A is for Abstinence
Title: A is for Abstinence
Pairing: Reid/JJ
Rating: PG13
Summary: "Are we really having this conversation?"
Warnings: Tears. Ha. Schmoop-ish-ness? Abrupt mood changes? Shaving? Also, UST. I hope.
Notes: deathjunke prompted me Abstinence in the Alphabet Meme in the hopes of some UST. So. That's what I tried to do! Um. That is all.
Her mother says it's barbaric in this day and age, with all of the synthetic hormones and technological advancements, for any woman to have to menstruate. It's inconvenient, and it's messy, and it's expensive, and there is absolutely no reason for it. Menopause was the best thing that ever happened to her, and before that, it was The Pill. Back to back to back every month -- no fuss, no blood, no tampons if she wanted to swim. The Good Life.
But JJ misses it. Not having her period is supposed to be one of the (few) perks of pregnancy, but really, it just makes her uneasy. There is something calming about her body marking time as it passes; something reassuring. Every day, she stares at Death, at blood where it shouldn't be, and it helps her to remember that blood creates life, too; that she is still capable of it; that there is some order to things. Some balance. Some useful purpose for it.
And there's the ritual, too: the bath when it's over, the shaving and lotioning of her legs, the steam and the bubbles and the good pair of underwear. There is little that she ever claims solely for herself, and that hour is hers. She shuts off her phone for exactly sixty minutes every month, and for the past eight, she hasn't been able to come up with a good reason to.
That's why she's crying.
At least, it was the last thought she had before the tears started, and she can only assume it to be the reason. It's hard to tell lately. Some days she's as likely to burst into tears as she is to blink, and the frustration of that would be enough to make her cry even if she wasn't pregnant.
So maybe it isn't precisely why she's crying, but it's probably part of it, and in any case, it's what she blurts out from her spot in the passenger's seat when Spencer looks at her, a little alarmed, and asks her what's wrong.
"I miss my period," she sniffs, laughing somewhere in the middle of her tears at the absurdity of the situation.
His face gets even more confused at her answer, and he shifts the car back into park -- they haven't even pulled out of their spot yet -- and turns towards her. "You're pregnant," he tells her. "Your menstrual cycle... stops. You... you're supposed to miss your period."
It's clear he thinks she's lost her mind. Tears still streaming down her face, JJ lets her head thud against the seat as the sound she's making leans more towards a laugh. "No," she says, shaking her head and wiping at her eyes. "I miss my period. As in... think of it fondly in its absence."
The relief that washes over him is immediate and palpable. "Oh!" His eyebrows draw together again, though, and he looks at her with interest, his hands paused on the wheel. "Why?"
"Because..." She stops abruptly, sniffs hard, and presses the heels of her hands against her eyes. "Are we really having this conversation?"
"Yes."
He's so earnest that she can't help but reach over for him, cover his bony knee with her warm, wet palm, and squeeze. "I just... ugh. You want the truth? I haven't been able to touch my own calves for three weeks. And it's just this thing I always do. I take a bath, and I shave, and I do all that girly stuff you don't care about... and... ugh. Now I can't. I haven't shaved my fucking legs in almost a month."
"... Oh."
"I know! I'm sorry. But you asked!" She grins at him, defeated-looking and exasperated, and wipes at her eyes again. "See? That'll teach you to ask questions if you don't want the answers."
"I do," he says, tilting his head at her now and looking at her in that way he has. It always makes her feel like her skin's being stripped back, layer by layer.
JJ closes her eyes against the weight of his gaze and sighs. "Oh, Spence. Look at me."
"I am."
"I know. It's ridiculous, isn't it? I'm the size of fucking whale; I can't tie my own shoes; I can't shave my legs; I can't even fit behind the steering wheel anymore! I mean, come on! I can't drive myself to my own doctor's appointment? And this!" She holds up her hand, wet from her eyes, and flings it out in front of her. "This! I'm afraid to watch the goddamn TV, because Betty Fucking Crocker brings on the old weeping and gnashing of teeth. Do you have any idea how long it takes me to get off the couch now? Take a guess. I dare you."
"Forty-five seconds."
JJ slits her eyes open and sees the ghost of a smile across his lips. In spite of herself, her mouth starts to move of its own accord, and then she's smiling back. She squeezes his knee again and laughs wryly at herself. "Pretty close. I mean... I don't even know whose body this is! I just... I feel disgusting. I don't have any of this glowing garbage happening. I'm just miserable. And I shouldn't be! This is awesome! Right? I'm so excited! And so fucking moody I wonder some days whether I should be allowed to carry anymore."
She laughs again, and Spencer grins back. "I think you're fine," he says, his voice all seriousness but his eyes all mischief. "You haven't strangled Hotch with his own tie yet, so..." He stops for a moment, and then says quietly, "You look fine, though. I mean, you look better than fine. You look beautiful. And I don't mind taking you."
"Thank you." Her voice has gone soft, too, and she feels suddenly on the verge of another meltdown. "It's hard, you know, with Will where he is, and..."
"I know."
"I really appreciate it. Honestly. I hated to have to ask, and... I totally owe you."
"No, you don't." He looks away abruptly and shifts the car back into drive, making a show of checking the mirrors. "You don't owe me anything."
JJ closes her eyes again and lets him take her home.
_______________
She invites him in for a drink, and he accepts it a little too readily. She might not be a profiler, but she's spent enough time around him, paid close enough attention, to know when something's a little off. Normally, he'd refuse at least once, probably twice. This time, he just nods and says, "All right. Yeah. Thanks," and clicks her safety belt off before taking care of his own.
"I can still manage that part, you know," she says with raised eyebrows, but he just shrugs and follows her inside.
JJ goes to the kitchen to take care of things, and he asks to use the bathroom. She nods him in the right direction even though he knows it, and pours them both lemonade with entirely too much sugar. She's given up practically every other vice she can imagine; she figures she's allowed this one.
She's just setting their glasses down on the coffee table when she hears water running. It's not the sink.
"Spence? What are you doing? Are you okay?" She heads towards the hallway and makes it just to the bathroom door before it swings open and he sticks his head out.
"Hey," he says, like it's the first time he's seen her today, and his grip on the doorframe is so tight that his knuckles are white. He coughs.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"I'm... just come in."
"What?" JJ's face screws up, but she steps into the doorway anyway. The faucet's on in the bathtub. "Why...?"
"Just.. here. Go change into something you can roll up," he says, his voice a little low, like he's trying to keep it from cracking in half. "You know, like... to your knees."
JJ's eyes dart back and forth between the filling tub and his face, and when the realization hits her, it causes a tidal wave of affection that nearly steals her breath. "Oh, God. Spence, you don't..."
"I know," he says, his feet shifting and shuffling against the tile. "Go change, before it gets cold."
_______________
The temperature is perfect. She has no idea how he got it that way; the tap is finicky, she told him, a millimeter separating lukewarm from scalding, but he's somehow balanced it right in between, drawing her the most beautiful bath she'll never take.
JJ is sorely tempted, though. She can't remember the last time her ankles were normal-sized or her back didn't ache like she'd been raking for five hours straight. Soaking one foot in the steamy-warm water is like pouring an O'Douls for a fucking alcoholic. She's grateful, though, anyway. Ridiculously so. Grateful and embarrassed and humbled beyond comprehension, really, propped up against the cool tile with her ugly, stretched-out maternity sweatpants hiked to her knees, one swollen leg balanced along the edge of the tub.
"You really don't have to do this," she says, for what is probably the fifth time since she sat down.
"I know," Spencer says -- the same answer he's given each time, leaving unspoken the second clause, the but, the I want to. He's perched on the edge by her bare foot, shaking the can of shaving lotion. It's vanilla-scented and thick and almost full. She'd bought it when she could still reach her own legs, but it hasn't been used in nearly a month. It sputters a little into his palm from disuse when he squeezes it, and then the cream foams up, white and silky.
JJ closes her eyes, suddenly and strangely demure. She feels his hand hovering, feels the touch of the lotion on her skin, but he's hesitant now, too. It takes a second for him to gather himself enough to glide his hand along her leg, spread the lotion in a thick layer over her. "Did you know that a rudimentary form of shaving cream was documented in Sumer as early as 3000 BC?" he asks, coughing a little, distracting himself from the intimacy of the task. "It was made by combining animal fat and wood alkali."
"Oh yeah? I didn't know that. Well. Thank God for technological advancement." She smiles a little, relieved by the conversation, as his hand dips behind her knee and bends it up. His touch is light, but he's thorough. He gets all the spots she always misses and coats everything overly well, but he doesn't linger.
The razor is resting on the edge of the sink, pink and frou-frou looking, and JJ grins a little, wry, when he picks it up. "Little different from what you're used to, yeah?" she quips, trying to lighten up the humid air.
"Not really," he jokes back, but then bites his lip when he brings it near her skin. He's afraid to nick her. He's good, though. Careful and efficient, drawing it against the direction of growth in short, clean strokes. He rinses in between each one, dipping the razor into the bathwater and shaking off the excess. Textbook technique.
"Where'd you learn how to do that?" she asks.
He shrugs, pulling the razor away before he moves. "Just logic. You want to have a clean blade each time so that you only have to go over each area once. It avoids irritation." He doesn't look her in the eye, just goes back to what he's doing, meticulous and focused.
JJ lets him finish, breathing the steam deep down into her lungs and curling her bare toes through the water, trying to organize the sensations into the ones that she is allowed to enjoy -- the heat, the buoyancy, whatever bubbly thing he's put into the water -- and the ones that she oughtn't. It takes all of her energy to ignore his hands.
When he's finished, he squeezes a washcloth out and runs it down her leg, rinsing her off as gently as he shaved her. He asks for her other leg like he's asking for a favor and helps her shift her position and haul it up onto the edge. There's a towel on the floor for her right foot so that she doesn't drip all over.
The room is all silence now, just the gentle lapping of the water as he smooths the lotion along the length of her calf, his touch even lighter now, even more careful. JJ has her eyes closed again, but she can practically hear the funny little hitch in his chest as his fingers trace the bone behind her knee, the dip of her Achilles.
By the time he touches the razor to her skin, she's holding her breath, and she's sure he can feel it. They're too close, too synced up for him not to. Inside of her chest, she can feel the tide rising and rising and rising, and she is dangerously close to crying when he follows the shape of her knee in tiny, precise, butterfly strokes.
"Okay," he says, his voice almost a whisper now. "All done. Just let me..." He gives up on the sentence and squeezes out the washcloth again, slow. He cleans her up, and then sets it into her open palm. His hands are shaking just the tiniest bit; just enough for her to notice.
JJ swallows hard. "Thank you."
Spencer nods from his spot at her feet and starts to get up. Halfway there, he stops, and asks, "Do you... do you need lotion, or...?"
The seconds between the question and the answer are long. They're heavy. They tip back and forth like a scale balancing itself. Finally, JJ takes a deep breath. "No. No, you know, I... I think I'm good. You did... more than enough."
"Okay," he says, and for the first time in a long, long time, she can't discern exactly what he means.
He holds out a hand to help her stand, and then he drains the tub and wipes it clean. She watches, one hand on her belly, the other against the wall to hold herself up.
When he turns around, he looks confused and a little helpless. "JJ? Why are you crying?"
"What? Am I? Jesus Christ, I'm sorry, I don't know."
Pairing: Reid/JJ
Rating: PG13
Summary: "Are we really having this conversation?"
Warnings: Tears. Ha. Schmoop-ish-ness? Abrupt mood changes? Shaving? Also, UST. I hope.
Notes: deathjunke prompted me Abstinence in the Alphabet Meme in the hopes of some UST. So. That's what I tried to do! Um. That is all.
Her mother says it's barbaric in this day and age, with all of the synthetic hormones and technological advancements, for any woman to have to menstruate. It's inconvenient, and it's messy, and it's expensive, and there is absolutely no reason for it. Menopause was the best thing that ever happened to her, and before that, it was The Pill. Back to back to back every month -- no fuss, no blood, no tampons if she wanted to swim. The Good Life.
But JJ misses it. Not having her period is supposed to be one of the (few) perks of pregnancy, but really, it just makes her uneasy. There is something calming about her body marking time as it passes; something reassuring. Every day, she stares at Death, at blood where it shouldn't be, and it helps her to remember that blood creates life, too; that she is still capable of it; that there is some order to things. Some balance. Some useful purpose for it.
And there's the ritual, too: the bath when it's over, the shaving and lotioning of her legs, the steam and the bubbles and the good pair of underwear. There is little that she ever claims solely for herself, and that hour is hers. She shuts off her phone for exactly sixty minutes every month, and for the past eight, she hasn't been able to come up with a good reason to.
That's why she's crying.
At least, it was the last thought she had before the tears started, and she can only assume it to be the reason. It's hard to tell lately. Some days she's as likely to burst into tears as she is to blink, and the frustration of that would be enough to make her cry even if she wasn't pregnant.
So maybe it isn't precisely why she's crying, but it's probably part of it, and in any case, it's what she blurts out from her spot in the passenger's seat when Spencer looks at her, a little alarmed, and asks her what's wrong.
"I miss my period," she sniffs, laughing somewhere in the middle of her tears at the absurdity of the situation.
His face gets even more confused at her answer, and he shifts the car back into park -- they haven't even pulled out of their spot yet -- and turns towards her. "You're pregnant," he tells her. "Your menstrual cycle... stops. You... you're supposed to miss your period."
It's clear he thinks she's lost her mind. Tears still streaming down her face, JJ lets her head thud against the seat as the sound she's making leans more towards a laugh. "No," she says, shaking her head and wiping at her eyes. "I miss my period. As in... think of it fondly in its absence."
The relief that washes over him is immediate and palpable. "Oh!" His eyebrows draw together again, though, and he looks at her with interest, his hands paused on the wheel. "Why?"
"Because..." She stops abruptly, sniffs hard, and presses the heels of her hands against her eyes. "Are we really having this conversation?"
"Yes."
He's so earnest that she can't help but reach over for him, cover his bony knee with her warm, wet palm, and squeeze. "I just... ugh. You want the truth? I haven't been able to touch my own calves for three weeks. And it's just this thing I always do. I take a bath, and I shave, and I do all that girly stuff you don't care about... and... ugh. Now I can't. I haven't shaved my fucking legs in almost a month."
"... Oh."
"I know! I'm sorry. But you asked!" She grins at him, defeated-looking and exasperated, and wipes at her eyes again. "See? That'll teach you to ask questions if you don't want the answers."
"I do," he says, tilting his head at her now and looking at her in that way he has. It always makes her feel like her skin's being stripped back, layer by layer.
JJ closes her eyes against the weight of his gaze and sighs. "Oh, Spence. Look at me."
"I am."
"I know. It's ridiculous, isn't it? I'm the size of fucking whale; I can't tie my own shoes; I can't shave my legs; I can't even fit behind the steering wheel anymore! I mean, come on! I can't drive myself to my own doctor's appointment? And this!" She holds up her hand, wet from her eyes, and flings it out in front of her. "This! I'm afraid to watch the goddamn TV, because Betty Fucking Crocker brings on the old weeping and gnashing of teeth. Do you have any idea how long it takes me to get off the couch now? Take a guess. I dare you."
"Forty-five seconds."
JJ slits her eyes open and sees the ghost of a smile across his lips. In spite of herself, her mouth starts to move of its own accord, and then she's smiling back. She squeezes his knee again and laughs wryly at herself. "Pretty close. I mean... I don't even know whose body this is! I just... I feel disgusting. I don't have any of this glowing garbage happening. I'm just miserable. And I shouldn't be! This is awesome! Right? I'm so excited! And so fucking moody I wonder some days whether I should be allowed to carry anymore."
She laughs again, and Spencer grins back. "I think you're fine," he says, his voice all seriousness but his eyes all mischief. "You haven't strangled Hotch with his own tie yet, so..." He stops for a moment, and then says quietly, "You look fine, though. I mean, you look better than fine. You look beautiful. And I don't mind taking you."
"Thank you." Her voice has gone soft, too, and she feels suddenly on the verge of another meltdown. "It's hard, you know, with Will where he is, and..."
"I know."
"I really appreciate it. Honestly. I hated to have to ask, and... I totally owe you."
"No, you don't." He looks away abruptly and shifts the car back into drive, making a show of checking the mirrors. "You don't owe me anything."
JJ closes her eyes again and lets him take her home.
_______________
She invites him in for a drink, and he accepts it a little too readily. She might not be a profiler, but she's spent enough time around him, paid close enough attention, to know when something's a little off. Normally, he'd refuse at least once, probably twice. This time, he just nods and says, "All right. Yeah. Thanks," and clicks her safety belt off before taking care of his own.
"I can still manage that part, you know," she says with raised eyebrows, but he just shrugs and follows her inside.
JJ goes to the kitchen to take care of things, and he asks to use the bathroom. She nods him in the right direction even though he knows it, and pours them both lemonade with entirely too much sugar. She's given up practically every other vice she can imagine; she figures she's allowed this one.
She's just setting their glasses down on the coffee table when she hears water running. It's not the sink.
"Spence? What are you doing? Are you okay?" She heads towards the hallway and makes it just to the bathroom door before it swings open and he sticks his head out.
"Hey," he says, like it's the first time he's seen her today, and his grip on the doorframe is so tight that his knuckles are white. He coughs.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"I'm... just come in."
"What?" JJ's face screws up, but she steps into the doorway anyway. The faucet's on in the bathtub. "Why...?"
"Just.. here. Go change into something you can roll up," he says, his voice a little low, like he's trying to keep it from cracking in half. "You know, like... to your knees."
JJ's eyes dart back and forth between the filling tub and his face, and when the realization hits her, it causes a tidal wave of affection that nearly steals her breath. "Oh, God. Spence, you don't..."
"I know," he says, his feet shifting and shuffling against the tile. "Go change, before it gets cold."
_______________
The temperature is perfect. She has no idea how he got it that way; the tap is finicky, she told him, a millimeter separating lukewarm from scalding, but he's somehow balanced it right in between, drawing her the most beautiful bath she'll never take.
JJ is sorely tempted, though. She can't remember the last time her ankles were normal-sized or her back didn't ache like she'd been raking for five hours straight. Soaking one foot in the steamy-warm water is like pouring an O'Douls for a fucking alcoholic. She's grateful, though, anyway. Ridiculously so. Grateful and embarrassed and humbled beyond comprehension, really, propped up against the cool tile with her ugly, stretched-out maternity sweatpants hiked to her knees, one swollen leg balanced along the edge of the tub.
"You really don't have to do this," she says, for what is probably the fifth time since she sat down.
"I know," Spencer says -- the same answer he's given each time, leaving unspoken the second clause, the but, the I want to. He's perched on the edge by her bare foot, shaking the can of shaving lotion. It's vanilla-scented and thick and almost full. She'd bought it when she could still reach her own legs, but it hasn't been used in nearly a month. It sputters a little into his palm from disuse when he squeezes it, and then the cream foams up, white and silky.
JJ closes her eyes, suddenly and strangely demure. She feels his hand hovering, feels the touch of the lotion on her skin, but he's hesitant now, too. It takes a second for him to gather himself enough to glide his hand along her leg, spread the lotion in a thick layer over her. "Did you know that a rudimentary form of shaving cream was documented in Sumer as early as 3000 BC?" he asks, coughing a little, distracting himself from the intimacy of the task. "It was made by combining animal fat and wood alkali."
"Oh yeah? I didn't know that. Well. Thank God for technological advancement." She smiles a little, relieved by the conversation, as his hand dips behind her knee and bends it up. His touch is light, but he's thorough. He gets all the spots she always misses and coats everything overly well, but he doesn't linger.
The razor is resting on the edge of the sink, pink and frou-frou looking, and JJ grins a little, wry, when he picks it up. "Little different from what you're used to, yeah?" she quips, trying to lighten up the humid air.
"Not really," he jokes back, but then bites his lip when he brings it near her skin. He's afraid to nick her. He's good, though. Careful and efficient, drawing it against the direction of growth in short, clean strokes. He rinses in between each one, dipping the razor into the bathwater and shaking off the excess. Textbook technique.
"Where'd you learn how to do that?" she asks.
He shrugs, pulling the razor away before he moves. "Just logic. You want to have a clean blade each time so that you only have to go over each area once. It avoids irritation." He doesn't look her in the eye, just goes back to what he's doing, meticulous and focused.
JJ lets him finish, breathing the steam deep down into her lungs and curling her bare toes through the water, trying to organize the sensations into the ones that she is allowed to enjoy -- the heat, the buoyancy, whatever bubbly thing he's put into the water -- and the ones that she oughtn't. It takes all of her energy to ignore his hands.
When he's finished, he squeezes a washcloth out and runs it down her leg, rinsing her off as gently as he shaved her. He asks for her other leg like he's asking for a favor and helps her shift her position and haul it up onto the edge. There's a towel on the floor for her right foot so that she doesn't drip all over.
The room is all silence now, just the gentle lapping of the water as he smooths the lotion along the length of her calf, his touch even lighter now, even more careful. JJ has her eyes closed again, but she can practically hear the funny little hitch in his chest as his fingers trace the bone behind her knee, the dip of her Achilles.
By the time he touches the razor to her skin, she's holding her breath, and she's sure he can feel it. They're too close, too synced up for him not to. Inside of her chest, she can feel the tide rising and rising and rising, and she is dangerously close to crying when he follows the shape of her knee in tiny, precise, butterfly strokes.
"Okay," he says, his voice almost a whisper now. "All done. Just let me..." He gives up on the sentence and squeezes out the washcloth again, slow. He cleans her up, and then sets it into her open palm. His hands are shaking just the tiniest bit; just enough for her to notice.
JJ swallows hard. "Thank you."
Spencer nods from his spot at her feet and starts to get up. Halfway there, he stops, and asks, "Do you... do you need lotion, or...?"
The seconds between the question and the answer are long. They're heavy. They tip back and forth like a scale balancing itself. Finally, JJ takes a deep breath. "No. No, you know, I... I think I'm good. You did... more than enough."
"Okay," he says, and for the first time in a long, long time, she can't discern exactly what he means.
He holds out a hand to help her stand, and then he drains the tub and wipes it clean. She watches, one hand on her belly, the other against the wall to hold herself up.
When he turns around, he looks confused and a little helpless. "JJ? Why are you crying?"
"What? Am I? Jesus Christ, I'm sorry, I don't know."