Archive of Our Own

A Few Days in Las Vegas

The Impala's engine ticks in the heat, cooling down after six hours of desert highway. Ava Winchester presses her forehead against the window, watching the motel sign flicker—Desert Rose Inn, though half the letters are dark and the rose looks more like a blob. The parking lot shimmers with heat waves, and somewhere a cicada is screaming its endless summer song.

"This place is a dump," Dean announces from beside her, stating the obvious in that way he has where he expects everyone to agree with him.

"Language," John says automatically, but there's no heat in it. He's already scanning the lot, the street, the buildings across the way. Always looking for exits, for threats, for whatever brought them to Las Vegas in the first place.

Ava doesn't ask what the job is. She learned years ago that asking just makes John's jaw tighten and Dean act like he knows secrets she doesn't. Instead, she touches the purple ribbon tied around her wrist—a habit, a comfort, a small piece of color in their grayscale life.

"Can we go swimming?" Sam asks from the front seat, his six-year-old voice pitched high with hope.

Dean snorts. "Did you see that pool? Pretty sure something died in it."

"Dean," John warns.

The motel room is exactly what Ava expects: two double beds with floral bedspreads that have seen better decades, a TV bolted to the dresser, industrial carpet that's some indeterminate colour between brown and Gray, and the perpetual smell of cigarettes and cleaning chemicals that never quite mask each other. John claims the bed nearest the door—he always does—and Dean immediately throws himself onto the other one, sprawling across it like a starfish.

"Dibs," he says.

"You can't dibs a whole bed," Ava protests.

"Just did."

"Dad—"

But John is already unpacking his duffel, pulling out the things that never change from motel to motel: the journal, the weapons wrapped in old t-shirts, the flask he thinks the kids don't know about. "You three work it out. I've got research to do."

Which means he'll be gone by nightfall, probably won't be back until dawn, and they'll be on their own with whatever money he leaves on the dresser and strict instructions not to open the door for anyone.

Ava is used to this. They're all used to this.

She claims her corner of the bed, the side furthest from Dean because he kicks in his sleep, and pulls out her current book—a battered copy of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe she found in a library donation box in Reno. The spine is cracked, someone's drawn a mustache on the White Witch, and it smells like old basement, but it's hers now.

"Nerd," Dean says without looking at her.

"Jerk," she replies, equally automatic.

Sam settles on the floor between the beds with his colouring books, and for a while, the room is almost peaceful. Just the hum of the air conditioner that's working way too hard, the muffled sound of a TV through the wall, and the scratch of Sam's crayons against paper.

John leaves at seven-thirty, as predicted. He presses two twenties into Dean's hand and gives them the usual speech about staying inside, staying together, staying safe. Dean nods seriously, straightening up the way he does when John treats him like the man of the house instead of a ten-year-old kid.

The door closes. The Impala rumbles to life. And then they're alone.

"I'm hungry," Sam announces after exactly four minutes.

Dean sighs the long-suffering sigh of an older brother. "Yeah, yeah. Let me see what's around here."

While Dean studies the collection of take-out menus someone left in the nightstand drawer, Ava wanders to the window. Their room faces the street, and across from the motel, there's a small park. It's not much—just a patch of struggling grass, a few benches, some trees that look like they're barely surviving the Nevada heat. But there's something else, too. A concrete table, the kind with a chessboard pattern built into the surface.

And sitting at that table, alone in the golden early evening light, is a kid.

Ava can't see much from this distance, just that he's small, hunched over the board, moving pieces in some pattern she can't quite make out. No one else is with him. No parents watching from the benches, no other kids running around. Just him and the chessboard and the desert heat.

"Pizza or Chinese?" Dean asks.

Ava turns from the window. "Whatever's cheapest."

They end up with pizza because the Chinese place has a fifteen-dollar minimum and they're trying to make the forty bucks last. Dean negotiates with the delivery guy like he's done this a hundred times before—which he has—and they eat cross-legged on the beds while watching a rerun of The A-Team.

But Ava keeps thinking about the kid in the park, alone with his chessboard, and when Dean and Sam are absorbed in the TV, she looks out the window again.

He's still there.

That night, after Sam falls asleep and Dean is snoring loud enough to wake the dead, Ava lies in bed and stares at the popcorn ceiling. She counts the stains—seven that look like water damage, three that might be old food, one that's definitely suspicious. She thinks about the kid in the park and wonders if he'll be there tomorrow. She thinks about the book in her backpack and whether Mr. Tumnus would like Las Vegas (probably not). She thinks about nothing and everything until sleep finally comes.

John returns at 4 AM. Ava knows because she's always been a light sleeper, because in their life, being a heavy sleeper can be dangerous. She hears the key in the lock, the careful way he opens the door so the hinges don't squeak, the soft sounds of him moving around in the dark. Then his weight settling onto the other bed, his boots hitting the floor one at a time, and finally, silence.

She falls back asleep counting his breaths instead of ceiling stains.

Morning comes too bright and too hot. Sam wants cereal, but they don't have bowls or milk, so Dean gives him a Pop-Tart from the box they keep in the Impala's trunk for emergencies. They eat breakfast watching cartoons with the volume low because John is still sleeping, his arm thrown over his face to block out the light seeping around the edges of the curtains.

At eleven, John wakes up, showers, and leaves again with nothing but "Be good" and another twenty on the dresser.

"Where does he even go?" Sam asks, watching through the window as the Impala disappears down the street.

"Work," Dean says shortly. "Come on, squirt. Let's see if that pool is actually usable."

"I thought you said something died in it," Ava points out.

"Yeah, but I'm bored."

The pool is, miraculously, cleaner than expected. Still not great—the tiles are cracked and there's leaves floating on the surface—but Sam doesn't care. He splashes around in the shallow end with inflatable arm floaties while Dean practices holding his breath underwater and Ava sits on the edge, feet dangling in the water, reading.

She makes it through three chapters before the heat becomes unbearable and the chlorine smell gives her a headache. "I'm going back to the room," she tells Dean.

"Stay inside," he says automatically, channelling John.

"I know."

But she doesn't go back to the room. Instead, she stands in the motel breezeway, looking across the street at the park. The kid is there again, in the same spot, hunched over the same chessboard. Ava chews her bottom lip, thinking. John said to stay inside. But the park is right there, across one street, in full view of the motel. That's practically inside, isn't it?

She goes back to the room—technically obeying—and grabs her backpack. Stuffs in her current book, a notebook, a pen, a half-empty water bottle. The purple ribbon around her wrist catches the light as she adjusts the backpack straps.

When she comes back out, Dean is teaching Sam to do a handstand in the pool.

"Where are you going?" Dean calls when he sees her walking toward the parking lot.

"Just to the park." She points across the street. "You can see me from here."

Dean frowns, considering. He's in charge when John's gone, which means he's supposed to make these decisions, but he's also ten and way more interested in the pool. "Stay where I can see you," he finally says. "And if anyone weird talks to you—"

"Scream and run. I know."

"And don't talk to—"

"I know, Dean."

He watches her cross the street, she can feel his eyes on her back, but he doesn't call her back. Small victory.

The park is smaller up close, more worn down. The grass is patchy and yellow in places, there's graffiti on one of the benches, and someone's left a McDonald's bag under a tree. But it's quiet, and there's actual trees providing shade, and the kid at the chess table yesterday is still there.

Ava approaches slowly, the way she might approach a stray cat—carefully, ready to back off if necessary. Up close, she can see he's younger than her, maybe eight, small and skinny in a button-up shirt that looks too formal for a park in summer. His hair is a mess, falling into his face, and he's wearing glasses that keep sliding down his nose.

And he's playing chess by himself, muttering under his breath as he moves pieces from one side of the board to the other.

"White's queen to f3," he mumbles, moving the piece. Then he switches sides, frowning at the board from a different angle. "But black can counter with knight to d4, which threatens the queen and opens up the bishop's diagonal..."

Ava watches for a full minute before speaking. "Are you playing both sides?"

The kid's head snaps up, eyes wide behind his glasses like she's startled him out of deep concentration. He stares at her, and Ava notices his eyes are this light hazel-brown, and very, very serious for someone so young.

"Yes," he says after a long pause. "It's the only way to practice advanced strategies when you don't have an opponent of equal skill level."

"That sounds lonely," Ava says, and immediately regrets it when his expression closes off a little, becomes more guarded.

"It's logical," he corrects, but his voice is quieter.

Ava shifts her backpack on her shoulders. "I'm Ava. I'm staying at that motel." She points across the street, where she can see Dean's head bobbing in the pool. "I could play with you. If you want. I'm not very good, but I know how the pieces move."

The kid studies her like she's a math problem he's trying to solve. His eyes flick to her purple ribbon, to her backpack, to her face, and back to the chessboard. "Spencer," he says finally. "Spencer Reid."

"Hi, Spencer Reid."

"Just Spencer is fine." He hesitates, then gestures to the seat across from him. "Do you know the point values of the pieces?"

"Um. The queen is the most powerful?"

"That's a common misconception. The king is technically the most important because losing the king means losing the game, but in terms of tactical value..." Spencer launches into an explanation of chess piece values, relative worth, and positional advantage that goes mostly over Ava's head, but she nods along anyway because the way he talks—fast and intense and like the words can't come out quick enough—reminds her of how she feels when she's reading a really good book and can't explain fast enough why it's so amazing.

"So, the queen is worth nine points," Spencer concludes, "but a well-positioned knight can be worth more in certain endgame scenarios."

"Okay," Ava says, not really understanding but liking the way his whole face lights up when he explains things. "So, um. Do you want to play? I'll probably lose really fast, but..."

Spencer resets the board with quick, precise movements. "I can teach you. Chess is just pattern recognition and logical thinking. If you can read, you can play chess."

"I can definitely read," Ava says, grinning. She slides into the seat across from him, the concrete warm under her legs, and Spencer begins to teach.

He's patient, she'll give him that. Every time Ava makes a move that doesn't make sense, Spencer explains why it's problematic and what she should have done instead. He doesn't make fun of her or act like she's stupid for not seeing the trap he set three moves ago. He just... teaches.

"You're leaving your king exposed," he says when she moves her knight without thinking. "See? Now my bishop can—" He demonstrates the checkmate, then resets those pieces. "Try again."

Ava studies the board, chewing on her thumbnail. She moves her other knight instead, and Spencer nods slightly, which she's learning is high praise.

They play until the sun shifts and the shade moves, and Ava's stomach starts to growl. She's lost four games but won some small moral victories—she managed to capture his queen once, which made Spencer's eyebrows go up in what might have been surprise or respect.

"I should get back," she says reluctantly, standing and stretching. Her legs are stiff from sitting. "My brothers are probably wondering where I am."

"You have brothers?" Spencer asks, and there's something in his voice that makes Ava think he's lonely in a way that goes beyond just playing chess by himself.

"Two. Dean's my twin, and Sam's six. They're at the pool."

"Oh." Spencer carefully lines up the chess pieces, making them perfectly straight. "Are you... will you be here tomorrow?"

"Yeah," Ava says, and realizes she really wants to be. "Same time?"

Spencer nods, and there's the tiniest hint of a smile. "That would be acceptable."

When Ava gets back to the motel, Dean is waiting in the breezeway with his arms crossed, trying to look stern but mostly just looking like a wet cat.

"Where were you?"

"The park. You could literally see me."

"You were gone for like two hours."

"I was playing chess."

Dean's expression shifts from annoyed to intrigued. "With who?"

"Just some kid. His name's Spencer."

"Spencer," Dean repeats, and there's a teasing edge creeping into his voice already. "Is Spencer cute?"

"He's eight, you freak."

"So? Is he?"

Ava shoves past him into the room, where Sam is watching TV and eating another Pop-Tart. "I'm not having this conversation."

But Dean follows her, grinning now because he's smelled blood in the water. "Ava's got a friend. Ava made a friend at the park—"

"Shut up."

"—and she won't say if he's cute, which means he definitely is—"

"Dean, I swear—"

"—and she's blushing!"

"I'm sunburned!"

Sam looks up from the TV, confused. "Who's Spencer?"

"Ava's boyfriend," Dean says gleefully.

"He's not my boyfriend, he's eight years old, and I'm going to murder you in your sleep."

But Dean just laughs and flops onto the bed, and Ava tries to ignore the fact that her cheeks are definitely warm, and it's probably not entirely from the sun.

The next day follows the same pattern as the first. John leaves early—this time before they're even awake, just a note on the dresser that says Back tonight. Order food. Stay inside.—and the three Winchester kids are left to their own devices.

Dean decides the pool is his domain now. He's determined to teach Sam to swim without the floaties, which Sam is less than enthusiastic about, and Ava uses this distraction to slip away to the park after lunch.

Spencer is already there, sitting in the same spot, but today there's a book next to the chessboard. Ava can't see the title from across the park, but it's thick and has that worn library look that all the best books have.

"Hi," she says, dropping her backpack and sliding into her seat.

"Hello." Spencer pushes his glasses up his nose. "I brought this in case you did not want to play chess, I thought maybe we could also read. If you wanted. You don't have to."

The words come out in a rush, and Ava realizes Spencer is nervous. Nervous that she might not want to just sit and read, nervous that she might think it's boring, nervous that—

"I'd love to," she says, and his shoulders relax visibly.

His book, it turns out, is about quantum mechanics. Ava's book is The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. They couldn't be more different, but somehow it works—they sit side by side on the bench near the chess table, reading in companionable silence while the park slowly comes alive around them. An old man walks his ancient beagle. A woman jogs past, earbuds in, ignoring everything. Some teenagers cut through on their way to somewhere else.

But at the chess table, Ava and Spencer create their own little world.

After thirty minutes, Spencer speaks without looking up from his book. "What's your book about?"

"Kids who find a magic wardrobe that leads to another world. There's a lion who's basically Jesus, and an ice witch, and Turkish delight that's actually evil."

Spencer considers this. "The religious allegory is obvious, but the Turkish delight as a metaphor for temptation is interesting. It's a very specific cultural choice."

"I just think it sounds delicious," Ava admits. "I've never had Turkish delight."

"Me neither. But the chemical composition would be primarily sugar, gelatin, and cornstarch, with various flavorings. It's similar to gummy candy but with a different texture profile."

Ava grins. "You know a lot about candy chemistry."

"I know a lot about everything," Spencer says matter-of-factly, and it's not bragging, just a statement of fact. "I read a lot."

"Me too. What's your book about?"

And Spencer launches into an explanation of quantum superposition and wave-particle duality that Ava barely follows, but she loves the way he talks with his hands, the way his voice gets faster when he's excited, the way he assumes she's smart enough to keep up even when the concepts are way beyond her.

"So basically," she says when he pauses for breath, "things can be in two places at once until you look at them?"

"That's an oversimplification, but essentially, yes. The act of observation collapses the wave function."

"That's kind of like magic."

Spencer frowns. "It's science."

"Science that sounds like magic," Ava amends. "The best kind."

They read for another hour, trading random observations and facts. Spencer tells her that the park's trees are Palo Verde, that they can photosynthesize through their bark, that they're perfectly adapted to desert life. Ava tells him about Narnia and how Mr. Tumnus is her favourite character because he's kind even when it's hard to be kind.

"Do you believe in fauns?" Spencer asks, curious rather than mocking.

"I believe in... the idea of them," Ava says carefully, thinking about the things she's seen in John's journal, the things Dean whispers about when he thinks Sam can't hear. "I think there's a lot in the world that people don't believe in just because they haven't seen it. That doesn't mean it's not real."

Spencer thinks about this seriously. "Absence of evidence isn't evidence of absence," he says. "Carl Sagan said that. But it's also true that extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence. You can't believe in something just because you want it to be true."

"What if you've seen the evidence?" Ava asks. "What if you've seen things that shouldn't exist?"

"Then you'd have to examine whether your observations were reliable, whether there could be alternative explanations, whether your perceptual biases might be influencing your interpretation of events..."

Ava laughs. "You sound like a scientist."

"I'm going to be one," Spencer says with absolute certainty. "Probably in mathematics or chemistry. Or maybe physics. I haven't decided yet."

"You're eight."

"That doesn't mean I can't have plans."

And Ava, who's never thought past next week, who's never had the luxury of planning anything because John's hunts dictate where they go and how long they stay, feels something twist in her chest. "I think you'll be a great scientist," she says quietly.

Spencer smiles, small and genuine. "Thank you."

They eventually play chess—Ava loses again, but she's getting better at seeing the patterns, at thinking two moves ahead instead of just one. Spencer is generous with his advice, stopping her before she makes truly terrible moves and explaining the better alternatives.

"You're learning fast," he says after she manages to put him in check (even though he escapes and checkmates her six moves later). "Most people take much longer to understand tactical positioning."

"I have a good teacher," Ava says, and Spencer's ears go a little pink.

When she gets back to the motel, Dean takes one look at her and grins. "Lemme guess. Park?"

"Yep."

"Spencer?"

"Yep."

"You're smiling."

"So?"

"So, you like him," Dean says in a singsong voice, and Ava throws her backpack at him.

Day three starts with rain, which seems impossible in the desert but apparently happens. It's a brief storm, the kind that dumps water for twenty minutes and then disappears like it was never there, leaving everything steaming and smelling like hot asphalt.

Ava worries Spencer won't be at the park—why would he sit outside in this weather?—but when the rain stops and she makes her escape from the motel room, there he is. Soaking wet, his hair plastered to his forehead, carefully drying off the chess pieces with his shirt.

"Spencer!" She rushes over. "You're drenched!"

"The rain started suddenly," he says, like this explains why he didn't take shelter. "I didn't want the pieces to get damaged. They're wood. Water can warp them."

Ava pulls her hoodie out of her backpack—she brought it just in case—and hands it to him. "Here. At least wear this till your cloths dry off.”

Spencer looks at the hoodie like it's a puzzle. "Won't you need it?"

"I have another one at the motel."

This is a lie. She has exactly one hoodie. But Spencer is shivering slightly, and there's something about his careful attention to the chess pieces, his complete disregard for himself, that makes Ava want to take care of him.

He puts on the hoodie. It's too big, hanging past his hands, making him look even smaller. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Now come on, let's get under that tree in case it starts raining again."

They relocate to the biggest tree, where the ground is drier and there's actual shelter. Ava pulls out her notebook—the one she uses to write down interesting facts and observations—and shows Spencer her notes.

Vampires can't cross running water, one entry says. Salt circles keep out demons. Silver kills werewolves.

"You really like mythology," Spencer observes, reading over her shoulder.

"I think it's fascinating. Like, every culture has monster stories, right? That has to mean something."

"It means humans are pattern-seeking creatures who create narratives to explain natural phenomena and mortality fears," Spencer says. "But the stories are interesting from a cultural perspective."

"What if they're not just stories?" Ava asks, testing him. "What if monsters are real, but people just call them stories because the truth is too scary?"

Spencer considers this seriously, pushing his glasses up. "If monsters were real, there would be evidence. Bodies, physical remains, documented encounters that couldn't be explained by known phenomena. The fact that we don't have that evidence suggests—"

"What if someone's hiding the evidence?" Ava interrupts. "What if there's people whose job it is to hunt monsters and keep everyone else from knowing they exist?"

"That would require a massive conspiracy," Spencer says doubtfully. "And statistically, the larger a conspiracy, the less likely it is to remain secret. Someone would talk. Someone would provide proof."

Ava thinks about John's journal, about the way he makes them move in the middle of the night sometimes, about the things she's seen that she's not supposed to talk about. "Maybe," she says quietly. "Or maybe people do talk, and everyone just thinks they're crazy."

Spencer looks at her with those serious eyes. "Do you believe in monsters, Ava?"

"I believe in things that people can't explain," she says carefully. "I believe in being prepared. Just in case."

"That's... actually logical," Spencer admits. "Pascal's Wager, but for monsters. If they don't exist, being prepared doesn't hurt you. If they do exist, being unprepared could be fatal."

"Exactly!" Ava grins. "See? You get it."

"I don't believe in monsters," Spencer clarifies. "But I understand the logical framework of your belief."

"That's good enough for me."

They spend the rest of the afternoon reading and talking. Spencer tells her about probability theory and the Monty Hall problem, which breaks Ava's brain a little bit. Ava tells him about the different types of fae creatures in Celtic mythology and how they all have different rules.

"So, if you meet a faerie, never tell them your real name," she explains, "and never eat their food, and definitely never accept a gift without negotiating the terms."

"Those are very specific rules."

"Faeries are tricky. You have to be trickier."

"Have you ever met a faerie?" Spencer asks, and there's something in his voice—not quite belief, but not quite disbelief either. Like he's willing to consider the possibility.

"No," Ava admits. "But I've read a lot about them."

"That's a primary source limitation," Spencer says. "Reading about something isn't the same as empirical observation."

"Maybe someday I'll see one and I'll come back and tell you all about it."

"I'd like that," Spencer says, and Ava realises with a small jolt that she would too. That she wants to come back here, to this park, to this chess table, to this strange, smart kid who talks about quantum mechanics and takes her monster theories seriously.

But they never come back to places. That's not how their life works.

She pushes the thought away and asks Spencer to teach her about the Monty Hall problem again, slower this time, and he lights up and starts explaining with renewed enthusiasm.

When Ava returns to the motel, Dean is sprawled on the bed reading one of John's old magazines, and Sam is asleep on a pile of pillows on the floor.

"Where's your hoodie?" Dean asks without looking up.

"Forgot it at the park."

"Uh-huh." Now he looks at her, eyebrows raised. "Did Spencer forget to give it back, or did you let him keep it?"

Ava feels her cheeks warm. "It was raining. He was wet. It's not a big deal."

"Gave him your hoodie," Dean says, grinning, despite giving it away that he had been watching them. "That's so cute. That's like, movie cute. That's—"

"Shut up, Dean."

"—like, true love cute—"

"He's eight!"

"So? When I'm eight, I'm gonna have like, ten girlfriends."

"You're already been eight, idiot. We're twins."

"Oh yeah." Dean considers this. "Then I'm gonna have them soon. You'll see."

Ava rolls her eyes and flops onto the bed, but she's smiling. She can't help it. The hoodie is still with Spencer, and that means he'll have something to remember her by when they leave, and for some reason, that matters.

That night, John comes back with pizza and news that the job is taking longer than expected. They'll be here for a few more days at least.

A few more days. Ava goes to sleep counting them like gifts.

Day four is perfect—clear skies, a slight breeze that makes the heat bearable, and Spencer is waiting at the chess table with Ava's hoodie neatly folded beside him.

"I washed it," he says, sliding it across to her. "My mom helped. She wanted to know where I got it, but I said I found it."

"Why didn't you just say a friend gave it to you?"

Spencer fidgets with a chess piece. "I don't usually have friends."

The admission is quiet, matter-of-fact, and it hits Ava right in the chest. "Well, you have one now," she says firmly. "So you can tell your mom the truth if you want. That your friend Ava gave it to you."

Spencer looks up, and his smile is small but genuine. "Okay."

They don't play chess right away. Instead, Spencer shows Ava the book he brought today—a collection of star charts and constellation maps. They lie in the grass side by side, the book propped up between them, while Spencer points out different stars and tells her their names.

"That's Vega," he says, pointing to a bright star in the drawing. "It's the brightest star in the constellation Lyra, approximately 25 light-years from Earth. In about 12,000 years, it'll be the North Star instead of Polaris because of axial precession."

"What's axial precession?"

"The Earth wobbles on its axis like a spinning top. Very slowly. It takes about 26,000 years for one complete wobble."

Ava tries to imagine 26,000 years and can't. "That's forever."

"It's actually a relatively short time in cosmic terms," Spencer says. "The universe is approximately 13.8 billion years old."

"Billion with a B."

"Yes. Billion with a B."

They're quiet for a moment, looking at the star charts, and Ava thinks about how small they are. How the entire desert, the entire state of Nevada, the entire Earth is just a speck in all that space. It should make her feel insignificant, but instead it makes her feel... peaceful. Like maybe her problems are small too.

"Do you ever feel lonely?" Spencer asks suddenly, and Ava turns her head to look at him.

"Yeah," she admits. "All the time."

"Me too." He's still looking at the book, not at her. "I'm in high school, but everyone there is so much older. And they don't like me. They think I'm weird."

"You're in high school? But you're eight."

"I skipped several grades. My IQ is 187." He says it clinically, like he's reporting the weather. "Most people don't like that. They think I'm showing off or trying to make them feel stupid."

"I don't think you're showing off," Ava says. "I think you just know things. That's not your fault."

Spencer finally looks at her, and there's something vulnerable in his expression. "You're the first person who's talked to me like a regular kid in a long time."

"You are a regular kid. You just happen to be really smart."

"That's not what regular means."

"Okay, fine. You're an irregular kid. But you're still just a kid." Ava sits up, brushing grass off her shirt. "And for what it's worth, I don't think you're weird. I think everyone else is weird for not seeing how cool you are."

Spencer sits up too, his cheeks slightly pink. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Now come on, teach me about more stars. What's that one?" She points randomly at the chart.

"That's Betelgeuse. It's a red supergiant in the constellation Orion, and it's going to explode someday—probably in the next 100,000 years—and when it does, it'll be visible during the day from Earth."

"A star explosion you can see in the daytime? That's so cool."

"It's called a supernova. And yes, it will be extremely cool. I hope I live long enough to see it."

They spend the next hour going through the star charts, with Spencer teaching and Ava learning, and it's possibly the best afternoon Ava's had in months. Maybe years. There's something about Spencer that makes her feel like she can be herself—the weird kid who knows too much about monsters, who moves around too much to make real friends, who's always reading because books are more reliable than people.

Eventually, they do play chess, and Ava actually manages to win a game.

Spencer stares at the board like it's personally betrayed him. "You... you won."

"I won!" Ava pumps her fist in the air. "I actually won!"

"I made a tactical error in move 17," Spencer mutters, analyzing the board. "I should have moved my rook to—"

"Nope. No take-backs. I won fair and square."

Spencer looks up at her, and then he laughs. It's surprised and genuine, and Ava realizes she's never heard him laugh before. It transforms his whole face, makes him look exactly like what he is—an eight-year-old kid, not a tiny professor.

"You did," he agrees. "Congratulations, Ava."

"Thank you, Spencer."

They reset the board and play again, and this time Spencer wins in about fifteen moves, but Ava doesn't mind. She got one victory, and that's enough.

When she gets back to the motel hoody clutched to her chest, Dean takes one look at her grass-stained clothes and grinning face and shakes his head. "You got it bad, nerd-sister."

"Got what bad?"

"The Spencer thing. The crush. The—"

"It's not a crush!" Ava protests. "He's just really smart and interesting, and we talk about books and stars and—"

"And you gave him your hoodie."

"He was cold!"

"And you're smiling right now just talking about him."

"I'm smiling because I beat him at chess."

Dean sits up, suddenly interested. "Wait, really?"

"Once. Out of like, a hundred games. But still."

"Huh." Dean flops back down. "Okay, that's actually pretty cool. But you still like him."

Ava doesn't answer because maybe Dean is a little bit right, but it's not like that. It's not like the crushes she's read about in books or seen in movies. She doesn't want to hold Spencer's hand or kiss him or any of that gross stuff. She just... likes being around him. Likes the way he talks and thinks. Likes having a friend who gets her.

But Dean wouldn't understand that, so she just throws a pillow at him and goes to take a shower.

Day five starts with a bad sign—John doesn't come back to the motel at all.

Dean tries to play it off like it's no big deal, like this happens all the time (it does, but that doesn't make it less scary), and Sam doesn't really understand what's wrong, but Ava feels the anxiety crawling under her skin. She keeps looking at the door, expecting John to walk through it with that tired look he gets after hunts, but the door stays closed.

"He's fine," Dean says, watching TV with aggressive casualness. "He's done this before. He'll be back."

"What if he's not?" Sam asks in a small voice.

"He will be," Dean insists. "He always comes back."

But Ava sees the way Dean's hands are clenched, the way he keeps glancing at the door just like she does, and she knows he's worried too.

By afternoon, the motel room feels suffocating. The walls are too close, the air is too stale, and Sam won't stop asking when Dad is coming home. Ava needs to get out, needs to breathe, needs—

"I'm going to the park," she announces, grabbing her backpack.

"Ava—" Dean starts.

"You can see me from the window. I'll be right there. I just need some air."

Dean looks like he wants to argue, but he's stressed too, and maybe he gets it. "Fine. But stay where I can see you."

"I will."

The park is a relief. The sun is bright, the air is moving, and Spencer is there—reliable, constant Spencer, hunched over a book at their chess table. He looks up when she approaches, and his face does that thing where it brightens just slightly, and some of the anxiety in Ava's chest loosens.

"Hi," she says, dropping into her seat harder than intended.

"Hello." Spencer pushes his glasses up, studying her. "Are you okay? Your cortisol levels appear elevated based on your facial tension and body language."

"My what?"

"Cortisol. The stress hormone. You seem anxious."

Ava laughs, but it comes out shaky. "Is there anything you don't notice?"

"I notice patterns," Spencer says simply. "And you're disrupting your usual pattern. Normally you smile when you sit down. Today you look like you're carrying something heavy."

For a moment, Ava considers lying. But Spencer is looking at her with those serious, kind eyes, and she's so tired of pretending everything is fine all the time.

"My dad didn't come back last night," she admits quietly. "He's probably fine. He does this sometimes for work. But it's still... scary. Not knowing."

Spencer nods slowly. "It's statistically common. Approximately 50% of marriages end in divorce, and—" Spencer stops, shaking his head. "I'm doing the thing where I recite facts instead of processing emotions. My mom says I do that when I'm uncomfortable."

"I do something similar," Ava admits. "I read. If I'm reading, I don't have to think about real stuff."

"What book are you reading now?"

Ava pulls out her current book—she finished Narnia and moved on to A Wrinkle in Time. "It's about a girl who travels through space and time to find her missing father."

Spencer's eyebrows raise. "That's... somewhat relevant to your current situation."

"Yeah." Ava runs her finger along the worn cover. "I like that she doesn't give up. She keeps looking even when everyone tells her he's gone."

"Do you think about looking for your father when he's gone?"

"No. I just wait. That's what we do—we wait for him to come back." Ava realizes how sad that sounds and tries to smile. "But he always does. So, it's fine."

Spencer doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't push. Instead, he says, "Would you like to play chess? Or we could read together. Whatever would be most helpful for your stress levels."

"Can we just... talk?" Ava asks. "Tell me something interesting. Something that has nothing to do with missing parents or stress or any of that."

Spencer thinks for a moment, then launches into an explanation of how honey never spoils, how archaeologists found 3,000-year-old honey in Egyptian tombs that was still perfectly edible, how the unique chemical composition creates an environment where bacteria can't survive. He talks about the bees and their communication dances, about how a single bee produces only about one-twelfth of a teaspoon of honey in its lifetime, about how ancient humans painted pictures of honey gathering on cave walls 8,000 years ago.

Ava listens, letting Spencer's words wash over her, and slowly, the knot in her chest begins to loosen. This is what she needed—not platitudes or reassurances, but distraction. Facts. Spencer's voice steady and certain, talking about honey and bees and ancient humans like they're the most important things in the world.

When he finally pauses for breath, Ava says, "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For being here. For being you." She fidgets with her purple ribbon. "I don't have a lot of friends. We move around too much. But you're... you're really good at being a friend."

Spencer's ears go pink. "I don't have a lot of practice at friendship. Most people don't want to be friends with me."

"Then most people are stupid."

"Statistically, most people are of average intelligence, which is defined as—"

"Spencer."

"Yes?"

"You're doing the facts thing again."

"Oh." He pushes his glasses up. "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry. I like the facts thing. I just also want you to know that you're a good friend. Even if you don't have a lot of practice."

Spencer smiles, small and genuine. "You're a good friend too, Ava."

They spend the rest of the afternoon reading side by side, occasionally sharing interesting passages from their books. Spencer reads aloud about quantum entanglement, and Ava reads aloud about tesseracts and traveling through the fifth dimension, and somehow their books end up being about similar things—the impossibility of distance, the ways space and time can bend, the idea that nothing is ever really as far away as it seems.

"Do you think we're entangled?" Ava asks suddenly. "Like quantum particles?"

Spencer considers this seriously. "Quantum entanglement requires particles to interact and then remain correlated regardless of distance. In a metaphorical sense, I suppose friendship could be considered a form of entanglement. Once you've connected with someone, that connection persists even when you're physically separated."

"So even when I leave Las Vegas, we'll still be connected?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes." Spencer looks at her. "Are you leaving soon?"

"I don't know. Maybe. We never stay anywhere very long."

"Oh." Spencer looks down at his book. "I'll miss you. When you go."

"I'll miss you too," Ava says quietly, and realises with a sharp pang that she really, really will.

When Ava gets back to the motel, John is there.

He's sitting on the bed, looking tired and dirty and a little bloody around the knuckles, but he's there. Sam is practically in his lap, and Dean is trying to look casual but is clearly relieved.

"Where were you?" John asks when Ava walks in.

"The park. Dean knew where I was."

John nods, accepting this, and doesn't ask any more questions. He never does. He just launches into instructions about ordering dinner and staying quiet because he needs to sleep, and then he's in the shower and then he's asleep, and everything goes back to their version of normal.

But that night, lying in bed next to Dean's snoring form, Ava thinks about quantum entanglement and friendship and how many days they might have left in Las Vegas. She thinks about Spencer sitting alone at the chess table before she showed up, and she wonders what he'll do when she's gone.

She touches her purple ribbon and makes a decision.

Day six starts like any other day, except Ava wakes up with a sense of foreboding she can't quite shake.

John is already up, packing his duffel bag with sharp, efficient movements. This is never a good sign. Packing means leaving, and leaving means—

"Are we going somewhere?" Dean asks, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

"Not yet," John says. "Soon. Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow. I need to wrap some things up first."

"How soon is soon?" Ava asks, her stomach sinking.

"Soon as I'm done." John doesn't look at her, just keeps packing. "Don't wander off today. Stay in the room."

"But Dad—"

"In the room, Ava. That's an order."

An order. Which means no arguments, no negotiations, no slipping across the street to the park. Ava feels panic rising in her throat because she doesn't know when they're leaving, which means she doesn't know if she'll see Spencer again, which means she might not get to say goodbye.

John leaves, and the motel room becomes a prison.

Dean tries to make it better—he suggests cards, then TV, then seeing if the pool is open—but Ava can't settle. She keeps pacing to the window, looking across the street at the park, at the chess table where Spencer is probably waiting.

"You should just go," Dean says after the fifth time she checks the window.

"Dad said to stay inside."

"Dad says a lot of things." Dean looks at her seriously, more serious than a ten-year-old should have to be. "If you want to say goodbye to your friend, you should go say goodbye."

"Dad will be mad."

"I'll cover for you. Tell him you went to get ice or something."

Ava looks at her twin brother, at the way he's trying to act tough but his eyes are kind, and she feels a rush of affection. "Thanks, Dean."

"Yeah, well. Don't make it a habit." He waves toward the door. "Go. Before I change my mind."

Ava grabs her backpack and runs.

Spencer is at the chess table, but he's not playing. He's just sitting there, staring at the board, and when he sees Ava running toward him, his whole face lights up.

"I thought you weren't coming," he says as she skids to a stop, breathing hard.

"My dad said I couldn't leave the room. But I had to see you."

"You disobeyed your father to play chess with me?"

"To see you," Ava corrects. "Not just for chess. For you."

Spencer's ears go pink, but he's smiling. "That's statistically improbable friendship behaviour."

"Good thing we're not statistic-ally probable friends." Ava sits down, catches her breath. "We might be leaving. Soon. Maybe today, maybe tomorrow. I don't know."

The smile fades from Spencer's face. "Oh."

"Yeah."

They sit in silence for a moment, the chess board between them like always, and Ava tries to memorize this—the way the sunlight filters through the trees, the sound of distant traffic, the way Spencer's hair sticks up in the back where he's been running his hands through it.

"I brought something," Ava says suddenly, reaching for her backpack. She pulls out her notebook—the one with all her monster facts and observations—and hands it to him. "For you."

Spencer takes it carefully, like it's something precious. He opens it, reads a few entries, and looks up at her with wide eyes. "Are you sure? This is your research."

"I have a good memory. I can write it all down again." Ava fidgets with her purple ribbon. "I want you to have it. So you can remember... all the weird stuff we talked about."

"I'll remember anyway," Spencer says quietly. "I have an eidetic memory. I remember everything."

"Even better. Then you don't need the notebook, but you can have it anyway."

Spencer clutches the notebook to his chest. "Thank you. I'll keep it safe."

"I know you will."

They play chess—one last game. Ava plays better than she ever has, really thinking through each move, and Spencer plays with focused intensity. It's close, closer than any of their other games, but in the end Spencer wins with a brilliant queen sacrifice that Ava doesn't see coming.

"That was amazing," she says, studying the board. "How did you even think of that?"

"Sometimes you have to sacrifice something important to win the game," Spencer says, and there's something in his voice that makes Ava think he's not just talking about chess anymore.

They reset the pieces, but neither of them makes a move. They just sit there, the board between them, not quite ready to say goodbye.

"Will you write to me?" Spencer asks suddenly. "If I give you my address?"

Ava's heart sinks. "We don't really have an address. We move around too much. I wouldn't know where to tell you to send letters back."

"Oh." Spencer looks down at the chess board. "That makes sense."

"But I'll think about you," Ava says quickly. "When I'm reading, or when I see chess, or when I look at stars. I'll think about you and wonder what you're learning about."

"I'll think about you too," Spencer says. "I'll wonder if you ever meet a real faerie, or if you find any real evidence of monsters."

"And if I do, I'll find a way to tell you. Somehow."

"How?"

Ava doesn't have an answer for that, so she just shrugs. "I'll figure it out. Maybe I'll send a message through quantum entanglement."

Spencer laughs softly. "That's not how quantum entanglement works."

"Then I'll invent a new kind of science that does work that way."

"You'd have to overturn several fundamental laws of physics."

"I'm very determined."

They smile at each other, and Ava wishes time would stop, wishes they could stay in this moment forever—just her and Spencer and the chess board and the Nevada sun.

But time doesn't stop. It never does.

"I should get back," Ava says reluctantly. "Before my dad comes looking for me."

Spencer nods. He stands up, and Ava stands up, and they face each other across the chess table.

"Goodbye, Ava Winchester," Spencer says formally, holding out his hand.

Ava takes his hand and shakes it, equally formal. "Goodbye, Spencer Reid."

But then she drops his hand and hugs him instead—quick and fierce—and Spencer makes a surprised sound but hugs her back, and for just a moment, everything is okay.

When she pulls away, Spencer's glasses are crooked and his eyes are bright, and Ava knows if she doesn't leave right now, she's going to cry.

"Take care of yourself," she says.

"You too. And Ava?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you for being my friend."

Ava's throat is too tight to answer, so she just nods and turns and walks away, and she doesn't look back because if she looks back, she won't be able to keep walking.

Ava makes it halfway across the street before she realizes what she's forgotten.

The purple ribbon.

She stops in the middle of the road, her hand going to her wrist where the ribbon has lived for the past year. She was going to leave it for Spencer. She decided last night that she would leave it for him so he'd have something to remember her by, something more than just a notebook full of monster facts.

But she can't go back now. If she goes back, she'll start crying for real, and she doesn't want Spencer's last memory of her to be tears.

She'll find another way.

When she gets back to the motel room, Dean takes one look at her face and doesn't tease. He just nods and goes back to watching TV, and Ava is grateful for that small mercy.

John returns two hours later.

"Pack up," he says from the doorway, and Ava's heart stops. "Time to go."

"Now?" Dean asks.

"Now."

They pack like they've done a hundred times before—efficiently, quickly, leaving nothing behind. Ava folds her clothes and rolls her sleeping bag and shoves her books into her backpack, and the whole time, her mind is racing.

She has to leave the ribbon. She has to. But how?

"I need to use the bathroom," she says suddenly.

"Make it quick," John says. "We're leaving in five."

Ava grabs her backpack and ducks into the bathroom. She locks the door, pulls out her notebook—no, wait, she gave that to Spencer. She pulls out a pen instead and scribbles on a piece of toilet paper: For Spencer. From Ava.

Then she unties the purple ribbon from her wrist. Her wrist feels wrong without it, naked and exposed, but she wraps the ribbon around the pen and the note, and she shoves it all into her pocket.

When she comes out, Dean is hauling bags to the car and Sam is clutching his stuffed animal, and John is doing one last check of the room.

"I'll be right back," Ava says, and before John can stop her, she's out the door and running across the street.

The park is empty now—Spencer must have left after their goodbye—but the chess table is still there, and the pieces are still set up from their last game.

Ava pulls the ribbon and note from her pocket. She carefully tucks them under the white king, where Spencer will see them when he comes back tomorrow, where they'll be safe and waiting.

"Ava!" John's voice, sharp and commanding. "Now!"

She runs back across the street, climbs into the Impala, and doesn't look at the park as they pull out of the parking lot. She can't. If she looks, she'll break.

Dean reaches over and squeezes her hand once, quick and hard, and Ava squeezes back.

They drive away, and Las Vegas disappears in the rearview mirror.

Spencer arrives at the park at 2:17 PM, later than usual because his mother had a bad morning and needed him to help her find things that weren't actually lost. He's carrying Ava's notebook in his backpack, and he's been reading it all morning, memorizing her handwriting, the way she draws little stars in the margins.

She said maybe they'd leave today. Maybe tomorrow. Which means maybe she's still here. Maybe she'll be waiting at the chess table like always.

But when Spencer reaches their spot, Ava isn't there.

The chess board is exactly as they left it—Spencer's winning position still in place. Spencer sits down heavily, disappointment settling in his chest like a stone. He knew this was coming. He knew Ava would leave eventually. Everyone always leaves eventually.

He pulls out Ava's notebook, intending to read more of her monster entries, and that's when he sees it.

A splash of purple under the white king.

Spencer reaches out carefully and lifts the piece. The ribbon falls onto the board, soft and worn, and there's a note written on what appears to be toilet paper: For Spencer. From Ava.

Spencer picks up the ribbon, running it through his fingers the way he saw Ava do a hundred times. It's soft from wear, faded in places, and one end is slightly frayed. It smells like the motel soap and sunshine and something else he can't quite identify but that he'll always associate with Ava.

She left it for him.

She left, but she left this for him first.

Spencer carefully wraps the ribbon around his wrist, the way Ava wore it. It's too big—his wrists are smaller than hers—so he wraps it twice and ties it carefully. It's not perfect, but it stays on, a splash of purple against his pale skin.

He sits at the chess table for a long time, the ribbon on his wrist and Ava's notebook in his lap, and he thinks about quantum entanglement and friendship and the statistical improbability of meeting someone who understands you in a park in Las Vegas for only six days.

Six days. That's all it was. Less than a week. In the grand scheme of his life, in the 13.8 billion year history of the universe, six days is nothing.

But it doesn't feel like nothing.

It feels like everything.

Spencer opens Ava's notebook to a random page and reads: Kitsune are Japanese fox spirits that can shape-shift into human form. They're tricksters but not necessarily evil. The more tails they have, the older and more powerful they are. Nine tails is the maximum. They're afraid of dogs.

He smiles, imagining Ava writing this, probably sitting in some motel room somewhere, copying from one of her library books. He wonders if she's thinking about him right now. He wonders if she'll remember him in a week, a month, a year.

He'll remember her. Of course he'll remember her. He remembers everything.

But this—the notebook, the ribbon, the six days in the park—he would remember even if he didn't have an eidetic memory. Some things you remember because you can't forget them. Some things you remember because you don't want to.

Spencer touches the ribbon on his wrist and looks at the chess board. Their last game is still there, frozen in time—his brilliant queen sacrifice, her clever defense, the moment just before he won.

He could reset the board. Start a new game. But he doesn't.

Instead, he leaves the pieces exactly where they are, a memorial to six days of friendship in the summer of 1989. Then he picks up Ava's notebook, adjusts the ribbon on his wrist, and starts to read.

Vampires can't cross running water. Salt circles keep out demons. Silver kills werewolves. Faeries can't lie but they can mislead. Dragons hoard gold and virgins. Wendigos are created when humans resort to cannibalism...

Spencer reads every word, memorizes every entry, and thinks about the girl who believed in monsters and quantum mechanics and friends who only knew each other for six days.

"Goodbye, Ava Winchester," he whispers to the empty park. "Thank you for being my friend."

The ribbon catches the sunlight, purple and bright and perfect, and Spencer sits at the chess table and reads about monsters and myths and magic, and he doesn't feel quite so alone anymore.

sThree days later, Spencer's mother asks about the purple ribbon.

"Where did you get that, sweetheart?" Diana Reid asks, noticing it while they're having breakfast.

"A friend gave it to me," Spencer says, touching the ribbon gently.

"A friend? What friend?"

"Her name was Ava. She was staying at the motel across from the park. We played chess together."

Diana's expression softens. "Was? Did she move away?"

"Yes. Her family left a few days ago." Spencer takes a bite of cereal, chewing carefully. "But we were quantum entangled, so we're still connected even though she's gone."

"Quantum entangled?"

"It's a metaphor. Ava liked metaphors."

Diana reaches over and touches Spencer's hand, her own hands shaking slightly. "I'm sorry you lost your friend, baby."

"I didn't lose her," Spencer corrects. "She had to leave. That's different. Losing implies carelessness or accident. Leaving is intentional."

"You're right. I'm sorry she had to leave."

Spencer nods, accepting this. "She gave me her notebook too. It's about folklore and mythology. Did you know that according to Celtic mythology, you should never tell a faerie your real name? They can use it to have power over you."

"I didn't know that," Diana says, smiling. "Will you teach me more?"

"Yes. Ava would want me to share the information. Knowledge should be distributed, not hoarded."

That night, Spencer carefully places Ava's notebook on his bookshelf between his advanced physics textbook and his collection of star charts. The purple ribbon stays on his wrist.

He lies in bed, looking at the stars through his window (Vega, Polaris, Betelgeuse—he can name them all now without even thinking), and he wonders where Ava is. What motel they're staying in. What book she's reading. Whether she's thinking about him too.

The ribbon shifts slightly on his wrist as he moves his arm, and Spencer closes his eyes and imagines the chess table in the park, the desert sun, the sound of Ava's laugh when he said something that was apparently funny even though he didn't mean it to be.

Six days.

Just six days.

But some friendships don't need time to be real. Some friendships are real from the very first move, from the moment someone sits down across from you and says, "I could play with you. If you want."

Spencer touches the purple ribbon one more time, and he falls asleep thinking about quantum entanglement and monsters and the girl who believed in both.

THE END