."

"I never said I was." I snip back quickly.

Spencer puts his hands up defensively. "Your body language does." Right, he's a profiler. "We all get nightmares in the BAU. As a team, we don't really discuss that. I've been reluctant in the past to open up about my own nightmares. Nightmares are a reflection of our conscious thoughts and fears, sometimes it can be a warning sign." He pauses. "Nightmares are unavoidable. For me, I try to learn more about what I see in my sleep. It helps me to be less afraid if I know more about it. Some people keep pictures on their desks or in their wallets of the people they've saved."

"I'm afraid I won't be needing pictures," I joke half-heartedly. He smiles with me. "Truthfully, it's not just the actual nightmares I'm afraid of. A while back, in college, I played volleyball. I know it's probably surprising considering my height. But I played volleyball in college for two and a half years before I tore my ACL in a game. While it was extremely painful, I was devastated. I just got my BS in psychology, I was about a quarter of the way through my BS in criminology, and I was working on advancing my psychology degree to a masters. I ended up needing surgery, it was that bad. My parents told the doctors that I wanted to go into some form of law enforcement and my doctors put a lot of effort into fixing my ACL." I sigh, disappointed in myself for the following events in my story. "They gave me some painkillers after the surgery, to help with my extreme pain. Truthfully, I am so annoyed with myself for doing what I did, but I became addicted to them. I was prescribed Dilaudid." I say slowly.

His face falls and I am afraid he may be judging me. "I understand," Spencer says quietly.

I laugh nervously. "For seven months, I found every little way I could get them to give me more before they forced me into rehab. Rehab was hard, but I'm highly motivated, so I continued with my college and got better. Finally got out of rehab in July of oh-four. I was eighteen. I've been wary of all substances since. I don't even take medicine for headaches, it's too risky. My birth control isn't even a pill. I had them put a rod in my arm just to avoid the pill." I had been looking down to avoid his eyes, but I finally look back up at him. "Sorry if that was . . . too much."

"It's okay. Really, I understand. A couple years ago, I was kidnapped by an unsub."

"Unsub?" I question. "I've heard you guys use the word before, but I don't actually know what it means." I say sheepishly.

Spencer smiles softly. "Unknown subject. We call them unsubs because 'suspect' just doesn't fit as well. A suspect would be someone we believe did the crime, an unsub is who did the crime, we just don't know who they are yet." He explains. Well, that makes sense.

An older woman comes up to our table, stopping the conversation. She sets down two glasses of water and asks us for our orders. She repeats everything back to us to check if she got it correct, and when we both nod in approval, she hurries off. We say 'thank you,' but are unsure if she actually hears us, so we smile at one another.

"Anyway, like I was saying. I got kidnapped by an unsub. He had Dissociative Identity Disorder. One of his alters was his dead father and another was an Archangel. He was addicted to Dilaudid as well, before getting clean, and when he started murdering as the Archangel, he got back on the drugs. He took me and forced me to do Dilaudid all while torturing me. I spent the next ten months of my life constantly thinking about doing the drugs, and I had them at one point and I was using. It really sucked," He says dryly. "But I do understand."

"How long have you been clean for?" I ask gently.

"Almost two years now. Have you been clean since getting out of rehab?"

I grin. "Yeah, I'm pretty proud of myself, too. I understand the constant thinking about it. My uncle was always the first person I called after getting out whenever the thoughts seemed too much. I knew he would help me. He always has." I say softly. It's true. Uncle David has been one of my anchors since 1999. He got me adopted into his family and always reassured me that no matter what, he would make sure I was safe for the rest of his life. "Plus, when I was in rehab, he used to sneak my cat in every time he visited me, so he was definitely helping me out." I take a sip of my water.

Spencer does too. "Is he the reason you went into the FBI?"

I nod. "Yeah." I bite back the part about how it wasn't just him, but Agents Hotchner and Gideon helping me. "I love my uncle and he's always so encouraging, even if he mocks me sometimes," I say. That was also true. Uncle David always found ways to make fun of my intelligence while encouraging me to do more. I think he just wants me to give in and join the BAU.

"So you work in the ITU, right?" He asks, but he gives me no time to answer before he's talking again. "What languages are you certified to translate?"

I laugh. "More than you'd think. Besides English, I'm fluent in nine verbal languages. I'm also a certified ASL translator. Language has always come easy to me. I'm an autodidact. I grew up speaking English, German, and Russian regularly. Dutch was the first language I learned on my own." I smile, still incredibly proud of myself. "It holds a special place in my heart, so of course, I say it's my favorite."

"Nine languages other than English? So there's Russian, German, and Dutch. What are the others?" Spencer asks. The look in his eyes tells me that he's beyond interested in what I have to say. My heart swells a little.

"French, Romanian, Icelandic, Finnish, Swedish, and Italian. My uncle taught me Italian. He also taught me how to cook and he is an amazing cook. If he ever offers to cook for you, definitely take the offer. His carbonara is fantastic." I gush.

Spencer's mouth twitches into a half smile, however he looks somewhat confused. "Rossi cooks? He told us he had a private chef."

I gasp. "What? No, he cooks for himself. He used to have a private chef, back when he lived on Long Island, but he wasn't very pleased with half of the recipes. He does all the cooking in his house now. Sometimes, if I'm lucky, he meal preps my lunches for me."

"He told us he hated cooking," Spencer says. "Emily and Garcia are going to be so mad at him." He sounds amused. "Does that mean that Rossi also bakes? He brings in cookies every couple weeks, usually after our bad cases."

I grin. "That's all me. I love baking. Cookies aren't my specialty, but my uncle sings of your team's praises."

Spencer's eyes go wide. "Garcia always complains when there's no strawberry love notes."

I sigh, smiling, but defeated. "Those are so good, but so much effort. Too much attention to detail for my stress relief. Which are your favorites?"

The doctor shifts. "I really love sweets, so I'll eat anything sugar based. But I love your apple spice cookies and pumpkin cheesecake cookies. Those are my favorites."

My eyes go wide. "Your birthday was recently, wasn't it? I made those and some pistachio chocolate chips."

Spencer smiles sheepishly. "Emily and I share a birthday. October twelfth. I just turned twenty-eight."

My heart races in my chest and I can hear my pulse loud and clear in my ears. He's four and a half years older than me. For some reason, I thought he was older. "I'm assuming the pistachio ones were for Emily?" He nods. "She should request something different next year, I hate having pistachios in my house. They're so gross."

He laughs. "They're not my favorite either." He simply says.

For the next hour and a half, Spencer and I talk about everything relating to language and our school experiences. Spencer was twelve when he graduated from high school. Certainly a genius, if you ask me. He doesn't talk about his family at all, so I wonder what his relationship is to them. He doesn't mention any siblings, so I'm inclined to think he doesn't have any, however I don't talk about my brothers either. Maybe he doesn't talk to his family. Or maybe some of them are dead.

By the time we're ready to leave, Spencer and I are arguing over who's paying the bill. Spencer refuses to split the bill like I suggested when he denied my idea of me paying, and now we're sitting here like complete idiots.

"I asked you if we could go out for coffee or something, I should pay," I say, my arms crossed over my chest.

"But I suggested we go here, so I will pay," he argues.

"No," I lunge forward across the table at him when he tries to sneak his card to the waitress, snatching his card. "I will pay." I say sternly. "Stop fighting me on this."

"Well, I think you should stop, I already gave her cash." He says plainly, but there's a smug grin forming on his lips.

My mouth hangs open. "Spencer Reid," I scowl. "I guess, you'll just have to let me pay you back."

Spencer shrugs. "You don't have to do that."

"It would be incredibly rude if I didn't." When Spencer gets the change, he makes sure to tip very well. I try to offer paying the tip, but he won't let me. We walk out together, but Spencer doesn't go to my car. "What are you doing?" I ask.

Spencer stares blankly at me. "Home?"

I cross my arms and give him a pointed look. "Get in the car, Spencer. I'm driving you home." He opens his mouth to say something, but I speak before he gets another word out. "Now, Spencer."

"I'll give you some gas money," he says as we get in the car.

I turn to glare at him. "If you give me so much as a penny." I start to threaten, but he puts his hands up defeated. "Don't even think about sneaking money into some hidden spot in this car."

He grins. "I won't, but I've heard that I'm very good at magic tricks."

I roll my eyes. "Whatever. Now, where do you live?"

Spencer gives me directions and we go. It's about a twenty minute drive; he lives close to Georgetown University. I let him pick which of my CDs we listen to. I can't hold back my wide smile as he asks me about the Taylor Swift CD.

"Is she an artist or is that the name of the album?" He asks, confused.

"Put it in, it's good. Taylor Swift is her name, but that's her first album, so she decided to have it be self-titled." My grin widens as he does as I said, replacing the "Under the Cork Tree" CD with the "Taylor Swift" one. The guitar intro to "Tim McGraw" starts playing and I turn the volume up. It's my biggest secret that I love Taylor Swift. I heard her on the radio first and, of course, when I saw the CD at the store a week later, I just had to buy it. And of course, I just had to buy the "Fearless" CD when that came out last year too.

The ride was silent otherwise though. Just me and Spencer listening to Taylor Swift. I start humming along to "Picture to Burn" and the desire to tap my thumbs against the steering wheel to the rhythm of the song is overwhelming, but I don't want Spencer to think I'm crazy. We get to his apartment building right when "Tied Together With a Smile" starts playing and I go to turn the music down, but Spencer stops me.

"One more, and then we can stop," he says.

"Okay," is all I manage to say. We listen in silence to the song. I close my eyes, tilting my head back against the seat. It's been such a long week, I'm sad it's not Friday yet. It's Monday.

As the song concludes, Spencer turns down the volume. "Thanks for driving me," Spencer says.

"It was no problem. I like driving." I pause, afraid of what I'm about to say. "Do you think we could exchange phone numbers? I've never met anyone remotely as smart as me and it's fun chatting with you." I try to throw out every excuse possible, and while I do think and know that he is very smart, I also think that he is very attractive. I don't want to ask him out or anything, I hardly know him, but having a friend would be nice.

Spencer perks up. "Yeah," he says, stuttering a little.

We give one another our phones and input our numbers. When he gives me back his phone, I don't recognize the area code. 702. I'll have to look that up later, I think to myself.

"Six-three-one?" He questions.

"Yeah, I'm from Long Island, New York. What about you?"

"Las Vegas." He says simply. I cringe. I remember him mentioning going to public school prior to becoming a teenager. "Yeah, definitely not fun." He says, almost reading my mind. "Anyway, I should probably get going. I don't want to take up any more of your time."

I smile. "It's fine, but yeah, I should probably go, too. Thanks for agreeing to talk with me today. I really appreciate it."

Our eyes meet and I swear my heart stops. His eyes are so beautiful, and suddenly, I am more grateful than ever to have an eidetic memory. His beautiful big, brown eyes shall forever have its place in my memories. We both get kind of awkward and Spencer gets out of the car, saying good-bye.

I finish listening to the "Taylor Swift" album on my drive home.

꧁ ꧂

I was home for an hour before my uncle invited me over for dinner. I was in my car and halfway there before I knew it. I love my uncle's cooking.

The house is fragrant when I unlock the door with my key. I hum with a satisfactory grin. "Uncle David?" I call out, not hearing anything on the stove.

"I'm right here, honey bee!" He calls back from the living room. I slip off my shoes and nearly skip to the living room. "I know you don't prefer the taste of wine, but I got this blueberry port that I think you might like." He says, already pouring two glasses.

I roll my eyes, but accept the glass. I don't normally drink alcohol, only at special occasions because I'm afraid I'll become addicted to alcohol too. He watches me carefully as I take a sip. "Oh, that is good." I say, taking another sip. "What are you making? It smells delicious."

"Four cheese manicotti," Uncle David replies as we sit down on the couch. "I heard you went out with Reid today." He raises his eyebrows and gives me a suggestive look.

I shake my head. "Not like that! I was doing as you told me. It was helpful talking with him."

"Did you tell him about your cats?"

I give him a look that says "of course I did." I will always talk about my cats if I can help it. "Yes. I even showed him pictures. Speaking of the cats, Cinnamon made such a mess while I was gone today. I left a cup on the counter, but I put it in the corner, next to the coffee machine you got me. I know there's no way of knowing exactly which cat pushed it from the counter to the floor, but it was definitely Cinnamon. She's been such a freak about water lately."

"I thought cats hated water," my uncle says, his eyebrows wrinkled with confusion.

"Not Norwegian Forest Cats. They love it. If I truly wanted, I could teach Cinnamon how to swim. Socks likes to jump into the bathtub with me when I decide to take baths instead of showers. I love taking baths, but Socks will cry on the other side of the door if I don't let her in the room with me. She's the reason I keep my bathroom door shut when I'm not home though. She learned how to plug up the bathroom sink and turn on the faucet." Uncle David and I share a laugh.

"Well, maybe it was Socks that pushed the cup on the floor."

I shake my head. "No, it was definitely Cinnamon."

"You should transfer into my unit." He says suddenly. I open my mouth, but he won't let me speak. "You're an excellent interrogator and you study criminal behavior. You would be a great fit for the team." Uncle David says.

I sigh. "I'm not so sure," I say slowly.

"You worked so well with the team when we brought you on for that case." He argues.

I wave my hand. "I get along with serial killers in prison. Do you know why? Because it is my job to make people talk to me."

"Will you just think about it?" He's persistent. More persistent than he's ever been on the topic. Usually, I tell him I like that I hardly ever have to leave DC for my work, but this time I don't. I don't know what's keeping me from my usual response.

I sigh again, deep and heavy. "I will guarantee no such thing." I say defiantly, pointing a finger at him. "I don't think I would be a good profiler." I state plainly. "I have an eidetic memory, but my stress response doesn't let me recall information very well."

Uncle David rolls his eyes. "You know, I think you're just making excuses."

"I am not!" But I think he may be right. I hate when he's right.

We don't talk about me transferring during dinner. Instead, we talk about my failed attempts to get into a doctorate program. My uncle suggests I talk to Spencer because he has three PhDs. I knew he had to have one, but three is insane, I think to myself. I suppose I will have to talk to him about that later. My uncle sends me home with lunch for the rest of the week and a mini white peach tart he bought at an Italian bakery.

He walks me to my car, mostly so he can secure my gifts somewhere in my car. "Alright, honey bee, don't add anything to those dishes." He warns sternly. "I made those perfectly and if you add anything it'll ruin it."

"Okay, okay!" I giggle as he pulls me into a hug. "When have I ever added anything to your food? It's already amazing."

He kisses my forehead. "Get home safe, kiddo. I don't want to have to go looking for you again." His tone is joking, but I know he's serious. He tells everyone that he took an early retirement in 1997 to write his books, but really, my case broke his heart and he needed to take a break. It was Hotch who called him the night I finally turned up; Agent Gideon thought it was a bad idea because I had never met any of them. Uncle David and I got along very well right from the start, though.

"I will," I say, giving him another hug. He was the only family living in the area. Mom and Dad moved to Syracuse, New York when I got settled in Woodbridge. "I'll text when I get home, okay? Thanks for lunch this week, I'll definitely be sure to keep it all to myself."

My uncle smiles before pointing a finger at me. "You better not be telling anyone that I'm making you lunch. It's my private chef." He says, lying through his teeth.

"Alright," I say in a sing-song voice. "Whatever you say. Thank you, though. I really, really appreciate it. I love you so much."

His smile widens. "I love you, too, honey bee." He closes the car door after I get in and walks back towards the house, stopping in front of the garage. He always waits for me to pull out of the driveway before going back inside.

The next morning, I'm running late for work. Turns out, I will definitely take up more time attempting to braid my hair into a braided bun. And turns out, I will absolutely hate the way it turns out and decide to tie my hair back into a low ponytail. I'm trying not to speed as I will most definitely be late to work if I hit another Goddamn red light.

I'm three minutes late when I get into the parking lot, and I'm four minutes late when I'm trying desperately hard to gather my belongings and rush out of my car. I'm six minutes late when I'm bordering on sprinting into the building. And I'm six minutes and thirty-nine seconds late when I nearly run straight into Dr. Spencer Reid. He looks like he's in a rush too, so we merely nod a greeting to one another before going our separate ways.

The next day, I'm twelve minutes late due to Socks vomiting her breakfast all over the kitchen counter right as I'm walking out the door. Again, I run into the tall and absolutely dreamy Dr. Spencer Reid. And it's the same the following day. We just keep running into each other as we're late to work.

On the third day, it appears that both of us aren't rushed on time. So I feel like it's a sign of fate. I'm not the most religious woman, but I do have my beliefs and if God keeps putting this man in my path, that must be a sign. And I should never ignore a sign from God is what my parents and my uncle say.

"Spencer?" I say. "This is the third time this week I've run into you at this spot." I state.

One corner of his mouth twitches up in a smile. "It is."

"Would you be interested in continuing our conversation from Monday? This time with caffeine? Coffee or tea?" I ask, incredibly nervous.

His mouth widens into a full grin. "I would like that a lot, Juniper."