i don't know what order to start Dissecting, so i'll just start with:
it's absolutely fascinating how the dynamic Wally & Barnaby had - to my knowledge - before the update, and a dynamic i'd seen speculated elsewhere and generally accepted, has been completed turned on its head
see, given that Wally is the "main character" and Barnaby is classified as "his best friend", i got the feeling that Barnaby kind of... tags along on Wally's 'shenanigans'. that he's the sidekick, the best friend. especially since their dynamic has been previously & briefly described as "Barnaby is very polite to Wally." he's the Companion.
but the audios sorta paint a reverse picture. in the Interview, when Barnaby enters stage right, he completely bowls over Wally's introduction and dominates the interview. when the interviewer asks how the two of them are handling the fame, even outright asking Wally, Barnaby doesn't hesitate to answer the question himself, and only about himself. Wally doesn't get another word in edge-wise until the interviewer explicitly singles Wally out.
(now, an argument could be made that Barnaby knew that Wally was somewhat overwhelmed with all of the questions, and tried to take the reins to give him a reprieve. but, considering that the interview seems to be very early on the possible timeline - like, very soon after Welcome Home debuted - i don't think this is likely. i doubt Barnaby and Wally would've had the time to solidify their dynamic or really get to know each other that well yet)
and Barnaby continues to take point in pretty much all of their other conversations, too. like in the mystery Howdy/Barnaby/Wally audio, their interaction gives off the vibes that Wally is Barnaby's sidekick, his tag-along.
(on a related tangent, it's fascinating how the website described the episodes as "[beginning] with Wally introducing the focus or theme for the day before coming across other characters who would join him on his escapades until the end of the day." but from pretty much everything we've seen so far, it seems like He's the one who's just along for the ride, bouncing from neighbor shenanigan to neighbor shenanigan instead of having his own adventures.
of course, if the 14 audios are present time, which is honestly somewhat likely, this could be because the show isn't running. they aren't doing episodes - they're just existing, doing their things. no need for Wally to take point in any way shape or form. tangent over)
in the 14 audios with Barnaby, he doesn't even acknowledge Wally until the very end - which, of course, could be because that's how the scenes are set up. except that in some of them, the characters do directly acknowledge Wally's presence outside of the endings. Eddie in 5-14, Howdy and Poppy in 1-14, and Frank in 4-14 (technically, since he was infodumping to Wally at the very start before Barnaby interrupted). you'd think that a guy would try to include his best friend a little more!
maybe i'm reading into it too much. & given what we know about Wally as a character, it would make sense for Barnaby to be the go-getter Main Guy of the two. but it really seems like its Barnaby & Wally instead of Wally & Barnaby. he's just kinda... there. going along with whatever Barnaby is up to.
but also, on the other side of things - & it's occurring to me as i type this, it's interesting how in a lot of audios, Barnaby seems to seek Wally out. in "Just So", he shows up to fetch Wally. in 4-14, Barnaby interrupts Frank and Wally's gardening session, almost as if he's stopping by to check on his little buddy. in 7-14, Barnaby calls Julie's house (presumably) searching for Wally, or at least checking in once again. something to consider in all of this!
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gorgeous can we get bombshell reader and Spencer May be the first time he’s snappy with her bc he’s stressed and she’s just so taken aback and May be even tears up? And then just a fluffy ending with Spencer apologizing
thank you for requesting! fem, 2.2k
Spencer Reid is extra kissable when he's frowning. Button up and no suit jacket, sleeves pushed past his elbows and hair on the shorter side, he holds a certain confidence in his hands where they're tucked in his pockets. Sure of himself, and clearly agitated.
You're always on his side; you don't think twice about easing into the conference room to see what's wrong.
"Hey," you say with a slight lilt to your tone. You're always on his side, and always flirting. "What's wrong?"
"Why does something have to be wrong?" he asks.
Not mean. Not light. Somewhere in the solid middle, his gaze loyal to the laptop on the desk he stands behind. You step close enough to smell the subtle scent of his cologne, wondering if he can smell your perfume in turn, and if it's one he likes. You try to touch his hand and he takes the desk into his grip instead, leaning forward, out of reach.
"That's not what I meant to convey," you say, still flirting. You're not stupid, you realise his mood, but you're hoping it's somebody else's fault. "But if you aren't happy to see me then I'd definitely suggest there was something wrong."
"I'm just trying to figure something out."
This close, to your own credit, Spencer usually trips up. He's been getting better as you've grown closer, your 'torturing' —as the team likes to call it— only prompting the occasional blush or stammer. You don't flirt with Spencer to torture him no matter what anyones says and you never have, you flirt with him because he deserves to be complimented. He's andsome, intelligent, and courageous. What others might miss you see in blaring neon lights: he's a catch. You intend on making your intentions known, and if that means playing the long game or the slow burn, that's okay. You like to dance.
You put yourself between him and the laptop screen. He can still see it if he cranes his neck, and he does. "You look a little tired, handsome. Looking at a screen all day will hurt you in the end. Neck aches, shoulder cramps, eye strain. Though I can't help with the latter, the former…" His arm is solid under your hand, your fingertips running along the ridge of a stark vein.
He doesn't quite flinch away, but he moves quickly enough to startle you, lamenting, "Could you give me some space, please?"
That's all well and good, you rush to do as he's asked and step back because the very last thing you want is to make him uncomfortable and his voice is frankly acidic, but everything is moving too quickly, you're not as aware as you should be —you smash your hand backwards into a cold cup of coffee and knock it straight into the lap of Spencer's laptop.
"No," you gasp, grabbing the cup before the entirety of it can empty. Coffee wells between the keys and you go to grab it to– well, to do something.
"Stop it!" Spencer shouts, voice sharp as a knife. "You always do this," —quieter, venomous— "you can't help yourself."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I would answer you if I had the time. I'll be busy rescuing my hard drive before an entire month of work is wasted thanks to your dire need for attention."
He slips around you and stalks out the door, coffee dripping from the corner of his laptop in a sorry trail that shines in the fluorescent lights.
Your first rush of tears are driven by indignation; it was an accident, you didn't mean to do that, why would you ever do that? But the second, more encompassing rush is a hot mixture of shame and guilt. What have you done?
You take a hesitant step toward the door but don't bother following him. I'll make things worse, you think, bringing a hand to your face. Makeup marrs your hand as you wipe your cheeks. You stare down at the stains for a long, long time.
I'll apologise, you think eventually, rubbing at the mascara like soot on your palm. Just as soon as I look okay again.
You don't want Spencer or anyone to see you upset. You wear your makeup and your confidence for yourself, not to hide any insecurity but to embolden yourself, to be yourself. But to get to your desk you'd have to leave the conference room bared as you are, and you'd have to face Spencer, and the second option brings more tears.
This is all so messy, and it's your fault.
I'm such an idiot. I'm exactly what he thinks of me.
You sit in the chair furthest from the door with a pack of tissues from the cubby and rub your hot cheeks dry, streaks of mascara in the shapes of your fingertips like soot left behind. It's sitting that gets you —the shock of tears at being shouted at by someone you care about amplifies into a distress you can't explain. It's stupid, it's stupid. You press your face into your hands and curl in on yourself at the table, ears ringing. I'm so, so stupid.
—
The inside of Spencer's lip is bleeding, metallic on his tongue. He's white hot annoyance all the way to Penelope's office, choked as he tells her he needs her help.
"Spencer?" she said. "What happened? Are you okay?"
He realises what he's done. "Please, Garcia, can you do something? I really need to go."
He doesn't hear her response beyond her surprised but emphatic Sure, spinning on his heel to walk back the way he came. He rubs at his temple, moving between a slow trudge and a speed walk as he assesses the damage of what he's said. What did he say? your dire need for attention.
Your sniffing is something out of his fucking nightmares. Who does he think he is? You're sitting exactly where he left you next to that half empty coffee cup, a tissue scrunched in your trembling hands, visible in the small glass window of the door. You must be thinking of what he's said to have missed the sound of his footsteps, or perhaps he's left you too upset to want to look up.
He sees the moment a sob works through you, watches you hold your breath in a painful effort to keep it down, raising the tissue to your eyes and catching your tears before they fall. You're doing a lacklustre job despite your efforts, the oily shine of mascara iridescent on your cheeks. Or maybe that's tear tracks. It's hard to tell.
Spencer fights with himself. He doesn't know if deserves to come running back or if it would be more fair to send JJ or Derek in to comfort you.
"You made your bed," his mom would say, not without affection. "You have to lie in it."
Spencer squeezes his eyes closed to push away the memory, surveying the damage he's done carefully as he crosses the threshold back into the conference room. Your head lifts at the sound of the door, your stammer visible before you speak, "Spence– Spencer. Is your laptop okay? Did I break it? I'm so sorry."
Gideon would tell Spencer to be nicer. Hotch would say Reid in that stern shade of voice that's half disapproval and half fondness. They'd both tell him to be better, but neither of them have ever had to see you as you look now, tearstained and sorry, eyes wide with worry but shoulders tense. He has his role models, and yet none of them could possibly give him a way to apologise that could ever make up for they way he's made you feel.
Little dramatic, Morgan would say. Start with a hug, loverboy. Can't go wrong with a hug.
He should ask but he doesn't, a second transgression against you. Spencer pushes past chair and the sodden circle of carpet to your chair, pausing in case you're going to tell him to shove it. You lick your lips. "Did I break it?" you ask, as though resigned for a yes
He can't temper that amount of self-hatred on you. It doesn't suit you. He much prefers you the way you like to be, confident in everything, flirty and funny and soft, in both touch and touches. He takes your face into a careful hand, tilting it toward the light and weary of your shallow exhale. "I…" He begins and ends, stroking your tacky cheek with his index finger, as though brushing away an eyelash. If it were real he'd say make a wish, and you would wish for him or some similar sweetness, salacious smile to boot, or earnestness fit to fill a mountain. I wish you'd realise how pretty you are and stop denying me the pleasure of a beautiful boyfriend, you'd croon.
His fingers collect at your jaw and slip behind your ear as he cleans your skin with the side of his thumb. You lean into the touch, slashing his hesitancy in two.
"Sorry," he says, pulling your head toward his neck gently as he leans down to hold you. "I'm sorry. Don't be upset, please. Don't be upset "
"I'm an idiot–"
"No," he says, with the facts to back his denial. "I'm an idiot, I should never have upset you like this–"
"I broke your computer, it's just like you said–"
"I shouldn't have–"
"–I'm so needy I could've ruined all your hard work," you say, wriggling with guilt like you attempt to pull away.
Spencer really doesn't want to let you go now he has you, not until he's sure you'll stay in one piece. "If it's ruined, it's my fault for failing to back it up."
He should tell you that he's sorry for what he said. He knew it wasn't right he moment it escaped him, to speak to you like that, and accuse you of what he did. He basically called you selfish, uncaring. He implied it and worse, and for what? An accident? A mis-step that he practically forced you into?
"I never should've said that to you," he says, breaking his hug to crouch in front front you, searching blindly for your hand as he holds eye contact, looking up. You deign to frown down. "And I walked away. And you're crying," —his voice fries with sympathy— "because of me."
Your hand is limp in his. "I'm sorry," he says.
"It's okay." You sniffle and nod, lips struggling into a smile.
"It's not okay."
"Well, I hit your coffee over, so we're even."
"You accidentally spilled my drink, you didn't deserve to be mocked."
"Spence…" Your eyes half-lidded, you wince down at the cradle of his hand where it holds yours. "Did I break it?"
"I don't know. I got to Garcia's office and I knew I did the wrong thing, so I came back."
You swallow audibly. "I just wanted to make you feel better."
"I know, angel." He stands again as your eyes well with tears to hug you, kissing the top of your head. "I'm sorry. That was all me, okay? I shouldn't have snapped at you."
What follows is agony. Spencer patting your back through a panicked bubble of tears, wretched in knowing he caused it, and worse is the look you give him as he wipes your messed up make up away in want of a mirror, like you're grateful.
"Does it look really bad?"
"N–no. You look really pretty," he says.
"Are my eyes puffy?"
A little. "No. You look great." He can't apologise anymore– it won't help you feel better now, it'll just assuage his own worry. What you need is a different reassurance. "It's hard not looking at you, sometimes, you look that nice. But you know that already."
"I don't mean to do that. I didn't mean to."
Spencer puts his hand above your heart. "I know you didn't. I really, really shouldn't have said it. I was being cranky and I struck out like a kid."
"...You're not just saying I look nice to get back in the good books, are you?" you ask.
Spencer leans in, nearly nose to nose with you. "Of course not."
You tilt your head as though you might kiss him. He knows you won't and he's delighted anyways. It means you're feeling okay. He's nearly forgiven, or, at the very least, you're not actively upset. "I thought I liked seeing you pissed off, but now I'm not so sure."
"It's not a good look on me," he murmurs. "But it looks great on you, if you want to get angry with me."
"Well now I can't. I know it's what you want."
"Can I give you a hug?" he asks.
You drop all your acts and slide your arms around his neck. He wraps you up slowly, one arm at a time, careful to put all the pressure exactly where you like it.
"That feels nice," you mumble.
He bends into you and rubs your back. "Yeah?"
"Don't," you warn.
He draws a shape into your back with his fingers, slow, tiny things that make you squirm. "Don't what?"
"You're tickling me." You don't sound unhappy about it.
"What?" he asks. "I can't hear you over the sound of me being a huge jackass. Sorry, angel."
Your giggle is honey into his shoulder, sticky and sluggish as his circles turn to stars.
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