✓ | sick of losing soulmates [SPENCER REID]

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( entropy au. )

I put a spell on you... 'Cause you're mine...

Chest tight with apprehension, Spencer Reid steps out of his yellow taxi and glances about himself, then, seeing that the street around him is (both fortunately, and unfortunately) empty, starts up the flight of marble stairs until he can step into Harry&Glenn's Bar and Grill, according to the glowing, ostentatious white sign on the smooth brick wall.

The light is dim inside, the air sweet with the smell of spices, and the room is buzzing with conversations as people hover by the bar and around tables. Blues music plays as he says to the older, brunette woman, hair in a bun, who stands by the door, "Hi. Table for two for Spencer."

She smiles takes two menus from the stand beside her, again with the bar's name on it, and leads him around the bar to a round booth, positioned under a warm yellow lamp and made of plush red leather.

"Here you are." She places the menus down.

Spencer slides into the booth, sticking near to the left side of it. "Thank you so much."

"You're welcome."

She heads away, leaving him alone. Feeling awkward and terribly nervous, he clears his throat and fidgets in his seat — the leather gives a terrible squeak as he does so and he cringes — as he glances around the warm, bustling restaurant. It would be a nice place to bring his girlfriend, he thinks, before pursing his lips at the idea: too bad they've ruined it by doing this.

His heart lurches and cracks open in his chest when he makes eye-contact with a girl sitting at the bar, glass of scotch held to her lips. She places it down, slowly, eyes on his, steady, before plump lips mouth, Rose. 

Oh, shit, he forgot. Quickly, he digs into the inside of his jacket, by his heart, retrieves the flower and then gently places a rose on the edge of the table, petals away from him, towards where his date will soon be sat.

Looking up, his eyes find the girl's again. She smiles, sips her scotch, and looks away, down into her drink.

Spencer has to force himself to look away from her now. Looking at her means dilated pupils, means racing heart, means clammy hands, means blocked up throat.

He still can't believe that she's his girlfriend. Four years and three months and sixteen days, to be exact. And, if he was counting the hours, it would have been earlier in the evening that he asked her, back when he was only twenty-nine, and with a terrible move (he thinks, with hindsight) of a scribbled note in a book for teenagers.

"You Spencer?" a chirpy voice asks.

He looks up, eyes finding another brunette woman, teeth showing and glinting like a tiger's in the light as she smiles widely down at him. "Cat?" he checks.