Spencer knows a lot about you. More than most, really, because you two clicked very quickly when you joined the team and have been close friends ever since. He knows your ups and your downs, your triggers and likes, your comfort shows and the coffee mug at work that's your favorite. But... he doesn't know much about your past.

You don't talk a lot about what your childhood was like— not about your parents, your old friends, your neighborhood, nothing. He knows you went through a large trauma, one you don't talk about much either. You had once described it as a "combination of many things all at once" without going into any detail about what those things were. And he knows better to ask.

But even a genius like him gets curious sometimes.

The most recent case has to do with a plethora of child abductions taking place in Washington, the state you're from. You had told him early on— after he noticed your distant look in the conference room during the briefing— that you felt it would be a difficult case for you, just because you'd be returning back to your home state. He had promised to stay by your side and help you through it, and that's what he intends to do the whole case. Keep you in sight, make sure you're still mentally here.

The two of you were assigned to interview the mother of one of the children. She had talked about telling her son a story right before bed, his favorite, and that he was gone in the morning. Spencer mainly led it— he noticed you had started getting that misty look in your eyes, and thought it better if he got through this quickly and efficiently to spare you any more of... whatever it is you're feeling.

As cleaning up the files from the interview room, Spencer glances up at you, fiddling with a few papers on the other side of the table, and his curiosity kicks in again. An annoying prick in his side that he never truly learned how to reign in.

"My mother used to read me stories too," he says, casually, as if just bringing up the weather. He knows he's prodding, he knows he should stop it, but it seems, if there's ever a time to talk, it'd be now. You glance up at him as he tucks his files underneath his arm, straightening up.

"Yeah?" You ask, offering a small smile, and Spencer returned it, nodding as the two of you walk towards the door to re-enter the conference room.

"Yeah. It was kind of her way of bonding with me, since it was a little hard for her to do that any other way," he says with a small shrug, opening the door for you to go through. You smile a little at the words, nodding your head and feeling some of the tension wound up in your stomach settle. You set your files down at the conference table and turn back to face him, tilting your head a bit.

"That's sweet," you say, noticing his look that is equally a smile and also a little hesitant, like there's something he wants to ask but is holding back.

"Yeah," he repeats again, his fingers tapping on his files once he drops them down on the table. A silence falls over you two as you settle into your chairs, Spencer seeming to hold his breath, before he speaks up again. "Is there anything you did with your mom?" He asks, turning to look at you with an innocent look. But the questions feels all but innocent.

You hesitate at the question, apprehensive to answer for a moment, before you remember it's Spencer. You can talk to Spencer. You try to think, taking yourself back to that time that has already been haunting you the last few days you've been in Washington, trying to remember just what you did with your mom. You think a second or two longer, your mind terribly blank of memories.

"Uh..." you say, your voice a little on edge. "I'm not sure. I guess."

It's an answer that could be written off simply as a refusal to talk, but he sees the slight confusion in your eyes. The real attempt to pinpoint your answer. It's not that you don't want to answer— it's that you don't remember anything from then. It's common, yes, a trauma victim dissociating and forgetting things about that time, but it's still concerning.