Easing

Easing

a/n just a little logan idea i had while thinking of ways to work on my characterization of him :)

Summary: A contemplation of mortality. Or, alternatively, reader sustains a minor injury while on a mission and Logan sees the end of the world.

Warnings: age gap (where everyone is of legal, consenting age), slight descriptions of injury, unnoticed pining

----

The dimness of the room adds an edge to your haziness, blurring the furniture in a way that dampens your mood.

You've been curious about Logan's room longer than you'd ever admit, and now that he's pulled you into it to not-so-discreetly scold you when all you want to do is go to bed, you can't even enjoy the benefit of taking in your surroundings.

You take advantage of the fact that your back is to him, eyes falling shut as you focus on ignoring the buzz of the electricity powering his bedside lamp. The plights of being an exhausted technopath.

There's a severity to his presence, a sharpness in the way he lingers behind you. It'd be all too easy to leave him to his brooding, to halfheartedly accept any verbal lashings he feels like giving you and be done with it. But Logan knows you, knows how you work well enough to find a way to interpret your lack of commentary into something it's not, a sign that something is wrong with you beyond a scrape against your temple and a drowsiness you're not used to.

"So," the word feels flat, almost distorted, "This is your room."

He exhales, a puff of air that tells you he's in no mood for anything lighthearted. "What were you thinking?"

Logan had asked the same question of everyone else involved. "That I was helping people."

There was nothing dramatic or life threatening about the scratches against the side of your face. You were thrown to the ground and the gravel cut against your cheek and the side of your forehead. You were quick to get up and put the person that attacked you in their place.

He walks forward, turning to face you. His attention remains fixed on some point that seems to exist right past your shoulder. "If it helps, I broke the other guy's nose right after."

Logan doesn't exactly ease, but you don't miss the way the corner of his mouth attempts to tug itself upwards. "Yeah?" The word's more amused than he wants it to be.

"Mhm," you hum cheerily, recalling the sting of your knuckles and the sound of bone cracking. That had been the part of the mission you wanted to tell him about. "Punched him just like you showed me."

His eyes briefly meet yours before falling towards the floor. "Deserved more than a punch."

You sigh. "Come on." When he doesn't react, you take a cautious step forward. Logan still doesn't look at you. "It's not that bad."

"You're bleeding."

Any blood staining your skin is old and dry. If Logan hadn't found you so quickly you would have cleaned it yourself in the bathroom. You barely had time to finish changing into your pajamas before Logan knocked on your door. "It's old." Your assurance doesn't ease him. You take another step in his direction. "Logan."

He lets out a breath, the sound pointed. "You didn't let anyone clean it?"

The question is the closest he's come to your usual dynamic. There's nothing passive aggressive about it, and yet it manages to dig at you a little more than anything else that's been said.

Logan's older than you. It's no secret and rarely a source of concern, the two of you comfortable enough with the age gap in your sort-of-friendship for you to occasionally joke about him being an old man. But when things like this come up, and he worries a little too much, a part of you starts to wonder if he only tolerates you because he sees you like a little kid.

You lift your chin slightly, doing your best to seem a little more stable. "I'm not one of the kids, I can clean my own cuts."

His eyes meet yours, the look warning you against leaning into anything overly confident. You resist the urge to smile. "Aren't you all grown up, bub?"

Your lips part, but you're too distracted by the uneasy warmth settling in your chest to think of a response. The corner of his mouth bends into what feels like a partial smile. The look vanishes before you can be sure.

He turns with no warning, walking towards an unfamiliar door. You watch him for a long moment before following.

Logan opens the door, turning his head slightly to make sure you're behind him. He turns on the light before fully stepping into the room. You inhale sharply in an attempt to dismiss the burning pressure of the influx of electricity.

His bathroom is tidy, with only a toothbrush and a soap dispenser taking up the counter space next to his sink; a navy blue bath mat in front of the shower; and neatly hung towels. Something about seeing this feels oddly personal, and you're not sure why. It's only a bathroom, and it's only Logan.

He halfheartedly taps his fingers against the counter once. "Sit," said in a tone that is only ever used when he's not in the mood to be contradicted, even if you only mean to do so adorably.

The warmth returns with a vengeance, but you obey anyway. As long as he's preoccupied with you, he's not lashing out at anyone that might have seen what happened to you and not attempting to kill Scott for thinking to ask you to go on the mission.

You pull yourself onto the counter, placing your hands on your lap to limit the space you're taking up. Logan twists the faucet before reaching for a wash cloth. He dampens the cloth before bringing it to your cheek. He dabs at the scraped skin with a carefulness that twists your stomach.

"You need to take better care of that face." It's meant to be another way of scolding you, but the words lack any bite.

If you were less aware of your breathing, you'd roll your eyes. "It'll heal."

Logan sighs, moving the cloth up your temple. He finds a particularly ginger spot beneath your eyebrow, you press your lips together to keep from reacting. He pulls the wash cloth away, giving you a look that makes you feel terribly transparent. "You're hurt."

"I--" You cut yourself off. There's little point in attempting to lie to him, especially when he's looking at you like that. "I'm a little sensitive, but that's normal. You're just not used to it because you heal too fast."

"Too fast?"

You nod, glad for the excuse to turn this onto him. "If you healed at the same rate as most of the population, you'd look at it like a paper cut."

He throws you a look that's entirely unconvinced as he sets down the wash cloth. "I'm sure."

Logan picks up the Neosporin he set aside earlier, applying some of the ointment to his fingers. He hesitates before dabbing the product against your skin. His other hand finds the other side of your face, thumb pressing into your chin to turn your head to better assess his work.

His eyebrows pull together as he searches your features for something you don't understand. You're not convinced he's found it, but he does eventually let you go.

Instead of moving away from the counter, Logan holds his hands out in front of you. It takes you a moment to understand what he's asking, but once you catch on you offer him your own hands, letting him study your knuckles.

The skin is a little irritated, but far from as agitated as the scrapes against the side of your face. "At least you got some good hits in."

The validation comforts you more than it should. You're glad he's too focused on your hands to see your smile. "I'm tougher than I look."

He lifts his head slightly, eyes finding yours in a way that feels a little softer than before. "I don't doubt that, kid."

Logan releases you carefully, setting your hands back onto your lap. He keeps himself there for a moment, fingers resting against the back of your palm. When he does move away, he does so to reach for the Neosporin.

You roll your eyes as he applies the product to your knuckles. "You're very dramatic tonight."

He glares in a way that tells you you're in no position to comment on his level of concern. Usually, you'd push, but he's probably been through enough tonight. And maybe--only maybe--a part of you is enjoying his version of coddling.

Logan picks up the wash cloth again, wiping the excess product onto the fabric before taking a partial step back. "You're clean."

He's still in front of you, too close to let you push yourself off of the counter. "Thanks." Your fingers tap against your knee. "Anything you want to yell at me or was that a Scott only thing?"

He scoffs. "I told him if you came ba--"

"I'm fine." His irritation at the correction is enough to silence him. "And it wasn't his fault." A completely true statement, considering Scott was nowhere near you when it happened.

Logan places one hand on the counter, the side of his thumb nearly touching your thigh. "It was his idea for you to be there." Another fact, though one that's completely disregarding the complexities of the situation. A single touch from you completely fried the security system being used to hold other mutants hostage. "He was outside of your room while you were changing..."

What? You blink, so surprised in the change of topic you don't even know where to start. "Uh--" In all honesty, you had thought Scott was kidding about staying near you until the situation was diffused. You also thought it was ridiculous to assume Logan would see you before morning. "He said proximity to me would make it less likely for you to kill him."

His eyebrows draw together, his expression morphing into something you can't quite interpret. "Not his best theory."

Now it's your turn to glare. While you're not particularly fond or un-fond of Scott, he doesn't deserve the blame for this. "Not his fault, either."

He frowns in a way that's meant to let you know that you'll have to agree to disagree. Logan watches you for another moment before taking a step back. You use the space to push yourself off the counter. He--he's closer than you thought he'd be.

"I uh--" You let out a breath, focusing on the drowsiness that had been bothering you the entire way back from the mission. This isn't the longest you've ever gone without sleep, but the mission had drained you. There had been a lot of complicated technology in the facility that you had to concentrate on mentally hacking. "I think I'm gonna go to bed."

Logan presses his lips together before letting his gaze fall to the ground. "You can--" The words are mumbled, hesitant. "You can stay in here tonight, if you want."

You blink. He um--You guys have spent a fair amount of time together, more so than usual recently, but he's never implied anything like this. The only thing more startling than the offer is the fact that it isn't...unappealing.

You like being around Logan more than you'd ever admit. You're always looking for excuses to be around him more, and now he's giving you a reason to stay.

"Yeah," the response feels too uncertain, too surprised. "If it'll help your old man heart to see that I'm perfectly fine."

He angles his head to the side, the corner of his mouth pulling itself upwards. "As long as you're doing me a favor."

"I know," you say, glad for the excuse to return to a more familiar dynamic, "I'm so kind."

Logan turns around with a slight sigh, "Mhm."

It's easy to follow him out of the bathroom. "That felt sarcastic."

"No," he lies, pulling back his sheets before sitting on the left side of his bed, "You're a saint."

You hesitate, standing halfway between the bathroom door and the bed. It's just Logan--who sits with you to watch movies he couldn't care less about, who actually listens to you, who sits you down on his bathroom counter and applies antibiotics to split skin.

You walk towards the other side of his bed. Logan pulls back the sheets on the other side of the bed before you sit. Now that you're actually resting beneath comfortable bedding, the exhaustion that you've been ignoring all night spreads over your limbs.

He reaches for his bedside lamp but doesn't turn off the light. "Comfortable?"

You mumble your confirmation before the room's soft light vanishes with a soft 'click'. It hits you, then, that you still haven't been able to take in his room the way you would've liked to. Maybe in the morning.

You lay down, pulling the comforter up to your neck. There's something distinctly relieving about the end of the day, when all forms of electricity are turned off and the buzzing beneath your skin is finally given a way out. You've gotten better at controlling it, at ignoring it until it's little more than background noise, but when you over use your abilities, the mental shield that divides you and the feeling begins to slip.

You're somewhere between asleep and awake when some instinct convinces you to squint your eyes open. A final look at Logan, and that'll be enough. It's too dark for you to make out much more than a vague silhouette, but something about his rigidness tells you he's far from asleep.

"Logan?"

He's silent for so long you begin to wonder if he's going to pretend to be asleep. "You okay?"

"Yeah," you say, and for a moment you're almost taken back by how much you mean it. "I was just..." There's no real end to your sentence. You don't know why you couldn't let yourself fall asleep. Maybe it had been the way he looked at you, concern too genuine over something so small. "Are you okay?"

You hear him let out a breath. "Anything could have happened."

There's a heaviness to his voice that immediately presses itself against your chest. Did this--did it really scare him that bad? You know he's used to the rapid rate at which his body repairs itself, but that doesn't mean that anyone that recovers at a regular rate is on death's doorstep over something so small.

"But it didn't." He scoffs, the sound dismissive. You move onto your side. "It didn't." When he doesn't react, you reach for him. He doesn't move away when you bend your fingers around his forearm. "And what didn't happen doesn't matter, what matters is that I'm here."

You pause, dragging your thumb against his skin. Logan lets out another breath, the sound something that lacks acceptance. He moves his arm away, but before you can read too much into the movement, his fingers are bending around your own.

i need a hyper fixation strong enough to get me through being back at school

rewatching criminal minds. thinking about spencer reid.

Hello dear.. Please don't skip my message My name is Mohammed, from the afflicted and destroyed Gaza Strip, where life has become impossible and tragic, and where we see death and pain every moment and every day. Our children suffer from hunger, pain, deprivation and lack of medicine. The war deprived them of playing, school, and their most basic rights. They are now suffering from woes and tragedies. 😭😭 During the war, my wife gave birth to a child and I could not find any milk for him Our conditions are tragic, and we live in a shelter that lacks the minimum requirements for life and is plagued by diseases and epidemics Please help me save my children from the hell of the Gaza Strip and provide them with a decent life 😔 Your assistance, no matter how simple, is enough to ease the burden on us and help us overcome our crisis. Please sympathize with me and donate to me or contribute to sharing the campaign and spreading it widely

Vetted by 90-ghost

free palestine 🇵🇸

ik i’d feel sm better if i wrote something on here but i have the kind of writer’s block that makes me feel like im crashing out 😭

Without Faith

a/n giggling and kicking my feet rn btw, this is meant to be a set up for something longer! lmk if you're interested in part 2 :)

Summary: After a news story that was only meant to be an internship assignment spirals into a crime story that earns national attention, you feel conflicted enough about your involvement to join a criminal psychology class despite being a journalism major. Despite your good intentions, the universe seems to have it out for you considering your slightly older professor is extremely attractive and the only person that seems to understand what you're going through.

Warnings/info: age gap (reader is of consenting age tho!!), future student-professor relationship, slow burn, slight changes to how college works for the sake of plot, a surprising amount of lore (i got carried away), me writing for a character for a first time on here so be kind 😭

----

It's not often one finds their enemy crumpled up and lying helplessly next to an overflowing garbage can. It's even rarer to see that and still feel the bitter sting of defeat.

"He didn't text me back, which is weird because when I ran into him on Friday--" Carlie, who might know you better than you know yourself, pauses.

You turn your head away from the trash in an attempt to abandon the newspaper as completely as the person who had thrown it away. "You saw James last week? You didn't tell me."

She watches you for a moment, her eyebrows pulling together in a way that tells you she won't accept your lie just because you're offering her an opportunity to re-dissect her most recent interaction with her latest target. "You know I did."

Carlie shifts her weigh from one foot to the other, her eyes drifting towards the ground. "It's there because it's old--it's over."

It's over. The words crack themselves against your skull. More than a sentence, more than a promise. The only consolation the state's attorney could offer grieving families. The sound ringing in your ears as a mother gave into her agony, a choked sob ripping its way out of her throat.

It's over--the catalyst that sent the mother to you in a parking lot illuminated by stale, synthetic lighting. They're the reason for her confession, that in some off-kilter way she thought the verdict would make her feel better.

It's over--the syllables that accompany the sound of the needle leaving Josh Robinson's lifeless body. Killed by the justice system or the media?

"You didn't do anything wrong." Carlie's voice is careful in its unflinchingness. "He was a serial killer. You--you wrote the truth."

And while this awareness has bound itself to your bones, it is rarely enough to make you forget what you did wrong. Journalists are impartial, they don't--they're supposed to understand, they're supposed to be careful. You took it a step further.

"I know."

You don't need to look up to know that you haven't convinced her. However, you must have sounded okay enough for Carlie to accept moving on. "And you're doing more than anyone else would do to make your true crime even better."

It's an exaggeration. Journalists have done a lot more for their careers than request to join a class that belongs to a department unrelated to their degree. But Carlie seems so happy to be able to compliment you, you decide to go with a less sentimental correction, "Not true crime."

"I know, journalism." She sighs, but continues to walk forward in a way that feels oddly optimistic. Maybe even relieved. "Make sure you point out the difference to the professor. I'm sure he'll love that."

You roll your eyes at her sarcasm, but follow her lead anyway. You've already perfected the elevator pitch you're planning to present to Dr. Spencer Reid. A brief but genuine description of the importance of ethical journalism, especially when it comes to writing about serial killers.

You're well practiced and far from worried about winning him over. Academic authority figures have always taken well to you...it also doesn't hurt that you spent all night googling him just to be safe.

"Actually," she begins, pulling open the door to the psychology building, "I bet there's no room for original material in the interaction that you've already imagined, planned, and mentally rehearsed."

You scoff as you step past the door's threshold. "No," the word is dismissive and entirely unconvincing. You instinctually move past it. "Go talk to your advisor about your thesis, I'll meet with Dr. Reid, and then we can order food or something."

The reminder of her own meeting seems to kill the mood, her smile morphing into something more focused. Carlie lets out a small breath. "Right. We got this." And with one final assuring nod, Carlie turns towards the stairwell.

----

The thought is a dull ache that wedges itself into your chest before you can bring yourself to knock against the door. It'll follow you forever.

When you step into the room, Dr. Reid will inevitably ask why you want to join his class. And then you'll have to answer.

You exhale as you extend your arm, knuckles rapping against the wooden surface before overthinking can hurt you any further. After a brief silence, you hear a slightly muffled, "Come in."

You reach for the brass handle, pulling the door open before stepping past the doorway's threshold.

The office is comfortable, a large desk and two plush chairs manage to share the space without seeming cramped. There's a pencil holder and several stacks of papers on the desk's surface. If one ignores the degrees--and the age of the recipient when he received them--on the walls, the office seems normal. Almost suspiciously so. There's even a partially wilted plant sitting on the windowsill.

After taking in the room, you let your attention fall to the individual behind the desk. He's--he--while you've read enough about Dr. Reid to already respect him, and are fully aware that he is far from your peer, you're also now looking at him.

Last night, you did stumble onto a few pictures of him that forced you to reluctantly make a mental note of the fact that he's aesthetically pleasing, but those occasionally blurry snapshots did him and his sharp features little justice.

"Hello," the word is an instinct, slipping past your lips before you're ready to speak.

"Hi," his response is as sudden and lacking in context as your own--a fact that immediately eases you.

Dr. Reid shifts, back straightening against his seat. "You're here for your appointment." You barely have the chance to nod in confirmation before he's continuing, "Come in, take a seat."

In all honesty, you're more glad for the direction than the excuse to sit. You enter his office fully, approaching the plush chair in front of his desk. You sit down, lips parting before you're ready to speak. All structured thoughts have abandoned you.

"Hi." You realize your mistake immediately. You blink, a sound between a self deprecating laugh and a sigh escaping you. "I already said that."

If Dr. Reid thinks anything of your mistake, he gives no indication of it. His expression remains steady, with the exception of the corner of his mouth briefly tugging itself upwards.

Your hands come together on your lap, one of your nails pressing into the nail bed of the thumb on your opposite hand before forcing yourself to relax. You've read enough about his work with the FBI to know that he's so adept at analyzing behavior, you don't need to make it easy for him by giving into obvious signs of nervousness.

"Like I mentioned in my email, I'm interested in joining your class even though it's not an elective and in an entirely different department than my degree." This part is easy, a perfunctory explanation of what he already knows. "However, there is enough overlap that my advisor is supportive of the idea and has already signed off on it."

He shifts again, his pointer finger tapping against the surface of his desk. "Right, she mentioned that, but she didn't mention why."

Okay. This is the part that matters. "I'm a journalism major, and I've recently completed an internship with The Washing Sun." In an act of total self betrayal, you study his expression for any hint of recognition. Finding absolutely none makes it easier to breathe. "And spending time in such an active, journalistic environment has made me fully aware of the way that morals and personal views can complicate ethics."

You pause, pressing your lips together. "I'd like the opportunity to learn about certain behaviors in order to develop a perspective separate from my own.

Though still politely neutral, something behind Dr. Reid's eyes implies an uncertainty that has the rest of your pitch jamming itself down your throat. Whatever's changed doesn't feel like disbelief, and you're far from worried about being accused of lying. You were careful to comb through your mess of emotions before you had even pitched the idea to your advisor--you do feel those things, they're just not the only things you feel.

How delusional had you been to assume the same answers that hid their vagueness behind a heavy layer of altruism that worked on Mrs. Carol would work on a FBI profiler?

"I um--" The sound of your own voice surprises you. "I know what it's like to write something when you can't feel anything for the person everyone's already rooting against, and I'd like to not feel that again." Another glimmer of honesty, barer than your curated story, but still not exactly everything.

Dr. Reid is quiet for a moment, studying you with an openness that should make your skin crawl. "What did it feel like?"

The question throws you. Friends, family, strangers--they've all asked you things about the case, about your article, about hundreds of other things so barely connected you couldn't fathom an answer. No one has ever asked you about that feeling.

"Uh..." You're not even sure you have an answer. "Weird." Your blankness feels like such a cop out, you feel the need to try again. What did it feel like? A hybrid beast made of a festering not-quite-guilt, an over awareness of your every action, all held together by an uneasy pride...that only served to further aggravate the not guilt. "Like I was doing something right and wrong, with no way of knowing what it was more of."

You squeeze your hands together, allowing yourself to focus on the action instead of him. "I'm sorry, that probably doesn't make much sense."

When you finally lift your head, Dr. Reid is already looking at you. A moment passes, the somberness of his features growing heavier in the silence. Maybe he's looking at something past you. "It does."

The affirmation is a small, fragile thing, so faint and far away it almost feels like an intrusion to have heard it. Some selfish part of you latches onto that, his unexpected understanding a lifeline you can't let go of.

You almost thank him before realizing that you have no idea what you'd be thanking him for. "I'm glad," you settle on, fingers carefully coming apart on your lap. "The writing thing's no good if I don't make sense."

The attempt at humor seems to pull him back from wherever he had gone. "Then you have nothing to worry about." He doesn't exactly smile, but there's something easy about the way he's looking at you. "I'll approve your enrollment request."

Relief floods through you immediately. "Really?"

"Maybe it'll help you feel less...weird." From him, your too plain adjective feels a lot more fitting.

You nod once, the motion quick and polite. "Hopefully." The beat of silence that follows comes closer to kinship than anything you've ever felt in someone's office. You're also fully aware of the fact that you've gotten what you came for and that Dr. Reid is likely a very busy man. "I shouldn't take up anymore of your time."

His fingers tap against his desk. "Right. I'll see you in class."

You smile as you stand. "See you then."

The walk towards the door is a lot less intimidating now. Still, once you reach it, you can't bring yourself to immediately reach for the handle. You pause, letting out a breath before turning around. "Dr. Reid?"

He looks up, nodding once in a way that's meant to prompt you. Maybe it's overkill, but it feels necessary and it's too late to back out now. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." He doesn't look away from you after responding.

There's nothing left to expect, there are no words or anything else meant to be said. That's not enough to stop some unknown feeling from wedging itself between your ribs, urging you to something, to say anything that might come close to offering him the same kind of understanding he's given you.

"I hope you find a less weird, too."

He doesn't respond, but something about the look behind his eyes and his slight nod makes you feel okay about leaving him.

----

There are few ideologies that have clung to him, and even fewer that have managed to bind themselves to some integral part of his being that exists beneath his skin.

The pursuit of knowledge is one of the few constants Spencer Reid allows himself to rely on, one of the only things he allows himself to consider a saving grace. However, circumstance has prevented his views on the subject from skewing. The irony of the fact that some things are better left unknown is not lost on him.

For example, the girl that walked into his office and immediately saw through him, is better left a mystery. He'd see her in class, he'd answer her questions, he'd grade her work and offer her necessary feedback--but he will not know her.

It's a mantra, a promise that he repeats in his head again and again as his attention falls to the desktop in front of him. He attempts to grasp onto this lack of knowledge, to transform it into a tangible entity to keep him from typing your name into the search engine.

----

a/n spencer entering his garcia era while googling reader 💻🧑‍💻

anyways in ur interested in part 2 or would like to be tagged let me know!!