Willow for the character thing
Sexuality Headcanon: ok you guys all get one guess (bi. that’s. i think she’s bi).
Gender Headcanon: tranfem!!! because i think so <3 <3
A ship I have with said character: love huntlow, also an enjoyer of willuz gah i miss willuz.
A BROTP I have with said character: again. gus. that flashback??? they’re such good friends, they’re so supportive of each other, always there for each other….. oughghgh willow and gus.
A NOTP I have with said character: can’t think of any atm!!
A random headcanon: probably has some very scarred hands. i imagine the boiling isles has some very dangerous plants, nothing too dangerous for her though!! still leaves a mark or five. she gives the most dangerous ones the most endearing names, like an absolutely terrifying venus flytrap named sunshine.
General Opinion over said character: i love her i love her potential, i feel like the fandom (and that one era of s2) really glossed over her, made her more 2D. like. fandom (universally) has a habit of taking some of it’s like. secondary cast and making their sole purpose reaction and it irks me but um. glad she’s getting more focus <3
ask game!!
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Bombshell reader is my queen. What would happen if she like got hold hostage or something? She’s usually so confident, I’m sure going thru that would rough her up. Would Spencer take up the more ‘active’ role and take care of her
tysm for requesting ♡ fem, 1k
Spencer doesn't know if you're aiming for him when you come out but he grabs you as soon as he can get his hands on you. You were running hard enough to wind him, breathless yourself as you gasp into his shoulder. He can't feel you right wearing the FBI vest, desperate to take it off.
You won't let him go.
It must've been bad inside to panic you like this. "Are you okay?" he asks, forcing you away to check you over. "Do you need medical?" He's mildly hysterical.
"No," you say, eyes closed, shaking your head until he lets you back into his arms. "I'm fine."
"You don't sound fine–"
"Spencer, I'm fine."
Spencer can't remember the last time you called him Spencer. He's used to Spence, babe, baby, handsome. He's even used to your hand on his elbow to say hello without speaking. So no matter what you say, he knows you're not fine.
Spencer leads you over to the back of an ambulance, where you glare at him. You've definitely never done that before.
"I don't need medical–"
"You have to get checked out." He's definitely never spoken to you like that. Terse, his hands on your arms to stop you from getting up. "Non-negotiable."
Your eyes shine with betrayal while the EMTs check your vitals. You have a bruise like whiplash against your neck that's tender to the touch, wincing as they prod it with their white gloved fingers. You're acting peculiarly but not outside of the realm of reasonable.
A car backfires somewhere in the street and you flinch. "Spence," you say, looking up at him through your lashes, "can we go?"
He waits for a nod. "Yeah, we can go."
The issue is that you can't stand. You push up, you blink, and you sit down hard again, making a small pained sound from the back of your throat that Spencer cant abide by. "What's wrong with her?" he asks.
"Adrenaline." The EMT squeezes your shoulder affectionately. "You're alright, hun. You can sit here until you feel ready."
She and her partner take a break in the front of the ambulance and tell you to shout if you need help. Spencer hesitates for a few seconds, looking down at you with a quick assessment of behaviour. He finds the things that are wrong with you —shaking hands, painful contusion against your throat, obvious emotional distress, weak legs— and he runs through options on how he's going to help you.
Spencer takes your hands into his, just a little smaller, less skinny, and way softer. He doesn't know whether he can truly smell your hand cream or if he knows the scent from the hundreds of times watching your routine. You take it from the pocket in your purse, squeeze the smallest bit from the tub, and rub it in slow circles around your palms. It calms you in your rare wounded moments, and Spencer imitates that now. He draws gentle circles into your skin, the tremble ever so slightly quelled.
"Is it bad?" he asks you, transferring both of your hands into one. Freed, he trails the knuckles of his left hand parallel to your wicked bruise.
"It hurts." Your eyes are glassy, your lips in a downturn that turns his heart. "Hurt my ego."
"He got a cheap shot," Spencer says sympathetically, dipping forward to kiss your jaw just above the bruise. You go still. He worries it was the wrong thing to do, but you crane your head forward into his chest.
Your tired sigh is like a rake.
"It's okay. It's okay." He takes your hand again. "We'll ice it at the hotel. With arnica, it'll be gone in a week."
"I was really scared," you murmur.
Sitting as you are in the back of the ambulance, he doesn't have to bend much to press your joined hands to his chest. Eyes shut, that close to one another, Spencer swears he can hear your rapid heart.
"But you made it out. You're always going to make it out, because we have a great team and you're good at what you do. You're strong. Smart. And you're brave, because you got scared and you kept going anyway. You saved someone just now."
You push him away without malice, your perfect eyebrows pinched up at the starts. "I thought maybe this time I wouldn't make it out. Not like me, huh?"
Spencer sits next to you in the ambulance, sliding his fingers into yours with more confidence than he feels. "That's easily explainable. Do you know what working memory is?"
Your stress melds fond. "No."
"Working memory is one of the brain's systems necessary for thought and function. It's important for everything. And when you're under immense pressure, the strength of your working memory depletes– being in a high stakes situation like that, it's natural to choke. It doesn't mean you underperformed. It doesn't mean you let anyone down."
"I never said I let someone down."
"I worried you were thinking about it."
"I was." Your glassy eyes have clarified. Spencer lets out a breath of relief as you raise your hand to his cheek, stroking it briefly with the back of your fingers. "I'm glad you think that, but I doubt Hotch will say the same thing."
"Hotch will tell you well done and make you take mandatory leave for a week. We should regroup with the others." Spencer nudges you in the arm. "I'll write your paperwork if you tell me what to say."
You drop your face into his shoulder. "I'm recovering from a traumatic event. Can't you do the muscle work?"
"Y/N!" Hotch calls, a phone glued to his ear. "Well done. Nothing else tonight." You smile. "You can do the paperwork when you get back next week."
"Ugh."
"Told you. Well done, mandatory leave," Spencer says.
"Excessive," you mutter into his arm. It takes you a few seconds to warm up, and when you do it's like groundhog day, sunshine filtering through the chill, "Thanks, handsome. For everything."
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