astoria-pastry-shop

لم شمل

A/N: The title is Arabic for “Reunited”, mostly just because I think Arabic is really pretty. :)


I heard my phone begin to buzz, vibrating against the table, and glanced down at the screen. I couldn’t help but smile.

Spencer Reid

Almost a year ago, the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI had shown up to investigate a string of murders in downtown Detroit, where I live. I’d met the brilliant mind that is Spencer Reid right here, where I sit now. Astoria Pastry Shop is on Monroe in Greektown, and it’s one of my favorite places in the city. Now, as I pulled the top layer off of my triangle of baklava and laid it over my tongue, I slid the ‘answer’ icon and held the phone to my ear.

“Hey, Spence,” I greeted him with a smile.

“Hi,” he replied. I knew immediately that something was going on, just by his tone.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Yes, I’m fine,” he told me, but I knew he was hiding something.

“Spencer?” I asked. “What’s going on?” I heard him sigh.

“I just really miss you,” he admitted quietly.

“Oh,” I breathed. “I know how you feel.”

“I’m not sure I can keep this up,” he told me.

“What do you mean?” I asked, hoping that my assumptions about that statement were wrong.

“We barely see each other,” he said. “What kind of relationship is that? Over seventy-seven percent of long-distance relationships end within the first year or less.”

“Are you breaking up with me, Spencer?” I whispered.

“What?” he sounded shocked. “No!”

“Wait, no?” I asked. “You’re not?”

“No, of course not!” he said. “Why would you think that, (Y/N)?”

“Well, that’s where it sounded like you were going with that,” I explained.

“Did you…want me to?” he asked cautiously.

“No! God, no, I would be devastated,” I replied.

“Oh, good,” he said, sounding quite relieved.

“So where exactly were you going with that?” I asked, honestly having no clue what he could possibly have meant by it, if not that he didn’t want to be with me anymore.

“Well, I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and I know initially we both thought it would be fine long-distance, but I don’t know if we were thinking this far ahead when we said that,” he began, “and given the success rate, or lace thereof, of long-distance relationships, I was hoping that you would be willing to make it…not long distance.”

I had to think about that for a second, to work out what he was saying. Even when I reached a conclusion, I doubted myself, wondering if he could possibly have meant what I thought he meant by that.

“Spencer, if you’re asking me to move there, I don’t have a place to live,” I reminded him.

“Yes, you do, (Y/N),” he argued.

“How do you figure that?” I asked.

“Well, you have…my place. Our place, if you want it to be.”

My breath caught. I glanced around at the interior of Astoria, with its ornate ceiling and dusty chalkboard, the spools of red and white thread that hung from the ceiling for the purpose of binding the boxed shut; the big window, and the shiny, clean glass, the only thing between you and an abundance of delectable pastries. I glanced out the window, knowing that, just around the corner, the Greektown People Mover station connected me with all of downtown for just seventy-five cents a ride. I thought about the riverwalk with its bikes and fountains and sparkling blue waters; the RenCen stretching seventy floors into the sky. And I wondered, how can I leave all this?

But then I thought about Spencer.

Spencer, with his golden curls that are neither blonde nor brown, and which are always mess and his whiskey brown eyes. I thought about the way he bites his lip when he thinks, the way his gaze scans page after page at lightning speed, how he licks his lips every so often and the way he raises his eyebrows. I thought about his hugs, which had been awkward at first, but which are now the warmest and most reassuring thing in the world. I thought about his smile, and how he lights up the world with it, and never seems to realize.

And I knew that, no matter how much I love Detroit, I would give it up in a heartbeat if it meant being with Spencer Reid.

“(Y/N)? Are you still there?”

I smiled, even though I knew he couldn’t see me.

“I’m here,” I told him.

“So…?”

“So, it looks like I need to get going,” I said.

“Wh-why?” he asked.

“Well, if I’m going to be moving halfway across the country, I better start packing.”


A/N: Side note, I visited Detroit over the summer, fell in love with it, and then wrote a blog about it, which went viral. Which was really cool, and still hasn’t fully sunk in, even after five newspaper interviews and one radio session. But that explains the whole section about Detroit. I can’t help myself.