Out-of-state cases had to be the worst of them. Not cause the cases were bloodier or any harder to solve, or even having to be cooped up in hotel rooms, working with cops who had their thumbs up their asses. It was having to sit on a plane for hours on end, every bump in the air or shake of the jet enough to have your nails sinking into the armrests, leaving behind crescent shaped marks and scratches.

Often, everyone else was far too absorbed in their own things, either passed out asleep or at least with headphones in. For FBI profilers, none of them had been observant enough to notice the grip you had on the seat when another wave of turbulence shook the jet.

When a particularly rough round hit, Spencer finally seemed to notice, his eyes flickering curiously between your death grip on the chair and the recognizable anxiety in your eyes. His lips pulled into a subtle frown. Out of anyone to provide comfort, he was undoubtedly the worst, far too socially unaware to know what to say. Naturally, he unintentionally settled for the worst thing he could do.

“Y’know, the odds of being killed in a plane crash are one in 11 million while the probability of getting into a fatal car accident is one in 101. You’re more likely to die on the way to the airport than when you’re on the plane,” Spencer rambled, his hands fiddling with a deck of cards as he spoke, rifling through the stack.

“I don’t think that’s helping anybody, Reid,” Morgan teased as he carelessly walked back to his seat, not at all disturbed by the subtle bumps and rattles from the jet. Spencer’s brow furrowed in confusion, his eyes following Derek briefly before returning to you.

“Am I not helping?” he asked, his voice laced with genuine curiosity, oblivious to how counterproductive his ‘fun fact’ was.