candle-burner

Soul Possesing A Body

☆彡 | 21

241 posts

My Best Colors For Your Portrait

my best colors for your portrait

Warnings: none, jeid storyline in s14-15, just ANGST, no happy ending, based on tolerate it by taylor swift

Pairing: spencer reid x artist!reader no use of Y/N or gendered pronouns, but reader wears a dress. a/n I'm working on my existing wips but I need to get this out of my head first I'm so sorry!!

main masterlist

summary: second chances don't really matter, people never change. who were you kidding?

You don't know when this started. This, is the increasingly empty apartment. This, is silence and polite greetings. This, is walking on eggshells.

You knew what you were getting into. At least, you thought you did.

You first met Spencer–or the BAU, more like–when they investigated a case in your apartment building. The case didn't matter–what mattered was that Dr. Spencer Reid talked to you about your art and agreed to a coffee date. You convinced him that the age gap didn't matter, you both were only six years apart.

“I'm pretty sure my prefrontal cortex has fully developed,” you said. “What are you so scared of?”

“Aging is the primary risk factor for neurological degenerative diseases!”

“Spencer, you are thirty-six, not seventy.”

“The risk of those neurological degenerative diseases like dementia and Parkinson's increase significantly by the time you are–”

You had cut him off with a kiss.

Then a museum date, then a movie date. Then he kissed you and called you his girlfriend for five months before disappearing from the face of the earth. His team had iced you out, citing some bull about confidential FBI business.

Fine, you thought. You would heal and move on and–he showed up at an auction you participated in, all dressed up in a formal tuxedo with a bouquet of your favorite flowers.

“I'm sorry,” Spencer told you. “You deserve an explanation and a better apology.”

“You look like hell,” was all that you said.

And it took him two weeks to wear you down because who were you kidding? He is Spencer Reid and he owns all your heart.

He'd come to all your showings, he'd sit for hours to let you paint him, he'd feed you when you've been painting for hours, he'd take care of you when you were too ill to get out of bed—you’d sit in a lot of his seminars, you'd hang out with all his friends and host dinner parties, you'd been with him every step of the way to let him heal from his prison trauma, you'd buy second copies of his favorite books so you could paint the edges.

But not today, not for the past month.

You think it's after he'd been kidnapped by the Believers cult, but he had held you close for the entire night when he got back. You think it's after his team faced Everett Lynch for the first time.

Ah, who are you kidding? You are not the profiler, you are just a woman.

I sit and watch you reading with your

Head low

I wake and watch you breathing with your

Eyes closed

It starts with later-than-usual nights and the files stamped CONFIDENTIAL in the living room. A fresh pot of coffee is steaming from the machine, and you arrange the almond chocolate bark you made that morning in a bowl.

“Hey,” you greet because you didn't see him leave this morning. “How are you doing?”

Spencer doesn't look up, eyes focused, trained on the files. “Aside from three murder victims, I'm fine.”

“Is it local?” You ask, curiously.

“I'm here, aren't I?”

You don't point out that he used to consult cases from home during some of the 30-day mandated breaks he was forced to take for every 100 days he spent at the BAU.

“Maybe you can take a break? Have you had dinner? I'll warm up some mac and cheese–”

“I'm good.”

“Are you sure? Maybe you should switch the coffee to green tea, you came in after I fell asleep last night and left before I woke up. You should get some rest—”

You try to take the half-empty coffee mug away from the table, but he snaps into attention, arms automatically grabbing the handle of the mug, and tugging it towards him.

You jump, startled by the force, causing the liquid inside the cup to spill, drops of coffee and cream splattered on the pages from open folders.

“Fuck,” he swears, placing the mug back on the table. “Oh, no, no!”

“I am so sorry!” You exclaim, trying to dry off the spillage with your long sleeves. “Spencer, I didn't mean–”

“Stop, stop,” Spencer moves the papers away, to the side of the table that doesn’t have coffee on it.

“I'll go get kitchen towels–”

“No,” he says, tone firm. You freeze for a second. “No, just–just let me do it and let me do my job.”

I sit and watch you

And notice everything you do or don't do

You're so much older and wiser and I

Then, the distance. He never asks you to come to his team hangouts anymore, and you never keep the door to your studio open. He still texts you when he'd be home, if he'd be late, but he doesn't kiss your lips when he leaves.

You almost call him out. You want to shake him and ask what you did wrong, but you don't because in your head, you are already making excuses.

His job is stressful, his mom is getting worse, his job is important, his mom is important—he’s just tired and exhausted and you really don't want to add to that burden.

(Because that's what you are, isn't it? A burden to be taken care of, a checklist off of a long list of things to deal with, you take too much space, you demand too much time, you're too loud, you're too annoying, art school is a waste of money–shut up, mom!)

Besides, it’s Spencer. He never lied and he knows so much more than you, he’s been through a lot more than you, so what can you do?

I greet you with a battle hero's welcome

I take your indiscretions all in good fun

I sit and listen

You hear about the incident at the pawn shop from Penelope.

“Spencer and JJ were held hostage,” she explains. “They managed to get out safely, but he cut his hand trying to escape.”

You sit by the door after she hangs up, watching, dreading. When he walks in the door, the relief you feel is unimaginable. For a moment, you forget about the chasm between you, forget about the eggshells, and you cling to him and he lets you.

The dress you wear to David Rossi's wedding is purple–his favorite.

“You look beautiful,” he says, like he always does, smiling the smile that made you fell in love with him.

“You look handsome,” you say, planting a kiss on his lips.

It takes one look. One look from JJ when Spencer isn't looking, and one look from Spencer to JJ when she isn't looking when Emily talks about twin flames.

You want to die.

You want to scream and curse and above all, you want to die.

But you don't. You plaster a smile and dance with Luke and Emily. You let Kristy twirl you around as you watch Spencer and JJ talk at the bar. You let yourself down glasses and glasses of Penelope's the Rossi cocktail and champagne.

You sit and listen to his and Penelope’s stories, smiling, nodding, a little tipsy.

I wait by the door like I'm just a kid

Use my best colors for your portrait

Lay the table with the fancy shit

And watch you tolerate it

The final straw is your first solo exhibition.

You want to tell him, this secret that you've been keeping for so long, the one thing that the closed door to your studio has been safeguarding.

The final version of the invitations came that morning, and you know Spencer has a paperwork day so you prepare the dining table. You take out your favorite plates and crystal glasses, a non-alcoholic champagne on the side, similar set up that he put up during your anniversary. You buy flowers and light a candle.

“Hey,” Spencer greets as he walks through the front door. You jump from your seat, holding the embossed invitation behind you. “Do I smell lasagna?”

You nod, biting your lip to contain your excitement.

His eyes move towards the dining table, then frowns. “The candle is a fire hazard, especially with the ribbon, darling.”

Your smile flatters for a fraction, but he's right, as always. You walk over to the table and blow it out, “You're right, sorry, I didn't think about it like that.”

“That's okay,” he says, smiling. “What's the occasion? I know there's nothing significant today, so why are all the fancy stuff out?”

The excitement is back in your chest. You show him the invitation, “Well, I think this is pretty significant.”

His eyes scan the words written in shiny ink, and in two seconds, he grins. “Your first solo exhibition? Next month?”

You nod, smile mirroring his, big and free.

Spencer pulls you into his arms. “I'm so proud of you. I will be there, I promise!”

For a moment, you think that you have him back. For a moment, you think that everything is going to be okay.

If it's all in my head tell me now

Tell me I've got it wrong somehow

I know my love should be celebrated

But you tolerate it

He isn't here.

You wait by the front of the gallery in downtown DC, dressed in a beautiful red dress you had specifically picked for this. You glance at your watch, it has been an hour since the event started and Spencer is nowhere to be seen.

During your speech, your eyes scanned for him, but only found Penelope, Luke, and Lisa instead. You thank them for coming, and you leave them before they can make excuses for Spencer. For the whole event, you stick to your sister, who has been helping you to draw your focus back to the visitors and buyers instead of the front door.

By the time Spencer arrives, out of breath, everyone is already gone.

You sit in front of the centerpiece, one that takes you a month to make and perfect, and you hate that it's of him. The buckets of yellow and green and blue and purple and white, the copious amount of modeling paste to create the texture of his hair and his lips and the flowers that surround him.

A woman offered twenty thousand dollars for the piece but you tell her it's not for sale.

“I'm so, so, sorry,” you hear him say from behind you. “I was with–I lost track of time, we just wrapped up a case and I–”

“Stop,” you tell him. “Just stop.”

You hear his footsteps coming closer. “Darling, please, I’m–look at me, darling, look at me, please.”

You let him put his hand on your shoulder, turning you to face him instead of his portrait. You lift your head to look up at him. He, Spencer Reid, is illuminated by the gallery lights that make it look like he has a halo. His curls, ones that you love so much, are unkempt and frayed. His jacket and the first two buttons of his shirt are unbuttoned.

“I'm sorry I'm late, but there was a missing kid–”

“Luke was here.”

“Luke is still recovering from an injury–”

“But he was here,” you say, finally standing up. You notice the way one of your heels makes a sound when you stomp it, like a child. “This is the most important night of my life, and Luke was here, Lisa was here, and Penelope was here, but you weren't.”

“There was a missing kid!” He insists. “The unsub was a family annihilator and if we hadn't made it in time, the boy would've–they needed me, you know that.”

“I know this whole damn city, this whole country thinks it needs you!” You throw your hand out in frustration. “Not as much as I do. This exhibition, my arts are important to me and apparently they’re not as important to you.”

Spencer huffs impatiently like he’s talking to a toddler throwing a tantrum. Maybe he is. “This exhibition runs for a whole month. It is unreasonable that you think it takes precedence over people’s lives.”

You take a step back as if he is fire trying to burn you.

“When you left me the first time,” you start, taking another step further. “I was a wreck. I didn't go out for weeks, I barely ate, and every bad thought in my head came crawling out. It took me months to open my windows. It took me months more to pick up a brush again. Look around, Spencer–what do you think this is?”

Dark Side of the Moon is what you call this exhibition. You use a lot of space and heavenly bodies imagery, combined with your signature flowers and experiment in texture. While Spencer's portrait was done in yellow and light purple, the rest of your paintings are hauntingly dark with grays and blacks and navies and purple. A lot of dark purple.

While you were out building other worlds, where was I?

Spencer's portrait is called Solar Eclipse. Your self portrait series is called the Lunar Eclipse with a lot of red and brown and purple. There are a lot of paintings of black holes and supernovas and seemingly black canvas with purple and red mixed in to create a subtle pattern.

His face crumples in realization and understanding.

Where's that man who'd throw blankets over my barbed wire?

“Where did you go, Spencer?” Your voice breaks, and you watch as tears start to stream down his face through your own blurred vision. “I’ve been waiting for you for months.”

“I'm right here,” he pleads, one hand reaching out to you before taking it back to his pocket. “I'm here, darling.”

I made you my temple, my mural, my sky

You shake your head, because he is not the same person you fell in love with–first time and then the second time. That man, that Spencer, is gone and replaced by the one standing in front of you.

Or maybe, he just doesn't love you–doesn't want you anymore.

Now I'm begging for footnotes in the story of your life

“I think it's time for you to go,” you say.

“No,” he says, allowing himself to touch you. You let him take a hold of your cheeks, both hands caressing your face. “I'm not going anywhere.”

His touch is burning amber on your skin, sharp and fire and painful.

Drawing hearts in the byline

Always taking up too much space or time

You assume I'm fine

Spencer swallows, fear and surprise and regret crowd his eyes. You are no profiler, but you can read him all the same.

“I promised myself that I won't let anyone make me feel like that again,” you whisper. “Including you, especially you."

You step out of his reach, pushing his hand away as he tries to hold you again. It feels like taking out a knife off of your chest–hot, burning, white pain as you bleed all over your dress.

"So tell me I'm wrong, tell me that nothing happened between you and JJ. Tell me that you still celebrate my love and not just tolerate it. Tell me that it's all in my head and have it be true–then maybe I'll forgive you.”

But what would you do if I,

You nod in resignation.

Break free and leave us in ruins?

“I’m staying at my sister’s,” you tell him. “And I’ll come by to pack up the next time you leave for a case. I’m not waiting for you anymore.”

Maybe you shouldn’t have stepped out. Maybe you should tell him to leave instead of leaving because as you walk towards your sister’s car, you see her, JJ, waiting in an FBI-assigned black SUV, blonde hair flying in the wind.

“Wait, wait!” She chases after you, making you stop in front of the passenger door of your sister’s sedan. Your hand stays on the handle, but you turn to face her anyway. “Wait, just, please, I’m sorry, I–it’s my fault, it’s not his fault. I–”

The doors of the gallery open and Spencer steps out, eyes searching around until they land on you. He opens his mouth, racing down the gallery steps to get to you.

Took this dagger in me and removed it

Gain the weight of you then lose it

Believe me, I could do it

Without letting him and JJ say another word, you open the car door and slide inside. Your sister doesn’t let another second pass before pressing her foot on the gas and speeding into the busy street.

“I’m so sorry,” she says.

“Me too,” you tell her.

If it's all in my head tell me now

Tell me I've got it wrong somehow

I know my love should be celebrated

But you tolerate it

I sit and watch you