✓ | sick of losing soulmates [SPENCER REID]

10.3

10.3
( mistakes mistakes mistakes. )

☆ ★ ☆

iris

Like promised, Spencer brings Garcia and Emily to Iris' apartment after work.

Iris has had her fair share of breakdowns during the day, calling a couple of family members to tell them the news and watching Jeremy Kyle to remind herself that her life could be a lot worse, so by the time Garcia and Emily are bursting through her door to swamp her in a hug, she's run out of tears to cry. Instead, she just smiles sadly, nodding to their questions about if she's okay, even though she's never felt less okay in her life.

Her mom, her best friend, is gone. It still doesn't feel real. How can a person who's always been there, just... disappear?

As Spencer closes the door behind them all, Iris stays in Emily's arms for a little while, needing the comfort of her best friend, even though her turtle-neck is a little uncomfortably warm when she wraps her arms around Iris' shoulders (Iris is so small, that her height difference compared to Emily is dramatic, forget Spencer). Emily holds her close around her shoulders, one hand on the back of her head, combing her hair idly.

"I'm sorry for making you come," Iris whispers. "But you're the only one who'll understand." 

"Don't be sorry. It's my job."

Iris smiles, despite herself. She's chosen her best friend well.

Emily manages to comfort her quite easily; the pair have long since worked out how they fit together, both physically and in their dynamic as friends: two sarcastic assholes (well, Iris would reject the claim of her being an asshole, but she has her moments when she loses her temper), judging the world together, has always been their system.

And now, crying into Emily's chest, Iris feels like she's broken it.

"I'm sorry," she whimpers, pulling away and rubbing at her puffy, red eyes with something akin to shame. "I'm such a mess."

"It's alright. We can sort this," Emily dismisses with a shake of her head. "I promise." She squeezes Iris's trembling shoulders, before she gives a little, embarrassed laugh and let's go to produce a bottle of wine from her bag. "I brought alcohol," she says, making Iris smile with watering eyes. "I know it's your favourite way to cope."

Iris can't help it: she giggles, despite herself — despite her mind screaming that she shouldn't be happy, not now and not ever, not without her mom. But she does it anyway, fights for that happiness she's always fought for, sniffling as she does so and wiping her already rubbed-raw eyes. "Thanks. Just put it on the table."