Disclaimer: I don't own Criminal Minds, or Starbucks. Well...technically, I own a very small portion of Starbucks, but not enough to eliminate the need for a disclaimer. ;)

A/N: For some reason, I found myself musing on poor Reid and his crutches today, and this is the result. Any/all feedback is much appreciated. :)

IMPULSES

"Nice crutches."

Spencer Reid turned to face the young woman standing behind him in the line at Starbucks. She was leaning against the baked goods display, arms crossed across her chest. She struck him as smug, though he really had nothing to base this evaluation on beyond a coy twinkle in her eye and the taunting smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth.

"Oh, uh, thanks."

She smirked at him. "What happened?"

Reid blushed and tried to guess what she was thinking. Most people looked at him and figured he had managed to injure himself doing something incredibly stupid, like falling down a flight of stairs or slipping on a banana peel. And, he imagined, there where those who might take his willowy, almost delicate frame as a prerequisite for feminine hobbies like ballet or figure skating. Maybe this woman assumed he had missed landing a triple axel.

And just as suddenly as the conversation began, he wanted to surprise her, so he decided to tell her the truth.

"I, erm, I got shot," he said, mentally reprimanding himself for how tentative his answer sounded.

But it worked. Her eyebrows flew up. "And now I'm impressed. What are you, a secret agent?"

The line moved, and he shuffled forward, trying to balance his crutches with his shoulder bag. People always made this look a lot easier on TV.

"FBI," he said. "Behavioral Analysis."

"I see," she replied, giving him a quick once over again, as if she was seeing him for the first time.

He felt his cheeks burn again. This was the kind of attention Morgan usually received. He wasn't used to being in the spotlight like this.

"How long are you on them?"

"A few more weeks. They won't let me travel until I get off of them, so I'm counting the days." He paused. "I don't know why I'm telling you this."

She shrugged. "I have that effect on people. It comes in handy, like now, but it also means that weirdoes on the T like to come up to me and tell me their entire life's story." She smiled again and this time it was softer, less pointed. "I'm Lydia, by the way."

"Spencer. I'd shake your hand, but…" He shrugged, indicating the crutches.

"You're excused this time." The line shifted again. Before he could continue his juggling act, she reached out a hand. "I can carry that, if you'd like," she offered, pointing to his bag.

"Sure. And let you steal it. I'm not an idiot."

"Like a behavioral analyst has anything I'd want. Are you afraid I'll steal your precious copy of Freud's collected works? I wouldn't even want your wallet. You're a glorified civil servant – I've probably got more in my wallet right now than you do."

"I've got my weapon," this was said in a whisper, so as not to alarm the other patrons, "and my credentials."

"Don't need a gun and I'm not interested in the credentials. You are kind of girly, but I don't think I could pass as you." She shot him another big smile, just so he'd know she was teasing.

He pretended to be hurt. "Ow. That's harsh for someone you only just met."

"I call 'em as I see 'em. Now hand over the bag. Watching you try to maneuver is just painful. I promise, I won't disturb a single thing in there."

Reid grabbed his wallet from the bag and passed it to her. She elaborately draped the strap across her chest. He laughed. "And I suppose you're a pro on crutches, then," he said, scuttling forward.

"Never had to use them. I try to avoid all the extreme sports – you know, bungee jumping, trying to beat buses across crosswalks, getting in the way of bullets."

"And yet you mock me. What a double standard."

She shrugged, but Reid had reached the head of the line so she fell quiet. They both ordered and stood aside, waiting for their morning caffeine infusions.

"You're not from around here," he said finally, when a few moments of pregnant silence had passed.

"And what makes you say that, Mr. Big-Shot FBI Profiler?"

"You mentioned riding the T, which is in Boston, not DC. Plus when you opened your wallet to pay, I saw your Massachusetts driver's license. Unless you just moved here, that's pretty much a dead giveaway."

She nodded. "Touché. Yes, I'm in town for business." A surly barista with bleach job that looked to be about a month old, judging by her roots, handed them their coffees and scowled at them.

Lydia slipped off Reid's bag and offered it to him, hanging it from her palm by the strap. "Are you going to be able to handle all this?" She motioned to his coffee.

Reid paused. The team was on an assignment in Oregon and he still wasn't cleared to travel. It was only a little after nine here, so the team probably wasn't even up yet. Heck, Garcia probably wasn't even up yet. He felt impulsive today, and seeing as he was so rarely impulsive, he decided to go with it.

"Want to get a table?" he asked, nodding towards the second floor. "I mean, if you don't have anywhere you have to be."

Lydia looked genuinely surprised. She checked her watch. "I guess I have a couple minutes." She plucked the cup from his hands and led the way to a small table on the second floor of the café.

"Did it hurt?" she asked when they had both settled at the table.

He didn't have to ask what she meant, but still, the question caught him off guard. No one, not even his team had asked him that. They had all hedged the question and its greater implications. In a way, Reid was relieved that he hadn't been wounded anywhere other than his leg. The doctors surely would have pumped him full of morphine had he been shot anywhere else – as it was, they had tried to give him painkillers. Some of the doctors had been confused at his refusal of all pain meds, but a few seemed to understand. The nurses did too; they seemed to have a sixth sense about things like this.

He had survived without painkillers, but had been popping ibuprofen in five-pill increments every four or so hours, much to his stomach's chagrin. Yet, he treated his irritated stomach lining like an uncomfortable badge of courage – an internal sign of how far he'd come. Two years ago, he was afraid to wake up in the morning. Now, he was surviving.

Across the cramped table, Lydia was watching him, gauging how he was processing the memories.

"It didn't really feel like anything," he said at last. "I mean, people always say that they never expected it to hurt so much, and I know it's kind of cliché, but I didn't really feel anything. Not when it happened. I was just so intent on what was going on around me and so shocked to realize that I had been shot that I didn't have any time to think about the pain."

She just nodded and for the first time all morning, she couldn't think of a witty rejoinder.

---

Later, after Lydia had left for her meeting and Reid had bought another coffee for the drive down to Quantico, he realized he had never asked her what she did for a living. Even later, when he was knocking on Garcia's door lest he blunder in on her and Kevin like yesterday, he realized he didn't even know her last name.

Garcia was waiting for him, cross. "You're late."

"How can I be late? It's seven in the morning in Oregon. The team's not doing anything that they need us for."

"You're still late," she groused. "No coffee on the console," she added, jerking her chin at the offending cup in his hand.

"Sorry," he muttered, reaching into his bag to gather his notes on the case. At the bottom of the bag, his fingers brushed against something coarse. He gripped it and fished it out: a business card.

Lydia Townsend

Public Affairs Reporter

Boston Globe

617 555 8406

He couldn't repress a grin as he read it.

Garcia caught him. "What's go you so excited?"

He shook his head. "It's just one of those days," he replied, carefully tucking the card back into his bag.

Clearly, he wasn't the only one feeling impulsive today.