fade

The steady relentless drumming of the late June rain against the bedroom windowpane was the only sound anchoring the small apartment against the suffocating darkness of the night. It was a heavy rhythmic downpour, a solid wall of water that seemed to cut the two of you off from the rest of the world.

The storm masked the distant comforting hum of city traffic, wrapping the room in a thick, almost claustrophobic silence that felt heavy enough to breathe.

The blue flickering shadows of the lightning danced across the far walls, casting long skeletal shapes over the heavy down comforter and the two bodies tangled beneath it. Every few minutes, a low rumble of thunder would vibrate through the floorboards, a quiet tremor that passed through the mattress and settled deep into the quiet atmosphere of the room.

You lay perfectly still on your side, your eyes fully adjusted to the dimness, tracking the soft shallow rise and fall of Spencer’s chest.

Since he had returned home from the prison, true silence in this apartment was a rarity, an elusive luxury you both chased but rarely caught. Usually, his sleep was a fractured violent thing, a chaotic sequence of sudden jerks, muttered statistics and breathless gasps that would drag him awake in the dead of night, his heart hammering a frantic terrifying rhythm against your palms.

You had grown used to the way he would wake up drenched in a cold sweat, his hazel eyes wide and unseeing in the dark, searching the corners of the ceiling for guards or inmates that weren't there.

It had become your routine to hold him through those tremors, whispering his name like a mantra until his breathing leveled out and the ghosts of the cell block retreated back into the shadows of his mind.

Tonight he seemed deceptively peaceful, the harsh defensive walls he carried around during the day like a protective armor had softened slightly into the mattress. In the pale watery light of the storm, his handsome features looked younger, almost fragile, stripped of the heavy processing analytical mask he wore at the bureau.

The sharp tension that usually held his mouth in a tight guarded line had eased, his lips slightly parted as he drew in deep steady breaths yet even in the deepest depths of rest, the trauma of the past year lingered like a phantom weight, an unspoken presence that refused to leave the room.

You reached out, your fingertips hovering just millimeters away from his skin, mapping the sharp prominent line of his jaw and the faint permanent furrow between his brows that even sleep couldn't fully erase.

His broad shoulders -once relaxed and loose- were set with a faint rigid tension under the thin white cotton of his shirt, his muscles were tightly wound, his fingers curled into loose fists against the sheets as if his body was still subconsciously waiting for a klaxon to wail, a whistle to blow or a heavy iron door to slam shut.

It was a physical manifestation of a survival instinct that had been beaten into him, a reminder that while his body was free, a part of his mind was still locked behind those towering concrete walls.

A quiet aching tenderness swelled in your chest, a mixture of profound love and a fierce protective sorrow that often hit you when you watched him like this. Slowly and carefully, not to startle him, you closed the remaining distance between you.

You slid your body across the mattress until the warmth of your bare thighs pressed against his leg under the covers, offering a grounded real world anchor. You looped an arm over his waist, your hand resting gently over the steady comforting beat of his heart.

Pressing your nose into the crook of his neck, you inhaled deeply, filling your senses with his familiar comforting scent, a rich mix of old book pages, cedarwood and the clean distinct heat of his skin.

You let out a long quiet breath against his collarbone, letting your eyelids drop as his radiating warmth began to heavy your limbs. You finally allowed yourself to drift off into the dark secure in the cozy dangerous belief that the worst of his nightmares were behind him and that tonight, he was finally safe in your arms.

Deep beneath the surface of his skin, behind the quiet facade of his resting features, Spencer’s mind was drowning in a sensory overload of concrete, iron and blood.

In the dark twisted abyss of his subconscious, the gentle rhythmic patter of the rain outside the window transformed, bleeding into the deafening metallic echo of heavy cell doors slamming shut in a synchronized mocking cadence.

The sound vibrated through his skull, loud and real enough to make his ears ring, the air in his lungs grew thick, hot and stagnant, instantly reeking of harsh industrial bleach, stale sweat and the sharp unmistakable copper tang of dried blood.

He was back in the yard, the towering gray walls closed in on him from all sides, blotting out the sky, trapping him in a visual prison of shadow and stone.

The distant distorted shouting of correctional officers ordering inmates to the fence bled into the low predatory murmurs of the men circling him, their heavy boots scraping against the gravel in a terrifyingly familiar rhythm.

He could hear the clinking of chains, the heavy thud of a nightstick hitting a ribcage and the desperate breathless gasps of someone fighting for their life in a blind spot.

Suddenly, the dream fractured, the ambient noise cutting out into a dead hyper focused silence, a dark faceless silhouette lunged out of the shadow of the watchtower, moving with a blinding lethal speed straight toward his blind spot.

The glint of a homemade shank cut through the darkness, aimed directly for his throat. He tried to move, tried to calculate an escape route but his spine collided heavily with the cold unyielding chain link fence.

His escape routes were entirely cut off, his back pressed against the wire, the metal digging into his shoulder blades as the weapon came closer and closer.

In the real world, the hyper vigilant survival instincts that had been ruthlessly carved into Spencer's DNA during his time inside completely hijacked his physical form, bypassing his conscious mind entirely.

His eyes flew wide open in the dark room but they weren't the soft warm hazel eyes that looked at you with adoration over morning coffee or crinkled at the corners when he smiled, they were completely blank, unseeing and wild with a primal territorial panic.

Before a single breath could leave your lungs, his body moved with a terrifying speed that you had never seen in him before. With a sharp violent surge of raw strength, Spencer flipped your entire body onto your back.

The sudden brutal displacement knocked the wind right out of your lungs, your spine colliding heavily with the mattress as his massive heavy frame pinned you flat beneath him like an immovable mountain.

You didn't even have a split second to register the shock, let alone scream before his right hand snapped upward.

His fingers fisted ruthlessly into the roots of your hair at the nape of your neck, his grip tightening like an iron clamp, his knuckles digging into your scalp as he violently yanked your head back, forcing your chin up and exposing the delicate pulsing line of your throat to the cold air of the room.

At the exact same millisecond, his left hand crashed down over your wrists, gathering them together and pinning both of your arms above your head against the pillow, his grip a bruising crushing force that felt like steel manacles locking around your skin, cutting off your circulation and trapping you completely.

"Spencer!" You gasped, the sound choking into a broken wheeze in your throat as the sheer suffocating weight of his chest crushed down on your ribs, making it physically impossible for your lungs to expand.

You thrashed beneath him in total blind shock, your legs kicking instinctively against the heavy down comforter, trying to slide your hips out from under his locked heavy thighs but he was completely unyielding.

He didn't budge a single millimeter, his knees anchoring your lower body into the mattress while his upper body held you in a vice grip. He leaned down lower, his face hovering just inches from yours, his jaw set so hard the muscle in his cheek was violently ticking.

His breathing was coming in ragged animalistic snarls, his chest heaving wildly against your bare skin. He was looking straight through you, his pupils completely blown out and dark, staring at a ghost from the yard that wasn't there.

To his traumatized brain, your frantic struggles weren't the movements of the person he loved, they were the desperate lethal lunges of an inmate trying to take his life in the dark and his body was operating on pure unadulterated survival.

Panic, cold, sharp and overwhelming flooded your veins, replacing the peaceful afterglow of sleep with a terrifying adrenaline rush.

Your heart hammered a frantic erratic rhythm against your ribs, a wild thumping that you were certain he could feel through his chest as you looked up into the eyes of the stranger hovering over you.

The man above you had Spencer's face, Spencer's broad chest and Spencer's scent, but the spirit behind those eyes was entirely feral, locked away in a violent memory that you had no access to.

"Spencer! Please!" You cried out, your voice breaking into a raw frightened whimper as his fingers dug even deeper into the meat of your wrists, the pressure beginning to throb with a dull dangerous ache that made your bones protest.

The grip on your hair was so tight it brought tears to your eyes, the skin of your neck stretched taut, leaving you completely vulnerable beneath him.

You could feel the heat radiating off his body, a burning feverish warmth that felt entirely different from the comforting heat you had snuggled into just an hour ago.

He was rigid, his muscles locked like stone, every line of his body vibrating with the readiness to inflict violence to save himself.

You twisted your right hand violently, ignoring the sharp stinging friction of his skin against yours, refusing to let the paralyzing fear keep you still. Through a surge of pure desperate adrenaline, you managed to slide your hand through the gap of his fingers, wrenching your wrist free from his iron grip.

You didn't try to strike him and you didn't try to push him away, knowing that any aggressive movement would only confirm his delusion and make his survival instincts push harder, instead you brought your palm up, slapping it flat against his burning sweat slick cheek.

Your fingers cupped his jawline with as much force as you could muster, your thumb pressing firmly into his skin to anchor him to the present.

"Spencer! Spencer look at me! Look at my face, it's me!" You shouted into the dark, your voice a frantic commanding sob that cut sharply through the heavy silence of the bedroom and the drumming of the rain. "You're home! Spencer, look at my eyes! You're safe, you're in our bed! It's me!"

The sound of his own name, delivered not with the anger of a guard or the malice of an inmate but with the desperate terrified love of your voice seemed to bounce off the walls and strike something deep within his locked down consciousness. It was a frequency his trauma couldn't block out.

The terrifying blank veil in his hazel eyes suddenly shattered like brittle glass. He blinked once, twice, his focus violently shifting as the dark suffocating illusion of the prison yard evaporated into the thin air of the room.

The cold concrete walls vanished and the familiar contours of his own bedroom, the soft sheets and the blue light of the storm rushed back into his brain. His gaze focused, dropping down to finally take in the scene directly beneath him.

The realization hit him like a physical bone shattering collision.

He saw his own hand tangled violently in your hair, bending your neck at a painful unnatural angle. He saw his other hand bruising your left wrist against the pillow, his fingers clamped around you like a weapon.

He felt the frantic terrified trembling of your body beneath his weight, the way your chest was heaving for the air he was denying you and he saw the tears of pure shock leaking out of the corners of your eyes, tracking down into your hair.

The possessive defensive wall inside him dropped into an abyss of absolute sickening horror.

Spencer recoiled as if he had just touched a live electrical wire. He let go of your hair and your wrists instantly, a sharp strangled gasp ripping from his throat.

He scrambled backward across the mattress with a desperate frantic urgency, his long limbs tangling in the heavy down comforter as he practically threw his own body away from yours. He didn't stop until his spine collided heavily with the wooden headboard at the absolute furthest corner of the bed, his knees pulling tightly up into his chest as if he was trying to make himself as small as physically possible.

His chest heaved, a raw choked sob tearing out of his throat, the sound incredibly ugly, broken and hollow in the quiet room. He looked down at his own hands, his fingers trembling so violently he could barely hold them together.

He stared at his palms with total disgust, horror and a mounting unadulterated panic, seeing the faint immediate red marks his fingers had just left on your pale skin, the physical evidence of his own capability to hurt you.

"I'm… it's…" he stuttered, his voice a fractured breathy thread that sounded completely unraveled. He tucked his hands against his chest, folding them into his armpits as if trying to hide them from view, his face twisting in an expression of pure devastated self loathing. "I'm so sorry... baby I'm so sorry… I didn't mean to... I thought... I thought I was back inside... I thought they found me... I didn't mean to put my hands on you… I swear I didn't."

He didn't even look up at you, his head dropping heavily between his knees as another violent sob shook his entire frame, his broad shoulders trembling under his shirt.

He was hyperventilating now, his words tumbling out in a frantic unorganized stammer, the statistics and facts he usually used to calm himself completely useless against the raw agony of his guilt.

"Please don't look at me like that... please baby… I'm so sorry... so fuckin sorry... I almost hurt you... I almost killed you... I put my hands on you..."

Your own heart was still racing, the adrenaline slowly fading into a heavy aching sorrow as you watched him completely fall apart in the corner of the bed. The fear you had felt a moment ago evaporated entirely, replaced by a desperate maternal need to soothe the agonizing fracture in his mind and pull him back from the ledge of his own guilt.

You sat up slowly, your body aching slightly from the rough positioning but you ignored it, keeping your eyes locked on his shaking form. You slowly began to shift your weight, dragging your body across the mattress toward him, making sure your movements were loud and clear so you wouldn't startle him again.

"Spencer... it's okay," you whispered softly, your voice steady and sweet despite the tremor in your chest. You reached your hand out through the dark, stretching it across the space between you to touch his knee. "It was just a nightmare baby… I'm okay! Look at me, I'm right here… you didn't hurt me."

The moment your fingertips brushed the soft fabric of his sweatpants, Spencer flinched away violently, drawing his legs even tighter against his chest, twisting his body into the corner to avoid your touch as if your skin was burning iron.

"No! Don't... don't touch me!" He cried out, his voice cracking into a panicked defensive yelp that cut you like a knife. He pulled himself away until he was practically pressed into the drywall, his eyes wide and wild, staring at you with a terrifying new realization. "Don't come near me… please… I... I can't… I'm not safe… you saw what I just did… I'm not safe for you."

You froze, your hand hovering in the empty air between you, the coldness of the separation striking you right in the center of your chest. The distance between you was only a few feet of mattress but it felt like an uncrossable canyon.

Spencer wrapped his long arms around his knees, burying his face entirely in his shins, his shoulders shaking in the dark as the rain continued to slam ruthlessly against the windowpane. He completely closed himself off from you, refusing to look at your face, refusing to breathe the same air.

The heavy sickening realization setting in deep within his bones that the prison had changed him into something fundamentally broken, something feral, something dangerous.

The silence that settled over the bedroom was no longer peaceful, it was a thick unyielding wall built entirely out of his own suffocating guilt and the terrifying knowledge that he had become too dangerous to touch the only person he loved.

He stayed there, a silent weeping silhouette in the dark and as you slowly pulled your hand back to your chest.

You realized that the ghost of that prison cell had finally found a way inside your home and it was threatening to tear Spencer away from you entirely.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻

The progression from late spring to early June usually brought a vibrant warmth to the city, but inside the four walls of the apartment, the atmosphere had plunged into a permanent suffocating winter.

​A full week had dragged by since the night the bedroom walls had dissolved into a phantom prison yard, and with every passing day, the frost between you and Spencer had only thickened, hardening into a barrier that felt entirely impossible to breach.

​The most glaring monument to this self imposed exile was the living room couch, the heavy wool blanket you had thrown over the back of it months ago was now permanently unfurled, its edges creased from seven consecutive nights of Spencer burying his long frame into the narrow cushions.

​Leaving the bedroom behind each evening, he left your shared bed feeling massive, cold and entirely hollow.

​You would lie awake for hours on your side, staring at the untouched pristine expanse of the mattress beside you, the distant muffled creaks of the sofa springs in the next room, a constant painful reminder of the canyon he was widening between you.

​During the daylight hours, Spencer had turned the concept of physical boundaries into a clinical science. When you passed him his morning coffee mug, your fingers accidentally brushed against his knuckles for a mere fraction of a second. The reaction was instantaneous and devastating.

​Spencer flinched violently, his hand jerking back as if the skin of your fingertips was a searing hot iron. He nearly dropped the ceramic mug, his grip tightening around the handle until his knuckles turned a bloodless white.

​"Sorry," he muttered, the word clipped, low and entirely devoid of its usual melodic honey. He didn't look up, his voice sounding like it was being forced through a tight restricted throat. "I’m sorry, just... clumsy."

​He wouldn't look you in the eye, not when you asked him how he slept, not when you tried to strike up a conversation about a book he was reading, and certainly not when you were in the same room.

​He hid behind his work with a desperate manic intensity as the dining room table had been completely swallowed by a chaotic mountain of closed case files, psychological profiles and behavioral assessments.

​Spencer sat there for hours on end, his posture stiff, rigid and completely guarded, his broad shoulders hunched over the paperwork like a shield designed to keep you out.

​He looked entirely exhausted, a shell of the man who had crawled into bed with you a week ago. The dark violet circles bruised into the delicate skin beneath his eyes had grown deep and hollow, casting gaunt shadows over his cheekbones.

​His hair was a wild unkempt mess, the curls tangled from the restless hours he spent tossing and turning on the couch.

​You knew him well enough to calculate the math he was running in his head, every hour he stayed awake was an hour he couldn't have an episode, every cup of black coffee he forced down his throat was a preventative measure against his own subconscious.

​He was starving his body of rest because he genuinely believed that the moment his eyelids closed, he became a lethal weapon, a monster waiting to snap in the dark.

​You would watch him from the doorway of the living room, watching the manic frantic way his fingers gripped his pen, the way his breath would occasionally catch in a ragged hitch if you moved too quickly or made a sudden sound.

​He was jumping at his own shadow, hyper vigilant and entirely wound tight, a ticking time bomb of repressed trauma and self loathing.

​The complete deprivation of his touch was making your skin feel hyper sensitive, a restless aching hunger settling into your bones.

​You missed the heavy grounding weight of his hands on your waist, the possessive deep rumbles of his voice against your ear when he was relaxed, and the absolute safety of being held so tightly against his chest that there wasn't a whisper of space between you.

​Now you were living with a beautiful tragic stranger who looked through you, around you, anywhere but at you, treating you like a fragile piece of glass he was terrified of shattering if he breathed too hard.

​The silence in the apartment was becoming completely unlivable, the pressure in the rooms building to a dangerous suffocating peak as the late night hours began to roll in once again.

​The clock on the nightstand ticked past midnight, its steady clinical rhythm counting down the final agonizing moments of another day lost to the ice.

​In the dim ambient shadows of the bedroom, the atmosphere felt impossibly thick, charged with a heavy lingering silence that had been building for seven straight days. It was a pressure cooker of unspoken words and repressed grief.

​You sat on the edge of the large empty mattress, your knees pulled up slightly, watching the doorway. A moment later, the quiet familiar sound of Spencer’s shuffling footsteps echoed against the hardwood floor.

​He moved like a ghost, his tall gaunt frame silhouetted by the pale moonlight as he crossed the frame of the door. He didn't intend to stop, but as he passed, you shifted against the sheets, the soft fabric rustling in the dead quiet of the apartment.

​Spencer froze instantly, his hyper vigilant posture stiffening into defensive rigidity.

​He purposefully, deliberately kept his eyes glued to the floorboards, treating the mattress like a crime scene he was forbidden from contaminating. The tight set of his jaw proved he knew exactly where you were sitting. He let out a slow shallow breath, trapped in the doorway, caught between the urge to run and the agonizing reality that you were awake.

​"Goodnight," he murmured, his voice a flat mechanical whisper that barely carried across the room. It was the same hollow scripted sign off he had used every single night this week.

​He immediately began to turn away, his shoulder shifting to shield his exit as he prepared to retreat to the safety of the couch.

​Something inside you violently snapped. The endless freezing nights, the clinical avoidance in the kitchen, the agonizing memory of him flinching away from the mere ghost of your touch, it all rushed to the surface, boiling over into a hot volatile surge of pure unadulterated frustration and blinding loneliness.

​Before your brain could even process the impulse, you lunged off the bed, your bare feet slapped loudly against the hardwood floor as you crossed the room in three blind frantic strides.

​Spencer didn't even have time to react before you stepped directly into his path, your smaller frame completely blocking the narrow hallway. You threw your shoulders back, physically anchoring yourself in front of him like an unyielding wall.

​"No," you breathed, your voice raw, trembling and vibrating with an intensity that cut through the room like a blade. "No Spencer, you're not sleeping on that couch tonight."

​Spencer froze instantly, the sudden aggressive blockage of his path sending a visible tremor through his long frame. Slowly and painfully, he forced his head up, his hazel eyes flickering behind the thick glass of his lenses, finally clashing directly into yours.

​"Sweetheart please," he muttered, his jaw ticking violently, a small muscle in his cheek twitching with the immense effort it was taking to keep his composure from unraveling. He took a deliberate heavy step backward, trying to reestablish the clinical safety distance. "Go back to bed, it’s late and I’m... I’m tired… I need to lie down."

​"I don't care how late it is!" You snapped, stepping right with him, refusing to give him an inch of the separation he was begging for. The tears you had been suppressing for days finally spilled over your lower lashes, tracking hot and fast down your cheeks. "And don't you dare lie to me and tell me you're going to sleep out there! You aren't sleeping at all Spencer! Look at you! You're completely destroying yourself and you're destroying us, because you're terrified to close your eyes!"

​"I'm managing my symptoms based on a structured behavioral regression model," he stammered out, his voice rising slightly, the clinical jargon slipping out of his mouth like a desperate shield to keep his emotions contained. "Statistically, the probability of a secondary night terror episode decreases dramatically if the sensory triggers of the shared environment are-”

​"Stop it! Stop running behind the math Spencer! I don't want the statistics!" You screamed, your voice breaking into a ragged desperate sob that echoed loudly down the dark hallway. "I don't care about the models! I miss my boyfriend! I miss the man who holds me until I fall asleep! You're abandoning me Spencer! You're letting your guilt punish both of us!"

​"I'm protecting you!" Spencer suddenly shouted back, his voice completely losing its calm intellectual edge and dropping into a deep jagged guttural octave that sounded like it was being violently dragged over broken gravel.

​The fragile artificial composure he had spent a week manufacturing didn't just crack, it entirely shattered into a million pieces. He stepped forward, his massive towering height looming over you in the dark hallway, his entire body vibrating with a desperate self loathing agony.

​"How can you stand there and say I'm punishing you?" He yelled, his eyes wide, wild and swimming with a thick veil of tears that finally broke, spilling down his pale cheeks. His voice caught in a raw choked sob, his face twisting into an expression of pure devastating self loathing. “I'm terrified of myself! Do you understand me? I'm completely terrified of what I’ve become! I woke up in the dark and my hands were tangled in your hair! My body was pinning you down and I was choking the breath out of your lungs that I almost killed you! The person I love more than my own life... I treated you like an inmate trying to murder me in the yard…"

​He looked completely defenseless, his long frame caving inward as his trembling hands flew up to cover his face.

​"I'm a monster," he wept openly now, his chest hitching in a frantic hyperventilating rhythm as he backed up until his spine slammed into the drywall of the hallway. "I came out of that place with a sickness in my head and it’s… dangerous. How can you want me near you? How can you look at me and want me in that bed when you know that if I close my eyes..."

​The raw bleeding vulnerability of his confession stripped away the last of your frustration, leaving behind nothing but a profound wave of absolute devotion. You didn't hesitate for a single millisecond, you bridged the final agonizing distance between your bodies and stepped directly into his personal space.

​"Spencer," you whispered, your voice a fierce steady vow that refused to let him sink any deeper into his own darkness.

​Before he could flinch, before he could recalculate his coordinates or throw up another psychological wall, you reached out and grabbed both of his trembling sweat slick hands.

​He tried to pull away, his muscles tensing as a panicked gasp left his lips, but you held on with a surprising strength of your own. You forced his long shaking fingers open, flattening his large palms directly against your body, one hand locked firmly over the frantic rapid fire beating of your heart and the other pressed flat against the bare burning skin of your waist.

​"Look at me," you commanded softly, forcing him to meet your gaze through his tears. "I don't care about the nightmares Spencer, I don't care about the prison and I don't care about the scars or the survival instincts. I know exactly who you're… you're my man and you could never be a monster to me."

​You squeezed his wrists, pressing his palms heavier into your skin, letting him feel the real warm pulsing evidence of your life beneath his fingers.

​"I'm not afraid of you, I will never be afraid of you. I don't need a perfectly safe clinical apartment Spencer... I just need you, all of you, even the dark parts so please... stop running away from me."

​The heavy agonizing dam that Spencer had constructed out of his suffocating guilt, his clinical evaluations and his endless exhausting self loathing didn’t just crack under the weight of your words, it shattered into absolute nothingness.

​The moment his bare trembling palms registered the real radiating warmth of your skin, the last remaining shred of his discipline dissolved into a desperate feral hunger. A low jagged sound tore from deep within his chest, a raw groan of pure undisputed defeat that vibrated right through your own ribs.

​"Baby… please," he choked out, his voice cracking violently as his forehead crashed down against yours, his eyes closing tight as if the physical sensation of your skin was a shock to his entire nervous system. "Don't say that, don't say you aren't afraid of me when I'm... when I'm falling apart like this."

​"I'm not," you cried, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt at his waist, pulling him closer. "I'm not afraid of you Spencer… I love you."

​He didn't hesitate for another microsecond, he didn't run a single statistic in his head, and he didn't let the terrifying ghosts of the prison cell block dictate his movements for a single second longer. His hands suddenly locked onto your waist, claiming what he had starved himself of for seven endless freezing days.

​With a sudden violent surge of long denied possessiveness, he yanked your entire frame forward, lifting you completely off your feet and spinning you around in one fluid heavy motion. Before you could even register the sudden shift in gravity, Spencer ruthlessly slammed your back straight into the narrow hallway wall.

​"Tell me again," he demanded frantically, his voice a dark unhinged rasp that vibrated directly against your lips as he hovered millimeters away, his hands anchoring your hips back into the wall so hard your spine arched. "Tell me you want me… say it baby... please."

​"I need you," you sobbed out, your hands flying up to wrap securely around his neck, your fingers tangling deep into his curls. "I need you so bad Spenc-"

​The last syllable of his name hadn't even fully left your lips before he completely cut you off, crashing his mouth down onto yours. It wasn't a calculated or a gentle touch, it was a bruising desperate collision of lips and teeth, a messy starved reclamation that tasted of salt, tears and pure intoxicating heat.

​He bit at your lower lip, his tongue forcing its way past your teeth with a rough demanding stroke that made a soft helpless whimper slip from your throat.

​He broke the kiss for a mere fraction of a second just to draw a ragged burning lungful of air, but immediately surged right back in, capturing your mouth again, his tongue tangling with yours in a deep wet frantic rhythm that left you entirely breathless.

​Without letting an inch of space come between your bodies, he hooked his hands under your thighs, hoisting you up around his waist and carrying you directly over the threshold into the dark shadowed sanctuary of the bedroom, walking blind until your bodies tumbled together onto the center of the mattress.

​He began to rain hot heavy kisses all over the damp flushed skin of your face, his mouth moving frantically, tracing the sharp line of your jaw, pressing deep lingering marks into the sensitive skin beneath your ear before surging upward to press heavy wet kisses onto your fluttering tear stained eyelids.

​"I… I missed you... I missed you so much, it was killing me," he gasped against your neck, his chest heaving violently against yours. “I’m so sorry sweetheart... I'm so sorry for leaving you in the dark... please just let me taste you… I can’t handle another second of not having you. I tried to stay away, I swear I tried… but I'm losing my mind without you."

​"Don't stay away again," you pleaded, arching your neck to give his mouth more room. "Don't ever go back to that couch Spencer."

​"Never," he swore against your skin, his teeth grazing your collarbone just hard enough to send a wild electric shudder straight down your spine. "Never again, I promise you… just let me have you."

​His hands slid from your waist down to your thighs, his fingers hooking under the fabric of your shorts and dragging them downward with a reckless tearing force. He shoved you backward until you were flat on your back in the center of the bed, looming over you with his eyes dark, blown out and completely wild.

​He reached down, his long fingers tangling into your hair at the sides of your head, pinning you to the pillow so you couldn't look away.

​"Look at me," he commanded, his voice dropping into a deep gravelly rasp, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones, wiping away the fresh tears. "Tell me you're ready for me... I need to hear it doll, I need to hear that you aren't afraid of what I'm about to do to you."

​"I want you to touch me," you breathed, your voice breaking into a ragged sob as your hands framed his sharp jaw. "I'm not afraid Spencer… please… just take me."

​"You're so good to me," he whispered, slamming his mouth down onto yours one more time in a deep desperate lingering kiss before sliding backward, dropping down to his knees at the foot of the bed.

​His hands slid down the length of your bare legs, his fingers wrapping tightly around your ankles before he ruthlessly hauled your body down the mattress until your hips were perfectly aligned with the edge, completely open before him.

​"Look at you," he whispered, his voice dropping into a deep gravelly rasp that vibrated right through the floorboards. His knuckles slowly, deliberately traced the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. "A full week of me sleeping on that couch, a full week of me treating you like you were made of glass and you’re already so wet for me. Tell me you missed my hands on you… tell me."

​"I did," you gasped out, your hips twitching under his touch. "I missed you so much Spencer."

​"I know baby, I know," he murmured, his hands sliding flat against the soft flesh of your inner thighs, mapping the contours of your skin as he stroked upward from your knees to your hips with a slow deliberate pressure.

​"You have no idea what it did to me… seeing you every day and not being able to touch you," he whispered, leaning over your legs as his long curls brushed against your shins, lowering his head to press a slow lingering kiss to the soft flesh of your knee. "Seven days of watching you move through this apartment, starving for you... I'm so sorry I made you feel abandoned."

​He slid his hands higher, slowly parting your legs, pressing his lips to the middle of your right thigh, his breath hot and damp against your skin. He shifted his grip, anchoring onto your thighs with a firm unyielding pressure, exposing your center to the pale light.

​Your hips twitched instinctively, a soft whimper escaping your lips as his mouth crept closer.

​The first touch of his mouth was an agonizingly slow calculated press of his warm lips against the hyper sensitive crease of your hip. He hovered there, his hot heavy breath fanning over your swollen center, before parting your folds with the flat tip of his tongue, sliding it with excruciating slowness from the very bottom of your cunt all the way up to the hyper sensitive peak of your clit.

​"Spencer! Oh god... Spencer," you cried out, your spine instantly arching off the mattress as your fingers fisted blindly into the bunched up sheets on either side of your head.

​"Do you like that baby?" He muttered against your wet skin, his voice dripping with authority. "Tell me how it feels, let me hear you say it."

​"It feels so good... please… don't stop," you begged, your voice tight and strained.

​He leaned in completely, his lips sealing over your swollen pulsing folds. He abandoned all gentleness, his tongue shifting into a relentless rhythm that drove you entirely out of your mind. He flattened his tongue against your clit, tracing tight, agonizingly perfect circles around the nerve endings while simultaneously using his lips to suck the sensitive peak deep into the heat of his mouth.

​The wet rhythmic sounds of his mouth against your flesh echoed loudly through the quiet bedroom. You tossed your head from side to side on the pillow, a continuous stream of fractured gasps slipping from your lips.

​Suddenly, the distance became too much for him even down there. Spencer surged up the length of your body, pinning your torso flat against the mattress with his chest as he smashed his wet, slick mouth right back onto yours. The kiss was chaotic and loud, his tongue driving into your mouth, forcing you to taste your own sweetness on his lips.

​"You taste so good... so sweet," Spencer muttered right against your lips, pulling back just an inch to look down into your glazed eyes. His lips were completely smeared with your internal wetness, glittering in the blue moonlight. "Look at how much you're leaking for me. You like what I'm doing to you sweetheart?"

​"Yes!... S’much," you cried out, your hands gripping his shoulders desperately. "It's yours… please... "

​"Good girl," he growled, before sliding back down between your thighs to finish what he started.

​He drove his tongue back into your heat, his pace accelerating into something desperate and frantic. He flattened his tongue and slid it deep inside your opening before curling it upward to stroke your internal walls, while his thumb pressed firmly against your clit to keep the external stimulation reaching a feverish unbearable pitch.

​You were completely trapped beneath the unyielding weight of his shoulders, your legs held wide open, forced to endure the absolute mastery of his mouth. Every single flick of his tongue felt like a lightning strike straight to your nervous system.

​"Spencer… please!... I… Ahh!~... I'm gonna... I'm gonna cum… please… I can't take it!" You screamed, your fingers tearing at the pillowcases as your pelvis violently trembled against his face.

​"That's it… arch for me you slut," he growled against your skin, his thumbs digging into your hips, tilting your pelvis higher to meet his mouth. "Give it all to me, cum for me doll… come on!"

​He delivered three fast blunt merciless suctions directly on your hyper sensitive peak, paired with a deep slide of his tongue inside your tight opening, and the dam inside you violently broke.

​A sharp shattered wail tore from your throat, your entire body going completely rigid on the mattress as a massive messy orgasm crashed over you. Your internal muscles seized in violent spasms, milking the empty air as your release poured out of you in hot pulsing waves.

​Spencer didn't pull back for a single second. With a dark feral snarl of pure victory, he drove his face even deeper into your soaking heat, his tongue working frantically to lap up every single drop of your release, drinking down your climax until your hips were trembling so violently you completely collapsed back into the sheets, gasping for air.

​He stayed on his knees for a long heavy beat, his chest rising and falling violently, his lips wet and smeared with the shimmering evidence of your surrender. When he finally lifted his head, his hazel eyes were gone, the pupils completely blown out into two dark bottomless voids of pure unadulterated territorial hunger.

​Spencer stood up from the edge of the bed, his movements fluid, frantic and filled with a singular purpose. His eyes never left your glazed face as his fingers flew to the drawstring of his sweatpants, untying and kicking them away in a single swift motion, stripping out of his clothes with a trembling speed.

​In the pale light, your eyes traced the stark jagged lines of the prison scars on his skin, the faded lingering bruises on his ribs and the intense rigid set of his spine, but there was no fear left in your chest. His length was fully erect, thick and throbbing with a heavy pulse against his lower abdomen, completely slick with a heavy drop of precum that caught the blue light of the room.

​He didn't say a word as he crawled back over you, moving up the mattress like a predator, his large frame blocking out the bedroom. He collapsed down against your chest, his arms winding tightly around your neck as he buried his face in your hair, a fractured sobbing gasp leaving his lips.

​"I can't breathe without you," he whispered frantically, his voice cracking as his lips blindly sought yours in the dark. He caught your mouth in a wet heavy bruising tangle of tongues, his teeth grazing your lips as he drank down your whimpers. "Talk to me doll… please… let me know you're right here with me."

​"I love you Spencer," you sobbed out, arching your neck as his mouth slid down to press a hot heavy kiss to your jawline. "Spencer please… I need you inside me right now… look at how much I want you."

​"You're so good to me… my girl… my good sweet girl."

​He slid down your body, his hands locking onto your waist, his fingers sinking deep into your hips. He anchored you down, tilting your pelvis upward. The second his length lined up with your entrance, all of Spencer’s legendary intellect stripped away, leaving behind a man driven by sheer primitive starvation.

​He didn't ease into you, he didn't give your body a second to adjust. With a brutal desperate thrust of his hips, Spencer buried himself to the absolute hilt inside your soaking heat in one single bottoming surge.

​A high shattered scream tore straight from your throat, your spine arching off the mattress as your vision sparked white at the blunt massive depth of him. The stretch was instantaneous and suffocating, your internal walls throwing up a violent frantic grip around his shaft as your cervix absorbed the full heavy impact of his pelvis.

​Spencer let out a broken ragged groan that vibrated right through your chest. His composure completely failed, his massive frame collapsing flat on top of you, smothering your cries with hot messy desperate kissed.

​His tongue drove deep into your mouth, tangling with yours in a wet starved rhythm while his hands flew to the sides of your face, his fingers digging into your hair to pin you to the pillow.

​"Tell me you're real," he rasped frantically, pulling back a millimeter, his hazel eyes wide, dark and completely unhinged as his chest heaved against yours. "Sweetheart please... say my name, tell me I'm not hurting you... tell me you're right here."

​"Spencer... Ahhh~... please," you sobbed out, your hands clawing at his back, your nails digging into his skin as your hips twitched beneath his heavy weight. "I'm right here... I'm real... I'm yours... please move."

​"You're so tight... so warm... so perfect for me," he whimpered against your lips, his jaw setting into a hard ruthless line as he pulled back just an inch before slamming his hips forward again.

​He set a punishing relentless pace right out of the gate, establishing a deep heavy rhythm that echoed loudly off the dark bedroom walls. Every upward surge drove him deep into your core, his thick head hitting your internal sweet spot with a terrifying mechanical precision that sent white hot shocks of pleasure straight to your brain.

​He was completely unraveled, operating on pure instinct. His mouth left yours, sliding down the wet flushed column of your neck to press hot heavy frantic kisses into your skin. He bit down gently on the sensitive pulse point at your throat, his teeth grazing your flesh just hard enough to draw a soft whimper from your lips before his tongue lapped over the mark, soothing the sting with wet possessive strokes.

​"I spent seven days staring at this neck," he growled, his voice a dark gravelly rasp against your skin as his thrusts grew faster, harder, more reckless. "Seven days on that couch calculating every inch of your body in my head, going fuckin insane because I couldn't put my mouth right here."

​He dragged his lips down further, trailing heavy scalding kisses over your collarbone, his long fingers sliding down to grip your waist with an iron pressure that left dark marks on your hips. He hoisted one of your legs higher, draping your thigh over his hip, opening your core at an agonizingly sharp angle that let him penetrate you even deeper.

​The blunt friction was overwhelming, the sheer volume of his length stretch printing itself into your flesh until you were tossing your head side to side on the pillow, completely out of your mind.

​"Spencer... I can't... it's too much!" You cried out, your fingers tangling deep into his messy curls, pulling his head down.

​Instead of slowing down, Spencer dropped his mouth down to your bare chest. He took one swollen sensitive nipple into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the peak before sucking it deep into the wet heat of his throat.

​A sharp shattered wail ripped from your lungs as the dual sensation of his mouth on your breast and his heavy hips slamming into your cunt short circuited your nervous system. And before you could even adjust to it, his thumb reached down between your bodies, finding your swollen clit and pressing flat against it, grinding in tight agonizing circles in time with his deep thrusts.

​"Look at what you do to me," Spencer rasped against your wet skin, his breath burning hot as his tongue flicked over your nipple, making you writhe violently beneath him. "Look at how easy you break for your man. You're milking me so hard... squeezing me so tight I can barely breathe."

​"I'm... g-gonna... Ahhh!~... gonna cum... Spencer please!" You screamed, your internal muscles clenching down around his shaft in frantic rapid fire contractions.

​"Cum with me sweetheart," he growled, his voice cracking with pure emotion as he felt your release building. He accelerated his pace into a frantic unhinged blur, his pelvis slamming against yours with a wet heavy thud, his tongue driving back into your mouth to swallow your cries. "Cum for me... do it baby... please!"

​The climax you both like a physical collision, a violent wave of blinding pleasure that locked your entire frame rigid. Your internal walls seized around him, pulsing in heavy desperate spasms, and the helpless suction of your climax instantly dragged Spencer right over the edge with you.

​With a raw shattered roar that tore from deep within his chest, Spencer drove himself to the absolute hilt one last time, his body going rigged above you as he unloaded a thick burning wave of his release deep inside your core.

​His forehead crashed against yours, his entire frame shaking violently as he poured himself into you, his mouth locked onto yours in a deep messy suffocating kiss that drank down every single breath you had left.

​You both lay there for a brief breathless second, chest to chest, gasping for air as the room spun in a heavy overstimulated haze, but Spencer didn't pull out. He couldn't.

​The physical sensation of your warm internal walls still throbbing around his length, paired with the sheer overwhelming relief of having you in his arms, sent another surge of wild desperate need straight to his brain. He was still rock hard inside you, his pulse throbbing heavily against your cervix.

​"I... I can't... I need more," he gasped against your lips, his hazel eyes blown out, completely dark with a territorial hunger that knew no limit. "I'm sorry baby... I'm so sorry... I can't stop... I need you more... I need all of you."

​Before you could even draw a full breath, Spencer tightened his grip on your hips and slammed forward again. A high broken gasp left your lips as he immediately reestablished a fast brutal rhythm, his thrusts coming harder, faster and far more unhinged than before.

​He was completely relentless, taking advantage of your overstimulated hyper sensitive state, driving his length deep into your soaking cunt with a heavy possessive force that rattled the headboard against the wall.

​"Spencer!... Hahh-ahh~... I just- Please!" You sobbed out, your hands framing his sharp jaw, your thumbs wiping away the sweat slicked on his cheekbones. "It's too much... it feels... too good!"

​"Good," he growled, his mouth sliding down to map your jawline, pressing deep lingering wet marks into your skin before moving down to capture your other nipple between his teeth, grazing it just hard enough to make your hips buck mindlessly against his. "I want you so wet you're leaking all over my thighs... I want you so ruined you can't even think about anyone else."

​He slid his hands beneath your lower back, arching your spine off the mattress, lifting your hips so every single thrust hit your internal sweet spot with brutal efficiency. His mouth moved feverishly all over your body, kissing your neck, your shoulders, your chest, his tongue leaving a slick burning trail over your skin.

​"Look at you taking every single inch of me," he rasped, his breath hot and ragged as his pace turned wild, his thrusts losing all order as he chased his second climax. "You're so sweet doll... so tight... so perfect for me... tell me you feel me deep inside you... tell me whose cock is filling you up."

​"Yours... yours Spencer!... Please!" You wailed, your spine arching impossibly high as a second, even more violent wave of pleasure began to coil deep in your lower abdomen, building so fast your lungs couldn't keep up.

​"That's right sweetheart," he snarled, his voice dropping into a deep guttural octave that vibrated straight through your ribs. He slammed his mouth back onto yours, his tongue thrusting deep in tandem with his heavy hips, driving you ruthlessly over the precipice. "Take it all... give it to me... cum again for me please!"

​The second orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, far more intense and messy than the first, your internal muscles locking around his shaft in a violent vice like grip.

​The sheer force of your second climax completely broke Spencer. With a dark feral snarl, he shoved himself as deep as physically possible, his hips pinned flat against yours as a second massive white hot release tore through his body.

​He shook uncontrollably on top of you, groaning your name into the crook of your neck as he flooded your core once more, holding you down until the very last drop was spent and both of your bodies collapsed completely limp onto the sheets.

​Spencer stayed right where he was, buried deep for a long heavy minute, his frame anchoring you flat against the soft sheets. His forehead pressed firmly against yours, his long damp curls falling like a curtain around your faces as his chest heaved against yours.

​There was no panic left in his hazel eyes now.

​He slowly, carefully slid his length out of your body, but as a soft breathless whimper left your lips, he immediately dragged his long limbs around you, refusing to let an inch of cold air settle between your bodies.

​"Stay still sweetheart," he whispered a moment later, returning from the bathroom with a warm damp washcloth. "Give me just a second okay?"

​He knelt back onto the mattress, his movements slow and gentle as he began the tender ritual of cleaning you, wiping away the slick evidence of your climaxes with a feather soft touch.

​When the pale blue moonlight illuminated the dark violet fingerprint bruises his iron grip had left on the soft flesh of your hips, Spencer froze, but this time he didn't recoil.

​He dropped the cloth and leaned down, pressing a soft lingering open mouthed kiss directly over the darkest bruise. He stayed there for a long moment before sliding over to kiss the next mark, and then the next, mapping every single shadow his hands had made.

​"I've got you," he murmured against your skin, his voice thick with an emotional weight that made your eyes well with fresh tears. "I've got you baby, you're so safe with me, I promise you."

​He gently guided your arms through the sleeves of his clean favorite shirt, pulling the soft fabric over your head before sliding under the heavy comforter. He reached out his arms, wrapping them securely around your waist and hauling you until you were lying completely on top of him, your chest flat against his sternum and your legs tangled with his.

​You let out a long shuddering sigh of pure contentment, burying your face in the warm pulsing hollow of his throat.

​Spencer rested his chin on top of your head, his long fingers mindlessly drawing slow soothing circles into the fabric covering your spine.

​As you both finally began to drift off into a heavy sleep, the lingering terror of the past week completely evaporated into the shadows. The cold ice wall had dissolved, replaced entirely by a deep soul shaking certainty.

​As you listened to the steady uninterrupted beat of Spencer's heart beneath your cheek, you knew the prison yard no longer held any power over this room. You were exactly where you belonged, locked safely in the arms of the man who loved you.

You and Spencer have been inseparable since you joined the Bureau; you can't remember a time before him. Maybe it was because you two were close in age, being some of the youngest on the team, or maybe because opposites attract. You weren't exactly sure how it even started, to be honest. The change was so discreet you almost missed it yourself: long nights in the office turning into long nights in his apartment, picking up his coffee from the breakroom in an effort to be nice turning into after-work outings to local cafes he swore up and down were the best. 

It was nice, comforting even, to know that no matter what, you had him in your corner. Always just behind, exactly where you needed him. After a certain point, the rest of the team started to notice, Morgan being the first to catch on, slowly followed by Garcia, then Prentiss, JJ and Rossi. Even Hotch would smile as he saw the two of you through his office window. You perched on the corner of Spencer's desk, absentmindedly playing with the trinkets he kept scattered along its surface, the boy genius talking your ear off about whatever topic he decided was interesting that day. You never really minded either; you loved his voice and the way his eyes lit up when he spoke so passionately about experimental physics or the history of the ballpoint pen. 

To the amazement and mild horror of everyone else, you two were simply the bestest of friends. Friends who would fall asleep next to each other on the jet, your head resting on Spencer's shoulder, his own head on top of yours. Friends who went to conventions together dressed up as the characters from Doctor Who. You blindly following Spencer around because, let's be real, you knew nothing about the show— only that it made him happy. 

Friends who had become so accustomed to each other's tells and the subtlest of behavioural changes, you could communicate with a single glance. A skill that was especially helpful in your line of work, during interrogations or speaking to victims' families. 

Any high-intensity situation where a single sound could get any one of you killed. 

The main ones you learned were simple but effective: “trust me”, “I have an idea”, “something’s off”, “you ok?”

You realized you could do this completely by accident when working on a local case one time. You and Spencer had been assigned to work out the victimology, pulling any and all connections you could, the evidence board a mess of sticky notes, red string and marker. It had been hours, and you both were exhausted. JJ had already tapped out, opting for a nap on the couch in her office.

You'd have joined her if Spencer hadn't convinced you he was close to a breakthrough. People's lives were on the line, and you couldn't afford to lose your train of thought, unfortunately not even for a nap. By the third cup of coffee, you had basically gone nonverbal; your legs kicked up on the corner of the conference table as you sifted through a file in your lap. Spencer sat on the floor, his back resting on the side of your chair. His head slowly but surely found its way into your lap, tilted upwards, appreciating the glasses that sat askew on your nose bridge. Your fingers ran through his precious brown curls, nails grazing his scalp. After another moment of silence, you closed the folder and tossed it—perhaps a tad aggressively back onto the desk. With a long exhale, head tipping back, mimicking Spencer's position, you closed your eyes, just resting them you told yourself. You felt a shift in your lap only to look down and catch Spencer's gaze lingering on you. With a quirk of your eyebrow and the smallest tilt of his mouth, the two of you burst into smiles. 

What?

Nothing…

You're a bad liar, you know that, right?

Maybe, but you look tired.

At that moment, Garcia pushed past the doors, mumbling something about the geographical profile before freezing completely. In sync, you both looked over in her direction, her mouth gaping and shock written all over her face. 

You were the first to break the silence, “You have something, Penny?”

“Uh, what is going on here?” She gestured frantically, glitter pen in one hand, amplifying her distress. 

You hummed in confusion as she continued, answering your unspoken question. 

“You two are positively adorable but a little bit freaky at the same time. It was so quiet in here, I thought the room was empty.”

“Freaky?” Spencer quirked his head at the word. The letters felt foreign coming off his lips as he repeated them back to himself. 

“Yes sugar, you are sitting in here with pretty girl having a full conversation with nothing but your eyes.”

“Huh,” you didn't even realize what had happened in the moment; with Spencer, it just felt natural. Your gaze found his without a second thought; you were pleasantly surprised to find Spencer’s eyes already trailing on you, the ghost of a smile plastered on his face. 

Poor Penelope, once again left out of whatever mind palace the two of you had constructed. Squealing in excitement as she left the room, and the two of you to your stolen glances.

________________________________________________________________

It came up a few more times after that, once again freaking out the rest of the team in the process. You all were flown out to South Padre Island to investigate a string of murders where the unsub was targeting college students. Hotch thought it best to send in you and Spencer for the interrogation. In an attempt to seem less intimidating, Spencer had taken the lead, pacing behind the boy, hand in his pockets. 

“Why don't you tell me about the fight you had with the first victim?”  

“I don't remember.”

“You don't remember?”

You sat quietly in the corner of the sparse room, simply observing. 

For what exactly … well, you didn't quite know. Something was off about the case; your partner's theory was solid, but it was the suspects themselves that felt almost out of place in the dominant and submissive dynamic the team had profiled. 

The back of the metal chair pressed up against the corner wall as you faced the scene in front of you, one leg crossed over the other, finger pressed to your lip, deep in thought. 

“That guy was pretty big.” Spencer rounded the corner, putting himself between the boy and you. 

“So?”

“Adam, guys like you and me aren't exactly the fighting type.”

You were confident in the profile; it was the girl from the hotel as the dominant that didn't fit. You had spoken to her earlier in the day, and she didn't seem the type. Sure her and Adam were close, but beyond that, you weren't certain. 

“You see, now I'm really confused, because you just told me that you don't remember the fight.”

And then it hit you: for a split second, Adam’s eyes shifted, and someone else was staring daggers at you from beyond where Spencer stood in his line of sight. Shivers ran up your spine as you stood from your seat. 

“Spence.” The words fell sweetly from your lips, your eyes finding his with the subtlest shift. Instinctively, he turned halfway over his shoulder. 

Did you see that?

You saw it too.

Yes.

Spencer's eyes widened a fraction before falling back to Adam, muttering to himself. The new information bubbling in his brain as he deconstructed what he already knew, arranging this new piece into his mental puzzle.

Swinging the door open, you left the cold metal room behind, quickly finding Hotch, Rossi and Morgan on the other side of the two-way mirror. 

Once the door shut behind you the words rushed from your mouth, “He has a personality disorder.” 

“You sure?” Rossi quirked his eyebrow.

“Yes, he just split in front of Spencer and me when we cornered him about the fight; the dominant is his alter.”

Hours later, as the pieces started to come together one by one, matching the profile to a T, the team could finally relax for a moment. Sitting in the precinct, Morgan to your left and Spencer to your right, you sat in comfortable silence, eating noodles from paper takeout containers. 

“You know, you two are like the twins from The Shining.” Morgan piped up completely unprovoked, disturbing the quiet you so desperately needed in that moment. With a long, overly dramatic exhale, you swivelled in the chair to face Derek’s direction. 

“How so? Because if you try and make the comparison logically, we have very little in common; for starters, we are of opposite gender -”

Turning, equally disappointed towards Spencer, “He doesn't mean literally, Spence.”

“Oh?”

“It's that freaky eye thing you two do; all you're missing is matching polka dot outfits and you'd scare Penelope half to death,” Morgan enunciated his point by waving his chopsticks in our general direction 

“Are we still on that? I told her I was sorry; the guilt was eating away at me and it wasn't even technically my fault.” The words fault were accompanied by air quotes that, in your professional opinion were extremely necessary. Causing Morgan to crack a smile, shaking his head at the two of us.

Bastard.

Spencer spoke up again, drawing both our attention back to him. “Yeah, she banned us from her office for a whole week, called it her mind control protection procedure.”

“You would know all about that, wouldn't you, pretty boy.”

“Shut up.”

Watching Morgan ruffle Spencer's hair as he walked away, you couldn't help but laugh.

________________________________________________________________

Moments where the team could simply rest were few and far between, but equally rewarding, especially after a long case where things worked out, and the victims got to go back to their families. 

It was those moments that made up for all the inhumanity you dealt with on the daily. It almost gave you hope, almost.

One of these fleeting moments of solace was on the jet back from a case in San Francisco. To kill time, Hotch, Reid, JJ and Emily were deep into a game of poker. Morgan and yourself sitting just behind the group, pretending not to listen because, as Morgan so eloquently phrased it, “there is no way Reid isn't cheating.” As for your reason, you've lost so many games to Reid that watching others relive the same fate makes you feel slightly better about yourself, plus it's hot watching him win with that stupid smug smile on his face. 

But no one needed to know that last part. 

Spencer was sitting in one of the aisle seats, JJ taking the window on his side, while Hotch and Emily sat directly across from them at the table. This allowed for perfect peeking at the latter's hands of cards. As the game intensified, you got up out of your seat, leaning over the headrest to peek at the game; Emily’s whines acting as enough motivation. 

You had a crystal-clear view of Hotch's cards. Paired with the community cards on the table, he had four of a kind.  By the looks of it, he could win depending on what Reid's hand was; Emily's cards were straight garbage, and JJ's tell was gonna give her away. 

Leaving two, the stoic team lead Aaron Hotchner and the Vegas-raised card counter Spencer Reid. 

JJ taunted, wiggling her eyebrows, “Prentiss, you can always walk away now.”

"Ha, and let you lose to Reid? Fat chance." 

At the mention of his name, Spencer spoke up, "You know, statistically, it's better to fold a weak hand. Seven-two offsuit, for example, only wins against a random hand about thirty-five percent of the time." 

With a huff and roll of her eyes, Emily folded in defeat. “There is a lot to hate about you, Dr. Reid.”

Leaning over in his chair towards the aisle, Morgan chimed in, “You're only learning that now, Prentiss.” Poor Emily slouched further into her chair at the teasing. Soft laughter escaped your lips as you took in the look on her face still perched over Hotch’s shoulder. 

“Don't you dare tell him,” the man in question warned, staring straight ahead, not once breaking eye contact with the boy genius. 

Mustering all the innocence you could in your voice, “Who me? I would never.”

“Oh yes, you most certainly would.” JJ used her hand to muffle her laughter. 

“I would not, and I'm appalled you think so low of me,” with an upturned nose, you turned away from JJ in protest. 

Morgan, no longer pretending to ignore the game, pulled one of his headphones out of his ear. “Yeah, pretty girl, no one is buying your act; for a profiler you suck at lying.”

“Again, I'm very offended you think me a cheater; that’s Reid’s title, not mine.”

“Unfortunately, you lost reasonable doubt when you learned to speak with the man through your eyes.”

Finally, coming to your defence, Reid chimed in, “You know it's actually not considered speaking because speaking is defined as the action of conveying information or expressing one's thoughts and feelings in spoken language. And as you can see, there is no auditor element involved. What you're referring to is better defined as - ” 

“I fold,” JJ announced, interrupting Spencer. 

“What? Why?” Emily sat up straighter, mouth agape.

“Honestly, just to get him to shut up,” the blonde shrugged. 

 Finally looking over to Spencer, you caught him staring, a smirk tugging at his lips, the corners of his eyes crinkling. You knew what he was thinking, proving your theory right in the process. 

I won.

Quick enough that you thought no one would notice, your eyes met Hotch's hand once more before returning to Spencer. 

You won.

________________________________________________________________

Unfortunately, this superpower of yours didn't last very long in sweet memories. You knew there were risks involved in your line of work; hell, in the last few years you could count on one hand the number of team members who've been kidnapped, held hostage or had unimaginable losses in their lives due to work. 

You just never imagined it would happen to you. 

Which, yes, is a stupid thing to think in hindsight. But if you're constantly gazing into the abyss waiting for it to swallow you whole, what chance did you stand at all? 

The metal scraped against your exposed skin. You didn't remember where your clothes had gone; all you knew now was that you were shivering in a thin tank top and panties, your hair a tangled mess while an array of blue and purple decorated your face. If you closed your eyes and pretended for just a moment, it was a galaxy where the semi-healed yellows and greens were like little stars. 

Curled in the corner, knees to your chest, the cuff around one wrist dug into your flesh, anchoring you to the corner of a nailed-down table. God, you were so stupid. Why did you leave Emily? You should have waited before leaving to check the other side of that damned warehouse. 

Maybe then she would have heard you scream when the unsub bashed your head into a wall. Maybe, just maybe. 

The distinct sound of clicking brought you back to reality, tired eyes wandering over to the tripod set up just behind a glass screen. The tiny red light of the camera mocked you as it continued recording you as it had since last night. 

You think at least… it was dark when he grabbed you. 

________________________________________________________________

This was torture, Spencer thought to himself. He sat next to a frantic Penelope as she typed something into her computer. He was barely paying attention at this point; it had been almost six hours, and they still couldn't find you. 

The team managed to triangulate a search zone, but even with that, it wasn't possible to break down every door in search of you. His leg bounced involuntarily as he watched the video footage the unsub had sent them; his only comfort was that it was live and you were still breathing. Sitting alive somewhere in a dingy room. 

By the looks of it, you had taken a pretty bad beating, but he was grabbing onto anything he could at this point to console himself.  

Watching intently, he noticed your eyes drifting toward something just beyond the lens. The camera had to be somewhere inside the room. The unsub was obviously recording his crimes to relive some fantasy, preserving them as trophies to satiate himself in between kills. Or maybe it wasn't the recordings themselves he wanted; maybe it was knowing someone else was watching.  

“Reid, honey. Are you ok?” Penelope hesitated for a moment, giving him a once over concern written all over her face. She looked at him as if he were fragile, breakable at any given moment. 

“What?”

“You're gripping the armrest pretty tight…” his eyes drifted down to his hands, his knuckles turning white from the pressure- well, more so the pressure being applied to the capillaries in his skin. 

“Oh, I didn't - sorry, Garcia.” Reluctantly, he let the chair go, slouching instead. 

“We’ll find her.”

“That's not what I'm worried about, Garcia.” The girl hummed in response, waiting for him to continue. 

Suddenly the feed picked up as a man’s torso flashed into frame, drawing them both back to the screen, watching helplessly as he dragged you from your spot on the floor by your hair. You kicked and fought back before he dumped you right in front of the camera; bracing yourself on your forearms, breathing heavily as you stared at the floor, refusing to look up. Shouting filled the room as you shook your head side to side, silent tears spilling from the corner of your eyes as he heard something shatter in the distance. 

In a quick motion, the man grabbed you by the chin, forcing your head up from the floor, now staring directly into the camera. 

Spencer's heart shattered right then and there. Not because some brute was laying hands on his girl, but because of the look in your eyes; your lip trembled almost imperceptibly. 

I'm scared.

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

Sleep was impossible for him after your interaction at the bar. 

How was he supposed to sleep with your threat looming over him? For all he knew, you had already called Hotch and convinced him that he was some sick pervert who couldn’t be trusted around the women of the office. 

Instead of sleeping he did the next best thing. 

He returned to his bed and thought about you in that shirt. 

One hand wrapped around his dick with the other wrapped tightly around his throat. 

Thinking about how you sneered at him and called him a creep. 

Pushing his head back against the pillow, squirming like it’s you holding his neck. Squeezing hard. You would squeeze too hard, you would want it to hurt. You would call him a creep, disgusting, a freak. 

His groan comes out as a strangled whine as he runs his thumb across his leaking tip. 

He recalls how the black fabric clung to your waist, cinched just above your belly button. Revealing that thin strip of flesh around your midsection, your skin looked so soft and smooth, what he wouldn’t give to run his fingers across your waist. 

He’s snapped out of his self-gratification by the sound of his phone. Whining at the interruption.  

He had your contact saved under your full name, first, middle, and last, just like everyone else's in his phone. As if you knew what he was doing, there you were.

He answers without a second thought, he couldn’t possibly dig himself into a deeper hole. Maybe you want to give him a chance to explain himself, maybe you want to blackmail him, maybe you got too drunk and you need someone to drive you home, who cares, anything is better than nothing.

“Hello?” He has enough courtesy to stop stroking himself as he brings the phone to his ear. Glancing at the alarm clock beside him, when did it get so late?  

“Whatcha doing?” He can tell immediately based on your slurred speech that you’re drunk, and based on the obnoxious slurping you’re still actively drinking. 

“What?” It’s all he can say as his cock twitches at the sound of your voice, like a dog hearing its favorite word. 

“You sound… sweaty.” Your voice trails off into a fit of giggles, he doesn’t hear anything in the background so you must have left the bar but he’s desperate to avoid addressing his sweating.

“Are you still at Betty’s? Do you need me to come get you?” He isn’t sure why you called him, you’re drunk enough that you probably just did it by accident. 

“No- no, I’m home.” You’re still giggling, the sound makes his cheeks burn. Contrary to what everyone on the team thinks, he actually enjoys the sound of your laughter, he just likes it less when you’re laughing at him. 

“Are you okay?” He softens his voice, he’s a little worried that you’re too drunk. Even if you’re safe at home, what if you brought someone home with you and they’re over there taking advantage of you? Or what if you invited someone over for drinks and they slipped you something?

“No, Doctor Reid. I’m not.” You drag out his name, he can picture the way you flick your tongue when you use his title. It makes him sit up straight. 

“Do you need help?”

“I’m fine.”

“Okay…?” Then why did you call him?

“Okay.” Your voice pitches up in that overly sweet way as you mock him.

“You’re drunk.” He’s stating the obvious but he feels like one of you should address it.

“Don’t worry Doctor, I waited until I was safe at home to indulge.”

“Are you alone?” He can’t imagine you left the bar empty handed looking the way you did. You could have taken any of those losers home. 

Any of those losers but him. 

“All alone.” He can’t help the sigh of relief that he lets out. “What are your plans for the rest of the weekend? We’ve got four more days to get through.”

“There’s a chess tournament livestreaming Friday night that I was hoping to catch.” It’s true, there’s no reason to make up an active weekend full of plans. He’ll watch the chess tournament and spend the rest of the weekend with his dick in his hand scrolling through your Instagram. It’s the only time he actively indulges in social media usage.  

“That’s it?” 

“Not all of us are on the prowl at bars every night." He can’t help himself as he snaps back at you, you started it with your tone anyway. 

“You’re so judgemental, and- and rude.” You stutter through your sentence, he can imagine the way your lips curl back as you say it.

“Why exactly did you call me?” He finally asks the question he’s dying to know the answer to. 

You’re quiet for a moment before you clear your throat. 

“Do you want to get breakfast tomorrow?” 

“Why?” This has to be a trap. 

“Maybe we can sit and talk for a few minutes, and really get to the root of our problems.” Definitely a trap.

“Really?” He makes his skepticism clear. 

“No, not really. But I’ll make it worth your while.” This phone call is harmless but he absolutely should not subject himself to one on one time with you. What’s your angle here? 

“Why would I want to spend my day off being berated by you?” 

“I told you, I’ll make it worth your while.” 

“Goodnight.” He needs this conversation to end while you’re still on mostly good terms.

Before one of you ruins it with something too mean. 

“Spencer.” The world around him stops when you whine. His hand involuntarily squeezes around the base of his cock, he’s going to spend the next several hours repeating that whine over and over again in his head.   

“Fine, how will you make it worth my while? Contrary to what you believe, I don't enjoy your constant verbal abuse.” He swallows, fighting the urge to start fucking his hand again. At the very least he should wait until you hang up. 

“I’ll wear the shirt again, the one I wore tonight.” He sucks in a sharp breath, holding it trapped in his lungs as he flashes through the mental images he’s branded into his brain of the shirt. Involuntarily flexing his hand around his cock again. 

“What time are we meeting?” His resolve is thrown out the window immediately at the thought of getting to see you wearing it again. He doesn’t even care if this is a trap at this point. 

“You choose, text me a place and a time and I’ll see you there.” 

“What? Why do I have to-” He starts but you interrupt him.

“Goodnight Doctor Reid.” And just like that the phone clicks. 

With his free hand he types out a place that he likes that isn’t too far from you, all the while his other hand has already started stroking his aching cock again. 

White Rabbit Diner, 10:30 a.m.

He tosses his phone towards his nightstand as he rolls over, burying his face in his pillow as he arches his hips, fucking down and into his hand as he recalls the exact way you whined out his name.  

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

You should have texted him and cancelled. 

It would have been so easy to blame everything on your intoxication but for some reason you couldn’t. It’s eating you up inside, Emily’s words are driving you fucking crazy. 

There’s no reason to be nervous, yet you still gripped the steering wheel until your knuckles were white on the drive here. You have the upper hand here, you have all the power and he’s still just Spencer. 

He’s still annoying, bratty, creepy, Spencer. 

And until you prove anything Emily claimed, you shouldn’t act otherwise. 

Scratch that.

You shouldn’t act at all, you should just get the information you want and learn to live with it. You just want to know, there’s nothing wrong with knowing. 

You’re in a rut. You don’t know what you want anymore and Emily threw a firecracker into your already confused brain. Now you’re scrambled, maybe having an adult conversation about adult topics with an adult will fix you. You don’t actually want to fuck him. You just want to know that someone wants you, it’ll help you get your mojo back, that’s all this is.

True to your word you’re wearing the same shirt you wore last night, paired with a baggy pair of sweatpants this time. You don’t want to look like you’re trying to impress him, quite the opposite actually. You want to prove Emily wrong, if he’s obsessed he’ll be obsessed even if you look like this. 

You hold the strap of your purse tightly as you approach the entrance, a coping mechanism to try and soothe your nerves as you scan the inside of the empty restaurant. Only one booth is occupied. 

Of course he’s already here. 

You’re ten minutes early and he’s already on his second cup of coffee. 

When you start towards him he looks up, to no one's surprise his eyes linger too long on your chest before he meets your eyes. Neither one of you smiles or waves. 

There are no words exchanged between the two of you as you take a seat on the opposite side of the booth. 

He really is doing his best to look at your face. It looks as though it physically pains him to not look down but he gives it his best effort as he chews his lip. You want to keep him on the edge of his seat for a little while longer, so you take this as an opportunity to look him over. 

He’s dressed like he would be for a day in the office, of course. At this point you’re certain he doesn’t own casual clothes, his closet must just be a never ending supply of dress shirts and sweater vests.

And he looks tired, even more so than he normally does. 

Good. 

You’re glad he didn’t sleep well after whatever the fuck yesterday was. You hope he had a long night spent fretting over this whole situation. You spent your night and morning coming up with a game plan. 

You’re gonna feel things out, do a few “experiments” to test Emily’s theory, and that’s it. At the end of the day he’s still him and you’re still you. 

You just need to know.

That’s all. 

You just need to remind yourself that you have all the control here, he isn’t going to run and tell Hotch anything you say because he doesn’t want you to do the same thing. 

“When was the last time you had sex?” No reason to beat around the bush, you know this conversation is going to be uncomfortable for him. 

He chokes on his coffee, grabbing a napkin he dabs at his chin.

“What kind of question is that? Why does every conversation with you have to be about sex? It’s ten in the morning, what is wrong with you?” It’s ten in the morning and his voice is already high pitched in a way that normally takes hours of teasing for you to achieve. 

“We’re here because I want to talk about sex.” 

“Well I don’t want to, and if that’s all you want to do then I’ll just leave.” He starts to slide out of the booth but you reach across the table, grabbing his arm. 

“If you stay I’ll forget everything that happened yesterday.”

He shakes you off as he sits back down.

“I told you, I’m not scared of you and I didn’t do anything wrong. Going to a bar isn’t a crime.” Based on the way he crosses his arms defensively while his jaw ticks you know that he is in fact scared. 

“That’s fine and you’re welcome to go if that’s the case.”

He should know you’re telling the truth, your whole job is knowing.

“You swear you won’t tell anyone if I stay?“ He speaks softer now, less defensively.

“If you have breakfast with me and answer my questions I promise I’ll forget everything, I won’t coyly tease you about it, I won’t tell anyone. It’ll be like it never happened.”

He buries his face in both of his hands for a moment before dragging his fingers through his hair as he sighs. He always does that when he’s stressed, it’s why his hair is always a mess. 

“Okay, sure, fine. But I need collateral.” You knew he’d agree/ 

“Collateral?”

“Yeah, you have to give me something, or- or tell me something in exchange. I’m not just gonna tell you my embarrassing secrets without something in return, otherwise you could just go and tell everyone everything I’ve told you and that I was at the bar.”

“Fine, we can go back and forth, any questions at all, and you have to tell the truth, I’ll know if you’re lying.”

“And I’ll know the same.” He says it like he says most things, smugly, despite the way his leg bounces nervously under the table. 

“And obviously all of this never leaves this table. If you even tell anyone we had breakfast I will deny it.”

“Obviously. A mutual agreement of trust.”

“Agreed.” You hold your hand out, out of habit, and much to your surprise he shakes it. “I thought you didn't shake hands?”

“Is that your first question?” 

“No, when was the last time you had sex?” You’re itching for the answer, if it’s been a while he’s more likely to cooperate. The more desperate he is the easier it’ll be to get him to talk. You know how to play this game, if you want him to cooperate all you have to do is just your chest out and pout.  

“With Lila Archer, two years ago.” His eyes dart away from you down towards his coffee, his pinky twitches around his mug.

Fucker. 

“Are you seriously already lying to me?” You throw a sugar packet at him, he doesn’t so much as flinch as it hits him in the chest. You both watch as it falls under the table. 

“We already established that I don’t need to be doing this at all, why does it matter if I lie? This is just a stupid game, I gave you an answer. Let's just be happy about that.” He mumbles, always with the mumbling. 

You’re about to stick the end of his tie in his coffee when a pretty older woman in an apron smiles as she approaches the table.

“How are the two of you doin’? You look like you’re havin’ the sweetest mornin’.” She has an adorable tooth gap and a voice like honey but he doesn’t even look up at her, with you distracted he doesn’t tear his eyes off your tits. 

“We’re doing so great! We were just talking about the funniest thing that happened last night over at Betty’s, have you ever been?” You flash her a grin as you kick Spencer under the table, finally he looks up at her, just for a second before he looks back at you. 

“I haven’t but I’ve heard good things from a couple’a girlfriends of mine. How was it?” She pulls a pencil out of her apron pocket.

“Oh it was so great, we actually work together and ran into each other there completely by accident,” You point at Spencer as he glares at you. “do you wanna tell her what happened, Reid?” You turn your smile from her to him as his lips settle into a sulk. 

“You know what, it’s a long story and we don’t want to bother you but I think my friend and I are ready to order.” He speaks in a controlled and calm tone, despite his expression. He closes the menu in front of him, handing it to her. “I’ll have the un-birthday breakfast and she’ll have an order of chocolate chip pancakes with a seasonal fruit assortment.” You open your mouth to object but he just carries on speaking. “Could she also get a coffee and some water, and a cup of flavored creamer please, vanilla or mocha are fine, thank you.” He takes your menu before you can say anything, giving your server a tightlipped smile as he hands yours to her as well before she finishes scribbling in her notepad, turning on her heels and disappearing back into the kitchen. Once she’s out of sight he sighs. “Okay, fine, I won’t lie, let’s start over.” He’s pouting as he takes a sip of his water.

“How do you know my breakfast order?” You sit up a little straighter as you squint at him, studying his mannerisms. 

“You like sweet things for breakfast, you usually opt for a donut or a pastry over a breakfast sandwich. When there are donuts in the bullpen you always take a chocolate one, and you circled your finger across the seasonal fruit option at least four times when you were looking over the menu.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Maybe he does spend a lot of time staring at you specifically, you seriously doubt anyone else on the team would know your breakfast order.  

“I- wow, I don’t even know what to say to-” You really don’t, you normally have a snarky quip to throw back in his face but this is uncharted territory. 

“When was the last time you had sex?” You don’t have time to think of something to say, he beats you to it.

“What?”

“You asked your question, and I answered, now it’s your turn, that was the deal.”  

“Two months ago.” You speak without another thought, if you tell the truth he’s more likely to as well. The second you say it he’s suspicious. He tilts his head like he does when he’s watching an unsub from behind the glass. 

“How is that possible? You said just last week that you… hooked up-” He says it like it’s a phrase in another language, completely foreign to him. “-with some vet tech?” 

“I was lying. I haven’t had sex in two months.” You shrug, you aren’t exhibiting any signs of lying and he knows it. You're telling the truth. 

“Why even bother telling everyone-” You hold a finger up in front of his face. 

“It’s not your turn. When was the last time you had sex? And don’t lie.” You put on the most serious face you can muster given how ridiculous this conversation is.  

“It’s been…” He mumbles something, reaching for another sugar packet, emptying the contents into his coffee. 

“If you keep mumbling I’m going to pour your coffee into your lap.” As you reach for his mug he pulls it back. 

“I suppose technically I haven’t.” The words tumble out of his mouth in quick succession as his eyebrows furrow.

“Haven’t what?” You draw your hand back. 

“That was your turn, you already set a precedent that there are no follow up questions.” He takes a long sip of his coffee, refusing to look at you as you stare at him. 

Oh. 

He hasn’t. 

“Why are you lying to everyone about having sex?” He sets his mug down a little too hard, the table shakes as your server reappears, offering a smile as she silently sets down your coffee, a small silver pitcher of creamer, and a glass of water before disappearing again. 

You have to clear your throat as you try to collect yourself. 

He’s twenty five, and despite how annoying he is you can’t deny that he is sort of attractive. If you’re into librarians, or guys who don’t know how to style their hair. You’re certain he could pick someone up at a bar if he tried.  

“I umm- I guess I just didn’t want to make a big deal about it when I stopped having sex.” Your brows are drawn together in a sharp motion as you continue to try and make sense of this. “Is this a voluntary celibacy?”

“Absolutely not.” His jaw ticks, just a little bit, his hands are in his lap but if you had to guess you’d say his nails are digging into his palms. 

Something must be wrong with him, aside from the obvious. 

You might not like him but you aren’t blind. Underneath his terrible haircut he has an objectively nice looking face. Sharp jaw, strong chin, pretty round lips…

It just doesn’t make sense.

“Why are we here?” He doesn’t mumble but he does whisper. 

“I told you, I wanted to talk.” You pour your creamer into your coffee, trying to keep your tone light.

“I get that part but why? We’ve never hung out before, you ignore me at after work functions, and you obviously don’t like me. You make a conscious effort to let everyone know you don’t like me. I just don’t understand why you’d want to spend one of your rare days off bickering with me.” The look of concentration on his face tells you he’s genuinely struggling to understand your motive.

You’re struggling with that yourself right now. 

You don’t want to lie. But you also don’t want to outright say, “because I want to see if you’re hot for me.” Because you aren’t really sure why it’s so important for you to know that in the first place.

“I- I don’t know.” Is finally the answer you settle on.

“Are we allowed to give super vague responses that don’t actually answer anything?” He almost smiles as he says it, it helps you relax again.

“How about we each get a pass?”

“Well that’s not fair, I would have used mine if I knew that was an option.” You love that tone of voice, argumentative and louder, more confident but without the seriousness that was starting to settle onto your conversation.

“Well now it is, and I pass, you get one too.”

“Fine, why did you stop having sex? At one point I assume you really were taking men home while you were out with Emily, otherwise you wouldn’t have earned your nickname. So, you stopped two months ago, why?”

Now you wish you hadn't used your pass. 

“I just… needed a change. I wasn’t satisfied by the-” You struggle to find the words to accurately explain the feeling. Once again, you don’t want to lie but you aren’t entirely sure of the answer. “I… stopped having fun. So there really wasn’t a reason to keep doing it if I wasn’t having a good time.”

It’s objectively true. 

You don’t mention that you stopped feeling the spark you used to get. You don’t feel that pang of arousal in your stomach when you’re with a partner anymore. 

You stopped getting butterflies. 

He nods, both of you taking long sips of your water and sitting in silence as you hear the kitchen door swing open, both of your breakfasts are brought out. You’re thrilled to have a reason to sit and think, even if it’s just for a moment as you cut up your pancakes. 

“Why haven’t you just gotten it over with? You’ve had options, I’ve been on cases with you where women are giving you the time of day.” You wave your fork in his direction before sticking it into a strawberry.

“I have standards, you know. Just because I haven’t had sex doesn’t mean I want to stick it into the first person that offers.” There’s a harsh snap to his voice that is reserved just for you, familiar and engaging as he takes a bite of his eggs. 

“I’m not saying you should fuck anything with a pulse, I’m saying that there have been plenty of pretty, nice women, who I’ve seen hit on you.” 

“I’m fully aware of that, but I wasn’t interested in them.”

“Why not? You clearly don’t want to be a virgin, so why not just get it over with?” You reach across the table for the syrup, coating your pancakes.

“Like I said, I have standards. I might be a virgin-” He whispers it, looking over his shoulder as if the diner isn’t still empty. “But I know what I like and what I want.”

“Hmm.” You hum around a bite of your pancakes. Fuck this place has good food, you’re gonna have to come back here.

“You asked two questions so now I get two. What is fun to you?” He tilts his head to the side, with an air of confidence you don’t normally see from him when sex is the subject matter.

“Hmm?” You hum around your fork.

“You said you stopped having fun, what’s fun? Shouldn’t all sex be fun?” 

Oh you sweet summer child. 

“What’s the second question?” 

“Depends on your answer.” One good thing about Spencer is how engaged he is in every conversation he has. 

“I like to try new things.” You tilt your head a bit to the side.

“Like what?” 

“You’ll need to be more specific if you want a specific answer.” You love the way he hangs off your every word.

“What was something fun you wanted to do, that one of your partners turned down?” The smile you get from him as he says it is unlike anything you’re used to from him. You like this side of Spencer, you much prefer this Spencer. 

This is like chess with him but better because you actually stand a chance of beating him. 

This conversation just got fun. Any dread you felt when you first arrived is gone. 

“I wanted him to beg for it.” When you see your server step out of the kitchen you smile and wave at her as she heads in your direction to refill your coffees. “I wanted him to ask nicely, and use his manners. He didn’t want to, he puffed out his chest like the big strong man he thought he was and told me that he doesn’t do that, because he expects it. So I kindly asked him to leave.” You continue to speak as she fills both your mugs. “Thank you.” You give her another big smile as she leaves.

“And what do you expect? What requirements do your partners have to meet?” He doesn’t seem to even notice that she came and went, he’s too focused on you now.  

“My standards are high these days, begging is obviously the bare minimum, which is probably why it’s been two months.” You pick up your mug, feeling the warmth beneath your fingertips. “It’s important to me that my partners feel grateful when they’re with me.” 

“Doesn’t seem like you’re asking for too much.” It’s your turn to almost spit your coffee out as he says it so casually. 

Clearing your throat you set the mug back down.

“I expect devotion.” 

“And what do these men get in return?” He’s like an interviewer. His questions come quickly, as if he has them written down.

“That would be your third question, Doctor.”

“I’m trading in my pass for an extra question, since we’re allowed to make up rules whenever we want.”

You pause for a moment, trying to meet his gaze as he avoids yours. 

“They get me.” You smile as he raises an eyebrow, his eyes are still down on the swirling of his coffee. 

Oh, you could absolutely pull the trigger on this if you want to. 

That’s the question you need to ask yourself. Do you want to? If you look at this as an abstract concept where he’s just a guy in this diner and not Spencer, he’s the perfect choice. 

And Emily’s right, he doesn’t even know it. You’ve never properly looked at his body language but he leans into every word that falls from your lips. He isn’t so brazenly staring at your chest today but he certainly steals glances. Even if parts of him hate you, that’s fine, parts of you hate him. But there’s an undeniable fascination for you that you’d never noticed before today.  

What’s the worst that could happen?

“My turn. Do I live up to the high standards of Dr. Spencer Reid? Would you have sex with me?” 

“Now you’re just being mean.” His confident tone falters a bit as he continues to stare down, tucking his hair behind his ears. 

You can’t exactly blame him for that reaction, You’ve spent the last year teasing him relentlessly. You’ve taken every opportunity handed to you to embarrass him, after the first month you stopped with the pleasantries. What reason would he have to assume this was anything but a cruel joke. 

You grab his mug, pulling it across the table so it’s in front of you. You take a handful of sugar packets as well, cocking an eyebrow at him.

“Remind me, how many sugars do you take in your coffee?”

“Six, I can do it myself.” Jesus, he likes his sugar. He starts to reach towards you, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. You just click your tongue in response.

“No, no I’ve got it.” One by one you rip open each packet, when you empty the sixth one you look up to find he’s watching you closely. You lean over the mug, your tongue poking out from between your teeth as you spit into his coffee before you slide it back over to him. 

“Come on, seriously-”

You shake your head as he starts, effectively shutting him up.

“It’s still my turn, would you have sex with me if you could? Since you’ve played so nicely I won’t even make you say it out loud if it’s too embarrassing. You can just enjoy your coffee and I’ll know the answer.” Your tone is still teasing but you look at him with a fondness that is unfamiliar to him. 

He stares down into his coffee, his cheeks are red, and that squiggly little vein on his temple looks like it’s about to pop.

Okay maybe this was a step too far. 

But you seriously doubt you misread this situation, your entire job is to read situations. 

You watch with bated breath as he hesitantly lifts his mug. And just like that, the biggest germaphobe you know takes a long sip of his coffee. You can’t help the smile that plays on your lips. 

“What about you?” He mumbles, staring down like he doesn’t want to see your reaction. 

Hook, line, and sinker.

You take your mug, holding it out towards him, his eyes look like they might pop out of his head. 

“Go ahead.” Your smile only grows as he chews his lip. 

Tentatively, he leans forward, his every move is unsure but he spits into your cup, finally looking you in the eye. You don’t break eye contact as you take a sip of your coffee. 

He looks enamoured by you.

“You know… I’ve been thinking, I think that our work is being affected by our antagonistic relationship. Hotch is always telling me that I should be nicer to you. And I don’t know about you but I know that my current lack of… sexual fulfillment has made me irritable and distracted. Has it made you feel that way?” You brush the tip of your shoe against his ankle, immediately he jolts up, his knees hitting the table. 

“Why are you doing this to me?” You can feel his leg bouncing under the table again as he groans, taking another sip of his coffee, as if more caffeine is going to soothe his nerves.

“It isn’t your turn.” You click your tongue. 

“Fine.” He grumbles. “I don’t let this kind of thing get in the way of my work.” His fingers flex around his mug. “Can we just be done with this game?”

“I want one more question.”

“Better make it a good one.”

You intend to.

“Do you beg when you want something?” You figure you’ll floor him with that one.

He catches you off guard with an immediate whispered response. 

“Only if I want it badly enough.” This conversation has been full of surprises.  

“Your turn.”

“If I were to beg, would I get what I want?” There’s no confidence behind his voice anymore, he doesn’t even try to sound sure of himself.

Emily was absolutely right in every regard. He’s perfect. You don’t bother concealing the wild grin that you know is creeping across your face.

“If you want it badly enough.” 

He takes in a shuddering breath, his lips parting slightly as he stares at you. He looks like he’s still waiting for you to pull the rug out from under him. 

“You said you don’t have any plans for the rest of the weekend right? Other than your chess thing?” 

“My schedule is empty.” He says it just like the eager puppy Emily claimed he was, his tail might as well be wagging for a treat. 

And it’s only Thursday. 

This might be the best long weekend Hotch has ever forced you to take.

“You know, I get a little nervous with the maintenance people coming over when I’m home alone. Would you want to come over tonight and maybe stay for the weekend? I could order us a pizza.”

“You hate red sauce.” He says it like he’s found the missing piece of a puzzle, like this is a break in the case that proves this is all some big plot against him. 

“Why do you know that?” He shrugs as you roll your eyes. “I don’t like certain red sauce pastas, I like it a specific way. I still like pizza.” 

“Okay.” He nods, and a part of you knows he’s cataloging that information away somewhere in a mental folder with your name on it.

“And you understand why you’re coming over?” You say it slowly, nodding as you do. 

“I assume when I get there you’ll have a bunch of your friends over so they can point and laugh at me for thinking this was actually happening.” His tone is only half joking. 

“This is gonna be a lot of fun if that’s the mindset you’re in.”

“I’m not sure what other mindset I could be in right now, this has all been very… confusing.” And no one hates to be confused as much as Spencer does. 

“What do you think the chances are that this is real? You have a statistic for everything.” 

“I’d say about five percent.”

“That’s higher than I expected.” You bump his leg with your shoe again, he flinches but he stays in his seat.

“As unlikely as all of this is, I don’t think you lied to me at all. I think that you’re lonely, and unsatisfied. And that might just be enough for you to settle on a sure thing.”

Lonely and unsatisfied.

No reason to deny that, you wouldn’t still be here if that wasn’t the case. 

“You’re a sure thing? Even with five percent odds?” Your smile only grows. A sure thing.

“I’m a sure thing with one percent odds.”

“So you’ll come over?”

He chews on his lip as he nods. 

You eat the rest of your breakfast in silence, he seems to be lost in thought and you don’t want to say anything that’ll make him change his mind.

When your server returns you reach for your wallet but before you can he hands her some cash, telling her to keep the change. You don’t object, you just stare at him.

“Thank you.” Your smile never falters as you finish your coffee. 

“You’re welcome.” 

“Are you ready to go?”

“Mhmm.” He hums and as he stands you join him, following him out to the parking lot. He walks you to your car, watching you lean against the driver side door. You take a moment to look him up and down.

You immediately find yourself staring at the tent in his pants. Good lord he’s like a teenager. You can’t remember the last time you were able to get a guy this worked up just with a conversation.

“Jesus, are you okay to drive like that?” You flick your eyes downwards.

“Shut up.” He gets so red so easily, you can’t wait to find out how low that red goes. 

“Seriously, are you sure that isn’t like, distracted driving?” 

“It’s human nature, if you spend an hour throwing yourself at me I’m going to have a physical reaction.”

“And throwing myself at you? That seems like a bit of an exaggeration.”

“If you say so.” He fidgets with his car keys. 

“Does six thirty work for you?”

“Six thirty is perfect.” Something tells you any time you offered would have been perfect. 

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

He feels like he might pass out.

What the fuck just happened?

Once your car is pulled out of the parking lot he palms himself through his slacks, hissing as he finally relieves a bit of the pressure that’s been building for the last hour. 

Is it possible that you killed him at the bar last night and this is all some fantasy he’s having as he bleeds out on the floor? 

He still isn’t convinced that this isn’t just some kind of joke. 

You can have your pick of any guy.

You’ve had your pick, and he’s heard the descriptions of these men, they aren’t like him. They aren’t lanky, greasy, guys who can’t last more than thirty seconds.

He doesn’t really care if it is a joke at this point, if it’s a joke he might as well get what he can out of it, maybe he’ll get to see you with your shirt off before you laugh in his face and send him packing. 

The parking lot is empty, it’s a Thursday before noon in the middle of nowhere. 

He should wait until he’s home. 

But you were true to your word, and you wore that shirt again.

He has to stop at the drugstore before he heads home. He’s never done anything like this before but he’s pretty sure the guy is supposed to bring the condoms.

He can’t go to the store like this. 

The smart thing to do would be to just handle it here.

He doesn’t bother unbuttoning his pants, he’s pretty sure he wouldn’t even get that far. 

Pressing his palm against the bulge in his pants he imagines it’s you, in the diner, brushing your foot up against him. He would have told you every single embarrassing secret he had if you’d have slid your foot up the length of his pants and pressed down. 

He’s practically drooling at the thought of being in your apartment. It’ll smell like you, he’ll be alone with you. And god willing, you’re going to touch him.

He feels like he won the lottery.

He got caught following you to leer and you and he’s being rewarded with the possibility of finally losing his virginity to the hottest person he’s ever met. 

With a whimper he rests his head on the top of his steering wheel as he makes a mess out of the inside of his pants. 

Hopefully you aren’t depending on him to last any longer than it takes for him to get inside of you. 

He’s glad he wore dark colored slacks. With a turn of his key he starts his car.

For the first time in his life he’s going to buy condoms. 

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

The knock on your door makes you jump. 

Shooting a glance towards your clock tells you that it’s only five minutes after six. 

Yet there he is when you open the door.

Thankfully you spent the day cleaning and picked up the pizza a few minutes ago.

“I thought we said six thirty?” You don’t bother greeting him, you’re already irritated enough by the fact that he’s in the same clothes and you’re in your PJs.

“On time is late, early is on time.” He is quite possibly the lamest person you’ve ever met. 

“Twenty five minutes early is early. Sounds to me like maybe you just couldn’t wait.” You grab his arm, pulling him into your apartment. He’s still in a brown blazer and a dress shirt with a fucking tie, who dresses like this for a hookup? “Are you seriously still dressed like that? “Go change, I can’t have a conversation with you like this.” 

“How else would I be dressed?” Thank god he has a backpack with him.

“I hope to god you brought something other than business attire. Put on some pajamas or something.” You point him towards the bathroom as you split off towards the kitchen to grab plates. 

You quickly sort yourself out in the reflection of your microwave. You kept it casual, you’d hoped he would too but that was clearly wishful thinking. Your favorite pajama pants with Snoopy on them and a tanktop. Simple, classic, easy enough to take off. Not so obviously revealing that you can’t sit and have a conversation with him before you do whatever it is that the two of you are about to do. 

You straighten up at the sound of the bathroom door opening. 

Returning to the living room you watch as he sets his sneakers down by the door. He stands straight, holding his arms tightly to his body like he’s worried about taking up any space. 

You can work with this. 

Especially with him dressed like that. 

He’s got a black caltech shirt on with a pair of grey sweats, and of course, his mismatched socks. He’s always got so many layers on at work, it’s the first time you’ve ever seen him in just a t-shirt and you’re liking what you see.

He almost looks like a normal person now. 

Okay. 

Time to rip off the band-aid. This shouldn’t be so hard, you both know why you’re here, you’ve already had one awkward conversation, what’s one more? 

You sit on the couch, patting the spot next to you as you open the pizza box on your coffee table. As he sits beside you, you set a slice on a plate before handing it to him. Doing the same for yourself. 

“I think we need to lay down some ground rules before anything happens here.” Your voice cracks a little as you clear your throat. Jesus, pull it together.  

“I completely agree.” Thank god he sounds nervous too.

You shouldn’t be nervous, you do this all the time. 

“Let’s start with the obvious, you can’t tell anyone about this. If you did I would vehemently deny it and of course whatever was happening between us would stop.” This can’t ever get out. Emily and Derek would never let you live it down. 

“Obviously.” He rolls his eyes as he takes a bite. 

“No offense intended, it’s not a personal thing, it’s a professional thing, for the sake of my career and yours.”

“Sure.”

“Did you bring condoms?”

He nods, unzipping his backpack he hands you a Trojan value pack, there’s four different options. 

“Forty condoms?” You stifle a laugh as you pass the box back to him. His cheeks burn red, making him blush might be your new favorite thing to do. 

“I wasn’t sure what your preference was or how many was normal. And I didn’t want to run out.”

“Run out!” You set your plate down as you laugh, you're too nervous to eat. 

“I don’t know how many is normal!” You can’t blame him, he really doesn’t know any better.

“That’s fine, you know what, forty is fine. You don’t have to use them if you don’t want to anyway. I’m on birth control and I got tested a month ago. And I know you obviously don’t have anything.” The second you say it the condoms go back in the bag. 

“Anything else?” He cocks an eyebrow at you.

“As far as commitment goes there is none. If either of us decides we’re done then we’re done.”

“Sounds about right for you.” He scoffs. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re scared of commitment, everyone knows it.”

“Not wanting commitment in a fuck buddy scenario is not the same as being scared of commitment.” This isn’t an argument you want to have right now because he is technically right. 

“Anything else?”

“No, your turn.” You grumble. 

“I don’t want you seeing other guys while we’re doing this.” Of course mr. commitment doesn’t want you seeing anyone else. 

“I will not engage in sexual activities with others but I’ll still have to flirt with guys when I go out with Emily.”

He frowns.

“We can work out the logistics of that later.” 

“Whatever, sure.” Another argument you don’t want to have right now. 

“I’d like for us to be honest with each other, even if it’s uncomfortable.” 

“Give me an example.”

“Like if I asked you about how many people you’ve slept with.”

“Does that matter?” You lean away from him as you cross your arms over your chest. 

“Not at all, I’m just curious. And you don’t have to answer, I just ask that if you do that you don’t lie.” You drop your guard a bit at that, he seems genuine.

“Around twenty, maybe twenty five.” You don’t know the exact amount but that sounds right.

“That’s it?” The ever distrustful Spencer Reid. 

“Tales of my sexual exploits have been greatly exaggerated.” You lean back against the couch, sighing. 

“I’ll also obviously answer any questions you might have with complete honesty as well.” 

You're eager to test the extent of that honesty. 

“Do you ever think about me when you jerk off?” You sit back up, smirking at him. 

“Usually.” He shrugs, reaching into his backpack he grabs a glasses case, he must have taken out his contacts in the bathroom. You watch as he puts on a pair of horn rimmed glasses. 

That changes things. 

This must be how he feels when you wear a low cut shirt. 

He blinks, adjusting to them. You tilt your head, holding your breath as you stare at him. They sit so nicely, high on his nose. Something about the round frames accentuate the sharp features of his face. The thick tops of them stand out against his pale skin. You’re slowly getting the sexy librarian appeal. 

Oh my god, pull it together.  

“How often?” You cough the words out, trying to regain the air of confidence you had when you asked the question. 

“Twice a day.” He answers much more comfortably than he did in the diner. He doesn’t twitch, he’s found a sense of calm here. 

“You jerk off twice a day?” You squeak out. 

“I jerk off while thinking about you twice a day.”

“Wow.” You wanted someone obsessed, you aren’t going to find anything better than this. 

“Oh I know. You’ve become a real problem for me.” 

“How do you want to do this? It’s your first time, it should be special.” As much as you’d love to tear into him right now and find out what makes him tick, that isn’t what tonight's about. You’ll have plenty of time for that later. 

“I could care less so long as it happens, I feel like I’ve dug myself into a pretty embarrassing hole if I’ve come all this way and said all these things just to not have sex.” He scratches the back of his neck as he gives you a sheepish smile. 

“I know a part of you still thinks this is some evil plot on my end of things but I promise I’m not joking.”

“I’ll believe it when you actually start touching me.”

You’re suddenly hyper aware of the fact that you’re sitting rather far away. You’ve both retreated to the furthest edges of the couch. 

You set your plate down, taking his and doing the same before you scoot over. You pull him closer as you throw your legs over his lap. 

“Believe it yet?” You speak softer now that you’re right next to each other. 

“I’m starting to. What are your limits? What do you want to avoid?” He keeps his tone sarcastic but this close to him you can see the way his blush creeps down his neck and under the collar of his shirt. 

“I don’t think there’s anything.” You’re practically whispering now, you’re so close to him. 

“That seems a little extreme.” His brows furrow. 

“If you do something I don’t like you’ll know. We can settle on a safeword but I’m also very comfortable simply telling you to stop if I don’t like something.”

“So… anything’s on the table.”

That’s the goal. 

“Anything you can think up in that big, perverted brain of yours. We can do whatever you want.” 

He swallows loudly. His hands rest awkwardly at his sides, usually in this position the guy would touch you but not him. He doesn’t even know that’s an option. 

“Do you want to watch a movie?” You’re trying to think of ways to make him more comfortable but you’re coming up empty. Should you offer him a book to consume? He isn’t like your usual partners, normally you’d put on a movie or a show to pretend to watch before you get started.

“I’d rather not.” He stammers, his fingers tap against your ankle rhythmically. 

“What do you want to do then?”

“You can’t seriously be asking me that right now.” 

“Well I don’t know, I don’t want to overwhelm you or anything, I figured you’d want to be eased into this.” 

“We can do whatever I want, that’s what you just said, right? Because if that’s the case then I’m certainly not going to start by watching a movie.”

“It helps to set the mood.” You roll your eyes. 

“My mood doesn’t really need any further setting. Does yours?”

Nope. 

“Do you want me to take the lead?” You give him a genuine smile, not your usual predatory grin. 

“I will do literally anything you ask me to do right now.”

Perfect, perfect Spencer. He is exactly what you needed to end your dry spell.

“Why don’t we start by going to my room.” You stand, holding your hand out to him. It’s quite possibly the first kind gesture you’ve ever made towards him. 

He nods as he takes your hand, letting you guide him down the hall and into your room. You take a seat on the bed but he doesn’t follow. Instead he stands in the doorway, robotic in the way he examines every detail. 

“You have more stuffed animals than I thought you would.” It’s the first thing he says once he steps into the room. 

“How many did you think I’d have?”

“None.”

You’ve got a lot more than that, a mess of them are strewn about your bed, you’ve got a few on your nightstand as well as a net mounted to the wall that holds a pile. It crosses your mind to be embarrassed about it but you’ve never let it bother you before, why would you start now. You kick most of them off the bed as you lay back against the pile of pillows against your headboard. 

You don’t want to rush him, tonight isn’t about you, even if you have big plans for him in the future. Right now you want him to be comfortable and happy.

He takes a hesitant step forward, not towards you, just further into the room. He faces away from you as he stares at your walls and shelves. You have photos with friends, and a few little paintings you found at thrift stores. His eyes linger on a picture of you, Emily, and Derek, out at the bar.   

Eventually he turns to your bookshelf. 

Whenever he’s reading he gets that look in his eyes, like he’s devouring the words rather than reading them. 

“Have you read all of these?” He murmurs. 

“Most of them, everything on the bottom shelf is stuff I still need to get to.”

“I haven’t heard of most of these.” His fingers linger over Ice Planet Barbarians. 

“I would be concerned if you had.”

He nods, turning to you at last as he steps forward, running his fingers across your comforter. 

“I always imagined your room being… scarier.” The fact that he imagined it at all only serves to sustain your smile. 

“Scarier?”

“Black and red, chains and whips.” Your room is a lot of things, but it isn’t dark and scary. Your sheets are a patchwork mix of colors, your walls are painted a soft green. 

“You imagined my room like a dungeon?” You cock an eyebrow at him. 

“Something like that.” He sits, facing you, the bed gently sinking against his weight.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this? You seem a little on edge. We can do something else for a few minutes if that’ll help.” You’re a little worried he’s about to turn tail and run based on the way he’s eyeing your door. 

“I’m ready, I just…” He stares at his hands, a look of concern that you’re all too familiar with after a year spent working together flashes across his face. “I’m a little worried this is all some kind of prank. That Emily and Derek are gonna jump out and laugh at me for thinking that this was ever really happening.” 

“Emily and Derek aren’t even in the state, Reid.” You reach out, touching his arm, a zap of static electricity makes you flinch before you rest your hand on his forearm. 

“I thought of that too, and then I thought about you going in on Monday and telling everyone everything. I can see it now, Derek will ask you how your weekend was and you’ll give everyone a theatrical retelling of how you tricked poor Spencer into coming over to your house. You got him to spill his guts and then you got him to strip down to his underwear before you kicked him out.” His voice sounds so small when he says it.

“You really think I would do that to you?” You didn’t know it was possible for you to feel bad for the boy genius but right now you do. You’ve seen him as Hotch’s spoiled prodigy for a long time but right now he’s… vulnerable.  

He scoffs.

“You know, when I was in high school, there was a girl I liked. She asked me to meet her at the football field, she wasn’t like the other kids, she was nice to me, and I liked her, and she was the prettiest girl in school, how could I turn that down?” You’ve heard lots of Spencer’s stories, directly from him, in passing, or from the rest of the team, but you’ve never heard this one. “I couldn’t believe she was actually there when I got there. I was even more surprised that the entire football team was there.” He doesn’t look at you, instead he looks straight past your head to the wall behind you. “They stripped me down and tied me to the goal post. I begged them to stop and not one of them listened to me, no one helped me. Even after everyone left, no one ever felt bad and came back for me, I had to get out myself.”

His gaze is unfocused as you give him a look that could only be described as pity. 

“I thought you graduated high school when you were twelve?” You whisper, it’s the first time you’ve ever wanted him to correct you, instead he gives you a sad smile.

“Youngest in my class.”

You feel a fondness for him that you haven’t previously. Here, in the dim light of your room, dressed in normal clothes, picking at his nails, he becomes someone different from the man you see in the office everyday. That man quite literally knows everything, the man in your bed right now knows nothing. 

“Come here.” You lean forward, pulling him close so he’s kneeling on top of you.

“Are you gonna make me beg for it?” You know without a shadow of a doubt that he would if you wanted him to. 

“Not this time.” You tangle your fingers into the curls at the nape of his neck. “Let me know if you want to stop.” You murmur as you pull him closer.

“If I ask you to stop, something has gone seriously wrong.”

Much to your surprise he’s the one to close the distance between you, there isn’t any indecisiveness in his actions now as his lips press into yours. Warm and soft, and tasting like coffee with too much sugar. 

And for the first time in months you get butterflies, low in your stomach, in a place that you thought might be broken inside you. You feel a fluttering as his hands hold your hips with a tightness that tells you he’s worried you might disappear. 

You’d convinced yourself you might not ever feel like that again.

Thank god Spencer Reid loves to prove you wrong.

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

a/n : i plan on doing things to spencer reid in the next chapter that he has never even heard of. anyways, sorry for teasing y'all for one more chapter before they doink lol

i don't have a tag list but you can follow @holymolynotifications for fic updates!!

Also, like she said, that’s her favorite tree. She sits there with her Walkman and makes friendship bracelets in the evenings, and now she can’t, because this weirdo stole her spot!

Why is he even here if he doesn’t want to be?

Just how many books did he bring with him? His duffel must weigh a million pounds.

She can’t judge him too harshly for that, though. She did bring the majority of her CD collection.

Oh, and did this kid bring any summer-appropriate attire with him? It’s been half a week, and she hasn’t seen him in anything other than slacks and a button-up.

When he first sees her across the lawn, he’s a little scared and intimidated. She’s beautiful and seems so carefree, for one. Her ears are riddled with piercings (a minimum of ten per ear), arms littered with threaded bracelets, a fanny pack clipped over her denim overalls, and a few beaded necklaces around her neck. She’s definitely excited to be here, and he’s definitely not. He has zero plans to speak to her.

Wait, why is she walking towards him?

“Hey! This is my tree, I’ll have you know.” She stops right in front of him and crosses her arms over her chest.

He’s looking up at her like a kicked puppy. It sends a pang of guilt to her heart. She was just messing with him. 

“Oh- I-I didn’t know…” He scrambles to shove his books into his bag.

“Oh, no, I was just kidding,” she tentatively chuckles. Nodding her head towards his books, she asks, “Whatcha reading?” 

His hand flies over the cover of his book, “It’s just for school.”

She looks incredulous, “School? But it’s summer!”

“Yeah, I, uh, I like to prepare.”

She laughs, “I could’ve guessed that about you.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆ 

The following day, she sees him stepping out of his cabin. She doesn’t know his name, so she just shouts, “I stayed in Radiance three summers ago!”

He flinches at the noise and looks around before his gaze falls on her. With a small smile, he just nods.

Approaching him slowly, she continues talking, “This year I’m in Stardust. My bunkmate is this girl named Dani, she’s really nice, and her best friend Ellie is in the other bunk.” She leans against the porch railing as she continues talking, gesturing with her hands as she does. “Sometimes I feel like a third wheel, though. They don’t, like, specifically exclude me, quite the opposite, really, they invite me to hang out with them all the time, but I don’t know… Who’s all in your cabin?”

He’s noticed that she talks a lot, but that’s not a bad thing. It makes up for his lack of conversational skills. “Um… My bunkmate is this guy named James. The other one has Simon and another guy I don’t know the name of – I’ve only seen him twice so far.”

She squeals, and it startles him, “James is Dani’s camp crush!”

“Camp crush?” He inquires.

“Ugh, I have so much to teach you! A camp crush is a temporary fling that both people know won’t last once camp ends. The first time I woke up in the middle of the night and Dani was gone, I was afraid the bears had gotten to her! But the next morning she told me that she had just snuck out to go makeout with James by the lake.”

“There are bears here?” He squeaks out. He’s pretty certain there aren’t any in this area, but she has him worried.

“Oh, no.” She waves off his concerns. “But were you listening?! I think that James is more than just a camp crush for Dani, the way she lights up when she talks about him is… kind of sickening, actually…”

“Okay…”

“So, we have to play matchmakers for them! We could give the best speeches at their future wedding.”

He tries to just laugh her off, but she’s being deadly serious. She gave him an assignment to talk to James about his feelings for Dani. 

“I’m sorry you have Simon, too, though. I’ve heard he’s not very nice.”

“Oh… Yeah… It’s fine.”

“He’s a douche. You can say it.”

He looks over at her incredulously, “No!” and she just laughs.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆ 

She approaches him again a couple of days later, with a towel draped around her neck and an oversized camp shirt covering her bathing suit, “Do you want to go swimming with me?”

He politely declines.

She huffs, “Wow, so you hate me?”

“What?! No! Not at all!” He’s flushed and frantic. “Lakes are full of germs and bacteria that can cause various illnesses, some of which can even be life-threatening.” She wonders how he’s capable of speaking so quickly without tripping over his words.

She smiles, “I was just messing with you, no worries,” before reaching forward to ruffle his hair. His eyes squint, and his shoulders rise, but he doesn’t pull away from her.

He watches her walk away until she rounds a corner and disappears.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆ 

Week 2

She found him reading in a corner of the mess hall. The sound of her tray smacking the table makes him flinch, but his shoulders relax once he sees that it’s just her. 

The monotone chatter of their campmates fills their ears before she breaks their silence by asking,  “So what do you wanna be when you grow up?”

Nobody has asked him that in years. He’s amazed at the way she makes it seem like being a grown-up with adult responsibilities is so far away. “I’m not sure exactly, maybe a professor. What about you?”

She doesn’t answer his question. She just laughs, nods at his book, and says, “Professor Paperback.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆ 

She’s learned not to overwhelm him with too many questions at a time, so the next day, she asks him if he knows where he’s going to college next year.

“I’m actually already in college.”

She purses her lips outward and nods, “Oh, cool! Like Dual Credit?”

His lips purse, and he looks down at his tray, “No, I’m a full-time student at CalTech. I’m almost done with my first bachelor’s.”

Her eyebrows shoot up her forehead, “Your first?!”

He scratches the back of his neck, “Yes. I want to get at least one doctorate, and then I’ll go back for another Bachelor’s.”

“And what kind of doctor would you be? One for books? Doctor Paperback?”

Pushing up his glasses, he clarifies, “Well, I wouldn’t be a medical doctor exactly…”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆ 

She introduces him to Oreos dipped in peanut butter. 

He doesn’t really like it, but he pretends like he does.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆ 

She didn’t know why he was reading books about schizophrenia, and figured it was too personal to ask. He’s clearly very introverted, and she didn’t want to make things weird or uncomfortable. She did briefly fear that he was reading them for himself, but then she felt guilty for assuming.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆ 

One night, they’re cross-legged on her bunk and playing poker, sour candy being the tokens. Ellie and Dani are out, so it’s just the two of them. They’re laughing and eating popcorn, and Spencer’s having a really good time. He does feel normal, for once. And he’s won three times already, so that helps.

He randomly decides that he’s going to tell her about his mom. He’s never talked about her with anyone, so he doesn’t know how to naturally bring it up in conversation. He waits for a lull and says, “My mom wanted me to come here.”

“Woman with great taste, I must say. I love it here.”

He softly smiles, “Yes, she is.” The good memories of her reading to him and cooking his favorite meals come to the surface, before the scarier ones follow behind them. “She, um, is sick. I’ve been really good about taking care of her, and she wanted me to have a normal summer where I didn’t have to worry about her for a little while.”

She lightly smiles at him and adjusts her cards. “Let me guess, you’re still worrying about her?” 

Spencer nods, looking down at his own hand. “All the time. It’s become habitual, you know? I barely remember a time when I wasn’t taking care of her, so I wake up every day here feeling like I’ve forgotten to do something.”

“That’s really sweet of you, Spencer. You’re a good son.” A rare occurrence of her calling him by his actual name. “I do agree with her, though. You do deserve a fun, normal summer… I get what you mean –not fully– obviously, but I helped my mom take care of her dad when he got cancer. He moved in with us and everything.”

“...it’s not cancer.”

“Oh, can I ask what it is? You don’t have to tell–”

“It’s schizophrenia. Please don’t tell people. It’s something I’ve always kept to myself.”

She waves her hand, “You don’t have to worry about that. I don’t tell anyone what we talk about, not even Dani.”

“Really?”

She nods and looks up at him with intense sincerity, “Yeah, of course.”

He briefly fears that their interactions will now be awkward with the weight of his admission. He knows her better than that by now, though.

“I really should tell everyone that you cheat at poker, though.”

“I do not!” He exclaims.

“Then how have you won each game?!”

His eyes sparkle with mischief. “Haven’t I told you that I’m from Vegas?” 

“Oh. My. God. You are a cheater!” She exclaims, smacking his arm with her pillow, sending popcorn and sour gummy worms flying across the mattress.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆ 

She asks him what his favorite color is. He tells her that it's purple. The following day, she hands him a friendship bracelet with various shades of purple thread braided together. As she helps him tie it on his wrist, he bashfully tells her that he doesn’t have one to give her. She laughs and points to the dozens that decorate her wrists, “That’s okay. I have enough.”

He asks for her favorite color anyway and heads straight to the gift shop to buy string and a tutorial book. They didn’t have a book, but they had a lot of string, so he bought more than he thought he would need, just in case.

All night, he experiments with the thread, attempting to interlace it into something that resembles a bracelet. The majority of the night, his fingers are tangled in the string, and he’s created nothing but knots, but as the sun rises past his window, he finally has something he’s proud to give her.

She sees him slumped over his breakfast tray with periwinkle dusted under his eyes. “Jeez, rough night?”

At the sound of her voice, his head perks up, and he digs in his pocket for the messy bracelet he made for her. “It’s not much, and it’s not as good as the one you gave me, or any of the ones you already have, but-”

She snatches it from his hand, beaming. “I love it.”

He helps her tie it around her ankle, since there’s no more room on her wrists. Spencer wouldn’t have minded if his creation were sandwiched between the others, but knowing that it gets to live on its own makes him feel special. At least twice a day, she’ll see it every time she puts her shoes on or takes them off. If she has to retie them at any point, she’ll see it again. He can’t help but smile at the thought.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆ 

Week 3

They’re walking laps around the lake, talking about everything and nothing.

She asks him things like, “What do you think are the three worst things to bring to a deserted island?”

And, “What’s your favorite skit from All That?”

He asks her to give him time to think about the first question, wanting to ensure he suggests the truly worst things.

For the second, he winces and tells her that he has no idea what that is.

“You’ve never seen All That?!”

He shakes his head.

She drags him all the way to the common area and sits him on the couch before grabbing the TV remote. She mumbles, “I really hope it’s on right now,” as she channel surfs.

It was on, and she laughed the hardest at Vital Information. Spencer didn’t really understand the sense of humor, but caught himself staring at her three separate times. She looks really pretty when she laughs.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆ 

They’re sitting together under their tree. He has a book abandoned in his lap, and she has her Walkman. She insisted on sharing one of her favorite albums with him, Wild Mood Swings by The Cure. They’re sharing her earbuds, one in each of their ears. He did hesitate before putting one in his, but she was looking at him so expectantly and excitedly that he’d be foolish to miss out on this opportunity in fear of germs.

“You do know who The Cure is, right?”

“Of course I do!” It’s not a lie; he’s heard of them and has heard a couple of their songs, but he’s never listened to one of their albums start to finish like this.

They sit with their shoulders pressed together, the rough bark of the tree against their backs. Sunlight flitters through the gaps in the leaves, and a soft breeze kisses their skin.

It’s not really the type of music he’d usually listen to, but it does make sense that she’d like it. 

His favorite song was Mint Car. It was eerily accurate to their situation.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆ 

She manages to convince him to try archery with her, swearing that it’ll be really fun and worth his time. 

Spencer is not having a good time. It’s the hottest day of the year so far, and he’s sweating buckets. His shirt is damp, and beads of perspiration keep rolling down his forehead and into his eyes. He’s barely strong enough to pull back the bowstring, and his arm is sore, aching, and trembling. Only one of his arrows has made it to the target board, and it stuck into the exterior edge that surrounds the circle. 

He hates this. He’d rather hang out with her under their tree, or literally anywhere other than here.

And, to make matters worse, Simon, Spencer’s bunkmate, has been picking on Spencer all afternoon.

“You know the target is the giant circle over there, right?”

“Maybe you should just stick to reading.”

“It’s like he’s scared of everything.”

“Why do you dress like an accountant?”

She told Spencer to just ignore him, tried helping him with his stance, and whispered little jokes into his ear in an effort to make him feel better. It sort of worked.

“She only hangs out with you because she feels bad for you, you know that, right?”

Spencer slowly lowered the bow and dashed away after Simon’s last remark.

With his back facing them, he didn’t see her stomp over to Simon and shove him backwards, making him fall into the grass. He didn’t see the finger she pointed at his face while screaming. He was too far away to hear most of what she said, but “What the hell is wrong with you?” traveled across the field.

Once their tree is in his eyeline, he stops running. With tears streaming down his cheeks, he crouches at the base of it and buries his face in his hands. He can barely breathe, and it’s only partially from running. His heart hurts.

She knows exactly where to find him, so it’s not long before he hears her scoff, “I can’t believe that guy. He’s such an asshole.”

Spencer hurriedly wipes his cheeks on his sleeves and stammers, “It’s fine.”

She sighs and lowers herself next to him, fidgeting with her hair, before she asks, “You don’t think what he said was true, do you?”

He doesn’t respond. He sniffles and tilts his head upward to stare at the covering of leaves above them.

“Spencer?”

“...I don’t know.”

“I haven’t gone out of my way to find you every single day because I feel bad for you. I haven’t skipped most of the camp activities because I feel bad for you. I haven’t spent three weeks trying to get to know you because-”

“Then why have you?!” He cuts her off, exasperated.

“I don’t know! Because I like you!”

He slowly turns his head to look at her, wide-eyed and mystified, “You like me?”

Scoffing, she says, “Obviously, genius,” and lightly shoves his shoulder. “You’re my best friend here.”

“Oh…” Spencer averts his gaze to the grass below them, “You’re my best friend, too… Here, I mean, of course, also…” His cheeks gradually transition from pink to red, and he hopes she either doesn’t notice or attributes it to the hot summer day.

She sharply nods, “Cool. Good,” before rising back to her feet and holding a hand out for him. “Wanna go get Icees from the mess hall?”

Wiping his hands on his slacks, he grabs her hand and lifts himself from the ground.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆ 

They take their usual seats in the dining hall, nibbling on sandwiches with slightly stale bread for lunch. She has a sketchbook sprawled on the edge of their table, displaying a half-done drawing of the lake at sunset.

While chewing, she asks, “Can I give you a tattoo?”

He flinches, “What?! No?!”

She amusedly rolls her eyes, “Not a real one, silly.” Pointing to the back of his hand with her marker, she adds, “A temporary one.”

“Oh,” he sighs in relief, then smiles, “Sure.” 

She grabs his hand and holds it flat against the table, before slowly and carefully sketching out various lines on the back of it.

He lightly laughs, fingers twitching, “It kinda tickles.”

She gives him a stern look, “You have to stay still, or your ink will be botched.”

The corners of his mouth turn upward as he tries to stay serious, “Right. I’m sorry, tattooist.”

She draws a sun and a moon in the center of his hand, surrounded by various-sized stars and swirls. He loves it. He loves it so much that he delicately wipes the skin there each time he washes his hands for the next few days.

He gets distracted by the sight of it while he’s reading, and will halt his skimming to trace a finger over the fading lines.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆ 

He does really like the nights out here. Being so far away from the city limits makes the stars the most prominent he’s ever seen them. They definitely don’t look like this in Vegas.

They’re sitting on a log by the campfire, faces painted golden by the flickering flames. There are a few other campgoers scattered around the firepit, but they’re the only ones on their log. There’s a boy softly strumming his guitar a couple of logs over – Nathan, Spencer thinks his name is.

She’s positioned her skewered marshmallow as close to the embers as possible, waiting until the exterior is crispy, exactly how she likes it.

He purses his lips and points to the fire, “Um, I think you’re burning it.”

She rolls her eyes, “This is objectively the best way to cook it.”

When she recedes the stick, the marshmallow is ablaze, and she pulls it closer to them to blow it out. Spencer flinches and scoots away from it.

She eats it right off the stick – perfectly crunchy on the outside and gooey in the middle.

Some of the goo remains on the branch, so she positions it back into the fire to burn it off and prepare it for another one.

“I believe it’s your turn, Professor Paperback.”

He really doesn’t love the idea of eating food off of a stick, but he carefully plunges the marshmallow on the edge of it and scoots forward to hover it over the fire.

It takes him three tries to cook it how he likes it. The first one is barely torched, the second was too burnt, but the third was perfectly golden and delectable.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆ 

Week 4

He finds her laid out on a hammock with a baseball cap lying over her face. It’s unclear if she’s sleeping or just resting her eyes, so he approaches her slowly. She seems to sense his presence and moves the hat away as she sits up.

He gestures at the hammock next to her, “Can I sit?”

She wordlessly pats the intertwined rope next to her.

He grips the edge of the hammock and carefully lowers himself down, but his weight tilts the entire thing forward and sends them both flying to the ground.

Spencer lands on top of her with a light groan. 

His eyes flit all over her face. He’s never been this close to a girl before. The freckles on her nose are more visible than usual, and he’s tempted to count them all. Unintentionally, his gaze lowers to her mouth. Her lips are shiny and slightly tinted by her strawberry lip balm.

Quickly glancing back up at her eyes, he adjusts his arm to push himself off of her. He whispers, “Sorry.” His heartbeat stutters when he realizes her eyeline was on his lips, too. He anxiously licks them and bites his lower lip.

She moves a hand to the back of his neck and brings their lips together. His breath catches in his throat as they touch. It lasts all of three seconds, but they slot together perfectly.

She laughs and gently shoves his chest, “Now get off me, you’re heavy.”

He can taste a faint hint of strawberry on his lips after they’ve pulled away. 

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆ 

She comes up with an elaborate plan to come by his cabin after lights out to pick him up, so they can carve their names into their tree.

She said they should meet at 11:43, so it’s not as suspicious. 

The screen door screeches as he steps out onto the wooden porch at 11:42, and he can see a tiny circle of light coming from her flashlight as she approaches.

She whispers, “Ready for our secret mission?” and he lightly chuckles and nods, carefully avoiding the step that’s broken as he descends the stairs.

They’re both in their pajamas, and the handle of a knife sticks out of her pocket – he’s sure it doesn’t get more suspicious than this.

It’s dark, really dark. Her flashlight only allows them to see a few feet in front of them. Spencer is freaked out by how little they can see. He’s afraid they might get caught. Every shadow looks like a counselor waiting to bust them.

Spencer wants to hold her hand as they walk to the edge of camp, but he’s too nervous.

He whispers, “What if someone sees us?”

“Then we run.” She says simply. “Or we could start making out as a diversion.”

“What?!” He whisper screams.

She laughs, “Relax, I’m kidding.”

As they get closer to the tree, the flashlight does little to illuminate the full expanse of the bark and leaves. She pulls the knife out of her pocket and scans the light over the trunk, “Where should we do it?”

He points to the gap in the roots that they always sit between, “Near there?”

She nods before crouching down. Spencer stands a few feet behind her, stiff and alert – frantically looking around as she carves.

Once she’s done, she shines the light in his face, and he winces, lifting a hand to cover the gleam. She laughs, “Oh, sorry,” and lowers it.

Squatting next to her, their shoulders brush as he glances over her etching. As he holds his palm out for the knife, their fingers graze, and a shiver runs down his spine.

Spencer engraves his name right under hers. He finds comfort in the permanence of what they’re doing. Long after they leave camp, long after the summer ends, many years from now, their time together will be marked permanently in the bark.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆ 

They’re perched on the edge of the dock, shoes behind them with their socks tucked inside, feet dangling in the water. Spencer still isn’t over his fear of the bacteria-filled water. 

As the sun sets over the edge of the lake, she tells him, “I really don’t want this summer to end.”

“Because you love it here so much?”

“Yeah, it’s my one escape from the real world... And I’ll miss you.”

Spencer blushes, “I’ll miss you too,” and ducks his head. “What do you wish you could escape from?”

“My parents just fight a lot, is all. This is my last year having to deal with it before I move out, but I’m worried about leaving my siblings behind.”

He completely understands what it’s like to have combative parents. “What do they fight about?’

She acerbically laughs, “Anything and Everything. It’s this weird, toxic cycle, and neither of them will leave the other, for some reason.”

He whispers, “I’m sorry.”

She shrugs, “It is what it is,” and kicks her feet in the water. 

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆ 

Every year, the last night of camp features a Goodbye Formal Dance. Spencer didn’t plan on going, but she insisted that he be her date.

Spencer got dressed in his normal attire: an ironed button-up and slacks. The only difference was the addition of a tie and a blazer. James clapped him on the shoulder and told him that he looked nice, which slightly calmed Spencer’s nerves. Simon sat grumpily in his bunk in his pajamas and rolled his eyes at his roommates for caring about the stupid dance.

James is obviously taking Dani to the dance. Simon asked Ellie, and she laughed in his face.

Spencer’s heart feels like it could beat right out of his chest, and he’s shocked that it didn’t when he laid eyes on her.

There aren’t words to describe how she looks in her dress. Beautiful isn’t strong enough, gorgeous and elegant get close, but not close enough. The only thing he’s sure of is that she’s breathtaking.

She’s standing on the porch of her cabin in a glittery, emerald green dress. She’s traded her usual bracelets for a variety of mixed metal bangles. Her usual necklaces and rings decorate her as well, along with the anklet Spencer made for her. Her white, high-top Converse have been traded for sparkly heels. 

Spencer is frozen in the dirt as he takes her in. The setting sun reflects off of her dress and shoes, making her look like a disco ball. She reminds him of the way the lake shimmers when the sun reflects off it. She’s luminescent.

“You’re gonna catch flies, Professor.”

He hadn’t even realized his lips were parted, so he quickly clamped them closed, as a flush rose on his cheeks. “Sorry. You look… amazing.”

She feels warmth spread up her face as she smiles. “You don’t look too bad yourself.”

His feet finally separate from the ground, and he takes a few steps towards her, holding his hand out to guide her down the rickety, wooden stairs. She intertwines her fingers with his, and his breath catches in his throat. 

As they walk towards the field where the dance will be, Spencer rummages his brain for something to say. “Oh, James told me he’s going to ask Dani to try long-distance.”

She gasps, glancing over at him with an amused expression, “No freaking way. I told you!”

He chuckles, “You did.”

As they walk, Spencer can’t take his eyes off their joined hands. He carefully guides her around tree roots and divots in the dirt. He wants to ask her what’s going to happen with them after tomorrow – if they’ll keep talking, or if it will be the end of their relatio- friendship.

The sound of her voice interrupts his thoughts, “I don’t know if I could do long-distance.” 

His heart sinks into his stomach. He hears the sound of his own voice respond, “Oh- Yeah- Me neither…”

As they get closer to the field, they see string lights hung in the nearby trees, connecting branches to each other. The corners contain tall speakers that emit music Spencer doesn’t recognize. On one side, there’s a long table with a punch bowl and snacks, and various circular tables litter the span of the lawn. Groups of their fellow campmates are scattered around – some are dancing, some are standing stiffly. Everyone’s dressed up, even the camp counselors and staff. 

James is dancing with Dani in the center of the field, spinning her out and around. They look unbelievably overjoyed, and Spencer is pushing down a boiling jealousy. He looks over at her, and she’s watching them with a small smile on her face that he doesn’t know how to read. 

He tells her, “They look really happy.”

She turns to face him with a soft expression, “They do.”

Ellie comes barrelling towards them and grabs her arm, pulling her towards the lake, “We’re taking a girls picture, c’mon!”

Spencer reluctantly releases her hand and gives the girls a slight, polite smile. His heart aches as he watches her walk away.

“Hey, man.” James materializes behind him and makes him flinch.

“Hi.”

It’s silent for a moment as they watch the three girls grin and pose. Spencer can’t help the way the corners of his mouth raise at the vision of her.

James nudges his arm, “Are you going to tell her?”

“Tell her what?”

James just gives him a knowing look.

Spencer shrugs, “There’s nothing to tell.”

James hums in acknowledgement, but dismissively. He gestures to Spencer’s wrist, “That’s the one she made you?”

Spencer self-consciously pulls down his sleeve and nods with a quiet, “Yeah.”

The girls head back towards them, arm-in-arm and laughing.

“I think you should say something – you may regret it if you don’t.”

She skips up to Spencer’s side and loops her arm through his. He revels in the weight of her palm against his forearm and fights the urge to pull her in closer to his side. A part of him wants to keep her tucked into him and never let her go.

“Wait– is that you guys’ roommate?” Ellie asks, pointing towards the edge of the field, by a tree.

Spencer and James follow her aim, where they do, in fact, find their fourth roommate heavily making out with a curly-haired boy against the tree. Spencer’s jaw drops, and James chortles.

“I thought he left!” James says.

“I wondered why he left all of his stuff, though,” Spencer adds.

“I’m so glad we never got a fourth roommate,” Dani laughs.

The music fades into something soft and low-tempo, and Dani starts pulling James into the center of the field. Ellie announces that she’s going to get some punch, leaving Spencer alone with her.

Spencer is haunted by what James said to him, and feels his cheeks heat.

She unlinks her arm from his, and a small, quiet protesting noise releases from the back of his throat. She’s soon offering him her palm and asks, “May I have this dance?”

He accepts her hand without thinking, and doesn’t say anything until they’re halfway across the grass. “Wait– I don’t know how.”

She lightly laughs, “You’ll be fine. Just follow my lead and don’t step on my toes.”

He whispers, “I’ll try,” and tries to swallow his nerves.

Once they reach the edge of the group of people dancing, Spencer stands stiffly as she wraps her arms around his shoulders. Her head tilts, and she smiles as she tells him, “This is the part where you put your hands on my waist.”

He raises his hands and mumbles, “Oh– Yes– Right–” before gently placing them on her sides.

As they slowly sway, she’s so close to him that he can see the glitter brushed on her eyelids and can smell her vanilla-lavender perfume. He attempts to slow his mind, to really focus and savor this moment with her, but all he can think about is how he may never see her again after tomorrow. 

He didn’t even want to come to this stupid camp. He was miserable for the majority of the first week and was counting down the days until he could go home. Multiple times, he considered arranging a way to depart early. If only he could go back and tell himself to slow down and delight in the limited time he had at StarShine. The limited time he’d have with her. 

His eyes burn with unshed tears, and his gaze shifts around the field. Then, he’s even more upset to be wasting his last moments with her not being able to look at her. 

When he glances back at her, she’s looking up at him through mascaraed lashes and with confusion and concern. “Why so glum, chum?”

His lips only slightly twitch into the ghost of a smile at her quip. 

With a shaky voice, he tells her, “I just can’t believe it’s our last night,” and a lone tear falls down his cheekbone. Before he can reach up to hurriedly wipe it away, her tender fingers delicately brush it away for him. 

“I know. It’s like this every year. When you first get here, it feels like a month will last forever.”

He’s reminded of the fact that she’s used to this saddening feeling coinciding with relief and anticipation for next summer. Thinking about not coming back next summer is hard enough for him, but it must be insurmountable for her. “I’m sorry. It’s probably harder for you than it is for me.”

She squeezes his shoulder, “Hey, don’t do that. It’s hard for everyone. I actually feel sadder for you since you only got to come here once.”

He nods and concentrates his attention on the feeling of her silky dress under his fingertips, slightly firming his grip in an attempt to ground himself. 

His voice is small and tentative as he asks, “Can we please try to stay in touch?”

Her fingers stroke the hair at the base of his neck as she responds, “Yeah, honey, we can try…” Her eyes widen, and she shakes her head, “Sorry, I don’t know why I said that.”

Spencer has a twin blush on his face as he smiles. “It’s okay, I liked it.”

They continue their slow swaying until the song comes to a close. Spencer can’t grasp that all good things must come to an end. He’s never had to until now.

As the night persists, they flit from the punch bowl to a table, and back to the dance floor. They meet up with James, Dani, and Ellie for the upbeat songs, and Spencer moves rigidly. His wish for the night to slow down seems to only make it speed up.

Eventually, the Goodbye Formal comes to a close, and Spencer finds himself walking her back to her cabin. As they reach the rickety porch stairs, she steps up to the first step before he grabs her hand, “Wait…”

She turns to face him and is eye-level with him. As she moves, the breeze flits through her hair and sends the aroma of her shampoo and perfume towards Spencer. It makes him feel lightheaded.

With raised eyebrows, she squeezes his hand. “Hm?”

“Um… Can I– Could I– Maybe– Kiss you?”

She smiles, “I thought you’d never ask, Professor.”

Her hands rise to his shoulders, and his lift to her cheeks. The moonlight reflects in her lip gloss, and their breaths intermingle in the space between them. Slowly and tentatively, Spencer leans in and brushes his lips against hers. The contact tingles and feels electrically charged. She pulls him closer, and their mouths slot together.

This is only the second kiss Spencer has ever had, but he already feels more confident, especially since both have been with her. Hesitantly, he deepens their kiss and sighs in relief when she’s receptive to it.

Despite his begging and praying to the universe, their kiss and their subsequent night come to an end.

He walks back to his cabin with his hands stuffed in his pockets. His joy from their kiss conflicts with his dread for the morning to arrive. 

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆ 

Spencer barely sleeps. He loses track of how many times he wakes up throughout the night. By the time his alarm goes off, his eyes have a dull burning sensation.

Looking around his cabin, he takes in the lack of decor and personal items that had littered the room for the past month. He, James, and Simon have packed up the majority of their things into their duffel bags and suitcases. Their fourth roommate’s area has been completely cleared out, as if he was never there. The early morning sun refracts off the oak wood, painting the furniture a honey brown. Maybe Spencer could just unpack his possessions and refuse to leave.

The buses leave in an hour, so he reluctantly gets out of bed and gets dressed for the day. When he gets to the bathhouse to wash his face and brush his teeth, he’s taken aback by his disheveled appearance reflected in the foggy mirror.

When he gets back to his cabin, he takes his time carefully writing his phone number, email, and address onto a piece of notebook paper. After meticulously folding it into a square, he writes her name in loopy cursive on the outside and tucks it into his pocket.

There are still thirty minutes until he needs to be at the bus loop, so he thoroughly scans the room to ensure he hasn’t left anything behind and waves goodbye to a sleepy James, who’s only just woken up. The boy sits up in bed to offer him a fistbump, and Spencer clumsily obliges. Simon nor his belongings are anywhere to be seen, but Spencer wasn’t planning on exchanging any pleasantries with him, anyway.

Slinging his bags over his shoulder, Spencer exits the cabin for the last time. He turns to face it and takes a moment to savor the memories of staying there for the last month. He definitely won’t miss Simon, but James was always affable. It’s too bad he never got to know his mysterious fourth roommate.

He decides to head towards their tree to kill some time reading before he has to head to the camp entrance. Restless, he only lasts a few minutes of reading and re-reading the same page in his book before he gives up and sets it down. His eyes keep glazing over, and he feels sick.

Her voice permeates his overwrought thoughts, “I figured I’d find you here.”

Glancing up, he feels his lips turn upward out of habit. His uneasiness seeps through, however, so it appears as a half-smile, half-grimace. She’s dressed in a tank top and sweatshorts – something comfortable for the journey home. 

He huffs out something that could almost be considered a laugh. “I had to say goodbye to our tree.”

“Oh yes, of course.” She lowers herself to sit next to him, their shoulders pressed together. 

Spencer digs in his pocket for the paper and gingerly passes it over to her. “Um, this is for you… Obviously, since your name is on it… It has my phone number, email, and address.”

She giggles, “All three?”

He nods, a light pink flush rising on his cheekbones. “Yes. Just in case.”

Setting it in her lap, she reaches into her pocket and retrieves a similar piece of folded paper. His name is written neatly on the outside, and he unfolds it to find her phone number, email, and address.  

Pursing his lips, he carefully refolds the sheet and tucks it into the front pocket of his shirt, right over his heart.

They sit in a comfortable silence for a while. Eventually, she wraps both of her arms around one of his and rests her head on his shoulder. In the distance, a whistle blows, and someone shouts a fifteen-minute warning for the buses.

Spencer asks, “Where’s your stuff?”

Her voice is soft and gentle as she responds, “It’s still in my cabin. My parents are coming to pick me up.”

Spencer hums in acknowledgement.

Closing his eyes, he focuses on the feeling of the light breeze on his skin, the weight of her against his body, and the scent of her perfume. He knows he’ll never forget this or her, even without an eidetic memory. Even when he’s old, and his memory starts to falter.

“Thank you.” He murmurs.

“For what?”

He inhales deeply, “For a good and normal summer. For being my friend. For everything.”

“You don’t have to thank me. You made it easy, anyway, since you’re the one who stole my tree.” 

He lightly laughs and can almost feel their inscription in the bark on his back. “Now it’s forever our tree.”

With a light squeeze to his arm, she confesses, “I’ll really miss you, Spencer.”

He whispers, “I’ll miss you more.”

A voice calls out a final warning for boarding the buses. Spencer’s heart plunges.

She warily separates her body from his, and his arm feels cold without her holding onto it, despite the late July heat. After rising to stand, she holds her hand out to help him up. 

With a sad smile, she says, “Well, this is it.”

Without thinking, he wraps his arms around her and pulls her in for a hug.

“Don’t forget me,” he pleads into her hair.

She runs her palms up and down his back. “I don’t think I could if I tried.”

They slowly separate, and she presses a quick kiss to his cheek. “Bye, Professor Paperback.”

He jestingly rolls his tearful eyes, “Goodbye.”

She turns and walks away, and he watches her go until he can’t see her anymore. With one last glance at their tree, at their names carved into the oak, he lifts his bags and trudges to the buses.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆ 

They kept in touch for a while; a steady string of emails and occasional phone calls kept Spencer sane and steady for almost a year. Then, her responses had increasing gaps between them. 

He told himself that she was just busy with work and college, but those self-reassurances became progressively difficult to absorb. Eventually, it had been an entire year since he had heard from her.

In the end, the only tangible proof of their time together that summer lived in the fibers of the friendship bracelet she made for him. He wore it until the knot and threads unraveled. Now, it lives buried in a pocket in his satchel. He feels an electric pang in his heart every time his fingers brush against it while he’s digging for a pen or a paperclip, but he can’t imagine getting rid of it. He probably never will.

He thinks about her all of the time. More often than he’d ever admit to anyone. Every time he looks down at his black Converse, he remembers her quirkily doodled white ones. 

Sometimes the sunset looks exactly the same as it did setting into the lake.

He wanted to tell her that he had gotten a job with the FBI. He wonders what she would’ve thought about it or said. Would she have been proud of him?

He bought Wild Mood Swings on vinyl and listens to it every few months. It’s now Jupiter Crash that reminds him of her. If he closes his eyes when Mint Car plays, he can still feel her shoulder pressed against his and the soft breeze whispering onto his face. He can still smell her body spray with an undercurrent of sunscreen. He tries to follow the advice given in Gone!, but how is he supposed to get up and get out when the best person he ever met stopped returning his emails and phone calls? He knows the world is passing him by, but knowing doesn’t make acting any easier.

Five years after meeting her, he returns to his apartment after a grueling case over state lines. The soles of his feet ache, and he wants nothing more than to collapse onto his couch with a box of takeout. On his way inside the vestibule of his complex, he stops by his mailbox and collects the small stack of letters from the metal tin. Lazily flipping through it while he walks up the stairs, he passes his usual journal subscriptions and his water bill, before he freezes in the stairwell.

The letter has a sticker with his name and address in the center, surrounded by little flowers. Glancing up to the top left, his heart races as he reads the names there:

James Parker & Daniella Price

Turning to sit on the step, he tosses the remaining stack of mail next to him and tears the letter open. He’s being told to save the date for their wedding.

i lowkey hate this but it's probably bc i worked on it for too long lol pls be nice to meee

It was a local one. That would often bring comfort to Spencer because it meant that, once it was over, he would come home sooner. Come home to you.

But this time was different. The weather on the East Coast has been, for lack of a better term, messy. Days of nonstop rain have done a number on the roads and traffic. It was something Hotch had considered when the case concluded.

"We should stay until tomorrow. We're tired, and a new storm is coming," the boss pointed out.

"It would be fair, but the hotel doesn't have rooms available for us tonight. Penelope only booked for the week," JJ reminds everyone.

It was true that, due to the new FBI policy, the hotel booking could only last five nights unless there was a prior announcement of an extension. But this time the team caught the unsub right early on day six, so the extent didn't happen.

"I can drive. It's not that bad outside. We can make it before the new storm comes," Derek assured. And even though Hotch wasn't entirely convinced, they didn't have much of a choice. It was that or spend the night in the precinct.

"Okay. Let's go then."

The team climbed into the SUV and got ready to endure the trip, leaving the Jacksonville police station behind.

"Hopefully, we can make it under two hours," Morgan announces, hitting the gas to get to the main road soon.

After fifty minutes, everything seems to be going according to plan until they start bypassing Baltimore. The rain intensifies, and traffic on the highway increases.

Hotch, in the passenger seat, checks his phone, a frown deepening on his face.

"What is it?" JJ asks from the back seat. She is in the middle, Spencer on her right, and Emily on her left.

"Some reports say traffic is getting cluttered in the middle of DC after some power shuts off," Hotch recounts.

"Great," Emily grumbles.

Spencer listens silently to the exchange between Hotch, Emily, and Derek, who insists they'll be able to reach DC in a reasonable amount of time. Spencer isn't so sure anymore, so he discreetly takes out his phone and sends you a message.

'Hey, love. We're on the road, but we don't know how long it'll take to get there. If it gets too chaotic, don't worry, I can stay in Quantico until I can go home safely. Love you.'

It's not that Spencer doesn't desperately want to get home to you, but he knows you'd worry too much if he tried to navigate the streets alone in this weather. So, for your sanity—and his physical well-being, because he is certain you'd kill him if he did otherwise—he's choosing to be cautious.

"Everything okay, Spence?"

The genius’s head snaps up when he hears JJ calling his name.

"Oh. Yes. Yeah. Fine," Spencer hurries to say, but in a quiet voice, so they don't alert the rest about their talking.

JJ's gaze flicks between Spencer and the phone he's quickly hiding in his jacket pocket.

"I was just checking the local news," he offers as an explanation. JJ hums in understanding.

"Something new?"

Spencer clears his throat. "Well, not much. The same Hotch said." To avoid a follow-up question, Spencer turns to the main conversation among Derek, Emily, and Hotch.

Would it have been easier to tell JJ the truth, just saying he was sending you a message?

Definitely.

It would have been the natural thing to do, but because no one on the team knows you exist, it is not so simple.

The thing is, Spencer Reid has been in a relationship with you for three years now, and no one at the BAU even suspects it. Moreover, eight months ago, you moved in together to a house in the DC suburbs, leaving behind the apartment where Spencer had lived since he joined the BAU.

With that in mind, it's fair to say that your relationship is pretty serious, and, according to the same Spencer, the best thing that has happened to him. So, why the secrecy?

At first, it was the novelty of everything. Neither you nor Spencer wanted to put additional pressure on it by introducing people to each other. As things progressed, Spencer's fear about something bad happening if you were exposed to that part of his world was enough to stop him from taking the step.

Yet as time went on, the fear subsided and was replaced by a desire for you to also be part of the family he'd been in since joining the FBI. Spencer felt ready. But now you're the one who wasn't sure about meeting the team. Knowing the stories your boyfriend has told you over the years, you're worried they won't find you to be the right fit for what they expect from a good partner to Spencer.

And although Spencer has assured you countless times that there's nothing to worry about, you were still having your misgivings.

Finally, a few weeks ago, when the topic came up again, you concluded it was time to do it, although you haven't yet worked out the logistics. So, for now, the secrecy must continue.

-

It takes a long time for the team to get to the White Oak crossing; it's not just the rain and traffic that make the trip hard. Now, road closures are being announced over the radio.

"It's been three hours. We’ll be here until Christmas,” Emily complains, making Derek roll his eyes.

"Once we cross Silver Spring, things will be better," JJ says, trying to keep a positive tone.

"Not quite," Spencer disagrees. "We can't go back to the 495, and even if we could, the 50 already has three closures before the river."

"What's your suggestion then, pretty boy?" An annoyed Morgan pipes from the driver's seat.

"Uh- I guess to continue to Forest Glen and then the 390 would be the safest option," Spencer offers.

"Reid is right. We should stick to this road until Forest Glen," Hotch agrees.

With every mile they move forward, traffic slows. The rain is relentless, so much so that even cell phone service is lost in certain areas. To top it all off, night begins to fall, making driving increasingly difficult.

They're indeed getting closer to DC, but from there to Quantico, which is on the other side of the district, seems like a Herculean task.

Morgan looks tired, as does the rest of the team, who are at a loss for how to pass the time.

"More than four hours and we're still stuck. I swear I'm so tired that, at this point, I'd stop anywhere for the night." Emily's words resonate with everyone, though no one comments on them until it is the same Morgan who breaks. "Okay, I admit I'm tired as hell."

“I can drive,” Hotch offers, although he seems equally drained as everyone else.

Spencer looks out the window, recognizing, amidst the rain and the foggy glass, Rock Creek Park—one of his favorite places to go with you, and one of the reasons for choosing a house in the Upper Northwest neighborhood to live.

Unwittingly, and thanks to all the detours along the way, they're only a mile from Spencer's home. That's when an idea strikes him.

Spencer discreetly pulls his phone out of his pocket again, only to find it's completely dead. He'd accidentally turned on the flashlight when he quickly put it away - after being questioned by JJ - draining the battery.

“Shit,” he mutters to himself. Spencer can't text you or even see if he has any messages from you. You're probably worried sick because you haven't heard from him in hours.

To keep driving through this storm will only increase his anxiety, the team's fatigue, and - most likely - your worry.

“Uh, Morgan?” Spencer calls from the back seat. The man sighs as they reach another stop in the road.

“Pretty boy, if you are not telling me how to make this thing fly to Quantico, I don't want to hear it, okay?”

“I support that,” Emily adds.

“What is it, Reid?” Hotch asks, briefly turning to look at Spencer.

“Uh - we can stop at my house for the night. I mean, it’s close from here,” Spencer offers, knowing that the questions will start in 3... 2... 1.

“House?”

“Spence, don’t you live in Alexandria?”

“I thought you had an apartment?”

Morgan, JJ, and Emily say at the same time.

“Yes, no, and yes,” Spencer retorts. “Yes, I have a house. No, I don’t live in Alexandria anymore, and yes, I used to have an apartment.”

Why did none of them know that?

Each team member looks confused, but they are so tired right now that no one is in the mood to full questioning Spencer. The prospect of getting out of the car, stepping into a dry place to shelter from the storm, and getting some sleep is enough motivation to let slide the fact that the young doctor has been living in the suburbs without any of them knowing.

“Tell me you have a guest room,” Emily pleads, daydreaming of a bed to sleep in.

JJ has her own request, too. “And a fireplace or cozy blankets?”

“You'd better have food too, Reid.” Now is Derek‘s turn, as he listens to the grumble of his stomach.

“A coffee sounds fairly good,” Hotch quietly admits.

Smiling, Spencer knows what he has to do.

“Okay. Morgan, in the next corner, turn to the left.”

Four and a half blocks later, they park the car in a quiet street lined with big trees, giving the neighborhood a typical suburban look. In front of them, a detached house, built in a classic Tudor-style. It has a sage-green painted wood-frame front with a covered porch. People would say it’s too family-ich for a single FBI agent to live there. And without saying it, it is exactly what Hotch, JJ, Derek, and Emily are thinking as they descend from the SUV, following Spencer to the main entrance, where two black retro wall lamps with warm light illuminate each side of the solid, deep blue door.

Each team member quickly fast walk to get under the porch, sheltering from the rain.

Spencer puts his key in the lock and opens the door.

Stepping inside, they are immediately greeted by a cozy foyer.

“Such a nice place, Spence. When did you decide to get this house?” JJ asks, peeling her coat and scarf. Everyone does the same, and Spencer gets their garments and places them in the rack.

“A couple of months,” Spencer mumbles while his eyes quickly scan the room, checking if you’re in sight. He wants to at least give you a heads-up on what’s going on before the imminent introduction.

“Please, get comfortable,” he points to the living room and the large couch settled there. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Spencer is about to turn and go in your search when your voice rings in the house.

“Hon? It’s you? I didn't get any update from you, and I tried to call-”

JJ, Hotch, Emily, and Derek freeze in place as they see you appear in the room.

You don’t do better than them when you see your boyfriend and four people standing there and looking at you with a mix of shock and confusion.

“Spencer?” You ask, clearly figuring out who these people are. Unlike them, you know of their existence and have seen the photos Spencer has.

“Coming into the district, we got stuck in traffic, and the storm is getting worse, so I thought we could shelter everyone for the night,” Spencer explains nervously, feeling bad for not having the chance to warn you, and hoping you don’t get mad at him. He would understand if you do, though.

“Oh. I see,” you quietly mumble, assimilating the information as your brain goes into overdrive. You talked about this. It was a mutual agreement that it would happen. But like this?

Well, although it wasn’t the plan, what the hell? It is what it is.

At this point, after bouncing their eyes between you and Spencer for the past minute, the team has a pretty good idea who you are. Not who you really are, they don’t even know your name, but at least they suspect you’re Spencer’s partner.

Another thing they didn't know about their younger team member.

Morgan is the first to break the ice, giving Spencer a knowing look. “You won’t introduce us, pretty boy?”

You can’t help but chuckle. It has always amused you that Morgan calls Spencer like that, and although Spencer says it annoys him, you know it's quite the opposite.

With a pink tinting his cheek, Spencer reaches for your hand. It's something you both need right now, so you quickly rush to take his.

Once you both lace fingers, side by side, a smile creeps on both your faces. Spencer clears his throat and looks at his friends

“Eh, guys? It's not how we pictured doing this, but I guess it was time,” Spencer chuckles before explaining who you are to everyone.

And while the team is still surprised by the news, they greet you warmly, happy to meet you, which is quite a relief, you think.

“It was time? How long have you been together?” Emily asks after the introductions.

“Three years.”

After hearing that, the four’s mouths go slack.

“What?!” Derek exclaims. “Three years? And we never knew?!”

“Actually, it is three years, one month, two weeks, and four days,” Spencer corrects. Morgan huffs.

“It doesn't change my question, Reid.”

“What a bunch of shity profilers we are,” Emily laughs. Across Hotch’s usually serious demeanor, a slight smirk appears. He knew, or at least, he suspected. And for all means, he is happy for Spencer.

“We’re sorry for the intrusion in your home at this hour,” Hotch apologizes.

“Oh, no. Please, don’t. I’m glad Spencer’s IQ paid off and offered you guys to stop here for the night,” you hurry to reply. Spencer’s head turns to you, a ‘what the hell’ expression on his face. Everyone laughs.

“I like you already,” Morgan snorts.

Seeing that they're all still standing in the living room, you invite them to make themselves comfortable.

“I assume you must be hungry. I'll go heat something.” You excuse yourself and go to the kitchen, Spencer trailing behind.

"Hey," he calls once you’re alone. You turn to look at him, cocking an eyebrow.

"Sorry for not telling you we were coming, but my phone battery died."

You nod in understanding. “That’s why you didn't answer my texts. It makes sense. I was worried, though.”

You're not usually the type to make a fuss or overthink things when Spencer doesn't reply to your calls or texts, but you have to admit you were worried this time. The good news is Spencer is home safe and sound, and his friends are too.

“Yeah, I figured. That’s why I invited them over. It would have taken us hours to get to Quantico.”

“Good thinking, baby.”

“Are you not mad?” Spencer asks, narrowing his eyes.

“Why would I? We agreed this should happen eventually. I’m glad you don’t have to hide me anymore,” you shrug, now moving around the kitchen as you heat some food and make more for your guests. “Something is bothering me, though.” The prephasing surprises Spencer, who quickly snaps his head up.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

Breaking your serious demeanor, a chuckle leaves your lips. “You haven’t greeted me properly,” you accuse, pouting. Spencer grins, relieved that you’re messing with him and not actually upset.

“Oh yeah? My bad. I’m so sorry, love.”

Two strides and Spencer is in front of you, hands on your hips, turning you to face him. Happy with the closeness, his hands cup your cheeks, and he leans to kiss your lips.

It’s soft, tender, yet it takes your breath away, like Spencer’s kisses always do.

“Hi,” you whisper after you part from the kiss. Spencer’s grin is so broad that you can’t help but mimic him.

“Hi, baby. I missed you.” Spencer’s arms fly to your waist, and your arms around his neck.

“I missed you, too. I’m happy you’re home now,” you confess, lovingly carding his hair.

Spencer sighs in contentment. “I’m glad to be home.”

The sudden laughs coming from your living room pop the bubble you’re in.

“We have guests,” you remind your boyfriend, who doesn't bother moving his hands away from your waist.

“Yeah, I know.”

You cock your head in amusement, and Spencer smiles. After pecking your lips for good measure, reluctantly, he pulls away.

After a while, you both come back again, with plates and drinks. Settling everything at the diner table, you call the team to join.

The rain keeps mercilessly falling outside, but that doesn't stop your impromptu dinner from being filled with laughter, stories, and good wine.

The crackling fire warms the room, while Emily, JJ, Morgan, and even Hotch attack you with questions to learn more about you and your life with Spencer. Your boyfriend watches, mesmerized, as you become completely at ease around the team, joking and laughing. If he ever had any doubts about how they would see this part of his life, he no longer needs to worry. And if he ever had doubts about how you would feel around them, he doesn't have to worry about that now, either.

From time to time, you and Spencer exchange knowing glances, both of you with smiles stretching on your faces. The team notices, of course, they do, and while they don't say anything about it, all four are proud to see Spencer so happy.

Once the food is gone, along with several glasses of wine and cups of coffee, everyone is feeling the fatigue from the day. It's time for bed.

Fortunately for everyone, the house has two extra rooms, furnished with beds and futons.

As good hosts, you and Spencer help your guests settle in for the night. And after tidying the kitchen and turning off the lights, you both finally head to your bedroom.

“It's a good thing I haven't gotten rid of the futon from my old apartment yet," you comment as you put on your pajamas while Spencer finishes brushing his teeth. “Good thing I haven't filled that room with more books yet,” he points out, heading to the dresser to get his own pajamas.

“It was only a matter of time,” you reply, sliding under the covers.

Spencer laughs softly as he changes, then turns off the lamp on his nightstand, casting the room in the dim glow of the rain-blurred streetlight through the curtains.

“You think they’ll behave tomorrow?” you ask as he climbs into bed beside you.

“Define behave,” Spencer mutters, pulling the blanket over himself. “Because if your definition includes Derek not making at least three dirty jokes before breakfast, I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”

You snort. “Zero expectations, then.”

“Smart.”

A comfortable silence settles between you, the rain still drumming steadily against the window. Spencer shifts to his side, facing you. In the low light, you can make out the exhaustion on his face — the kind that goes beyond a long drive and a tough case — and yet, something else is there too. Something lighter.

“Hey,” you say softly.

“Hey,” he echoes.

“Welcome home.”

Spencer reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering at your jaw.

“I’m sorry it happened like this,” he murmurs. “We had plans.”

“We had vague intentions,” you correct gently. “There’s a difference. And honestly?” You glance toward the hallway, where muffled voices — most likely Emily and JJ having one last conversation before sleep — can faintly be heard. “I think this was better. No build-up, no rehearsed introductions. Just us. The way things actually are.”

Spencer’s quiet for a moment, studying you with that particular look he has. Like he’s trying to memorize something he’s afraid to lose.

“I love you,” he says, simply, like it’s the most obvious conclusion in the world.

“I know,” you reply, and before he can protest for your anti-romantic reply, you add, “I love you too.”

Spencer smiles and pulls you closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead. You settle against his chest, listening to the rain and the occasional distant creak of the house.

Somewhere down the hall, a door clicks shut.

“Spencer?”

“Mm?”

“If Morgan calls you pretty boy again at my breakfast table tomorrow, I’m never letting you live it down.”

His chest shakes with a quiet laugh.

The only light in the room came from the harsh flickering blue glow of the small lamp Spencer propped up on the nightstand. He looked deceptively relaxed in a pair of sweatpants and a thin white cotton shirt that clung to the broad expanse of his chest.

He looked so intensely focused, his eyes sharp behind his glasses as they darted across the closed case files he was studying, his fingers flipping the pages with a rhythmic speed that made a mischievous heat prickle under your skin.

There was something undeniably hot about the set of his jaw and the way his brow furrowed in concentration, completely oblivious to anything but the paperwork.

You were curled up beside him in a pair of tiny shorts and a cropped white floral tee. You were supposed to be watching a movie but the dialogue was just background noise to the sound of Spencer turning pages.

The more he ignored you, the more a restless thrumming ache began to settle deep in your core. You didn't like how his attention was anchored to those files instead of you and you were about to make sure that changed.

You shifted, sliding closer until your thigh was pressed against his hip then leaned in, pressing your nose into the crook of his neck and inhaling his familiar scent. You let your lips graze his skin, a ghost of a kiss right behind his ear.

"Spencer..." you murmured, your voice vibrating against his skin.

"Mmhmm?" He hummed, not even looking away from the text. He didn't skip a beat, purposefully turning another page just to see what you would do.

"You’ve been staring at those files for two hours," you complained, letting your hand wander, your fingertips tracing the hard muscle of his forearm before sliding up to the hem of his shirt. "The movie is almost over and you haven't seen a single frame."

"I’m listening doll," he lied smoothly, his eyes scanning a paragraph. "The main character just realized his brother betrayed him... very tragic. Now let me finish this part."

You huffed. Feeling a surge of stubbornness, you slipped your hand underneath his shirt, your palm flat against the burning warmth of his stomach. You felt the muscles there ripple and tighten at your touch.

"Babe please... aren't you bored yet? You're ignoring me."

Spencer finally paused, his fingers hovering over the paper as he let out a slow patient breath. He finally spared you a glance, a mocking challenging glint in his eyes. "No love, I'm still studying. Go back to your movie."

Determined to break his iron concentration, you sat up, the movement drawing his eye for a heartbeat. With a slow deliberate motion, you reached for the hem of your cropped shirt and pulled it over your head, tossing it blindly toward the end of the bed.

You sat there in just your shorts and your bra, the cool air making your skin tingle but your eyes were locked on him. Then you reached up and slid the glasses right off his face, tossing them onto the nightstand.

Spencer didn't even flinch, he just tilted his head, his bare eyes focusing on you without them, a small muscle twitching in his cheek as he purposely looked back down at the file, continuing to read without his glasses just to prove he could still ignore you.

"Spencer," you said, your hand sliding lower, your fingertips grazing the waistband of his sweatpants. "Look at me."

Finally, he let out a long heavy sigh and snapped the case file shut, shoving it onto the nightstand with a force that was more of a growl than a movement. He turned to face you, his eyes dark and heavy as they raked over your exposed skin with a hunger that made your breath hitch.

"You are being an incredibly annoying distraction tonight," he rasped, his voice losing its calm edge and dropping into that deep possessive rumble.

"Is it working?" You teased, a playful smirk dancing on your lips as you crawled over him, your knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. You moved until you were straddling his lap, your shorts dragging against his sweatpants. "Because you look like you’re having a very hard time focusing on your paperwork."

He leaned back against the headboard, crossing his arms over his chest, deliberately challenging you.

"You think you’re so smart don't you? Stripping down because you can't handle me looking at a page instead of you for one night."

"I don't think it Spencer," you whispered, leaning in so close your breath was hot against his lips. "I know it... and I know you would rather be fuckin me instead of staring at those old cases."

Spencer didn’t move his arms from his chest but his breathing had changed, turning deeper and more intentional.

"You have ten seconds to get off me and put that shirt back on," he warned, his voice thick, vibrating with a heavy challenge.

"Or what?" you challenged, your voice a playful purr. You leaned in, your hands framing his face as your thumbs traced the sharp line of his cheekbones. You tilted your head and pressed your lips to his. It was a soft lingering kiss, full of the raw heat that was beginning to radiate off him.

As you felt his resolve crumble, Spencer's head tilted instinctively, his lips parting to deepen the kiss and finally reclaim the control you were stealing, but just as his tongue brushed against yours, you pulled back.

You retreated just far enough that he had to strain forward, his eyes snapping open to find you smirking at him.

"I didn't say you could have me yet," you whispered.

"Don't play games with me tonight," he growled, his jaw ticking. "My patience is paper thin."

"Then it's a good thing I'm so thick skinned," you teased as you shifted your weight, grinding your hips down slowly as you felt him jump beneath you, a sharp heavy throb of his length against your center separated only by two thin layers of fabric.

You didn't stop, beginning a slow agonizingly deliberate grind, your eyes locked on his as you watched his pupils dilate.

"You're so warm," you breathed, leaning down to trail your lips along his jawline, avoiding his mouth entirely. "Is your work still more interesting than this?"

"Babe... stop," he warned, a low guttural sound vibrating in his throat. One of his hands escaped his crossed arms, his fingers twitching as if he wanted to bruise your hips but he forced himself to grip the bedsheets instead, determined to win the game. "I’m telling you, if you keep moving like that, I’m not going to be gentle... you’re playing with fire."

"Maybe I want to get burned," you countered, leaning back to put a few inches of space between your chests.

You focused entirely on his bulge, dragging yourself forward then back, starting a slow agonizingly deliberate grind. You felt him twitch and grow rock hard under your weight with every single pass.

Spencer let out a jagged strangled gasp, his head hitting the headboard with a dull thud. His hair was a complete mess, his white knuckled hands ripping at the sheets as he stared at you through his lashes with a dark predatory hunger.

"You think you’re in control because I’m letting you sit there," he rasped, his voice dropping into a dangerous octave that sounded like it was being dragged over gravel. "Stop the teasing and get off me, or keep acting like a slut and I will make sure you can’t walk for days. Choose carefully doll, because you have no idea how close I am to snapping."

Your lips curled into a triumphant smile. You didn't say a word, instead you gave him one more hard merciless roll of your hips, intentionally bottoming out against his length before you leaned down.

“I think I like the second option better," you whispered against his skin.

You didn't go for his lips, instead you started at the sensitive hollow behind his ear, nipping at the skin just enough to make him hiss. You trailed your mouth down the column of his throat, your tongue darting out to taste him. Your pulse racing as you felt his own heart jumping against your lips, a frantic erratic thud that proved he was completely losing.

"Spencer... your heart is beating so fast," you teased, pulling back just an inch to look at him. "Is the paperwork making you nervous? Or is it me?"

"You know damn well what it is. I'm still not giving you what you want," he growled as he lunged forward, his mouth seeking yours with a desperate hunger but you were faster, twisting your head at the last second so his lips only grazed your cheek.

You heard him let out a frustrated animalistic sound, a half groan, half snarl. "Don't do that... don't you dare pull away again."

"Then make me," you challenged, your voice dripping with honeyed defiance.

You leaned in again, teasing his lips with yours and brushing them together so lightly it was barely a touch. When he groaned and tried to surge upward to capture your mouth, to finally taste you and take over, you laughed, a soft breathy sound and jerked back, leaving him reaching for empty air.

"You’re being so mean to me tonight," he whispered, his eyes dark with a lethal mix of irritation and desire. "Why? Why are you doing this to me sweetheart?"

"Because you were so busy," you said, your hands sliding down his chest to the waistband of his sweatpants. You used the heels of your hands to press down right against the base of his throbbing length. "Because I wanted you to remember that I'm much more important than your cases."

You leaned down and began to rain small biting kisses along his jawline, moving toward his ear. "Do you remember now Spencer? Or do I need to keep going?"

"I remember," he hissed, his breath hitching as you ground your weight down once more right on the peak of his bulge. "I remember exactly who you are... you’re the slut who’s about to regret every single second of this teasing."

"I don't feel very regretful yet," you whispered, nipping his earlobe before pulling back to smirk at him. "In fact, I think I could go all night like this... just out of reach."

Spencer's eyes snapped to yours and for a second, the room felt deathly quiet, the playful air evaporated, replaced by a thick heavy tension that made the hair on your arms stand up.

"All night huh?" He let out a low dark laugh that didn't reach his eyes. "You really think I’m going to let you keep playing with me like this? Ok… you’ve made your point doll."

Spencer's restraint didn't just break, it shattered.

His hand shot out like a coiled spring, snapping around the back of your neck and anchoring you in place. His other hand clamped onto your waist, his fingers digging so deep into your skin they were surely going to leave marks by morning.

"No more pulling away," he growled against your lips, his voice a dark jagged edge.

He crashed his mouth against yours and this time there was no room for playfulness, it was a bruising dominant collision. He bit your bottom lip with a sharp possessive hunger, pulling until the skin gave way and the metallic tang of blood filled the space between your tongues.

You let out a muffled surprised moan into his mouth but he didn't soften. He drank the sound down, his tongue invading your mouth with a rhythmic demanding force that left you dizzy.

He pulled back just an inch, his lips smeared with a mixture of your gloss and your blood, his eyes wild and dark with a hunger that looked absolutely lethal.

"I think... I think I won Spencer," you panted, your chest heaving against his, your voice trembling but still laced with that stubborn defiance. "Look at you... you’re a mess... you couldn’t even finish another page."

Spencer let out a low dark chuckle that vibrated through your entire body. "You think this is you winning doll? Because I finally touched you?" He tightened his vice grip on your waist, hauling you closer until there wasn't a breath of space left between you. "You really think you're winning because you got me to stop working? You didn't just get my attention you little bitch, you got me fuckin feral. Now you're going to realize exactly how much of a mistake it was to provoke me."

"You love it," you whispered, reaching down to grind your hips against him again, desperate to regain the rhythm. "You love that I make you lose control."

But as you tried to roll your hips again Spencer's hands became like iron bands. He locked your waist in place, physically halting your movement.

You tried to buck, to slide, to find that friction again but he wouldn't budge. He held you a fraction of an inch above where you wanted to be, leaving you hovering, unfulfilled and aching.

"Spencer... move," you hissed, your brow furrowing in annoyance as the frustration began to peak. "Let me... nghh~... let me move!"

"No," he rasped, his eyes boring into yours. "You wanted to tease? Now it's my turn, you don't move until I tell you to, you don't get relief until I decide you've earned it."

"You're being a jerk," you snapped, trying to wiggle out of his grip but he only used his strength to shift you exactly where he wanted you. He dragged your clit over the length of his hard bulge in one slow agonizingly heavy stroke then stopped again right at the most sensitive spot.

"Let's see who's really going to win at the end of this," he whispered, leaning in to lick the blood from your lip with a slow terrifyingly focused tongue. "I’m going to make you beg like the pathetic whore you are."

"I... I won't beg," you challenged, though your voice was breaking.

"We'll see," he growled, slamming his mouth back onto yours. He began to move you then but it wasn't the rhythm you wanted, he used his hands on your waist to dictate the pace -rough, erratic and blunt- forcing you to feel every throb of him while keeping you completely under his physical command. "By the time I'm done, you're going to realize that 'Winning' means staying exactly where I put you."

Spencer's hands were relentless, his fingers biting into your waist as he dictated every slow drag of your body over his. He could feel you trembling, feel the way your internal heat was radiating through your shorts but he wasn't satisfied yet. He wanted you completely undone.

With a sudden rough tug, he reached behind you, his fingers fumbling with the clasp of your bra until it gave way. He chuckled into the crook of your neck as he flung the lace aside, his eyes raking over your bare chest in the dim light.

"Look at you," he rasped, his voice dropping into that dark degrading tone. "Sitting here half naked, bleeding for me, acting like you’re the one in charge. You’re just a desperate little bitch aren't you? So needy that you had to sabotage my files just to get a taste."

"I’m not desperate," you bit back, your voice shaking as you tried to maintain your smug expression. "I just knew you couldn't handle me... I knew you would crumble Spencer, and look at you... you’re obsessed."

"Obsessed?" He let out a sharp mocking laugh as he leaned forward, his tongue swirling over one of your nipples before he suddenly latched on, sucking the sensitive peak deep into his mouth.

A loud jagged moan escaped your throat, your back arching as the pleasure shot straight to your core. You clutched at his shoulders, your nails digging into his shirt. "Oh... Ahhh!~... Spencer..."

"That’s it," he muttered against your skin, his teeth grazing the bud before he switched to the other side. "Scream for me you little slut... show me how much you love being treated like this. You love it when I call you a slut don't you? You love knowing that I can see right through that fake confidence."

He began to move his hips upward, grinding the hard thick length of his bulge against you through his sweatpants.

The friction was intense, a dry heavy heat that made your vision blur. You started to find a rhythm, your breath coming in panicked gasps as you ground back against him.

"Fuck… hahh~... stop being so mean," you hissed, your head falling back. "You’re so hard Spencer, I can feel how much you want me... it’s pathetic how much you want to fuck me isn't it?"

"Keep talking," he hissed, his hand moving from your waist to your throat, his thumb pressing firmly against your windpipe. "Tell me more about how pathetic I am while you're shaking like that. You're so close aren't you? Beg for it then."

"I'm... h-haah~... I'm not begging," you gasped, your eyes rolling back as the coil in your gut tightened, the friction reaching a fever pitch, pushing you right to the climax. "I'm not... nghh~... I'm not giving you that."

"You don't have to," Spencer whispered, his lips brushing against your ear. "Your body is doing it for you. You’re a filthy beautiful mess and you’re about to cum all over my lap without me even taking my pants off. How does that feel, doll? Knowing you’re that easy to break for me?”

You were right on the edge, white light dancing in your eyes as your internal muscles clenched in total desperation. You wanted to scream, you wanted to demand he move, but you bit your lip so hard you tasted iron, completely refusing to give him the words.

You let out a long broken wordless wail, your hips bucking frantically against his unyielding weight as the climax threatened to tear right through you. "Fuck!... nghh~... Spencer!”

Just as that first wave was about to shatter you, Spencer grabbed your hips and shoved you backward away from his body.

The sudden loss of contact was like being doused in ice water. You fell back onto the mattress gasping, your body vibrating with unspent energy and your cunt throbbing with a desperate unfulfilled ache.

He watched you for a fraction of a second, taking in your arched back, your flushed skin and your desperate heaving chest before he moved like a predator. He was over you in an instant, his heavy weight pinning you down as he hovered inches from your face.

“You think I'm done?" He hissed, his eyes burning with a dark terrifying hunger. He didn't wait for an answer, he crashed his mouth onto yours again, more violent than before, his teeth catching your already bloodied lip and his hand found your breast, his fingers pinching and rolling your nipple with a ruthless intensity.

You let out a high sharp scream into his mouth, your body bucking beneath him as he pulled back just an inch, his breath hot and ragged against your skin.

"You still want to act like a bitch? Still want to pretend you're winning while you're trembling under me?"

"I... ah-hahh~... I hate you," you choked out, your voice wrecked. You were desperate to keep that last shred of defiance even as your hips mindlessly arched upward, begging for the friction he was cruelly withholding from you. "I won't... nghh~... I won't let you win."

Spencer let out a dark jagged laugh, his thumb delivering a sharp merciless flick against your aching nipple that made your spine snap off the mattress.

"You don't have a choice anymore, your body is screaming for me. You're so wet for me aren't you? A little whore who needs to be reminded who owns her.”

His hand slid down, his palm flat against your stomach before his fingers hooked into the waistband of your shorts. He didn't take them off, he just shoved his hand inside, his fingers finding your slick heat.

He began to move his fingers up and down your slit, a heavy friction that made your vision spark, keeping his eyes locked on yours as he watched the way your pupils dilated.

"Look at how much you're leaking for me," he whispered, his voice a gravelly degrading caress. "So needy... so pathetic. You want those fingers inside you so bad don't you? You want me to stop playing and just take what’s mine."

"N-no... I... ah!~..." You bit your lip to stifle a cry, your hips instinctively rolling into his hand despite your words.

Spencer's expression hardened, he moved his hand lower, teasing your entrance and circling it but never entering while his thumb began to ghost over your clit.

You let out a loud shattered moan, your hand flying up to grab his wrist, trying to force him to give you the contact you desperately needed.

The moment your fingers touched his skin, Spencer snapped. He lunged forward and slammed his mouth against yours, cutting off your protest with a rough bruising kiss that tasted like heat and pure frustration.

It was messy and desperate, his teeth catching your lip as he punished you for trying to take control.

He broke the kiss with a sharp snarl, his breath hot and ragged against your face as his free hand flew up to catch both of your wrists. He pinned them above your head with a single hand, his grip locking around your skin like iron manacles.

"Don't you dare touch me unless I give you permission to," he growled, his face inches from yours. "You lost your right to touch me the moment you started this game, now you’re just going to lay there and take exactly what I give you."

He leaned down, his lips crushing yours again in a kiss that tasted of iron and salt. While you were trapped beneath his weight, his heavy fingers deliberately parted your slick folds. His thumb found your swollen clit, pinning it down and rolling it with a ruthless agonizing pressure that made your entire body seize.

​You let out a muffled shattered moan against his mouth, your head rolling back as you tried to break the kiss just to catch a breath of air, but Spencer wouldn't let you.

The moment your lips parted to gasp, he lunged deeper, his tongue tangling with yours to drink down your helpless cries, keeping you entirely suffocated by his heat.

​He let out a low predatory grunt against your lips and then, without a shred of mercy, he drove one finger deep inside you.

​Your eyes flew open, a muffled sharp scream tearing from your throat but it was completely swallowed by his mouth.

Before your tight walls could even adjust to the blunt stretch, Spencer snarled into the kiss and forced a second finger right beside the first, stretching you wide and filling you completely in one slow punishing intrusion.

The sudden invasive depth of him made your eyes fly open wide, blown out with shock, but he didn't give you a second to recover. With his hand still locking your wrists above your head and his fingers buried deep inside you, he used the heavy weight of his chest to pin you flat, his fingers beginning a rhythmic, punishing drive.

Every blunt stroke stretched you to your absolute limit, turning your screams into desperate rhythmic whimpering against his lips. He finally abandoned your mouth, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse point before he bit down fiercely, sucking a dark possessive bruise into your collarbone.

"There's my good girl," he rasped, his voice a gravelly, vibrating purr against your ruined skin as his fingers worked inside you with a relentless force. "Look at you, sobbing and shaking. Tell me right now... who owns this soaking mess? Tell me who you're begging for."

The dual assault of his teeth on your neck and his fingers driving ruthlessly into your slick heat pushed you straight to the edge of a cliff.

Your head rolled back, your eyes swimming with tears as your pride completely disintegrated under the sheer weight of his dominance. You couldn't fight it anymore, the friction is too good and the deprivation is too cruel.

"You... haah~... you do," you finally sobbed out, your voice a wrecked pathetic whimper as your hips mindlessly bucked up against his hand, chasing the friction. "Spencer please... it's yours... I'm yours... just let me cum... please baby..."

Spencer let out a dark triumphant snarl against your throat, his grip on your wrists tightening until it practically bruised. "That's what I fuckin thought.”

You felt your internal walls give a violent frantic twitch, the absolute precipice of a massive shattering release. But just as that first white hot wave of the orgasm was about to break over you, Spencer felt the shift.

Without a shred of mercy, he hooked his fingers and pulled completely out of your soaking heat.

The sudden cold emptiness left you gasping, your body violently jerking upward in a desperate agonizing search for the friction that had just been stolen from you at the absolute last millisecond.

The orgasm died right on the vine, leaving you entirely overstimulated, unfulfilled and aching.

You blinked up at him through a heavy veil of tears, your chest heaving in total shock.

"W-Why?" You choked out, your voice a fractured breathless whimper. "Spencer... why did you stop?”

Spencer sat back on his heels, his white shirt wrinkled and stained with your saliva and blood. He wiped a stray smear of red from his thumb with a calm precision, looking down at you with a smug cold expression that made it clear he was far from finished.

​"Isn't that what you wanted doll?" He rasped, his tone conversational but lethal. "You wanted to stay in control, you wanted to play games... I’m just giving you the space you asked for."

"No!" you cried, reaching out for him, your fingers trembling against the mattress. "No... p-please... I want... I want you to make me cum Spencer... stop being so mean!"

He let out a low dark chuckle, leaning back against the headboard and deliberately crossing his arms, completely out of reach.

"You whined a few pretty words when my fingers were inside you love, but that was just the noise a little slut makes when she’s desperate, that wasn't a real submission. If you want me to touch you again, you’re gonna have to beg me a hell of a lot harder than that. Let me hear it cleanly."

You felt the absolute last of your pride disintegrate, the physical ache in your core was blinding, a hollow torture that only he could fix.

Giving up completely, you dragged your heavy, overstimulated body across the sheets, your shorts tangled around your thighs as you crawled right into his lap. ​You threw your arms around his neck, burying your face in his shoulder as you completely sobbed into his skin.

"Please," you wept, your voice breaking into a raw ruined thread. "Please Spencer... I’m begging you... I’m sorry... I'm your slut, I'm your property, I’m whatever you want... just please fuck me... use me... I literally can’t take another second of this."

​Spencer let out a deep heavy chest growl, a sound of pure undisputed victory. His hands came up, his iron grip clamping onto your jaw to tilt your face up, his thumbs ruthlessly smearing the tears across your cheeks as his eyes burned into yours.

"Be careful what you wish for sweetheart," he whispered, his voice a low vibrating warning. "Do you really want me to fuck you? Do you really want the man you’ve been teasing all night?"

"Yes!" You wailed, pulling him closer toward you. "Spencer! Please! Just fuck me! Do whatever you want, just don't stop again! Please!"

Spencer didn't waste another second. He stood up by the side of the bed, his movements fluid and filled with a terrifying purpose as he stripped off his shirt and kicked away his sweatpants, revealing the lean build of a man who had spent the night suppressing a violent hunger.

Spencer's jaw tightened as he crawled back over you, his hands sliding down to the hem of your shorts. He didn’t just pull them off, he peeled them away slowly, his knuckles grazing your heated skin. He leaned down, pressing a lingering open mouthed kiss to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, right where it met your heat.

"Every inch of this," he vibrated against your skin, his voice a low possessive hum, “everything you’re trying to hide is mine... I’m going to make sure you remember the feel of me inside you every time you try to act out again."

He sat back on the bed and hauled you onto his lap, forcing you to straddle him.

Your skin felt electric against his, you were a mess, breathless, tear stained and desperate as you peppered his face and neck with frantic wet kisses. Spencer's hands clamped onto your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh like talons. He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, his gaze dark and unyielding.

"Are you sure you want this baby?" He rasped, his voice a low vibrating warning. "You don't get to ask me to stop after this... no matter how much you cry, no matter how much you scream, I am not letting you off this bed until I am completely finished with you. Do you understand?"

"Yes... please Spencer... please," you sobbed, your hands desperately clutching at his shoulders as you tried to guide him toward your aching heat.

He didn't give you a single second to prepare, he didn't give you a second to adjust or breathe, he just gripped your waist and slammed you down onto his length in one brutal singular thrust, burying himself entirely to the hilt.

A high thin wail tore from your throat as he bottomed out, the blunt massive depth of him shocking your cervix. It was so deep, so sudden and so violently thick that your vision completely went white, your internal muscles spasming in a frantic suffocating grip around his length.

He didn't give your tight walls a millisecond to adjust to his size. With a dark feral snarl, he immediately forced the pace, his hands locking onto your waist like iron clamps as he ruthlessly yanked your hips down, establishing a relentless heavy depth that slammed your pelvis against his with a force that rattled the headboard.

"Look at you," he hissed, his arms wrapping around your spine to pull you flat against his chest, his mouth crashing onto yours for a bruising messy kiss that tasted of iron before he dragged his lips down to tear at the sensitive skin of your neck. "Screaming like a slut for me. You wanted to sit up there and play with me all night yeah?"

"Spencer!... Ahh!~... it’s... it’s too deep!... Nghh!~..." You wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, your fingers digging into his shoulders for dear life as his iron grip on your waist kept slamming you down onto his length, forcing your hips to take the relentless bruising pace.

Every time your pelvis crashed against his, he hit your g-spot with a terrifying accuracy that made your entire body feel like it was vibrating apart. He was in full savage control, his teeth sinking into your shoulder and his lips bruising your collarbone as he completely marked you as his while he wrecked you.

Suddenly, he stopped.

​The abrupt violent halt caught you completely off guard. He held your hips perfectly still, pinning you right at the tip of his cock so you were barely touching him, his fingers squeezing your waist so hard his hands left dark immediate fingerprints on your skin.

​You let out a shattered pathetic whimper at the sudden agonizing tease, your internal walls desperately clenching around nothing.

​"Look at how ruined you are," he demanded, his voice dropping to a dangerously low gravelly vibration as he stared up at your tear stained face. "You're shaking so bad you can't even balance on me, completely begging for the rest of it. Tell me what it feels like to be totally helpless on my lap.”

You were too far gone to speak, your head tossing wildly, your chest heaving. You could only let out a series of broken incoherent gasps, the overstimulation a physical weight, making you sob with the need for him to move you again.

"Answer me," he growled, his jaw setting. He didn't move an inch, letting you sit there in the agonizing silence of the stall. "I’m not moving again until you answer me like the pathetic whore you are."

"I... I..." You let out a fresh burst of tears, your fingers scratching weakly at his chest. "So good... I love it... h-haah~... Spencer... please baby!... Please move!"

Spencer's expression softened for a fraction of a second, his lips grazing the tear stains on your cheeks in a mockery of a gentle gesture. "Good girl," he whispered, the words sounding like a beautiful death sentence against your skin.

He didn't just resume the pace, he launched back into the rhythm even harder than before, his hands on your waist violently yanking your pelvis down onto his length to deliberately break you.

​The punishment was too much for your overstimulated body to handle, within three brutal strokes, the orgasm hit you like a freight train, a violent shuddering explosion of white heat that made your entire body go completely rigid on his lap.

"Spencer!... Ah~...nghh!~... Oh fuck babe!" You wailed, your voice breaking into a high thin scream as your internal walls clamped around him in desperate rhythmic spasms, trying to pull every inch of him deeper.

​You were shaking so violently you could barely hold onto his shoulders, your head falling back as the pleasure crossed the line into borderline painful sensitivity.

Spencer felt your climax violently seizing his length but right as the peak threatened to shatter you completely, he went entirely still. ​He stayed buried deep to the hilt, but he stopped the motion entirely, holding you in that agonizing peak of sensitivity.

"It feels good right?" He whispered, his voice dark and mocking as he watched your face fracture. "You’re cumming so hard you can’t even breathe but what if I just... stopped? What if I left you right here, broken and desperate for more?"

"No! No, no, no!" You sobbed, your hands flying to his face, your tears blurring your vision. "Don't stop! Please Spencer... I'm... I'm still... ah~... please move! I need you to move!"

"I know you do," he teased, his thumb tracing your trembling lower lip. "I've got you baby."

He didn't waste another second teasing you. He launched back into the rhythm with a savage renewed intensity, his thrusts even deeper and harder than before.

He didn't give you a single millisecond to catch your breath from the first wave, he pushed right through your fading climax, his whole length crushing you as his hands locked onto your waist like iron clamps.

You crashed your mouth against his, kissing him with a frantic messy hunger, tasting the salt of your own tears on his lips as you were drowning in the sensation, your body a total wreck of nerves and heat.

He was relentless, his hands on your waist acting like iron clamps, forcing you to take every inch of him over and over again, ignoring the way you were sobbing into his mouth and the way your lungs were burning for air.

The friction was white hot, a blurring of skin and sweat that made your vision begin to tunnel. Every blunt impact against your sweet spot sent shocks of pleasure so sharp they felt like electricity through your nerves, instantly gathering into a second terrifyingly unstoppable wave.

You tried to pull back, your body overstimulated to the point of pain but Spencer's grip was absolute. He held you in place, his fingers digging into the meat of your waist, forcing you to endure the pleasure he was carving into you.

"Spencer!... AH!~.... No... I'm.... I'm going to!" You wailed, your head falling back, your neck arching in a graceful desperate line.

"That’s it sweetheart," he hissed, his voice a ragged snarl against the sensitive skin of your ear. "Give it all to me... cum for me."

The climax hit you like a physical collision. It was violent, a series of racking rhythmic spasms that seized your entire body as your internal walls clamped around his length with a desperate intensity, pulsing so hard you thought you might snap.

You were floating and drowning all at once, your voice lost in a high thin scream that eventually died into a choked repetitive gasp against his shoulder.

Spencer let out a low wrecked groan as he felt you shatter again. The heat of your release and the way you were clenching around him like a vice finally pushed him past his own limits.

"Fuck! You’re so fuckin tight... so fuckin perfect," he choked out, his voice thick with a desperate heavy need.

He buried his face fiercely in the crook of your neck, his teeth sinking into your skin to muffle his own cry as he drove upward one last time, bottoming out to the absolute hilt. He stayed there, buried deep, his frame vibrating as he spilled inside you.

The thick searing heat of his release overwhelming, it felt like he was branding you from the inside out, claiming the very core of your body as his territory.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the harsh synchronized sound of your breathing. You were slumped against him, your forehead resting on his shoulder, your body still twitching with the aftershocks of a pleasure so intense it felt like a fever.

Spencer's hands didn't loosen their grip on your waist. He held you there pinned to his chest, his heart hammering against your ribs. He felt like a god, like he had finally stripped away every layer of your defiance and found the raw devotion underneath.

"Look at you," he whispered, his voice thick and dark with a terrifyingly lethal love. He pulled back just enough to see your glazed eyes and your bloodied trembling lip. "Completely undone… my beautiful broken girl. Do you still think you're winning doll? Or do you finally realize that you were always meant to end up exactly like this?"

You couldn't answer, you could only let out a soft broken whimper, your fingers curling weakly into his hair as you clung to him for stability in a world that was still spinning.

"I’m not done with you yet... not even close," he whispered, his eyes dark with a lingering mean hunger. "You think because you came you get to rest? Look at you, you’re just a used up little fuck toy."

Spencer didn’t give you a moment to say a word, he grabbed your shoulders and shoved you backward.

You hit the mattress with a soft thud, your limbs heavy and uncoordinated, your breath still coming in shallow ragged hitches. Before you could even blink the spots from your eyes, he was hovering over you, a dark silhouette of pure unadulterated possessiveness.

"Spread those legs back out doll... I want to see how much more of me you can handle since you love acting like a whore."

He didn't use a second of patience, he grabbed your thighs, opening your legs wide and drove himself back inside you with a blunt jarring force that knocked the remaining air from your lungs.

"Spencer... ah!~... s-stop… p-please!" You gasped, your hands flying up to push against his chest but he was like a mountain.

He ignored your weak resistance, his hand snapping upward to fist tightly into your hair at the nape of your neck. He didn't pull to hurt, but his grip was unyielding, a heavy grounding reminder of exactly who was in charge as he tilted your face up. He leaned down, his mouth crashing onto yours in a kiss that was more of a war than an embrace.

You could taste the salt of your tears and the lingering copper of your blood, a heavy intoxicating mix that fueled his aggression.

"Stop?" He rasped against your lips, his voice a lethal low timbered growl. "You spent the last hour begging for this, you little bitch... you don't get to tell me when I'm done. You’re going to lay there and take every inch of me until I say we're done."

"Spencer... it... h-haah~... it hurts... please," you whimpered, your voice a wrecked thread.

Hearing the strain in your voice, Spencer’s physical rhythm shifted completely. He didn't pull out but he stopped the aggressive friction, letting his heavy frame settle fully against yours.

Slowly and deliberately, he began to pull back to the very tip before sinking all the way back in, a long agonizingly slow bottoming thrust that forced your walls to stretch and mold around his thick width. His movements became heavy and unhurried, his body showing a careful smooth gentleness that let you feel the massive depth of him without tearing you apart.

​"Shhh, look at you," he hissed, his hand still anchored in your hair, keeping your face tilted up so his eyes could burn into yours as he watched your expression fracture. "Eyes rolling back... mouth hanging open... you look like such a filthy little whore for me don't you? You love that I’m fuckin you out like this... you love being used like this yeah?”

"I... nghh~... Spencer... please... it’s... it’s too much!" You wailed, your voice breaking into a ragged sob. You were a chaotic mess of overstimulated nerves, every deep friction feeling like a lightning strike but your body was completely betraying you, clenching around him in a desperate primal rhythm.

You were too exhausted to even form words anymore, your head tossing wildly as you let out a series of broken incoherent gasps.

"Then cum for me baby!" He commanded, his pace becoming frantic, his hand tightening slightly on your hair to keep you pinned. "I want to see you break... I want to hear you scream my name until you lose your voice. Tell me what you are sweetheart."

"I’m... h-haah~... I’m yours..." you choked out, your fingers scratching at the sheets, your back arching so high your spine felt like it might snap as the sheer volume of pleasure overloaded your system.

A desperate high pitched whimper caught in your throat, the undeniable frantic twitching of your walls signaling that you were right on the precipice of exploding.

​"That's my girl," he whispered, recognizing the exact moment your body gave out. His teeth grazed your earlobe as he shifted his weight, delivering a series of fast shallow thrusts that focused entirely on the hyper sensitive nerves at your entrance. "Cum for me again doll... show me how easy it is to completely wreck you.”

The third orgasm was even more violent, you let out a high thin scream that died into a series of jagged animalistic whimpers. Your internal muscles seized around him, milking him with a frantic rhythmic intensity that drew a shattered guttural groan from deep in his chest.

"Yeah... take it," he hissed, his own rhythm turning heavy and blunt as he felt you shatter beneath him. "Take it all... you beautiful broken thing… you're mine... you're fuckin mine."

You couldn't even form words anymore, you could only lie there, your chest heaving, your vision swimming in a haze of tears and bliss as Spencer continued to drive into you, his possession of you absolute and terrifying.

His appetite was bottomless, even as your body shuddered with the dying tremors of your release, he didn't give you a moment of peace.

"Spencer... p-please... it... hngh~... it hurts... it hurts so bad," you sobbed, trying to squirm away from how overstimulated you were.

Spencer didn't hesitate, he snapped his hand flat over your mouth, completely muffling your breathless cries as he pinned your head to the pillow. He leaned down, his chest crushing yours as he began a slow heavy relentless drive, his mouth immediately pressing a hot frantic kiss to your tear stained cheek then to your eyelid and down the bridge of your nose.

"Look at how well you're taking me sweetheart," he vibrated against your skin, his voice a low thick purr of absolute possession as his lips grazed your temple. "Look at you... you're so perfect for me… you're doing so fuckin good for your man... just take it… take all of it."

He kissed his way down to your jaw, his hand pressing firmly over your lips to catch the shattered muffled moans vibrating out of your throat.

"Every inch of this beautiful tight body is mine to ruin," he growled against your neck, his thrusts burying him to the hilt, "and you are doing exactly what you're told.”

He reached down and grabbed your right thigh, hauling it upward and opening you up so completely that you felt exposed to your very core. He drove back into you with a deep thud, the new angle allowing him to reach depths that made your breath leave you in a silent pained gasp.

"Don't you dare close those pretty eyes," he growled, his voice a jagged edge of authority. When your eyelids flickered, heavy with exhaustion, he brought his palm down against your cheek, not enough to hurt you but a sharp stinging series of slaps against your cheek, not enough to truly injure you but a sudden shock of friction that forced your eyes to fly open. "Look at me... stay with me baby please… you're doing so good to me."

He leaned down, his teeth sinking into your shoulder before his mouth found your breasts again. He latched onto your nipple, sucking with a bruising rhythmic force that felt like it was pulling the very air from your lungs. At the same time, his thumb found your clit again, rubbing it with a relentless vibrating speed that ignored the fact that you were already overstimulated to the point of agony.

"Spencer... no... I can't... haah~... it hurts... it's too much!" You sobbed, your voice already beginning to crack and fray.

"It's exactly enough," he hissed, his hand moving to the roots of your hair again, wounding the strands around his knuckles and pulled, forcing your head back and exposing your throat. He kissed you then, a harsh punishing collision of lips and teeth. "You wanted to be a slut? You wanted to tease me? Then you stay awake for every second of it... you take every inch of me until I say you’re done."

He began to move with a renewed violent energy, his thrusts becoming blunt and heavy. The combination of the deep internal stretching and the sharp external friction of his thumb was creating a pressure cooker inside you.

The fourth climax was building like a tidal wave, more terrifying than the ones before because your body had no strength left to fight it. It was a violent primitive thing and when it finally snapped, it wasn't just a release, it felt like an explosion.

You let out a long tired scream that tore through your throat, a sound of pure overstimulation that eventually broke into a silent open mouthed cry as your vocal cords gave out.

"That's it!... Show me how good you are!" He shouted over your fading voice. “Good girl baby… my perfect sweet girl.”

Your body went completely limp, your spine arching one last time before you collapsed into the mattress like a puppet with its strings cut. Your internal walls spasmed with such violence that they felt like they were trying to crush him, the contractions rhythmic and punishing.

Your vision went dark at the edges, your head lolling to the side completely unresponsive as the world dissolved into a haze of white noise and pulsing heat. You were a shell, broken, emptied and entirely his.

Spencer didn’t let you drift away into the numbness, even as your limbs felt like lead and your breath came in shallow broken hitches, he kept his pace steady and punishing. He could feel the way you were slipping and the way your eyes were glazing over and he wasn't about to let you escape the weight of his presence just yet.

He leaned down, his chest slick with sweat as it pressed against yours and began to rain small biting kisses along your jaw. His hand that was still tangled in your hair gave a firm tug to bring your face back to his.

"Don't leave me yet sweetheart," he whispered, his voice sounding like velvet over gravel. "We’re almost there... one more time for me, come on… I want to feel you break one last time."

He shifted his weight, driving into you with a finality that felt like he was trying to leave a permanent mark on your soul.

He began to rub your clit harder, his thumb moving in small agonizing circles that sent a fresh wave of electricity through your exhausted nerves. You tried to shake your head, a soft broken whimper escaping your throat but he just kissed the corner of your mouth.

"S-Spencer... haah~... I... I can't... nghh~..." you tried to protest but your body was already responding to the praise as the coil in your gut -which you thought had been wrung dry- began to tighten one last time.

"Yes you can," he hissed, his thrusts becoming short and sharp, focusing entirely on the most sensitive part of your entrance. "You're doing so good… just a little more baby... give it to me, just let it go."

Spencer completely lost his rhythm, driving into you with a frantic unhinged speed, his thumb working ruthlessly against your clit until your system completely overloaded.

You exploded into a final racking climax that felt like it was tearing your body apart, your internal walls seizing his length in violent desperate spasms.

At that exact millisecond, the crushing helpless suction of your release dragged him right over the precipice.

Spencer bottomed out to the absolute hilt, his entire frame going rigid as he came deep inside you. A long broken gravelly sound of pure unadulterated release tore from his throat, his hands locking your hips down so you had to take every single heavy searing throb of his climax.

He stayed there, buried as deep as physically possible, his forehead pressed hard against yours as his chest heaved for air. For a long breathless minute, neither of you could move.

He just lay heavily on top of you, letting out a series of low shuddering groans into your neck while your body slowly rode out the dying pulsing waves of the orgasm around him.

You were completely spent, a total mess of sweat, tears and the dark marks and fingerprints he had left on your skin.

Only when his frantic heartbeat finally began to slow did his weight soften against you, the violent friction of the night rolling back to leave a heavy ringing silence in the room.

When he finally, slowly pulled out of your slick heat, the sudden loss of his massive warmth made you let out a tiny broken whimper, the only sound your ravaged throat could still produce.

"Shhhh, I’ve got you baby," he whispered, his voice instantly returning to that low melodic honey as he dragged your limp exhausted body straight into his chest.

He stayed hovering over you, his eyes raking over your frame but the possessive triumph in his gaze suddenly shattered, replaced by a sudden wave of sharp heavy guilt as he took in the dark fingerprint bruises on your hips and your swollen bloody lip.

He looked like a man who had just realized exactly how rough he had been, a look of panicked devastated love taking over his handsome features.

​"Oh fuck..." he murmured, his hand visibly trembling as he gently brought his thumb up to graze your ruined lip. "I'm so sorry... so, so sorry sweetheart… I didn't mean to go that far, I swear I didn't baby... I'm so sorry for hurting you.”

He didn't even seem to breathe, his chest hitching as he pulled you closer, pressing a soft desperate kiss to your forehead then your closed eyelids then the tip of your nose, practically begging for forgiveness.

"I love you, you know that don't you? Even when I’m like this... especially when I'm like this... I love you so much it's a sickness."

You tried to nod but your neck felt like it was made of water, you were so tired that the simple act of breathing felt like an Olympic feat. Your limbs were heavy, twitching occasionally with the lingering aftershocks of the climaxes he had wrung out of you.

Spencer realized then that you weren't going to make it to the shower, he climbed off the bed and returned a minute later with a soft damp towel. He sat on the edge of the bed and began to clean you, starting with your face, wiping away the salt of your tears with a heartbreaking tenderness, his eyes soft and filled with regret.

"You were so bratty tonight," he whispered softly, his voice trembling as he carefully dried your face, treating you as if you were made of the most fragile porcelain. "You really pushed me too far baby... you shouldn't have done that… I didn't want to hurt you."

"But... I won... at last," you managed to tease, a tiny ghost of a smirk pulling at your lips.

Spencer let out a short laugh, leaning down to kiss your lips with absolute gentleness. "You might have gotten me away from my files… but I have you, and that’s the only victory that matters to me."

He moved the cloth between your legs, his touch incredibly intimate as he wiped away the evidence of your shared release. Every time you flinched from the sensitivity, he would immediately stop, kissing the inside of your knee and whispering apologies until you relaxed.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered against your skin, his eyes fiercely protective. "I'm so sorry I lost control... but you're so perfect... I couldn't help it."

"I know," you whispered back, your heart swelling even as your body ached. "You know… how I love it… it's okay babe."

Once you were clean, he pulled a fresh oversized shirt of his over your head and tucked you into the center of the bed. He climbed in behind you, pulling your back against his chest and wrapping his long arms around your waist, holding you so tight that there wasn't a whisper of air between you. He tucked his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of his skin on yours.

"Spencer..." you managed to croak out, your voice barely a breath as you began to drift into a heavy sleep. "Your... files..."

"Forget the damn files," he muttered, his grip tightening as he felt your body finally go fully limp against him. "They can wait, nothing is more important than this... nothing is more important than you my love."

He kissed the back of your head, his heart beating a steady calming rhythm against your spine. "Sleep now sweetheart, I've got you.... I'm not going anywhere."

The morning calls become routine far faster than you, and likely Spencer, intended. The first one happens the day after the park. You wake up at 5:22. Not because you have to. Not because you set an alarm. You just do.

For several seconds you stare at your ceiling try to remember why you’re awake. Then you phone rings. At 5:30am. You smile before you answer it.

“Good morning,” you say quietly.

“How did you know it was me?” His voice is thick and deeper than normal. He clearly just woke up.

“Because nobody else would call me at 5:30 in the morning.”

“That’s fair.”

And somehow that became a thing. Every morning.

Some days Spencer would call at exactly 5:30. Sometimes 5:28. Once at 5:45 because he got stuck helping Morgan fill out paperwork before leaving work the night before.

You pretended to be annoyed. And he never was late to a call since.

You knew your uncle slept like a rock. And was never ever awake before 7:00 if he didn’t have to be, so long as you were quiet in your room, and maybe avoiding calling Spencer by name, you were okay.

And it was even more ideal for you to go downstairs. Which is why you started making coffee while he called. You start organizing your morning around Spencer Reid.

Every morning you talk about your classes, and he’ll tell you about cases. Well, the parts he can legally tell you. He tells you weird facts. You tell him the drama you hear in class. He tells you Morgan accidentally stapled two reports together. You tell him that your professor forgot to wear shoes to class one morning. Which makes him laugh.

You start looking forward to making him laugh. Which could get dangerous quickly if you’re not careful.

After a few days, the phone calls turn into coffee. The first time is spontaneous. Or at least that’s what you tell yourselves.

The call starts only a little earlier than normal. 5:22. That’s okay though, you usually wake up at 5:15 and stand watch anyways. 

By 5:38 you’re sitting at the kitchen island in pajama pants with coffee that is definitely expired. Spencer is driving already. He’s somewhere between his apartment and Quantico.

“You sound tired,” he says.

“I do not.”

“You’ve yawned four times.”

“You counted?”

“I always count. Remember?”

You remember.

You start talking about coffee. And how badly yours tastes. Because it’s black. But Spencer thinks black coffee is superior.

“It tastes fine,” he argues.”

“It tastes like old man!”

“You’re only saying that because you live with one!”

“You did not just call David Rossi old.”

“What are you gonna do? Tell on me?”

No. You weren’t. Because if you did you’d surely never see the light of day again. You think about how grateful you are for the mornings when you talk to Spencer. And you realize that you miss him. A lot. The actual him. Him as a physical being, not just a voice over the phone. 

And maybe it’s the disgusting black coffee and the wish for something more flavorful, but you’re feeling bold.

You look at the time. 5:42.

“Where are you?” you ask Spencer.

“Driving.”

“To work?”

“Yes.”

“Have you gotten coffee yet?”

“No.”

“That’s tragic.”

“It isn’t tragic.”

“Oh, it’s tragic.”

Spencer sighs. You can practically hear him rolling his eyes. 

“Fine,” he says, “it’s mildly inconvenient.”

“I have to turn in my textbooks for the end of the semester today.”

“Finals are next week, aren’t they?”

“Yep, but the books are due early because…well I don’t know. I guess they want us to rely on our notes or something.”

“That makes sense. If you need any help studying you know who to call.”

“There’s a coffee shop five minutes from campus.

Spencer pauses.

“Okay?” he says, confused.

“Okay.” you repeat, almost wishing you didn’t hint at what you were hinting at.

But Spencer picks up on it. Somehow.

“Technically,” he starts, “if I took Route 123 instead of interstate 95, it would only add about seven minutes to my commute.”

“Technically,” you say, “I told my uncle I was leaving here at 7:00 to drop my books off at 8:00. He wouldn’t know if I left a little early…”

“I could probably spare fifteen minutes.”

“Or an hour… what are you doing leaving for work at 5:30 anyways?”

“Well I was going to get a headstart on end of year paperwork, but I guess someone had other plans for me.”

_____

The second coffee meetup is not so accidental. Actually, it wasn’t an accident at all. You agree to meet on Tuesdays and Thursdays before he goes to work. The first time, the spontaneous time, you met at 6:45. Spencer did the math and had to leave the coffee shop by 7:20 in order to get to work by 8:00.

But the second time you guys meet at 6:00. Over an hour to talk before he had to leave.

And the third time? Well, you guys beat the opening barista’s to the coffee shop and had to hang out in the parking lot for 30 minutes until they opened at 5:00.

Then the BAU gets called away on a case. And what became your new normal was gone. The first morning isn’t bad. You still wake up at 5:15. You still make coffee. You still reach for your phone. But then you remember he’s somewhere in Missouri. Or Colorado. Or Wyoming. Honestly, you’re not really sure where he is. And suddenly 5:00am feels much earlier than it did last week.

The second morning is worse. The third is honestly a little embarrassing. By the fourth morning you’ve finally realized what is happening. Spencer Reid has somehow become part of your routine.

You hate it because routines can be dangerous. Because routines become habits. And habits become things you miss. And apparently you miss Spencer. A lot. Not romantically. 

Obviously. 

You just miss talking to him. You miss hearing whatever new random fact he had learned. You miss him correcting your grammar. You just miss him. The realization makes you a little uncomfortable. So naturally you spend the rest of your week alone thinking about it. Which honestly only makes it worse.

By the time the week is over you’re annoyed with yourself. And slightly with him. And with the entire state of Missouri. Or Colorado. Or Wyoming. Wherever he is.

Your phone rings on Thursday at 8:00pm. 

SPENCER REID

You answer before the first ring finishes.

“Hi,” you say, trying your best to not sound excited.

“Hi.”

You immediately relax, and every negative feeling you had towards yourself, and him, and whatever state he was in passes in an instant.

“You’re home!”

“Yeah.”

Neither of you acknowledge how quickly you answered. Because if you did, Spencer would have to admit he noticed. And if he admitted he noticed, then you would have to admit you were waiting. And neither of those conversations sound particularly appealing.

“When did you get back?” you ask, both out of curiosity and to try to gauge when your uncle would return.

“Like… five minutes ago.”

“Seriously? Have you even changed yet?”

“I’m changING now.”

He was changing while on the phone with you? He couldn’t just wait five more minutes? You don’t know for sure how you feel about that, but you know you don’t feel upset by it.

And the fact that you’re okay with it sort of upsets you.

You change the subject so you don’t have to think about it. Because honestly, you don’t know what would happen to you, both physically and in your brain, if you continued to think about it.

You mention the new book you got last week that’s sitting on your nightstand. The one you’d been wanting to read for months. You tell Spencer you finished it.

“You read it in a week?”

“Three days actually. You’re not the only one who enjoys books, Dr. Reid.”

Spencer would never ever ever admit to anyone what you calling him that nickname did to him. Or how many times he replayed it in his head.

“Was it good?” he asks you, voice a little bit hoarse.

“It was amazing.”

“I’ve been thinking about reading it too.”

“You want to borrow it?”

“You’d let me borrow it?”

“It’s a book.”

“Some people get weird about books, and based on your personal check out log in your planner, I think you might be one of those people.”

“I trust you.”

The words leave your mouth before you think about them. The line goes quiet. Not awkward, just quiet.

“Thank you,” Spencer finally says softly.

“So when do you want it?” you ask him.

“Can you maybe meet me for lunch in Quantico tomorrow?”

“You want to do lunch?”

“Well, I plan on sleeping in until 7:00 tomorrow, so unless you’d rather wait until Monday I’d like to do lunch.”

You smile. “We can do lunch.”

_____

The next day somehow comes slower than the entire week Spencer was gone. Which makes you mad. You’d survived seven days without him. You’d survived the awful realization that he’s now part of your routine, and there’s really nothing you can do about it, and you’d survived missing him. 

You could surely survive lunch.

The book sits in your passenger seat the entire 45 minute drive to Quantico. You keep glancing at it. Not because you think it’s going to jump out of the car, but because you’re worried that Spencer will somehow be disappointed by it.

Which is ridiculous, you know. He literally told you he wanted to read it. And yet your brain insists on making you unnecessarily nervous.

You immediately spot Spencer’s car upon pulling into the parking lot. Of course he’s already here. You sit in your car for a second. Then another. Then another. Then you grab the book before you can talk yourself out of going inside.

The restaurant is busy enough to make you feel anonymous, which is nice. You spot Spencer sitting in a booth near the back. Reading. Because of course he is. The book in front of him is so thick it could probably stop a bullet.

You stare at him. His satchel sits beside him. His glasses are sliding slightly down his nose. He has a few strands of hair falling in front of his face. You notice his hands moving across the page.

You smile before you can stop yourself.

Spencer looks up. The second he notices you he closes the book. Not because he’s finished, but because you’re here. And you hate that it gives you butterflies. But it does.

“Hi,” you say, walking toward him.

“Hi.” His smile appears instantly. The same one that you’ve become embarrassingly familiar with.

“You beat me here.”

Spencer tilts his head. “I’ve only been here nine minutes.”

“Is that not beating me here?”

“Not by enough.”

His smile gets bigger. You slide into the booth across from him. The book immediately gets his attention.

“Is that it?” he asks.

You hold it out to him. “The one and only,” you say dramatically.

He accepts it with the same amount of care someone would give a newborn baby. You watch him turn it over, check the cover, read the back, check the publication page, the copyright information, the publisher, everything. You wait. Patiently wait. For approximately fifteen seconds.

“Are you profiling the book?” you ask.

Spencer glances up. “No?”

“Why are you doing that?”

“I’m looking at it.”

“Like you’re profiling it.”

He smiles wide. “I don’t think you know what profiling means.”

Your waiter arrives and takes your orders. Your food arrives. You and Spencer talk while you eat. Somewhere in the middle of talking about a terrible group project experience, you realize something. 

Neither of you seem nervous anymore. At all. In fact, you feel comfortable. And you feel as if Spencer feels similar as well, because he starts to open up more.

Once you're finished eating the waiter brings the check to the table. Spencer takes it.

“I’ve got it,” he says, pulling out his wallet.

You smile, maybe blush. You can’t really tell. But your face feels a little warm.

“Are you sure?” you ask.

He nods, handing the waiter the check and his card. The waiter walks away to process the payment.

“I would’ve paid but I don’t have Uncle Dave’s card today,” you say, mostly joking.

“Yeah, well even if you did I wouldn’t have let you pay.” he says.

You must look confused. Because Spencer stutters, trying to defend his previous statement.

“I-it just f-feels weird for me to let him p-pay when he doesn’t even k-know were hanging o-out.”

You smile. The waiter comes back with Spencer’s card and a receipt. Neither of you move at first, each waiting on the other to leave first.

Finally, Spencer gathers his things. You get up out of the booth too and walk out of the restaurant together. You stop beside your car. Spencer adjusts the strap of  his satchel. the book you let him borrow sticks out a little bit from the top.

“I’ll make sure the book comes back in one piece,” he says.

“I know.” you answer without hesitation. Because it’s true. You trust him with it. You trust him with a lot of things. Probably more than you should.

Spencer looks oddly pleased by your response.

“I should really go,” he says, reluctantly.

“I know,” you say. Neither of you seem particularly happy to go.

“I’ll call you tomorrow morning,” he says as he begins walking to his car.

The statement comes naturally. Not a question, not even a plan. Just a fact.

“I’ll answer,” you smile.

_____

SPENCER’S POV Friday 1:00 PM 

I get back to Quantico in time. I’m sitting at my desk inside the BAU at 1:00pm. Which means I am not late. That is an important distinction that apparently nobody else in the bullpen cares about.

The second I walk in the glass doors I can feel two sets of eyes on me. I know who it is; the only two people on the team with a staring problem. Not that I think people shouldn’t look at me, that’s insane to think. But they’re not subtle about it at all.

I set my satchel down on my desk. They keep staring. I open a file. They’re staring. I start working on my paperwork, hoping they’ll stop. It’s been two minutes and they both still have their eyes on me.

“What?” I finally ask.

Morgan leans back in his chair. “Where were you at, pretty boy?”

“I went out to lunch.”

The other eyes laugh. “You never go out to lunch,” Emily says.

I look between the two of them. “I did today.”

“Without us?” Morgan asks.

“Yes.”

“That’s suspicious,” Emily teases.

“It is not suspicious.” 

“It is when it’s you,” Morgan says.

If Derek Morgan wasn’t my friend I would take that as him being mean. Even though he is my friend I still think it’s a little bit mean. But believe it or not, I’m self aware. And I know what he means by it. And I know he’s right.

I pull the book Y/N gave me out of my satchel and set it carefully on my desk.

Emily looks at it. Then at me. Then at Derek, who then does the reverse. Neither of them elaborate. Which is really annoying me.

“What?” I ask again, trying to stay patient.

“Nothing,” Emily says.

“Why do you guys keep watching me?”

“Where exactly did you go?” Morgan asks me.

“A restaurant.” I open the book, trying to ignore them.

“Who’d you go with?” Morgan asks. Emily smiles.

“I went by myself.” 

That technically isn’t a lie. I did drive alone, and I got there first.

Emily raises her eyebrows. “Really?” Her voice is suspicious.

“Yes.”

“You stayed there by yourself?” She asks.

I hesitate for a second. A very unfortunate second.

“Ooooh,” Morgan teases.

“I was thinking!” I try to defend.

“About who you had lunch with twenty minutes ago?”

I decide paperwork is more appealing than this conversation. I ignore his question and open my file again. Unfortunately, neither Emily or Morgan seem interested in allowing that.

“So,” Emily says casually, “was it a date?”

“No.” I answer quickly. Maybe too quickly.

Morgan starts smiling. I hate when Morgan starts smiling. It never ends well for me. But before he can say anything, salvation arrives in the form of Penelope Garcia.

“Hello my beautiful crime fighting children," she says as she walks in the aisle between mine and Morgan’s desks. Her eyes find the book on my desk pretty easily. “Is Pride and Prejudice?” she asks when she sees it. 

“Yeah, it’s a first edition copy, they’re extremely rare, only 1500 copies were printed.”

“Yeah, cool, it’s a rare book, but what are you, Dr. Reid, resident genius reading Pride and Prejudice for?”

I smile and answer before thinking.

“I’ve surprisingly never read it. Y/N let me borrow her copy.”

Oops.

Silence. Complete silence. Morgan slowly stands, and I’m not sure if I’ve just blocked out all sounds, or if that was complete silence as well. He walks the few steps to my desk and leans over it, holding himself up with his arms.

“So that’s why Pretty Boy was missing for so long,” he says, ruffling my hair.

“It was just lunch,” I argue.

“It’s always just lunch,” Emily says.

“Was it a romantic lunch?” Garcia asks. 

I really don’t like everyone in my business like this.

“No.” I say.

Morgan and Emily exchange a look. I don’t like that look. 

Morgan lowers his voice low. “Does Rossi know you’re still hanging out with her?”

I stare down the book. The cover suddenly feels very interesting.

“Reid…” Emily says, her voice sounds more accusatory than I’d like for it to.

I really don’t like everyone in my business like this. And I don’t like the way that they’re looking at me like I’m doing something wrong. And I don’t like that they won’t just drop it.

And I really do not like everybody I work with being in my personal business with the only person I talk to outside of work that isn’t my schizophrenic mother.

“No. He doesn’t.” I say. The words come out sharper than I mean for them to. Everyone's eyes widen slightly and they look a bit taken aback. “And I’d really appreciate it if we could stop talking about this.”

Nobody says anything. And now they’re all staring again. Everyone in the bullpen, even those who weren’t involved. I hate being stared at. I look down at the paperwork. 

Morgan looks guilty returning to his desk. Emily looks guilty pulling out a file. Even Penelope looks a little bit guilty as she walks back to her office. I feel a little bad, but maybe now they’ll finally leave me alone.

Which is what I would like. Because I have a book to read.

_____

Read Part 10 Here! 🕰️ (coming soon)

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BUY ME A COFFEE

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a/n: i left my hair dye on my head for over an hour to finish writing this part. if anything is weird about this then its because the dye fumes have penetrated my skull.

also guys be prepared for a rossi return next chapter eheheheh

_____

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Your test ends at 10:17. Not 10:15. Not 10:20. 10:17.

You know because your proctor says time is up. You check the clock. Then your phone. Then the clock again.

Because apparently you’re incapable of acting normal anymore.

You hand in your exam, gather your things, and practically speed walk toward the parking lot. The entire time your brain is running in two completely opposite directions.

On one hand, you’re relieved the test is over and you can enjoy your weekend. On the other hand…

Spencer.

You’d seen him yesterday. At the coffee shop. You’d talked to him yesterday. For four hours. On the phone after he got off of work. But today feels different. Maybe because Garcia won’t be there. Maybe because this wasn’t some accidental dinner invitation or spur of the moment bookstore trip.

But because this is the first time the two of you have actually made friends. Just the two of you. On purpose.

You unlock your car and toss your backpack into the passenger seat. The zipper falls open slightly, exposing the corner of your planner. You smile. The planner. 

You actually remembered.

After weeks of Spencer asking questions about it and insisting on seeing it, you finally found a chance to bring it. And even if today is the most awkward experience of both of your guys’ lives combined, he’d at least be excited about that.

Which is a sentence you never expected to think about another human being.

You flop into the driver's seat and pull your phone out. The call only lasts two minutes. Just long enough to confirm the location. And for Spencer to somehow already know the estimated drive times from both of your locations.

You start the car.

The park is roughly halfway between Fairfax, where you go to college, and Quantico, where Spencer is taking an early, and a late, lunch. Neither of you have ever been to this park before, which feels appropriate. 

Outside has started its transition from fall to winter. The leaves are still orange, but beneath each tree is a pile of dying brown ones. The sky is still bright without it being hot. It’s the kind of day people write poetry about and get made fun of for. 

Today though? Today you kind of get it.

You stop at a red light and glance at the passenger seat. You eye your planner, then your phone sitting beside it, then at the clock.

You still have about 15 minutes before you’re supposed to meet him. Which means there’s a high chance that Spencer Reid is already there.

You pull into the parking lot of the park fourteen minutes later. Spencer Reid is already there. Of course he is.

He steps out of his car as soon as he sees you round the corner. He stands near the entrance of one of the walking trails, hands occupied by two coffee cups and a paper bag tucked underneath his arm. 

For a second you just sit in your car. Because suddenly, seeing him standing there, specifically waiting for you, it makes you far more nervous than you had been the times before.

You do your best to ignore it and climb out of the car. Spencer notices you immediately. His face brightens and he lifts one hand in a small wave, trying not to spill either coffee.

You wave back, approaching him.

“You brought coffee,” you observe.

“I did.” he smiles.

You stop in front of him. One cup is a pumpkin spice latte, because apparently Dr. Spencer Reid enjoys the most aggressively autumn beverage imaginable.

And the other cup…

“You got the same thing yesterday and seemed to enjoy it,” he says, holding out the cup.

A vanilla latte.

Your heart leaps out of your chest. Because not only did he remember, but he cared.

You accept the coffee. It’s still warm. Which means he couldn’t have bought it very long ago.

You look up at him, giving a suspicious grin. “You left early, didn’t you.”

“Only a little,” he smiles.

“Spencer…”

“Only like ten minutes.”

“Why?” you laugh.

“I estimated the average traffic flow between Quantico and Fairfax.”

“Why?”

“Because I wanted to know how long it would take.”

“We already decided that on the phone.”

“Yeah, but I wanted to know how long it would take if I stopped and got us coffee.”

You laugh loudly, causing a few people to turn. His ears turn slightly pink. Not because he’s embarrassed, but because he’s pleased with himself for making you laugh. Which is a dangerous realization.

You take a sip of your coffee. It’s perfect. Exactly how you ordered it yesterday. 

The two of you start down the walking trails. The park is nicer than either of you expected. The path winds through clusters of orange and yellow trees. Fallen leaves crunch beneath your shoes. Both of you are wearing black converse, which is cute.

COOL. 

It’s cool that the both of you are wearing the same shoes.

Somewhere off in the distance you can hear kids yelling on a playground. And for a while, you just walk. And talk.

The conversation flows the same way it always does with Spencer.

“So what exactly do profilers do all day?” you ask.

Spencer looks at you. “That depends.”

“On?”

“If we have a case.”

“Please tell me it’s mostly catching serial killers.”

“It’s mostly paperwork.”

You groan. “That’s the least interesting thing you’ve ever told me.”

He smiles. “I know.”

“But what’s it like when you’re not doing paperwork?”

You see something in his eyes switch. Like you awakened something. Then he’s off. 

Talking about behavioral analysis, and interview techniques, and body language, and crime scene reconstruction. And you listen the entire time. Partially because it’s fascinating, but mostly because the way Spencer explains things is mesmerizing.

Spencer shifts the conversation towards college and degrees. And says something so casually that ruins your entire sense of academic achievement.

“When I was working on my third PhD–”

You nearly trip over a tree root. 

“You’re WHAT?”

“My third PhD?”

You stop walking. Spencer takes three more steps before realizing you’ve stopped. He turns around.

“What?” he says casually.

“THREE?”

“Yes?”

“You have THREE PhDs?”

He looks confused. “Is that unusual?”

You stare at him. “You cannot be serious. In what?”

“Mathematics, Chemistry, and Engineering.”

“Oh so all the hardest ones, got it.”

“I have bachelor’s in psychology and sociology, and have been thinking about looking into getting one in philosophy.”

You continue staring. Because there are moments in life when a person should be humbled. This is one of them. 

“I spent six hours studying for my exam today.”

“That’s normal.”

“You have three PhDs.”

Spencer shrugs. You point a finger at him, accusingly. 

“Stop doing that!” you command. 

“What?”

“Acting like that’s a normal thing.”

“I don’t think it’s necessary weird.”

“It’s definitely not normal.”

“Statistically,”

“No.”

He laughs, the sound makes you smile. 

“I actually considered journalism for a little while.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“I liked the research aspect. You know, investigating things, finding information, writing research papers.”

“So why didn’t you?”

He looks down at the trail. “I didn’t think I’d be very good at it.”

You stare at him. Spencer Reid? Not good at something?

“Why’s that?” you ask. 

“Journalism is known as one of the most competitive fields, and honestly, I don’t think I’m competitive enough.”

“Spencer, you have three PhDs, I think that’s regarded as pretty competitive.”

He shrugs again like that somehow answers the question. It doesn’t. 

“Speaking of journalism, how’d your test go?”

You shrug. “I think I did okay.”

“Just okay?” he asks.

“I mean, it’s not exactly the kind of class where you walk out knowing if you got a 98 or a 72.”

Spencer nods. “Fair.”

“There were a few questions I wasn’t sure about.”

“What were they?”

You glance at him. “Are you asking because you’re curious or because you want to tell me the answers?”

“A little bit of both.”

You laugh. “But honestly, it wasn’t that bad.”

“No?”

“The guy who sits next to me seemed like he was struggling way more than I was so maybe that’s a good sign for me.”

Spencer looks over at you with one eyebrow raised. You only know because you can see it over his glasses. Actually, come to think of it, that was the first time you’d ever seen one of his eyebrows. 

“What guy?” Spencer asks.

You don’t think anything of the question.

“Ian,” you say, naturally. Calmly.

“Who’s Ian?”

“Just some guy in my class.”

“What class?”

“Media Ethics, the one I have tests for.”

Spencer nods slowly. “How old is he?”

“What?”

He looks straight ahead. That’s suspicious. “I’m just curious.”

“He’s nineteen.”

Spencer nods again. “Nineteen” he repeats.

“That’s normal college age, Mr. 3 PhDs.”

He gives a small smile. “I know.”

The trail curves around a small pond with fallen leaves scattered across the edge of the water. You can see a few ducks floating near the opposite bank.

For a minute you think you dodged whatever interrogation was about to happen.

For a minute.

Spencer kicks a rock across the path. “What’s his major?” he asks.

“Why do you care?” You laugh, fully believing that he’s joking.

“I don’t.” He responds quickly. Defensively. Which makes you start to think he’s not joking after all.

“You literally just asked.”

Spencer opens his mouth to speak. But he closes it before any words come out. 

Weird.

“I was making conversation.” He finally says.

You narrow your eyes at him. “Journalism.”

“Oh.” 

“What are his hobbies?”

You give him a weird look. “I don’t know? What kind of question is that?”

Spencer shrugs. “Most people have hobbies.”

“You don’t even know him!”

“Exactly.”

“What?”

You stare at him. Something weird is happening, you’re just not sure what exactly it is.

“I think he plays soccer.” 

“You think?”

“We sit next to each other during exams, Spencer. We aren’t roommates.” 

Your voice comes out a little more annoyed than you mean for it to.

Spencer’s jaw tenses a little bit. You feel a little bad, but he’s being weird. You walk in complete silence for what is definitely over a minute.

“Do you study together?” Spencer blurts.

What?

“Why are you asking so many questions?” you ask him.

His eyebrows lift over his glasses. Both of them this time. 

“I’m not.” he defends.

“You are.”

“Am not!”

“You asked his name, age, major, and hobbies, and you asked if we study together.”

“Well when you say it like that it sounds like a lot.”

“Because it IS a lot.”

He looks surprised by the revelation. Like he hadn’t realized that he’d been conducting a background investigation on a guy he’s never met. And a guy you barely know either.

You stare at him. He stares back.

“Sorry,” he says quietly, before shifting the conversation elsewhere. 

You tell him something your professor told you about left handed people, he tells a story about Morgan getting his tie stuck in a filing cabinet drawer 2 years ago and tells you he hasn’t worn a tie to work since. Normal things. Friend things.

Until Spencer gets weird again.

“Is he single?”

Oh.

Oh.

You look at him. He’s looking straight ahead, completely casual. Too casual. The kind of casual that only happens when you’re trying to be casual.

You squint your eyes at him. He notices.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing,” you say.

Nothing at all. 

Except suddenly every previous question is starting to make sense to you. His name, his age, his hobbies…asking if you study with him to find out if you spend time together outside of class…and now THIS?

You have to consciously tell yourself not to smile. Because if you smile he’ll know you know. 

Know what?

You don’t know.

Something.

“Why do you want to know if he’s single?” you say.

Spencer shrugs. Again. He does that a lot. Or at least a lot during this conversation.

“I was curious,” he says.

“There it is again!”

“What?”

“Curious?”

“I am curious.”

You stare at him for another second. And decide not to torture him. Mostly because the tips of his ears are red. And that’s adorab–

Interesting.

That’s interesting.

You don’t know the actual answer to the question. But you decide lying is better than making him suffer.

“He has a girlfriend.” you finally say.

Spencer’s entire body untenses after hearing that, which is funny.

“That’s nice,” he says.

You hum in response.

Spencer takes a sip of his coffee.

Neither of you say anything. Spencer looks at you.

“Why are you smiling?” he asks.

You didn’t even know you were smiling.

“What?” you say, shocked.

“You’re smiling,” he points out.

You immediately stop smiling.

“I was not!” you say.

“You were.”

“No!” you argue.

He laughs. “You definitely were.”

“I definitely wasn’t.”

Spencer shakes his head.

And despite how much you’re denying it, you were smiling.

Because even if it's just a little bit, Spencer Reid is jealous. And for some reason that you’re not yet ready to unpack, that thought makes your heart beat just a little bit faster.

By the time the conversation finally moves on from Ian and Spencer is back to normal you’ve somehow made it back to the parking lot. The walk back felt way shorter than the walk there, which was unfair. 

You spot your car and immediately feel disappointed. Not enough to ruin your day, but just enough to wish it wasn’t ending yet. 

Spencer glances at his watch. You pretend not to notice. Because if you acknowledge that he has to go back to work, then this becomes goodbye. And you’re not ready for that. Not yet anyways.

Spencer walks you to your car. You’re slightly ahead of him, but before you can grab the handle Spencer steps around you and pulls the driver’s side door open.

You thank him. You lean in the car and sit your coffee cup in the cupholder. Spencer takes a step back. The awkward goodbye begins forming.

Then you remember.

“Do you need to leave now?” you ask him.

“The latest I can leave is 15 minutes from now, why?”

“Perfect,” you grin.

“Why are you smiling like that?” he asks.

“I have a surprise for you.”

“A surprise?”

“It’s something you’ve been asking about for like a month.”

He stares at you for a moment, thinking. His whole face lights up when he realizes.

“The planner?”

You smile and nod your head really fast.

“You remembered!?”

“You mentioned it six times last night.”

You lean back over the seat and pull the planner out of your backpack. The second Spencer sees it his eyes immediately drop to the color-coded tabs sticking out from the top and the sides.

“Oh, wow.” he says.

“You haven’t even seen it yet!” you laugh.

“There are tabs.”

“There are.”

“Thats amazing.”

“It’s literally just a planner,” you say, shaking your head at him.

“It’s amazing,” he repeats, staring.

You laugh again. “Do you want to see it or not?”

“I obviously do.”

You slide into the driver’s seat of your car without thinking. You freeze. Because Spencer is still standing there. Waiting.

You look at him. He looks at you. Your brain immediately forgets how to function. Because the only logical place for him to sit is the passenger seat. Which shouldn’t feel weird. At all. Friends sit in each other’s cars literally every day.

Friends.

Friend.

Friend. Friend. Friend.

The word feels increasingly unconvincing.

“Do you wanna get in?” you ask, deciding not to let your mind stop you from doing something normal.

“Oh, yeah.” Spencer walks around the car and climbs into the passenger seat.

Your car immediately feels smaller. Much smaller. Which is ridiculous. Because it’s the same size it’s been all year. But, this is by far the closest you’ve been to Spencer. 

You’d think you would’ve been closer on the trail. Maybe you were, but now that you were in the closed off space of your car sitting this close you could smell him. And he smelled really good. Like, really good.

No.

You have to force yourself to focus on the planner.

You place it across your lap. Spencer leans closer. Close enough you can feel the faintest amount of his breath on your shoulder.

Not weirdly. 

Not romantically.

Definitely not romantically.

“First,” you say, opening to the monthly spread, “This is my master calendar.”

His eyes immediately start scanning the page. “It’s color coded.”

“Obviously,” you say.

“Obviously, he repeats, smiling.

You point at the page.

“Blue is classes.”

He nods.

“Green is my personal stuff, like appointments.”

Another nod.

“Red is deadlines.”

“Smart.”

“Yellow is family stuff.”

“Makes sense.”

You flip a few pages. “And these are my assignment trackers.”

Spencer takes the planner from your hands. Not rudely, just because he’s invested. You watch him study the page.”

“You track completion percentages?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“So I know how much work I have left.”

“Do you estimate the percentages manually?”

“...yes?”

“I would incorporate weighted grading values.”

“That’s insane, I don’t need to go that far.”

“You’re already tracking percentages of your assignments, you’re too far gone already.”

You smile and keep flipping pages.You show him reading logs and budget sheets, future planning pages and goal trackers. Lists of books you want to buy. Lists of books you already own. Lists of books you’ve loaned out.

“You have a list of books you’ve let people borrow?”

“People forget, it’s just easier.”

“That’s a really good idea.”

“You sound impressed.”

“I am impressed.”

He’s honest. No teasing, no sarcasm, just honesty.

“Really?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says earnestly.

You look down at the planner, then back up at him.

“Most people think it’s weird.”

“Why?” 

“I don’t know, I guess it could be seen as being over prepared.”

“Well, I think it’s amazing."

The way he says it makes your chest feel warm. Because Spencer doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to just hand out compliments to be nice. He’s very honest and straight. If he says something he means it. And that’s why it matters so much. 

You clear your throat and flip to another page.

You continue showing him appointment trackers, little notes you write yourself. Sticky notes, bookmarks, everything.

And the entire time Spencer asks questions. Not because he’s making fun of it. Not because he’s humoring you. But because he genuinely wants to know.

You realize no one has ever cared this much about your planner before. And it’s possible no one, other than your family, has cared this much about you before.

You flip to the weekly layouts section without thinking. 

Because there was one highlighter color that you hadn’t told him about.

“Wait,” he says. He noticed it. “What’s purple?”

“Nothing!” 

You immediately close the planner so hard the sound echoes through the car.

Spencer starts laughing.

“No,” you say.

“What is it?” Spencer says, still laughing.

“Nothing.”

“Y/N…”

“No.”

“You have a secret category.”

“I do not.”

“You do.”

You point at him, “Profiler!”

He laughs harder. “It’s not profiling if I saw it!”

You groan.

This is a nightmare. The more interested he gets, the worse this becomes.

“What is it?” he asks again.

“Nothing.”

“It’s clearly something.”

“Spencer.”

“You color coded an entire category.”

“Spencer.”

“And now you’re hiding it.”

“Spencer.”

His smile widens. He’s enjoying this. 

Eventually you sigh. Because he is never going to let this go.

“Fine,” you say, and open the planner back up.

He immediately leans forward again. You hate how excited he looks. You hate it because it’s so adorable.

And because you’re about to embarrass yourself.

He scans the page. And then again.

“Oh,” is all he says.

You’re pretty sure the feeling you feel is your soul leaving your body. Because he figured it out. Of course he did. He’s Spencer Reid.

Purple appears beside phone calls. And coffee. And bookstore. And park. The occasional reminder to call Spencer. Any and All events involving Spencer.

“Oh,” he says again. 

And somehow the second one is worse.

Your entire face burns.

“It made organization easier.”

The excuse sounds stupid the second it leaves your mouth. Spencer glances down at the page again. You’re scared for his reaction. But he doesn’t react. He just smiles and looks back at you. Not teasing, not smug, just… happy.

“I like it,” he says smiling.

His teeth are really white.

You blink. “What?”

“I like it.”

“You don’t think it's weird?”

“Why would I think it’s weird?”

Because people don’t just give other people their own category in their planner without them being incredibly important to them.

That’s why.

But saying that out loud feels impossible. So instead you stare at the steering wheel.

Spencer looks back at the planner.

“Purple is my favorite color,” he says. So calmly. His voice so so soft.

You look away. Because you know if you look at him right now you’re going to cry. From a mix of almost every emotion possible all at once.

Spencer checks his watch again and sighs.

“I should really get back.”

You nod, still unable to speak. You knew it was coming. You just wish it wasn’t.

“I had a lot of fun today,” Spencer says, for some reason catching you off guard.

“Me too,” you finally speak.

“I’ll call you after work tonight,” he says, starting to get out of your car.

“Okay,” you say, smiling. “And I’ll do my best to dodge my uncle.

He laughs. “I think that’s probably a good idea. He starts to walk away.

“Hey, Spencer,” you call.

“Yeah?” he says turning around.

“We should hang out again sometime.”

He smiles. “Just make sure you highlight it in purple.”                                  

_____

Read Part 9 Here! 🕰️ (coming soon)

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BUY ME A COFFEE

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a/n: i lied when i said i couldn’t start writing this part until i got off work today…i woke up at 7am to write for an hour before i had to leave….

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taglist:

The one that happened when you were working.

He didn’t know what woke him that night. Maybe some distant noise outside. Maybe the need to use the bathroom. Or maybe that hollow, unpleasant feeling of the empty space beside him.

When he opened his eyes, the room was submerged in darkness. He turned his head toward the bedside clock and discovered it was already quite late.

He let out a tired sigh before sitting up. He rubbed his face with one hand and searched for his slippers by touch. The thin line of light slipping beneath the door told him exactly where you were.

He found you in the same position he had left you in hours earlier; sitting in front of the computer, surrounded by papers, your attention fixed on a task that apparently still wasn’t finished.

When he had gone to bed, you had promised him you would finish soon and come back.

“Five more minutes,” you had said.

Clearly, those five minutes had already expired.

“Why are you still here?”

His voice, rough with sleep, made you jump slightly.

You looked up, and a guilty expression crossed your face.

“Sorry, sweetheart, it’s just... I haven’t been able to finish this. Five more minutes, okay?”

Spencer closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath before nodding. He was still struggling to stay awake, but he crossed the room anyway.

Without saying anything, he headed to the bathroom and took care of his business.

You assumed that after hearing the toilet flush, the next thing would be his footsteps returning to the bedroom. That was why it surprised you to see him appear in the dining room again. And even more when he sat down across from you.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’ll wait here. Five minutes.”

An incredulous smile appeared on your face. At first, you thought he was joking.

But then you met his gaze. Serious, determined, and just a little sleepy.

You frowned slightly.

“Love, go to sleep. I’ll be there in a moment.”

“I’ll wait,” he insisted.

He rested one arm on the table and let his cheek fall into the palm of his hand.

“Besides, I can’t sleep when you’re not there.”

You watched him for several seconds over the top of your screen. At that point, it was impossible to focus completely on your work when Spencer was sitting across from you, making such an obvious effort to stay awake.

He blinked more slowly than usual and, every so often, his eyes seemed to lose focus for a moment before settling back on you. His hair was messy from the pillow, and the marks of sleep were still visible on his face. He looked exhausted. Completely exhausted.

Guilt slowly began to settle in your chest.

“Spencer...”

“Hm?”

His response came a few seconds later, distracted and sleepy.

A small smile tugged at the corners of your lips.

“You know I don’t want to be here.”

He lifted his eyes to meet yours.

“I know.”

“I’d rather be sleeping with you.”

“I know that too.”

You sighed and looked back at the screen. The document was still there, unfinished and urgent, waiting for you with the same indifference it had shown all night.

“But I need to finish this.”

“I know.”

The ease with which he answered drew a brief, tired laugh from you.

Because, of course, Spencer understood.

He understood deadlines. Responsibilities. The anxiety that came from leaving something unfinished, knowing it would continue taking up space in your head until it was done. He himself had spent countless nights awake, chasing a lead, reviewing reports, or analyzing the details of a case long after any reasonable person would have gone to bed.

“I’m not staying because I think you should leave it unfinished,” he said after a moment, with that characteristic calm that always managed to disarm you. “I just want to keep you company.”

You felt something tighten inside your chest. And looking up again was a mistake, because only seconds later you saw his head droop.

It was subtle. Such a brief movement that someone else might not have noticed it at all. His head dipped forward slightly, and his eyelids closed for a second before he quickly opened them again, as if hoping no one had seen.

“Spencer...”

“I’m awake.”

The denial would have been much more convincing if it hadn’t been accompanied by a yawn.

“Sweetheart, it’s past two in the morning.”

“And you’re still working.”

“Exactly. That’s my problem, not yours.”

“Your problems will always be my problems.”

The response was immediate, almost as if he had been waiting to say it.

“Please go to bed,” you murmured.

“In five minutes.”

You stared at him, unable to believe he was using your own tactics against you. He gave you a small, sleepy, faintly triumphant smile in return.

You tried to return to work after that conversation. For several minutes, you forced yourself to focus on the screen, reviewing documents and correcting details that, at that hour of the night, were beginning to seem increasingly confusing. Yet your attention inevitably drifted back to Spencer.

Not even a quarter of an hour had passed before, with a sigh, you pushed your chair back and stood up.

Spencer lifted his head when he heard you approaching, and a small smile appeared on his tired face.

“Finished?”

“Not yet.”

Before he could answer, you stepped between his legs. His hands found your waist almost immediately, as though the gesture was so natural he didn’t need to think about it. You rested your hands on his shoulders and closely observed the unmistakable signs of exhaustion on his face: the messy hair, the heavy eyelids, and that sleepy expression you rarely saw during the day. He was still wearing a gray pajama shirt and flannel pants.

“Hi,” he murmured.

“Hi.”

You leaned down to kiss him. It was a brief kiss at first, barely a loving brush of lips, but when you pulled away only slightly to look at him, Spencer leaned in again. Smiling, you gave him another kiss, slower this time. You felt his arms wrap around you with something close to relief.

They remained like that for several moments, enjoying the silent closeness both of you needed more than either was willing to admit.

“You know...?”

An amused smile appeared on your face before you had even finished forming the thought.

“If I didn’t know you so well, I’d say you’re a pretty manipulative boyfriend.”

Spencer let out a short laugh and shook his head.

“It’s not manipulation.”

“Yes, it is. You sit here, half asleep, refusing to go to bed so I’ll feel guilty.”

“I’m not staying so you’ll feel guilty.”

His tone was gentle, but sincere. The amusement slowly faded from his features as he looked up at you.

“I know you need to finish your work. I understand perfectly. If I were working a case and someone tried to make me leave it unfinished, I’d probably do exactly the same thing you’re doing.”

That drew a small smile from you because you knew it was true.

“Then why are you here?”

Spencer shrugged slightly.

“Because I want you to go to sleep.”

“Honey...”

“I mean it.”

His thumbs absentmindedly stroked your sides as he spoke.

“Tomorrow you’ll be exhausted, your head will hurt, and you’ll spend the entire day complaining that you should have gone to bed earlier.”

Your smile turned slightly sheepish.

“That’s happened once or twice.”

“It’s happened a lot more than twice.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t argue with him.

“I know you want to finish this tonight, but I also know you’ll feel a lot worse tomorrow if you’re still here three hours from now.”

For a moment, you simply watched him in silence. There was something deeply endearing about the way he said those things. They didn’t sound like criticism or impatience. Just concern.

When you saw him struggle against another yawn, whatever resistance remained in you finally crumbled.

“You win.”

Spencer blinked.

You leaned down to leave one last kiss on his lips before pulling away.

“I’ll shut down the computer and put all this away.”

“Good.”

“And then I’ll go to sleep with you.”

Spencer shook his head as he stood up and took your hand in both of his.

“Let’s go now. I’ll help you organize everything tomorrow.”

You knew that when your boyfriend got something into his head, there wasn’t a force on earth capable of changing his mind. So you simply closed your laptop and let him drag you toward the bedroom.

The room was dark, illuminated only by the faint light filtering through the curtains from the street outside. The moment he stepped through the door, Spencer kicked off his slippers and collapsed onto the mattress with a tired sigh. He seemed to have finally reached the limit of his energy. He settled beneath the sheets, rested his head on the pillow, and closed his eyes for a few seconds, as though the simple contact with the bed was enough to convince his body to surrender.

You, meanwhile, walked over to the closet to find something more comfortable to sleep in. As you changed, you couldn’t help glancing back at him from time to time. He was still awake, but barely.

One arm rested across his stomach, and his eyes were half-closed, fighting to stay conscious just to make sure you were actually going to bed.

The sight brought an involuntary smile to your face.

“You can fall asleep, you know.”

Spencer made an indistinct sound that could have been a response or simply a manifestation of pure exhaustion.

When you finished changing, you switched off the last light and walked over to the bed. The mattress dipped slightly as you settled beside him. You had barely rested your head on the pillow when Spencer moved toward you out of pure habit, still caught somewhere between wakefulness and sleep.

His arm found your waist and gently pulled you against him.

It was an automatic gesture. Familiar.

You let out a sigh as you settled beneath the sheets and rested your head against his chest. The warmth of his body, the steady sound of his breathing, and the calm rhythm of his heartbeat were infinitely more comforting than any unfinished work.

Spencer’s hand moved absentmindedly across your back in a slow caress before coming to a complete stop.

★

Maybe Hotch will make sure the bureau pays for all the therapy you’re gonna need when you get out of here. 

If you get out of here. 

How are you gonna pass a psyche evaluation after this? Sure, you feel sane but a part of you knows that you’re… different. Spencer is too. You don’t leave a place like this unscathed. 

Maybe the team won’t ever find you.

And you’ll spend the rest of your days here, being fucked by Spencer in every possible position until the unsub gets bored or one of you dies. 

Right now, with your lips on his, that doesn’t sound like the worst way to spend however many days you have left. 

You slide yourself closer as you kiss him. It’s nothing like the ravenous, all consuming kisses you share in the throws of passion. It’s soft, it feels natural. You pull away when he doesn’t immediately kiss you back, just to glance at his reaction. 

You only get a moment to look into those big doe eyes before it’s his turn to lean forward as his hands dart up to your face, cupping your cheeks as he closes the gap between you once more. No tongues, no teeth, just the two of you. 

You revel in it, this moment that doesn’t belong to the unsub, or anyone else watching you right now. This is just for you and Spencer. 

When he pulls away it’s only when he has to take a breath, he keeps his forehead pressed to yours. 

“This is… torture.” He murmurs. “And I’ve been tortured, this is so much worse.” 

Yikes, that’s not what you want to hear. 

“Spencer…” 

“You can’t possibly know how abysmal it feels to be here. I would quite literally rather be tortured.” He says it so casually as your mouth settles into a deep frown, his gaze softens. “Not like that, not because of you, well actually, all because of you.” He’s quick to correct himself but he isn’t making you feel any less bad about kissing him if this is his reaction. 

“That doesn’t make it any better.” You mumble, wanting to shrink away but his hands are still on your face, his thumb moving in small, gentle circles.

He chews his lip, lost in thought for a moment before he nods to himself, like he’s figured it out. 

“Did you know that torture is one of the most ineffective ways to get information out of a person?” 

“Yes Spencer, I went through the same training you did.” 

“Statistically speaking it just doesn’t work, even when you manage to ‘break’ your victim, over seventy percent of the time their mental state has been compromised or they give false information to make the abuse stop. It’s extremely hard to get someone to talk if they’ve resigned themself to not doing so.”

“This really isn’t what girls want to hear after they kiss you, you have kissed someone before right?” You swear you heard a rumor about Spencer and some actress he met on a case. 

“I’ve been tortured.” He’s really hammering this point home. 

“I know, Emily told me what happened, I’m so sorry Spencer I’m just a little confused as to how that applies to this-” 

“And even through being physically tortured and…” His voice trails off for a moment but he shakes it off. “I was in a sense ‘broken’ but I still gave false information to my captor. I never fully complied. I lied, I stayed in the moment as best I could, always focused on survival, I refused to give up.” 

You just sort of nod in response, hoping that you didn’t break his brain when you kissed him. 

“And now I’m here, trapped in a cement box with you, and that’s all it took.” He’s talking like he does when he’s found some great break in the case. 

“I’m still not following.”

“All it took was you.” His brow furrows as his gaze intensifies. “He put me in a room with you and I broke immediately, I immediately gave in to my base instincts and did everything he wanted. He served you up to me on a silver platter and I couldn’t concentrate on anything else because a part of me felt… grateful. How sick is that?”

Grateful.

“Not that sick.” Your response is immediate, if that makes him sick what does it make you?

“Do you know how it feels to have the one thing you’ve wanted for so long, given to you in the absolute worst way possible? The guilt I feel for liking it, for wanting it, it’s eating up my insides worse than any drug ever has.”

The one thing you’ve wanted for so long. 

You know exactly how it feels. 

“Spencer, it’s okay.” You finally manage to snap him out of his ranting.

“Is this real?” His whisper is so soft he’s practically just mouthing the words. 

You kiss him again, a wordless answer to his question. 

“You’re sort of a romantic in the strangest, most morbid way possible.” You say against his lips in between kisses. “Only you could make torture sound so passionate.”  

“You make me feel like I’m losing my mind.” He doesn’t bother to pull away either as he mumbles against your mouth. 

Maybe he is, maybe you are too. 

You can think about that tomorrow, you’d like to spend the rest of the night making out with him. It’s hard to think about the morality of all of this with his mouth, so sweet and warm against yours. 

★

You must have fallen asleep at some point, when you wake your body is intertwined with his. You sigh against him, enjoying the last few moments of normalcy before your waking nightmare begins all over again. 

“I’ve been thinking.” You jump a bit at the sound of his voice, tilting your head up you can see he’s wide awake, the dark circles under his eyes look even more prominent than usual. 

“How long have you been up?”

“A while, we should start considering soon that we may have to be responsible for our own escape. I don’t see a scenario in which the team finds us unless they get remarkably lucky.”

“There is no escape, unless you know how to get through steel doors.” You stretch, leaning back into him as he adjusts himself to fit his body against yours. 

“There’s always a way, I just haven’t figured it out yet.” 

“Well let me know when you do.” 

“His emotional response to the scene yesterday has me concerned. I’m worried we might see considerable escalation today.” 

“That doesn’t make sense, our compliance should keep him placated.” You flip yourself around so you’re face to face with him now. 

“Normally I’d agree with you but the reaction was almost too positive. Now that he’s hooked he’ll need more to get the same rush.”

“So we should stop complying?” That doesn’t sound like a good idea. 

“No, that would be even more dangerous.” 

“Then what are we supposed to do?”

“What we’ve been doing, whatever he asks of us.”

Great. 

“Good morning superstars.” He didn’t give you anytime to register that the intercom had even clicked on. “I see the two of you are feeling a lot more chatty, that is wonderful news. Now, as much as I love a nice emotional scene, your fans are not as interested in that. I think it is time to really test your limits as actors.” 

That’s not what you want to hear. 

“Are you up for a little roleplay?”

Definitely not what you want to hear.

“Listen closely, I do not enjoy repeating myself. On the underside of the sink in the bathroom I have taped a slip of paper, on it I have written my name, date of birth, and address. All the things your team would need to save you, of course if you reveal them during filming I will censor it, we are not done playing just yet.” You take his hand in yours instinctively squeezing. “I would like my leading lady to go, memorize her lines and then flush the paper. As she busies herself I would like Dr. Reid to move the props onto the set, I think you will know how I would like everything. Afterwards I will explain the contents of the scene.”

The door clicks in a way that’s starting to feel familiar. This time when you step out you’re surprised to find the hallway filled. There’s a small wooden desk, a duffle bag, and two metal chairs. He cocks an eyebrow at everything but does as he’s been requested, you can hear the scraping of metal as he drags the desk in. You focus yourself on fishing around under the sink, sure enough you find a folded scrap of paper. 

With trembling hands you unfold it, you’re a little surprised when you find exactly what he promised you would. 

Peter J. Hill

February 4th, 1989

301 Broadway W, Seattle Washington, 98137

Peter Hill. Just a normal, generic name, yet the sight of it makes you tense up. 

You repeat the information under your breath, over and over again until it’s branded on your brain, you couldn’t forget it if you tried. As instructed, once it’s memorized you flush it, stepping back out into the main room Spencer has set the desk up with the chairs on either side. His focus is entirely on the contents of the duffle bag, he’s holding it open. His mouth is pulled into a tight straight line and his brows are furrowed, you aren’t sure you even want to know what he’s looking at. That doesn’t stop you from trying to sneak a peek before he zips it shut, tossing it down.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to see that.”

“What? Why?” You’re about to reach around him for it but the intensity of his gaze stops you.

“Because I think I know that the scene is.”

“Brilliant Dr. Reid, always one step ahead, it is a shame you cannot help your team solve your own case, maybe they would have found you by now. Tell her what we will be doing today.” 

“It’s an interrogation.” He looks white as a sheet. “We profiled him as a sexual psychopath, not a sexual sadist.”

“Maybe you were right about me, Doctor.” 

“Interrogation? What information could he probably want from us?”

“Not from us.”

“From you angel. I would really like to see you from a damsel in distress angle, I just think you would be so perfect for it.”

“Spencer, what is he talking about?” When you turn to look at him you step back, he looks like he’s going to be sick. 

“Would you be so kind as to retrieve the timer from the bag, Dr. Reid?”

You watch with bated breath as he does just that, a blinking red digital timer set for three hours, waiting to be activated. 

“In a moment I will be starting the timer, and the brilliant Dr. Reid is going to show off some of his FBI skills for us. I want to see the best the bureau has to offer, make her talk or you won’t like what happens.”

“What’s the incentive? I don’t understand…” Your eyes are still locked on Spencer, he’s clearly figured out something that you haven’t.

“It’s a game, against each other. There’s a winner and a loser.” You’ve never seen him look so terrified, his hands don’t twitch nervously, they just tremble. "Which means ramifications for the loser."

“I like you more and more everyday Dr. Reid, we practically finish each other's sentences.” A chuckle crackles over the speaker. “He is exactly right, the winner decides the fate of the other.”

It’s an easy choice, if losing means you save Spencer from some kind of punishment then you’ll just give up whenever you’ve put on a sufficient performance. 

“So I just have to give him your information and he wins?” You speak up into the faceless void of wires on the ceiling that you’ve begun to associate with your captor.  

“I would not be so quick to do so my dearest. You don’t even know what the prizes are yet. And in order to secure your prize I expect a show, you do not want to know what is in store for you if I am not impressed.” 

“We know what your expectations are at this point.” You sneer up at where you can only hope the camera might be. 

“You sound so excited to begin so I will not make you wait much longer. If you win, angel, and he is not able to break you, you will be rewarded with a little trip out of the bunker. You and I will enjoy a nice dinner together, candles, wine, I will pull out all the stops for you. Nothing but the best for my headliner.” 

You feel as sick as Reid looks. 

“And if Dr. Reid wins. I will reward him with a little dental procedure.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Your voice is shrill, you can’t even glance at Spencer anymore as he continues speaking. 

“Two teeth, I do not care which ones, he can choose, are to be removed.” 

“This isn’t even a choice, you can’t expect us to play along with this or give you any sort of meaningful show, obviously I’m not going to tell him anything.”

“I think your precious doctor might disagree. Best of luck you two, your timer starts now.” 

You watch as the clock starts ticking down from the three hour mark, collapsing into one of the chairs, cringing as the metal shrieks against the floor. 

“This is ridiculous, what kind of show can he expect us to put on, I’m clearly not going to tell you and you obviously don’t want me to.” When you finally brave another glance at him he looks apologetic. His fingers twitching against his palm. 

He gives you an apologetic half smile before he stares at the floor. And you know exactly what he’s thinking.

“No.” Stern and serious the word leaves your lips before you've even fully processed the look in his eyes. “Don’t be stupid Spencer.”

The vibe in the room has shifted so violently it nearly gives you whiplash. Whatever cautious, intimate energy you had is replaced with rigid anticipation. 

How quickly your captor can flip the script. 

“You know it wouldn’t just be dinner.” His voice cracks as he murmurs. 

“That doesn’t matter.” You stand, slamming your hand down on the table. “This isn’t even a discussion.”

“I agree, it isn’t.” His eyes are downcast, both of you are standing defensively now, bodies angled almost aggressively towards each other. 

The timer blinks in your peripheral vision. 

“Spencer, we can’t do this.”

“We have to.” His voice is strained now as he flexes his jaw. “If we don’t then he’ll separate us. If you win he’ll separate us, I- it isn’t even a hard choice.”

“I’m a big girl, Spencer. I can handle myself, we aren’t pulling your fucking teeth out over this, absolutely not. I am telling you no.” 

He crumples himself down on the floor, sitting with his knees hugged to his chest. 

“You don’t understand, with the escalation we’re seeing if he were to be left alone with you…” He rakes his fingers against his scalp, a mannerism you’ve seen from him several times in high stress situations. 

“I- No. I don’t care, we aren’t discussing this any further. We can put on a little show or whatever it is that he wants. You can fuck me and try to get a confession out of me, I don’t care but I’m not entertaining this.” You sit back down, letting yourself relax a little bit as he sighs, sounding defeated. 

You let your head fall backwards, silently cursing Peter Hill as you stare at the ceiling. 

“Can I kiss you?” His voice is small, you’re a little taken aback by the request so you just nod. 

“Yeah, of course Spence. But we also need to figure out what we’re doing here, if we don’t put on a good show then I’m worried we’ll be living out both punishments.” You turn your head back towards him, he’s standing beside you, crouched down so he can catch your lips against his, his hands cup your face for a moment before sliding down your body, he holds your hand for a moment, squeezing. It’s almost a little awkward but you don’t mind. When he pulls away you take a breath as you’re met with that apologetic smile again. 

“I’m so sorry.” He leans forward and gives you another peck on the lips and before you can register what’s happening you hear a click and he grips your wrist tight.

“Spencer, what the f-” You start to stand but his hands push down on your shoulders, hard, you immediately realize one of your hands is cuffed. Before you can react he’s got your other wrist, with a click you’re once again restrained with your hands behind your back. 

“I am so, so, so sorry, and if we get out of this and you find it in your heart to forgive me I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

You yank on the cuffs, they’re metal and the second you pull against them you know they aren’t coming off without a key. 

“Spencer, let me go, now.” Your mouth immediately settles into a scowl. A stern look on your face as you try to stay calm.

“You know I can’t do that.”

“I’m serious.” 

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be.” His begging is so genuine, as if he’s the one restrained right now. 

“Excuse me?” 

“Three hours is a lot of time, and I think if we come to an agreement then this doesn’t have to get out of hand.”

“I’m not telling you anything.”

“You will.” He tosses the duffle bag up and onto the table, you can see that it’s unzipped again, the bastard must have grabbed the cuffs when you weren’t looking.

“I won’t, I’ve had the same training that you have.”

“Exactly. I know every strategy and coping mechanism you’ve been taught.” 

Well, that’s not good. 

“Lets put on a show, make a real spectacle out of ourselves for an hour, I promise I won’t hurt you, but you have to tell me at the end of the hour.”

“No.” Your resolve stands firm, this is not happening.

“Sweetheart, please.” He kneels beside your chair. “I’m begging you not to do this.” 

The look in his eyes is almost enough to break you. Wide eyed and pleading with you but all you can do is shake your head. 

“No. I’m sorry Spencer.” You keep your voice stern even if you want to cry when he rests his head on your leg.

“You know there’s no safeword, there’s no stopping point. Do you understand what I have to do to you now?” His voice cracks again. 

You do know.

Unfortunately. 

Everything in his power to make you talk. 

If the roles were reversed you’d do the exact same thing. You understand him completely. Which is why you know that he understands why you can’t let him win. 

You brave a glance at the clock, less than ten minutes have passed. It’s going to be a long morning. 

When he finally stands up he clears his throat. His expression suddenly unreadable as he moves across the table, rubbing his hand over his face as if he’s trying to wipe away any emotion. You watch, silently, as he takes the other chair and sets it aside. 

“In an interrogation when you’re trying to empathize with the other person you sit, make them feel heard, make it a conversation. Stand when you want them to feel less than you, when you want to make them feel trapped.”

Spencer had said that to you once, when you watched Hotch sit with an unsub, he inflated his ego, tried to make him feel like he had outsmarted all of you. You’d asked questions and Spencer had been happy to answer. Now those answers ring around in your head.

You focus on keeping your breathing as even as possible as he starts to dig through the bag. You don’t look away and you don’t react when he starts setting the contents on the table. 

More cuffs.

A thick leather belt. 

A large red candle with a lighter.

A knife with a large blade. 

A hammer and pliers. 

“Really, you want me to believe you’re about to use a hammer on me?” You scoff, he doesn’t so much as flinch.

“Try to remember we’re performing.” He’s robotic as he tosses the bag back down to the floor, the heavy thunk tells you there’s plenty still in there. 

“It’s a good move, to lay everything out. Very effective.” You murmur, not sounding nearly as unbothered as you’d hoped to. 

“Stop talking.” He doesn’t raise his voice, he doesn’t even bother to look at you as he speaks. His expression has darkened so severely you feel compelled to comply.

You sit up a little taller, trying to not feel so small compared to him as he leans forwards, looking over everything.

“I’m not going to bother trying to reason with you any further, it’s a waste of time, you aren’t going to listen. I’m going to start simple, and give you an opportunity to see the error in your ways before I do anything too drastic. Every half hour that you let pass is going to result in an increase in the severity of my actions.” He never breaks eye contact with you as he speaks and it makes your hair stand on edge.

For the first time since you were taken you don’t feel safe with him.

If you said no right now he wouldn’t stop. 

Don’t act like that doesn’t almost make it better. 

Now is not the time for your perverse tendencies to shine, you can’t disassociate and forget the stakes anymore. This isn’t just another scene where you get fucked and try and process it later, there are consequences to your actions now. Consequences that only affect him, leaving you to bear the guilt of your choices.  

The timer lets you know it’s been about fifteen minutes, he seems to have come to a decision as his hand hovers over everything on the table, he takes the lighter in his hand, fiddling with it for a moment before he lights the candle. It’s one of those thick and short ones, the size of a can. 

“I don’t want to hurt you.” He finally breaks eye contact with you as he stares down at the floor. 

“I know.” It feels weird to be reassuring him right now. 

He walks around the table until he's standing behind you, gentle with you as he repositions you so you’re bent over the table.

He kicks your legs further apart, one hand on your lower back.

“Simple and painful enough to show you that I’m serious.” He mumbles to himself as you turn your head to try and get a better look at him to no avail as he keeps himself just out of your sight line. “Not so boring that it would result in retaliation.” You chew on the inside of your cheek all the while he’s still mumbling to himself. 

His hand rests on your lower back.

“Bruises are actually one of the safest injuries to have, because the skin is left unbroken it's the injury that puts you at the least risk for infection. We’re gonna start with thirty minutes and see if that makes you eager to talk.”

Only Reid would give you facts about the beating he’s about to give you.

You flinch involuntarily when he raises his hand. 

Fuck.

He does not hold back. 

Loud and firm as his hand connects with your ass, immediately you bite your lip, stifling a yelp. 

You want to scold him, or curse him out, or do literally anything but he gives you no options as his hand on your lower back pins you down and another blow connects. It’s so wildly clinical, the way his face screws up, like he has to do this. 

Maybe he does, you can’t really know what the reverse scenario would be. Would you let him face the unsub alone? You want to confidently say yes but deep down you know that isn’t true. 

You don’t get much time to dwell on it, your focus is reoriented when he hits you again. 

★

“Let’s go over everything again.” 

“We’ve already gone over this a dozen times, Hotch. Nothing changes and every second we don’t find them puts them more at risk.” Morgan hasn’t sat down once in the last twelve hours, alternating between standing over the table staring at photos and transcripts and pacing the room. 

“I just don’t understand why you can’t find them. This guy’s uploading at least one video a day.” Hotch turns back to his computer where Agent Garcia’s face fills the screen, her eyes flitting back and forth across her own monitors. 

“This guy isn’t dumb, every video he uploads he uses a different VPN and location for.” She never looks at the camera, too lost in tabs upon tabs of information. 

“Is it possible that any of these locations might be the actual one?” Hotch’s brow furrows. 

“None of them are anywhere close to Seattle, sir. Based on the upload time of the first video we know they’re still in the city somewhere.” Her face scrunches up as she looks away from her screen. “There’s a new upload.” 

“God damnit.” Derek grumbles as he puts his head in his hands. 

“Can you get it taken down before it spreads?” If it’s possible Hotch sounds even more grave than he usually does. 

“I can try, but he has some sort of bot set up, by the time I get it taken down two more pop up on another site.”  Her voice cracks. Everyone knows just by looking at her that she’s been crying most of the morning. 

“Forward us the link Garcia, you don’t have to watch it.” Hotch sits down in front of his laptop, waiting for the video to download. 

“Well, the thing is, this one is different.” Her expression is that of confusion as the video plays out on her own monitor. 

“Different how?” For the first time in hours Emily speaks up, previously lost in her own notes and files. 

“He isn’t directing them to do anything, and it’s dark in the room.” 

“They didn’t know they were being recorded.” Hotch clicks impatiently on the file, as if it can make it load faster.  

“They’re just talking and- oh.” 

“Garcia?” Hotch’s voice rings out clear.

“I feel like I shouldn’t be watching this.” 

“Forward it to us, I can take care of it.” For the first time in most of their careers, Hotch doesn’t sound so sure.  

He has to. 

Two members of his team, taken at the same time. The entire thing is being posted online as it’s happening. He should be able to stop this.   

Reid’s only twenty seven. 

And then there’s you, just a few years younger. 

Digging his fingernails into his palm he straightens up, everyone needs to keep it together. 

★

You can’t seem to stop crying.

Of course you’re crying, it fucking hurts. That doesn’t mean you’re any closer to telling him. 

His hand ended up being not so bad, it was the belt that really hurt.

He put the timer in front of you so you could watch as the seconds agonizingly tick down. It feels like the longest thirty minutes of your life and when it’s done you can’t help but sigh in relief, the side of your face is damp as you lay in a puddle of your own tears. 

“Are you okay?” He doesn’t help you up, you’ve still got plenty of time together, but he does bring you some water, tilting the bottle so it flows into your mouth.

“As good as I can be.” You try to sound sarcastic but you just sound hurt as your voice trembles. 

“Are you ready to be all done?” As he talks he takes the knife, flipping it in his hands a few times before he lets it rest on the edges of the candle, the blade hovering directly above the flame. 

“Am I ready to talk? No, I’m not.” This time you do manage to keep your voice steady. 

“Maybe another thirty minutes would help.” You fight the urge to groan, especially when he leans down and plants a kiss on your shoulder before standing up straight. He drags the belt across the raw skin of your ass before sliding it down to the backs of your thighs. You press your forehead down onto the cool metal of the table as the first smack hits the sensitive skin there. 

★

“So?” Morgan’s the first to speak when Hotch returns, looking haggard. The look on his face would be concerning on any case, it sets everyone on edge. 

“They’re… okay.” He sits, sorting through the pile of files in front of him. 

“Okay? That’s it? In the last video he was mouthfucking her and now they’re just okay?” 

“Don’t be gross Derek.” Emily scowls, this whole situation has left her sick to her stomach. 

“I’m not being gross, I'm being realistic.”

“It was an intimate moment that they wouldn’t want shared with the team.” Hotch murmurs as he rubs at the worry lines on his forehead. How is he gonna explain a video of his agents confessing feelings for each other and making out?

“More intimate than what we’ve already seen?” The angry edge to Morgan's voice has been unrelenting since the night they were taken. 

“I’m making a call as the unit chief that is in the best interest of our team. End of discussion.” 

How the hell is he supposed to tell his team that he doesn’t really understand what’s happening in that room anymore? That he just needs to get them out before they forget that they’re being held there against their will. 

“We’re gonna circle back to every living victim, and I mean every single one of them. Somebody has to have something that will give us some kind of clue as to who we’re dealing with.” He splits the files up into even groups, spreading them out between the dwindling members of the team. “I want everyone on the phone until somebody can give me something new.” He keeps his tone even as Emily and JJ stand, eager to get out of the stuffy room. 

“What’s on the video?” Derek closes the door, leaving the two of them alone. 

“I told you, it isn’t important.”

“Then what’s got you so freaked out.” 

Hotch looks like he’s seen a ghost and he knows it. 

“I just- I keep waiting for him to snap out of it.” Aaron keeps his voice low, as if anyone outside of the conference room can hear him.

“The unsub? I don’t think he’s gonna snap out of whatever movie magic delusion he’s living in.”

“Reid.” Hotch breathes out his name, thinking of the team's boy genius, and how he didn’t seem to be thinking with his brain these days. 

“The kid?” 

“When he was taken by Tobias Hankle he was in the same situation, he knew he was being filmed and could send us messages, and help us get him out.” He glances down at his watch. It’s been almost sixty hours since they were taken. “All he does is think, every one of his actions is always taken with intentionality, he’s an anxious overthinker.”

“I’m not following, Hotch.”

“This time, there’s nothing, no glance to the camera, no hand signals, word play, nothing. It’s like he has no self preservation skills in there. He should be keeping his distance from her outside of the scenes to keep the unsub placated but he doesn’t, he jumps at every opportunity to give her whatever she wants, to be as close to her as possible, knowing that it could result in retaliation from the unsub.” 

“They’re both in a really bad spot right now. I don't see why it matters if he’s trying to keep her happy.” Morgan jumps to Reid's defense on instinct. 

“Because he understands the profile. Now that we know what he was always after, that changes things. He’s an organized offender, he’s motivated by his need to control the scene and his obsession with her. The killing meant nothing to him, it was simply a way to punish those who wouldn’t obey. He’s a sexual predator with obsessive tendencies. Under no circumstances should he be pushed in anyway, it will always have negative effects but Reid just… keeps pushing." 

“Is it possible he’s misunderstood the profile?”

“When has Reid ever been wrong? It’s like he suddenly has no regard for his own safety, look, I’m not blind, I’ve seen the flirting between the two of them around the bullpen. But this isn’t flirting, he’s blatantly throwing self preservation to the wind.”

“It sounds like you’re profiling Reid now.”

“I am. Right now he’s a danger to himself. The unsub is spiteful and cruel. But Reid knows he won’t hurt her, he’s the only one in danger right now and he’s doing nothing to take the target off his back.” 

★

You stop watching the clock after five minutes, closing your eyes you stop trying to swallow down your squeaks of pain with each hit of the belt. Thirty fucking minutes of torment.

Every strike of the belt leaves you what you can only assume is a pretty nasty red welt. Very rarely do you find yourself in a situation where Spencer doesn’t fill the silence with random facts about something niche, or a statistic relevant to your position. 

Remember that this is a scene. 

He doesn’t want to do this, he has to. Perform or the consequences will be worse than separation and missing teeth. 

He doesn’t want to hurt you. 

He’s silent, other than his heavy breathing from the effort required to continuously tear into the meat of your thighs. 

You cry out with every hit, no sense in trying to look tough anymore, he knows it hurts. 

You take every single one. 

It’s easier when you think about why you have to do this. The image of a faceless man with his hand in Spencer's mouth, yanking out his teeth flashes across your vision. 

You’re anticipating another hit but it doesn’t come, slowly, you peek your eyes open.

Oh thank god. 

One hour and forty minutes left. 

Over an hour down. 

He undoes the cuffs behind your back and he’s quick to reconnect one of your wrists to a loop on the top of the desk. He pushes you back until you’re sitting in the chair, the cold metal stings against your raw flesh, drawing a hiss out from between your teeth. He remains silent as he sits across from you. 

“Can we talk about this, please, just for a few minutes.” Your goal is to sound as natural as possible, like this is an everyday conversation. You aren’t sure if it comes out that way. 

His eyes flit over to the timer. 

“I just don’t think we have anything to talk about if you aren’t going to tell me what I want to know.” God he’s stubborn.

“I just want you to hear me out, then I’ll hear you out, okay?”

He sits back, combing his fingers through his hair. 

“Fine, ten minutes” He flips the knife over the flame, the metal of the blade’s covered in a thin layer of soot now. 

“I need you to think reasonably, he’s been a man of his word so far, if I’m left along with him it sounds like we’ll have dinner and talk and that’ll be all. I’ll be back here before you know it.” You try to sound like the idea of being alone with Peter doesn’t absolutely terrify you. “The alternative is something dangerous and permanent.” You say your peace, staring at him as you wait for a response. 

“No.”

“No?” Well you weren’t expecting that. You were expecting intelligent and rational Dr. Reid to listen to reason, or at the very least, consider it. 

“No. You heard me. I cannot sit back and willingly let you do this. You think that you’re biting the bullet here and that you’re doing something to ‘protect’ me, but all you’re doing is getting yourself killed.” 

“You aren’t listening-”

“No, you aren’t. The man that we’re dealing with is an obsessive, sadist. If you’re left alone with him he won’t be able to control himself. It’s why we’re in here and he’s out there. He knows that once he finally takes his favorite toy out of the box he’s going to break it. If you go with him you won’t be coming back.” 

“I just don’t think he’s a sadist, he doesn’t kill for sexual gratification, he kills when he doesn’t get his way. As long as I do what he says I’ll be fine.” 

“You say that like it's so easy to follow orders from a serial rapist and killer. You don’t know what he’ll ask of you, and what happens if you don’t live up to his every expectation.”

“Whatever, let’s agree to disagree.”

“No, I don’t agree with you at all. I’m right, and if you’re going to make me hurt you to keep you alive and safe then that’s what I’m going to do.” He takes the knife, careful to never touch the blade. “Where do you want it?” 

“Spencer.”

You can tell by the way his eyes frantically flit around that he’s cracking under the pressure of the clock. 

“Make a choice or I will, we’re running out of time and if you won’t listen then I have to do this. I was thinking on your torso, across your ribs, that way it’s covered by most clothes. You won’t be able to wear crop tops and you’ll be stuck with one piece swim suits but that’s not so bad. At least I’ll still have a couple of teeth that no one ever sees.” Oh he’s pissed. He lifts the side of your top, the skin of your hips and waist are still dark purple, why not add a few more marks? 

“Don’t act like this is up to me. You’re choosing to do this.” You hiss. 

“Torso it is.” The hand not holding the knife grabs your free wrist, pinning it to the table. “You don’t understand at all. I can’t let you do this, there’s nothing I won’t do to stop you.” 

You watch, unable to tear your eyes away as he presses the thin edge of the heated blade against your ribs for just a few seconds before pulling it back. You’re hit with a searing white pain as a white line sizzles itself into your skin. It’s a completely different pain that the one you’ve endured from the spanking, you’d rather deal with that ten times over than then deal with this.  

You don’t recognize the cry that leaves your throat. 

Jagged and pained. 

With the way Spencer flinches you’d think that he was the one who was burned. 

You wait for the next burn but it doesn’t come. Instead he stands, carefully setting the blade back down onto the candle. His jaw is locked so tightly you’re worried he’s going to pop a blood vessel. 

He stares at you, eyes roaming from your tear soaked face down to the burn. 

You expect to see impatience, or a tired annoyance. 

Instead you just see shame, all of the bravado he had vanished at the sound of your anguished cry. 

An immediate regret for his actions.

Something about his sadness makes you forget that he even hurt you to begin with. You just want to comfort him. 

Jesus. 

Maybe you’re both going crazy. How long have you been here? It can’t be that long, a day or two? 

Spencer looks positively disturbed. 

Maybe he finally realized that you’re right, and it probably isn’t worth it to go through all of this just to end up with a bloody mouth.  

He’s quick on his feet as he hurries across the room and out the door, you stare, worried as he darts into the bathroom. You turn away at the sound of him retching. Facing the clock and watching as it ticks down another twenty minutes, ever so slowly. Accompanied by the sounds of Spencer spewing the contents of his stomach up. 

Finally, after what feels like forever you hear the water running, and a few moments after that he returns. Pale and distraught. 

He looks different. Changed. Like something has snapped. 

You almost ask him if he’s okay. 

Instead you clear your throat.

“What next, Spence?” 

He has to have an idea. You have to finish out the scene, even if hurting you apparently makes him retch. He looks so ashamed, maybe he won’t be able to bring himself to do this anymore.

Returning to the center of the room he takes another set of cuffs, leaning over the table to attach your free hand to the back of the chair. It’s an awkward position. One hand laid out on the table and the other behind you. You don’t question it, you’re too busy watching, holding your breath as he picks up the hammer. 

He must not feel too bad if this is what he’s gonna do next. 

“Don’t make me do this.” His whisper is so sincere. Pleading with you for any submission you can offer him. 

“I’m not making you do anything.” Unfortunately you have nothing to give at this point. You won’t let him make this sacrifice. Not when the alternative is far less gory. 

At least you hope it is. 

“You can make this stop.” He balances himself, leaning against the table, one hand splayed out and the other gripping the hammer so hard his knuckles are white. 

“So can you.” 

He chews his lip, eyes wide and wet around the edges. 

“Don’t move your hand, I don’t want this to be any worse than it needs to be.”

His words make you freeze in place, your hand rests palm down on the table, fingers spread.

You keep telling yourself through all of this that he would never really hurt you. 

Just beat and burn you.

Suddenly you’re not so sure. 

You probably should have considered that was something he was capable of before you let him cuff you to the table without any resistance.

He really has lost it.

He’s convinced himself that this is the only way to ‘save’ you.

And you’re stuck trying to save him. Let him torture you to save him from torture. Or save yourself from any more agony and subject him to the same thing. 

It’s the same choice he’s trapped in. 

You should have asked yourself how far he might go to get you to talk. You would go pretty far.  

“I’m sorry.” His voice snaps you out of your thoughts, he seems to have made up his mind, a look of resolution in his eyes. “It’s kinda funny, it didn’t really matter what the alternative was, I was never going to let you go with him. He could have threatened to break every bone in my body and I would still be doing this.” 

When he raises the hammer you flinch, he gives you one last look, pleading with his eyes but you just shake your head. When he slams it down you shriek, wincing as you feel a fresh flood of tears flowing out of your eyes.

You’re waiting for the adrenaline to fade, for the pain to hit. When it doesn’t you slowly open your eyes, flexing your fingers everything feels fine. You’re staring down to your perfectly intact hand. 

With a splatter of red across it. 

Across the table from you his left hand is splayed out, where the tip of his pinky should be there’s only a red splat. 

Your mouth falls open as your breath hitches. 

The remainder of the finger twitches, still spurting blood. He moves quickly and efficiently as he takes the knife off of the candle. Crying out in pain as he smashes what’s left of his pinky against it, effectively cauterizing the wound. 

What the fuck. 

“Please sweetheart, just tell me, if you tell me we can stop.” His voice is strained and higher pitched, tinged with the agony you know he must be feeling. You try to reach out to him but he’s done a damn good job restraining you.  

“Spencer stop, please, please stop.” You’ve got tears and snot running down your face at this point, he’s clearly got tears streaking down his face as well but his resolve never wavers, his hand is back on the table. Fingers splayed wide as the smell of burning flesh hits your nostrils. “Don’t, Spence, please.” You start to babble incoherently as he raises the hammer again, his eyebrows furrowed but there isn’t a moment's hesitation as he stares down at you.

“Tell me.” He whispers, when you stare back at him wordlessly he nods, as if reassuring himself before bringing the hammer down again. You don’t have the foresight to look away this time so you’re forced to watch, horrified, as he eviscerates the tip of his ring finger. A fresh splatter of red decorates the table. He’s out of breath, and so pale you’re worried he might pass out. He doesn’t waste any time as he retrieves the blade once more, trembling so badly he nearly drops it before he repeats the same process of burning the flesh around his finger until the bleeding stops. Your entire body shakes as you dig the cuffs deeper into your wrists, futilely trying to do something, anything to make him stop.

“Spencer. I am telling you to stop. Right now.” You want to sound authoritative, but your voice trembles so bad you just sound like a scared child. 

“I don’t see how this is better than a couple of teeth but we can keep going if you think this is what you prefer.” He’s out of breath, his chest heaving. His whisper is so dejected it only serves to make your tears flow faster. 

God, is he right? Is this better than a couple of teeth? Your brain can’t process anything right now, you’re too fraught. 

“Anything else Spencer, I will give you anything else, just fucking stop, please.” You don’t comprehend his escalation, how can he go from such tame actions against you to this, why the fuck does he care so much? 

“You know what I want. And if this is the only way I can get it then this is what we’re doing.” He’s already splaying his hand out on the table in front of you again, you can’t look away from his mangled fingers, half of his hand is out of balance. 

“Wait! Just wait a second! Please, Spencer, if you care about me at all you won’t do this. If any part of you feels the devotion you claim to have for me you’ll stop. Just stop.” His hand is close enough to yours now that you manage to reach out and touch your finger tips to what remains of his. “Anything else, in the whole world, I’ll give you anything else, do anything else, just stop.” You whisper the words, like you’re trying to talk someone down off a ledge, which technically, you are. 

“There’s only one thing that I want.” 

“Please.”

At least I’ll still have a couple of teeth that no one ever sees. He’s certainly proving that point right now. 

“There’s only one thing I’ve ever wanted, and I’ll be damned if I let this man take that away from me.” You’ve never been as afraid of him as you are now. Eyes wide and focused, and surprisingly coherent for a man who just smashed his fingertips off with a hammer. He could have done so many other things, so many less violent things before going straight for this. 

“Spencer.”

“We’ve got so much time left, once I get through all my fingertips I can only imagine what I’ll have to do to myself to make you understand.”

“I understand you perfectly fine, Spencer. I understand that you’ve completely lost it.” Your voice cracks, you try to reach him again but he pulls his hand back, spreading his fingertips wide so there’s no room for error. 

“If you understood me at all you would know that it doesn’t matter what the alternative is, there is never going to be a situation where I choose to let you be alone with him, I don’t care if he’s chained to the wall and you have a gun. He doesn’t get to be in a room with you, he doesn’t get to touch you, he doesn’t get to talk to you, he doesn’t get to breathe your air.” He sounds like he’s giving one of his lectures as he manages to pull himself together long enough to regain his composure and stand up straight. “Now, tell me. Because once I get through my fingers I’m going to start pulling my teeth out, and all of this will have been for nothing. Then, I’m going to line them up right here.” He drags the hammer leisurely in a line across the table just out of your reach. “To remind you, that I’m doing this for you, because you’re all I care about. To show you just how devoted I am.”

You don’t have time to unpack that right now, not while he’s still holding the hammer. 

“Spencer.”

“Tell me.”

“Spence.” As your voice hitches up an octave as his eyes squint, like he’s bracing himself again. 

God, maybe he’s right, how can this possibly be worse than two teeth? 

“Please.” Your heart breaks in two as his own voice turns to a soft whimper, he sounds so fucking scared.

When his eyes squeeze shut your own go wide with the raise of the hammer. 

“Peter Hill! Peter J. Hill, he- he was born on February fourth, in nineteen eighty nine.” The words fly out of your mouth as he slams the hammer down again, you sob as it hits the table. He pulls his hand back just in time, you’re on the verge of hysterics, you can’t seem to catch your breath as you inhale sharply, no amount of air seems to be enough. 

“I need the address.” His voice is hoarse and he’s as out of breath as you are. 

“Three zero one, West Broadway, Seattle, Washington, nine, eight, one, three, seven.” You mumble, you put your head down on the cold metal, still slick with blood. You don’t care at this point. 

There’s a faint beeping sound as the timer blinks, permanently stuck just above the forty minute mark. 

You don’t move.

You don’t sigh in relief. 

You don’t react, or even listen when the intercom clicks and the low voice demands more things you don’t want to hear. 

Your body is still heaving with sobs as he clicks the key into the cuffs, your wrist twitches involuntarily. You don’t turn to look when the time beeps again. Spencer does, he’s saying something to you but the words just aren’t registering with you.

Eventually he grabs your shoulders and shakes you.

“Sweetheart, you did so good, we’re almost done.” How is he holding it together right now? He takes your hands in his, all you can do is stare at the missing fingertips, burned black on the ends. “Hey, honey, I need you to focus for a few more minutes.” You finally manage to meet his eyes as he gives your hands a gentle squeeze. 

Hotch said something once about how the most important time to remain calm is when one of your teammates is freaking out. Someone always has to be in control. 

“You don’t call me honey, you don’t call anyone honey.” You murmur, like you’re in a trance. 

“I know, but you’re so sweet, you’re so good, I just can’t help it. I need you to help me, then we can be all done.” The patient tone he’s using is tinged with an urgency you don’t understand. 

“Why would you do that Spencer? You had so many other options.”

“I didn’t, I’m sorry honey. I got so scared that he was gonna take you away from me, so I did the only thing I knew was guaranteed to make you talk.”

He hurt himself.  

“Can we go lay down?” You’ve never heard your voice sound so soft. It’s like someone else is talking and you’re just listening in.  

“Yes, we will go lay down, but you have to focus, can you focus?” He squeezes your hands tighter and god, you really do try to focus as he places the pliers into your hands. “I need you to pay attention. Nod if you understand.” He looks behind him and you follow his line of sight. 

Ten minutes remain on the timer now.

When he turns back you nod slowly.

“Good, we only have a few minutes, I need you to locate my premolars, I typically chew with the right side of my mouth so you’re going to be looking on the left.”

“What?”

“The fourth and fifth teeth from the back, take from the top row.”

“Why?”

“Because my incisors and canines are important visually and my molars are the teeth I use primarily when I eat.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

“No, why are you telling me this?”

“Because I need you to pull them.” How the fuck is he so chill right now? 

“No.”

“Yes honey, I can’t do it, I know I won’t be able to, the body has ways of stopping you from hurting yourself.”

“You already hurt yourself.” You point at his fingers, your voice is starting to drift up an octave again. 

“That was instantaneous, it was one swift moment, I couldn’t stop myself once the swing was in motion. This will require a lot more pulling and possibly twisting.”

“I can’t, you can’t really expect me-”

“You can, and you will, because we don’t have a lot of time and if you don’t do this he intends to come in here and pull all of them himself, that’s what he said, okay?”

“Spencer-” 

“Don’t squeeze too hard or you’ll end up crushing it, pull in one swift motion. It’s very likely that I’ll pass out after the first one, remember, the fourth and fifth teeth from the back.” 

You watch as he feels around in his mouth with his fingers before he nods to himself. 

“You have less than ten minutes, you need to do the second one right after the first, keep me propped up. There’s gauze and cotton balls in the first aid kit in the duffle bag, stuff the gap in my teeth with anything you can, when it fully soaks through you swap them.”

“Spence, I can’t-”

“You can.” He’s deadly calm. “I know you can, you’re so strong, we’re going to make it out of this together, I promise. I’m gonna get us out of here.” He holds your face with his intact hand. Leaning forward to press his lips to yours for just a moment before he pulls back, the look in his eyes tells you that it pains him to do so. 

You flip the pliers in your hand, feeling the weight of them. 

“Promise?” 

“With all my heart.” It’s the last thing he says before he opens his mouth. 

★

“I want to see the video, Hotch.” Morgan followed him out into the parking lot.

Garcia had called hysterically crying when the newest video was uploaded. Hotch left the room with his laptop and didn’t come back for a full two hours. At that point Derek had called Penelope himself, trying his best to calm her down. The only information he could get out of her was that their unsub had gone from porn to snuff. 

“We all need to fully understand the unsub if we're going to catch this guy, hiding information from us isn’t going to help them.”

“If this were any other case we’d be home by now. The unsub stops killing, we’re no longer needed. The only reason we’ve been allowed to stay on this case is because it’s our agents out there. There’s only so long we can stay on this.” 

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that from the point she was taken to the upload of the first video implies that the unsub is keeping them in a forty mile radius. I’m going to start going door to door, I’ve already got Garcia sending me a list of every house with a basement.”

“Hotch-”

“I don’t know what else to do. We have no leads, we have nothing. The unsub isn’t going to take any new actions other than ones that only affect the two youngest members of this team. I’m not going to have their lives on my conscience because I didn’t do everything I possibly could to save them. All I know is that we have no leads on this guy, but I’ll know him when I see him.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“Call Emily and JJ from the car, tell them to start on the other side of the city, we’ll meet in the middle.” 

He’s quick to dial on his phone as he gets into the passenger seat. Once he’s instructed them on where to start they make their way to the edge of the radius. 

“What did he do to them?” He can’t help it, he has to ask. He has to know. He has to know how bad it was so he can know how to fix it when he

“It’s what he made them do to each other.”

“Jesus.” 

“It’s worse than I thought it would be, I don’t even know what state they’ll be in if we find them.

“When we find them, Hotch.” 

“Seattle wants us off the case in the next three days.”

“What?” 

“They say we can work on this from home, it isn’t a problem anymore because he isn’t taking any new victims.” 

“Why aren’t we pursuing this on a federal level?”

“I already tried, they want this handled discreetly, it doesn’t look good when two agents are simultaneously kidnapped and tortured on video. We haven’t even released anything to the public about them, haven’t technically filed them as missing.”

“You can’t be serious.” 

“I wish I wasn’t.”

★

You spent the next several hours taking deep breaths, trying to pull yourself together. Eventually you manage to get your breathing to even out.  

You do exactly as he said, keeping him upright against a wall, there’s a steady stream of blood at the corner of his mouth for a little while until the cotton seems to finally be doing its job. You dutifully change it out every few minutes, digging your fingers into his neck to feel for a pulse every time. 

You can’t help but take his hand in yours and examine his wound while he’s unconscious. There’s a good inch taken off of two of his fingers. You’re going to kill him when he wakes up. 

For now you lean your head on his shoulder. 

Letting your eyes rest for just a few minutes. 

When you wake it’s to low, pained moans. 

You snap to attention immediately, sitting up as you turn to assess the damage. He’s currently pulling the soaked cotton out of his mouth. 

“Let me have a look.” You’re quick to take his face in your hands as you tilt his head up, staring at his bloody mess of a mouth. He groans but you’re satisfied with what you see. His mouth isn’t the only part of him that’s a mess. His eyes are dark and frantic, his hair askew, the bottom half of his face is smeared with red. “You’re lucky, I got the root of both teeth, there shouldn’t be any fragments left and it looks like the blood is clotting. We should go to the bathroom soon and rinse out your mouth.” It’s your turn to be the calm one as he stares at you like a scared puppy. Even if your calm involves your hands still trembling as you hold his face. He nods, slow and measured as he lets his head fall back and rest against the wall.

You watch, focused on his every move as he winces. 

“You shouldn’t have done that.” You try to scowl at him but he looks so pathetic you can’t bring yourself to. 

“Shouldn’t have what?” His speech is a little garbled and you watch as his tongue pokes at the gaps between his teeth, gently prodding at his aching gums. 

You grab his hand, holding his smashed fingers up in front of his face. 

“This. You shouldn’t have done this. There are other ways to put on a show for that freak, you didn’t have to mutilate yourself.” 

“I didn’t do it for him, I did it for you. You weren’t going to tell me otherwise.”

You want to argue further but what he’s said is technically true, even if you don’t agree with his motive. If the goal was to get you to talk he found the only thing that was going to work.

“I’m not happy with you.” You mumble, clearing your throat. 

“I’m not asking you to be.” 

“Good.” How do you forgive someone in this situation?   

“I don’t regret it.” He says rather bluntly. 

“I know you don’t.”

What is this? 

What do you call your relationship with someone who does this?

He spent the morning romantically comparing being with you to torture and the afternoon torturing himself as if to prove it.  

Even now, with his blackened finger tips and missing teeth, he looks at you with those wide doe eyes like you’re the most important thing in the world. Like he’s trying to figure out if you’re okay. 

“You’re an idiot.”

“You keep saying that, it’s factually untrue. If I was an idiot I wouldn’t be able to-“

“Please just be normal for like five seconds. You were just brutally tortured, maybe chill on the ‘well actually’ of it all.”

“Brutally tortured is a rather extreme way of putting it.” 

You take his hand in yours, tracing your fingers across his palm and up and down his fingers, lingering on the ones missing the top knuckle. 

“Did he talk to you after I passed out?” He speaks your thoughts aloud, you’re both wondering if that was satisfactory. 

“No, radio silence, I’m wondering if that was what he wanted.” 

“He wanted extreme, we gave him extreme.”

“You gave him extreme.” 

“Don’t be mad at me, I did it for you.” 

He keeps saying that.

He tangles his fingers in yours, you watch as he flexes the, bending each digit carefully. His ring finger and pinky spasm, uncoordinated. 

He did it for you. 

All that just to keep you from spending a moment alone with the unsub.

When you don’t respond he turns to face you, hair still askew. 

“Are you afraid of me?” He whispers. You really think about it before responding, even if your instinct is to immediately say no. Are you afraid of him?

“I’m not afraid of you, I’m afraid for you.” You finally respond. It’s a half truth, there was definitely a moment today where he frightened you. You aren’t sure what he would have to do to make you permanently afraid of him. Even if he kind of lost it there for a minute, some revolting, and unrelenting part of you almost thinks it’s romantic.

How far he would go for you. 

You need to get the fuck out of here. 

Do you even want to?

Yes. Obviously. 

Obviously.

“I’m afraid of myself.” You whisper back to him, returning your head to his shoulder as he wraps an arm around you. 

“I know why I’m afraid of myself, but what do you have to be scared of?” He’s trying so damn hard to sound light hearted but you can see right through it. 

“When I woke up here, the second time, and you were with me it didn’t even cross my mind to be worried that you’d been taken. I was just relieved to be with you.” He doesn’t respond, silent beside you. “I think there’s something wrong with me. There’s this little voice in my head, constantly nagging at me, telling me these horrible things about myself.” Your voice cracks as you try not to cry. 

“We all have that voice.” His fingers trail down you back, lightly scratching at you, a weak attempt to soothe.

“Not like mine. It’s my voice, and all of the horrible things are true.”

Damn right they are. 

“What kinds of things has this voice been telling you lately.”

“That I-” You swallow the lump forming in your throat, staring at the floor ahead of you, anything to not look at him right now. “That I like this.”

“You’re being forced to orgasm, of course it’s going to feel good, you can’t control that.”

“It’s not just that, it’s all of this. It’s the excuse to finally be with you. Seeing you… care about me so strongly, even if it’s acting, or real, or whatever it is.” Your heart threatens to pound out of your chest as you finally say it out loud. “What is this? You and I? You know more than I do, are we victims of circumstance? If I was stuck in here with Hotch, or Emily, or anyone else would I still feel like this? Is this entirely based on a trauma bond?” You find yourself picking at your nails until he stops you, intertwinning his fingers in yours. 

“Well, I can’t speak for you, but I don’t think I would have smashed my fingers with a hammer for Hotch or Emily.”

Just for you. 

“Could you speak like, not in torture metaphors?”

“Do I really have to spell it out for you? I think you should know how I feel about you by now.” Missing teeth and fingers flash across your mind.

“You make me feel like I’m losing my mind.”

That’s what he said last night. 

Maybe the cost of being together is losing your mind. 

“What do we do if the team never comes for us? What if they just can’t put a profile together and we end up stuck here?” You don’t want to be grim but it feels like more and more of a possibility with every passing hour. 

“I have a plan.”

You cock an eyebrow at him and he shrugs.

“I obviously can’t tell you.”

You never know who’s listening. 

You have a plan too. You know, without a shadow of a doubt that it will work, you just have to get Spencer to agree to it. 

★

You can’t sleep, not after the day you had. Spencer on the other hand practically passed out in your arms, his head on your chest, the rest of his lanky body coiled around you. 

You stare straight ahead into the darkness. 

If the bureau doesn’t cover your therapy you’re gonna make Hotch pay for it out of pocket. 

The crackle of the intercom makes you straighten up a little.

“Trouble sleeping, angel?” 

You look down, Spencer still breathes in steady even breaths, still fast asleep. 

“I was just thinking about what tomorrow's film might be, I mean how do you top the performance we put on for you today.” You try to sound genuinely interested, as if the mere sound of his voice doesn't make you want to recoil. 

Any information you can get out of him is useful. 

“The performance today was just… I mean wow.” You can hear the smile that must be playing on his lips. As if the two of you are friends chatting on the phone, you lean in to it. 

“Did you like it? I can’t stop thinking about it.” 

“Oh sweet angel, I loved it. Although there were a few things I would change.”

“Like what?” 

“Too many props, the focus was not on the two of you. I thought I would like it more than I did, I prefer more hands-on scenes.” 

 “Really? I thought you would have been impressed by his prop work.” You play up a mock offended tone as best you can in a whisper.

“I didn’t say I wasn’t impressed. In fact there are definitely props I would like to see you use in the future.” 

This might be the only chance you get to speak to him alone, you have to ask the question that’s been eating at the back of your mind. 

“How does this end? I mean, there has to be an ending. You’re a film maker, I know you have to have some big final act planned.”

“You know me so well, I bet you are an excellent profiler.”

“I do my best.”

“And so humble, you really were born to be a star.” 

“Give me a little teaser trailer for the grand finale, please?”

“I suppose I cannot keep secrets from you, not when you are so eager. We are still far from our finale, I have so much more in store for you, but I especially liked watching you with those pliers in your hands. The way you did exactly as you were instructed to when the alternative was so much worse. I wonder what I would have to do to get you to wrap those pretty little fingers around something a little more lethal? Or make you aim at Dr. Reid? What would I have to do to get you to pull the trigger?”  

You wish you hadn’t asked. 

A week and a half is a surprisingly long time to actively try not to think about somebody. 

Ten days. It’s been ten days since your uncle slammed your bedroom door. Eleven days since you’ve last talked to Spencer Reid. Not that you’re counting, but you are absolutely counting.

The first few days were awful. You avoided your uncle entirely. You ate dinner early, or late, whichever guaranteed you wouldn’t have to sit across from him. You couldn’t look at him without seeing the disappointment on his face and how distant he sounded when he said: “I expected better from you.”

Things had gotten a bit better since then. You could manage to sit across from him at dinner now. You could ask him to pass the salt and talk about classes. You could almost pretend everything was normal.

Almost.

There was still anger between the two of you. Not screaming angry, or throwing things angry, more like resent. Because he had taken away your friend.

Not a boyfriend, or a crush, or whatever ridiculous scenario your uncle had formed inside his head. Spencer was your friend.

You sigh and roll onto your side. Your planner is sitting on your nightstand. You hadn’t opened it in ten days. That was very unlike you. The purple highlighter you got specifically for Spencer had barely been used.

Your phone sits on top of your planner. Silent. You spent the first few days expecting it to ring, or even get a text. Then eventually you stopped checking every ten minutes. Sometimes.

A lot.

Because Spencer never called. Except for the night that your uncle yelled at you, you haven’t received one call from Spencer Reid.

Your mind went to a lot of places, but you told yourself he just got nervous, and left it at that, because you didn’t want to think about the other options.

You roll over again, attempting to get comfortably to finally fall asleep.

You’re a moderate amount close to falling asleep when your phone rings. You don’t even think twice before you scramble to answer it.

It’s not who you want it to be, but it’s close.

“Hello,” you whisper into the phone.

“Oh I’ve missed your voice, sweet girl.”

You smile, “Hi, Penelope.”

“Oh I’m so glad you’re alive. How have you been?”

The question is gentle. Far gentler than her usual energy. Which makes the answer hard to choke out. You stare at you’re ceiling.

“Not the best.”

Penelope is silent for a second, before saying “yeah.”

Her response catches you off guard.

“Yeah?”

“I kind of figured.”

You swallow. The room feels much quieter. You make sure you have control of your voice. “I haven’t really talked to anybody.”

“You haven’t talked to Spencer?”

The name hurts worse than you expected it to. You haven’t heard it in days. It stings.

“No, he hasn’t called.”

Penelope sighs. It sounds heavy.

“Okay,” she says quietly, “I should probably tell you what happened.”

You prop your head up to attention. “Something happened?”

Silence. She hesitates.

And suddenly, your stomach is twisting.

Because Penelope Garcia does not hesitate.

“After Rossi found out…”

Your chest tightens. “Oh no.”

“Yeah…”

“What did he do?”

“Last Friday he called Spencer into his office and yelled at him:

You close your eyes in disbelief. “Oh my god.”

Your entire face burns. The humiliation takes over any other feelings you could possibly be experiencing right now.

“Oh my god,” you say again. Because you don’t know what else to say.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Penelope says.

“What did Dave say?”

“A lot.”

“Was it bad?”

“It wasn’t sunshine and rainbows.”

You groan and bury your face in your pillow. You want the floor to open and swallow you whole. You want to disappear. You want to go back in time and throw away that stupid sticky note so your uncle never found it.

“He thought Spencer was–”

“I know what he thought,” you interrupted. and then groan louder.

Garcia laughs a little. Not because it’s funny, but because your reaction is.

“That’s so embarrassing, oh my god. I can’t believe he did that.”

“Neither could Spencer.” She laughs for real this time, thinking about the look on poor Spencer’s face. “He was so confused. He kept saying you were his friend.”

That struck a nerve. Because that’s exactly what you’d said. Over and over and over. “Friend.” The same defense. The same explanation. The same truth. Yet, neither of you had been believed.

Suddenly you feel sick. You feel awful for everything, mostly for Spencer.

“I hate this,” you say to Penelope.

“I know, sweetie.”

You flop backwards onto your bed. “I am never ever showing my face again.”

“That’s dramatic.”

“I learned from you.”

That makes her laugh. “Fair enough.”

You stare at the ceiling.

“Is he okay?” you ask quietly.

“He’s okay.”

You nod. Then realize she can’t see that. “That’s good.”

“But he misses talking to you.”

Your stomach tingles. You continue staring at the ceiling. Trying very hard not to smile, or cry, or both.

“I miss him too,” you say.

Penelope’s tone changes. “We are so fixing this,” she says, closer to her normal cheerfulness.

“We are so not,” you say, laughing slightly at her eagerness.

“Oh yes we are.”

“Penelope…”

“Sweetie, you haven’t talked to your best friend in eleven days, and it’s obvious both of you are unhappy.”

You groan. Penelope takes your silence as permission to continue.

“Option one: I drive to your house, we kidnap you, and we all run away to Canada.”

“That’s not a real option.”

“It could be.”

“No.”

“Fine.” You hear papers rustling on her end of the phone. You have absolutely no idea why. “Option two…”

“Do you have a list?”

“I always have a list.”

“Option two,” she repeats. “I explain to Rossi that I am actually the mastermind behind everything.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why?”

“Because then he’ll get mad at you.”

“He’s already sort of mad at me.”

“It’ll be worse.”

Penelope goes quiet. Because she knows you’re right.

You roll onto your back again. “I don’t want him upset with you too.” That admission came out softer than you intended, but you meant it.

“Aww”

“Don’t.”

“Sweetie…”

“What?”

“What if you just talked to Spencer?”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am completely serious.”

You groan again. Because the frustrating thing is that you want it to be that simple. But it’s not. It’s really not.

“My uncle will find out.”

“He doesn’t have to.”

Neither of you says anything for a few seconds.

Then Penelope’s voice changes. The way it always changes when she has an idea.

“Thursday Hotch and Rossi are going to a conference in Chicago.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“They’ll be gone until Saturday night.”

You know what she’s suggesting and you hate that you’re into it.

“Where?”

The second you say that you know you’ve lost.

Penelope gasps. “I KNEW IT!”

“I know, I know.”

“There’s a really good coffee shop in Quantico. Spencer and I have lunch from 11:30 to 12:30, but with both Hotch and Rossi gone we could probably get away with leaving at 11:00.”

You rub your face. This is a terrible idea. Which is probably why it sounds so appealing.

“You really think Spencer would want to?”

“Sweetie, he has been miserable. He misses you.”

Butterflies. Lots. Not because Spencer was miserable, but because he cares. You don’t know what to do with that information. So you stare at your wall. You think about eleven days. Eleven days of unanswered conversations. Eleven days of your room feeling empty, despite him only having occupied it once. You think about the purple highlighter sitting unused on your nightstand. Then you think about Spencer. And how badly you want to apologize.

“I’ll see you Thursday.” you smile into your phone. 

“I’ll text you the address. Get some sleep, honey.”

“Goodnight, Penelope. And thank you.”

_____

Thursday arrives far too slowly. You spent most of Wednesday thinking about it. And most of Thursday morning thinking about it. Then the entire 45 minute drive to Quantico thinking about it. And by the time you pull into the coffee shop parking lot, you’ve sort of convinced yourself that this was a terrible idea.

Not because you don’t want to see Spencer. Actually, the opposite is the problem. 

Your stomach twists as you park. You immediately spot Penelope’s car. Of course you do. Bright orange Cadillac convertibles are hard to miss. Almost impossible. And standing beside it…

Your heart immediately forgets how to function.

He looks the exact same, which feels unreal. The same messy hair, the same satchel, the same glasses, a different sweatervest, a brown one with a plaid button up underneath, but it’s the same in essence. He also wore a suit jacket over his sweater, which was doing a little more to you than you would admit to anyone, even yourself.

Penelope spots you first. She practically launches herself across the parking lot toward you.

“Oh there she is!” She says, pulling you into a hug.

“Hi, Penelope,” you laugh as you wrap your arms around her.

She pushes you back, hands still on your arms and looks you up and down.

“Oh my god, look at you! You look gorgeous!” She says.

You laugh, shaking your head. Penelope narrows he eyes.

“Who are you trying to impress?”

You know exactly who she means. 

“Yeah, you,” you say, smiling.

Penelope laughs loud enough to draw the attention of several people. Over her shoulder you notice Spencer watching the entire interaction. He notices you looking and immediately gives you the world’s most Spencer Reid smile. The awkward white guy smile. He lifts a hand and gives the smallest wave.

“Hi,” his voice is slightly sheepish. But somehow that one tiny word felt like the first breath you’ve taken in days.

You smile at him, “Hi.” 

Inside the coffee shop, the smell of espresso and cinnamon is stronger than any scent you’ve ever smelled before. The line isn’t long, which is good. Because you’re pretty sure Penelope would combust if she had to wait.

She orders first. “half caf extra shot venti two pump non fat hold the whip caramel macchiato.”

The barista stares at her. “Anything else?”

“Ooo, a chocolate croissant,” Penelope says excitedly.

You order a vanilla latte and banana bread. Something simple and safe. 

“Come on, we need seats,” Penelope says as she pulls at your arm.

“What about Spencer?”

“He can survive ordering, he’ll find us.”

She drags you away to a booth in front of a window. She slides into one side, leaving the other completely open. She narrows her eyes. You squint back and slide in beside her.

“You ruin everything,” she jokes.

You smile. “I know.”

Spencer joins you, carrying a table number. He sits in the booth across from you, directly in the middle. For the first several minutes the conversation is awkward. Not bad awkward, just…awkward. 

Spencer didn’t say much, and honestly, that hurt a little. You can’t be mad though. Honestly, the fact that he’s still here at all means a lot, most people run when David Rossi yells at them. So you let the silence exist, and accept the fact that him being here needs to be enough.

Your number gets called, and before it can even register Spencer stands.

“I got it,” he says, going to the counter.

Penelope watches you watching him leave. 

“He really did miss you, I don’t know why he’s being weird,” she says.

“No I believe you, he’s probably just scared, which is valid.” you respond.

“I’ll get him to open up, don’t worry.”

“You really don’t need to do that, it’s okay.”

“Oh, I’m doing it, baby.”

Before you can convince her not to, Spencer is back. He places the tray down carefully and hands Penelope her ‘coffee.’ He sits yours in front of you and grabs his, leaving the food on tray in the middle of the table.

He sits back down, unaware of Penelope who is hawking his cup.

“Did you get a pumpkin spice latte?” She asks him.

Spencer looks down at his cup. “Yes,” he says, completely ignorant to the fact that she is somewhat judging him.

You can’t say you weren’t surprised as well.Spencer Reid? A pumpkin spice latte? The same man who drinks coffee like it's a medically necessary substance? You can’t say it’s not interesting.

“Is that a normal thing you get?” Penelope asks.

“Is there something wrong with that?” He looks confused. He is confused.

“No,” Penelope says, holding back a laugh. “It just doesn’t seem Dr. Reid.”

You nod in agreement with her. “It’s very basic.” 

Spencer looks at you horrified. “Basic!?”

“That’s not a bad thing,” you say.

“Well, statistically speaking pumpkin flavored beverages have existed in America since at least the 19th century and pumpkin spice flavoring became commercially popular decades before modern coffee chains started using it.”

You and Penelope stare.

“How do you know that?” you ask.

He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“You just know pumpkin statistics?” you ask him.

“I know lots of statistics.”

Penelope turns toward you. “Ask him anything you can possibly think of.”

Spencer looks almost offended. “I don’t know everything.”

“Ask him anything, Y/N.”

You think for a second. 

“How many bones does a cat have?”

Spencer doesn’t even stop to think. “230.”

“How do you know that?” you ask.

“I read it once.”

“That one was easy,” Penelope says. “Ask something harder.”

“Okay, genius,” you say, preparing a harder question.

The second you finish speaking Spencer’s ears turn red. Is he blushing? Probably not. People don’t blush because somebody calls them a genius. Especially not Spencer Reid, he probably gets called that at least twice a day. 

Except his ears are definitely red. And he’s suddenly very interested in stirring his coffee. 

“Go ahead,” Spencer says, face still down and hiding. His voice sounds normal, but his face looks red.

You bite back a smile. “How many licks does it actually take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop?”

Spencer smiles. Because he knows. You know he knows from his smile.

“Oh come on,” you say. “That’s impossible to know.”

“There’s no official answer,” he starts. “Purdue University conducted an engineering study and estimated approximately three hundred sixty-four. The University of Michigan estimated five hundred eleven. Human testing usually falls somewhere between one hundred forty and two hundred fifty."

You stare at him. Penelope stares at him. He takes a sip of his pumpkin spice latte.

"What?" he asks.

You continue staring. Because not only did he know the answer. He knew multiple answers. Complete with sources.

"That wasn't knowing the answer," you say.

"Yes it was," he argues.

"No, that was citing research."

"Which answered the question."

"Spencer."

"What?"

"Why do you know that?"

He shrugs. You stare harder.

"See? This is what I'm talking about," Penelope says. “He literally knows everything.”

"I don't know everything."

"You know Tootsie Pops."

"That's one thing."

"Spencer."

"What?"

"You know Tootsie Pop statistics. No one knows, or even cares about that."

"Fair."

You realize that the awkwardness has completely disappeared. Spencer seems far more relaxed. He talks more, he laughs more, he starts telling stories, he’s comfortable sharing facts. Before long you forget there was ever anything to feel awkward about to begin with.

The conversation feels normal. Easy. Comfortable. Like the phone calls, and the bookstore, and your bedroom floor. Exactly the thing you’ve been missing. And Penelope notices. And that’s dangerous.

“Y/N’s been telling me she wants to explore D.C. more,” she sneaks in between topics.

You look at her. “I never said that!”

“You hinted at it,” she says smiling.

“Where are you wanting to go?” Spencer asks.

And somehow twenty minutes disappear. Then another twenty. Then another. Because somehow Penelope keeps finding new topics specifically designed to make the two of you talk. And annoyingly it works. e

Every single time.

Penelope finally glances at the clock. “Oh no,” she says, her voice lower than normal.

“What?” you ask.

“It’s 1:12.”

Her and Spencer suddenly look guilty.

“We should probably go back…” Spencer says.

“Probably?” Penelope repeats. “Sugar, we’re FBI employees.”

“You guys were FBI employees 45 minutes ago too,” you say.

They laugh. You guys throw your trash away and head out the door. 

When you’re outside Penelope pulls you into a hug. “Oh, I’ve missed you!” She says while squeezing tight.

You laugh into her shoulder. “I’ve missed you too.”

She squeezes tighter somehow. “Please don’t disappear again.

“I’ll try.” you smile.

She lets you go and heads toward her car. You walk the opposite direction towards yours. Spencer lingers with you, unintentionally. At least you think it’s unintentional. 

The afternoon air is cool. Neither of you says much. Not because it's awkward. Just because it isn't necessary. When you reach your car, Spencer steps ahead of you. Without thinking. He reaches for the handle and pulls the door open.

"Thank you," you say, probably blushing.

"You're welcome," he says, definitely blushing.

You climb into the driver's seat. Spencer starts stepping away. Then something twists in your chest. Because now that he's here, actually here, you don't want him to leave with this still hanging between you.

"Spencer," you call out to him.

He stops immediately, turning back. "Yeah?"

You grip the steering wheel, suddenly you’re nervous.

"I'm sorry for my uncle." you finally say.

His expression softens instantly. "Oh,” he says, giving a weak smile. "It's okay."

"No, it's not."

"It is."

You shake your head. "It's embarrassing."

"I don't think embarrassing is the word I'd use."

You cover your face.

That earns a quiet laugh from him.

"I know," he says.

"I'm serious."

"So am I. It's really okay, Y/N."

You hesitate. "Promise?"

His smile returns. Small. Warm. The kind that always makes your stomach do something stupid.

"I promise."

You look at him for another second. Making sure. Trying to decide if he's just being nice. Trying to decide if things are actually normal again.

"So we're good?" you ask.

"Yeah, we’re good."

"We're still friends?"

His answer comes immediately. No hesitation whatsoever.

"Still friends."

An idea occurs to you. A dangerous one. A probably terrible one.

"Dave won't be back until Sunday morning."

Spencer blinks. "Okay."

"I have a test tomorrow."

"I know you do."

"If I survive it..."

"You will."

"...do you want to do something afterward?"

The question hangs between you. For half a second you worry maybe you shouldn't have asked. Then Spencer nods.

"Sure."

Your smile grows. "Really?"

"Yeah."

You stare at him. He stares back. Then his expression shifts slightly. Like he just remembered something.

"Just..."  His smile turns awkward. Adorably awkward. "Call me?"

The request is so Spencer Reid that you almost laugh. Not because it's funny. Because it's him. The same guy who called you three times in one night and then apparently spent over a week refusing to call again.

"I'll call you."

"Okay."

"Okay."

For a second neither of you move. Then Penelope leans out her car.

"ARE YOU GUYS DONE YET?"

Both of you jump.

"GET IN THE CAR, BOY WONDER."

Spencer sighs. Then he looks back at you one last time. 

"I'll talk to you in the morning?" He asks for assurance.

"My uncle’s not home,” you say. “Call me tonight.”

He smiles. It’s actually more of a grin. And he nods. Then finally walks away.

You watch him climb into Penelope's car and them pull out of the parking lot. Until they're completely gone. Only then do you start your own car. And smile

Because for the first time in what feels like forever, you’re going to talk to Spencer Reid tonight.

_____

Read Part 8 Here! 🕰️ (coming soon)

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BUY ME A COFFEE

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a/n: i actually cannot stop writing this serious oh my gosh. i’m really glad you guys seem to be enjoying it. my goal is to have part 8 out around this time (midnight) tomorrow, but no promises as i wont be able to start it until after i get off work tomorrow. it will 100% be out wednesday though guys i promise.

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taglist:

The second you walk through the front door you know something is wrong. You can’t explain it; nothing looks or sounds different. Yet somehow everything feels different.

You close the door behind you and sit your bag on the kitchen island. Then you notice it.

The light upstairs. Specifically your bedroom light. Your stomach drops. Because your bedroom door is open. And you know for a fact you shut it this morning. And David Rossi does not go into your room. Ever. Not when you’re home, and especially not when you’re gone.

For a second you just stare. Then you slowly head upstairs. The hallway feels longer than normal. The paintings on the wall seem to stretch far more than they actually do.

Your room is empty when you reach it. Nothing appears disturbed, nothing is missing, but something feels wrong.

You hear movement down the hall. Your uncle’s bedroom door opens and suddenly there he is. Standing in the doorway. Watching you.

“We need to talk,” he says. Your stomach sinks. The words are calm. Too calm. And that's far worse than angry.

He follows you into your room. You lower yourself onto the edge of your bed. He remains standing. 

Your bedroom door stays open, but he’s standing right in front of it. Blocking the hallway, the escape route. Not intentionally, probably. It feels impossible to look anywhere except at him.

He sighs. He sounds exhausted. And disappointed. And angry. All at once. For a moment he just looks at you. You suddenly understand how three different women divorced David Rossi.

“You lied to me,” he says.