Your Favorite Writer's Favorite Writer

being the newest member on an old team was proving easier than you'd expected, mostly thanks to the efforts of doctor spencer reid. he'd introduced himself with his full title - a habit, he said, formed to encourage people to take him seriously in spite of his youth. you knew the struggle all too well and soon a sort of workplace friendship formed.

you couldn't deny he was pretty. but the first time you tried to make a move it seemed to go over his head, and after your sixth attempt you had to assume it was intentional, that his affection towards you was only platonic. so when you noticed his eyes fixed on you on the jet, you figured it was about the pack of mini cookies in your hand.

"want one?" you offered, holding the packet out towards spencer.

he blinked in surprise, then took one, humming in thanks.

somewhere across the jet, rossi whistled. emily stifled a laugh. the focus had shifted to you in a way you couldn't quite name.

"jesus, if you all wanted me to share you just had to ask," you grumbled, moving to pass the pack around. jj took one, but something in her face was far too amused to be about the cookies.

you didn't notice the tips of spencer's ears turn pink.

★

the case led you across state lines. the bau was needed in two different cities, and it was decided that you, morgan, hotch and spencer would make the two hour drive.

summer in the south was intense. the dry heat was suffocating and an hour and a half into the drive, you groaned as you realised you'd already finished your water.

"is there a gas station near here?" you asked, hoping to buy another bottle.

morgan twisted around to look at you - he'd called shotgun, of course - and grinned wolfishly. "i'm sure pretty boy wouldn't mind sharing."

the dig went over your head and you turned hopefully to spencer. his hair fell forward, hiding his flushed face, as he was already leaning down to pull his own bottle out of his bag while mumbling something about efficiency and the urgency of the case and the average amount of time taken in gas stations.

you didn't notice how he gasped when your hands touched as he passed you the water, or how his eyes fell on your lips wrapped around the bottle.

morgan laughed - you could swear you even caught hotch's lip twitch in the rear view mirror - and spencer became suddenly very fascinated by the strap of his bag.

you didn't know what you'd missed but you knew you could ask spence later.

That especially applied when you got into one of your dream universities, Virginia Tech, and the tuition had cost enough to fund a small city. Of course, your dad saw it as no problem and paid it as quickly as he could. You then spent the summer before you left getting everything you could possibly need for that following you.

Then for the next four years you would occasionally make the drive to visit whenever you had the time to and felt like it. Once you graduated with your bachelor's you then applied for your master's degree at Yale. You thought it was a long shot, but Yale had always been one of the places you aspired to go too, but never thought you were good enough. Or, you thought you'd pull a Rory Gilmore and mess up your life and derail all of your dreams.

Fortunately though, whenever you thought you were about to crash and burn, your dad was there to put the fire out. He managed to calm every storm of yours that threatened to mess up everything you had worked so hard towards. You were forever grateful to have someone so supportive as your dad, even if you did occasionally have a few hiccups along the way.

You still visited your dad when you could, just not every weekend like you used to be able to. But, you made time every once in a while to visit him when you weren't busy and you made sure to make it back every holiday season and every summer to see him.

Now after graduating with your master's three years ago you were on your second year of your PHD. You decided to take a gap year after working so hard the past four years, which you greatly benefited from. Your dad had suggested it after seeing you almost fully burn out near the end of your masters. Your dad gave you money to travel around the world for a bit before returning home for the remainder of your time. That year made you feel ready and confident enough to apply for your PHD at Yale, and now after nearly two years you haven't gotten as burnt out as you used to, which you accredit to your dad suggesting your gap year.

After finishing a paper you had spent the last few months on you had a small break before you needed to start working on your next assignment. You decided to take that time to visit your dad down in Virginia. You had left sometime in the early afternoon, but due to the long drive you hadn't arrived till after the sun had gone down.

You pulled into the driveway, and usually you would've noticed the extra amount of cars. Except, you were so exhausted from the drive, that you beelined straight to the front door once you got out of your car. You unlocked the front door with your house key, trying not to slam the front door close as you walked inside.

"I'm home," you shouted, your voice sing-songy as it rang throughout the house.

You heard laughter down the hall in the kitchen, which was unusual in your dad's house. He wasn't one to have people over often. You sent your bags down in the hallway to worry about later as you followed the voices. You turned the corner to see a group of people in the kitchen, blocking your dad from view.

"What is going on?" you questioned, too tired to logically understand what was happening.

Everyone in the kitchen turned around to look at you. Most of them were holding a glass of wine and those that weren't were busy trying to clean up some sort of spill on the counter. Your dad finally noticed you, lighting up at your presence.

"Look whose home to do their laundry," your dad joked as he made his way around the kitchen to give you a hug.

You swiftly hugged him back before pulling away.

"I'm not just here to do my laundry," you said.

"So there is a pile of laundry that desperately needs to be done?"

You rolled your eyes at him, "I'm twenty five I can do my own laundry at home."

"Don't remind me how old you are," he said, "It reminds me just how old I am."

You both laughed before one of the strangers in your kitchen asked a question.

"So this is the famous David Rossi's daughter I'm assuming?" the blonde haired woman asked.

Your dad turned around to present you to the group of people in the kitchen.

"This is my team," he said, then pointed to each individual person, "This is Derek Morgan, Jennifer Jareau, Emily Prentiss, Penelope Garcia, and of course Aaron Hotchner."

"Its good to see you," Hotch said, giving you a nod.

You've known him since you were a kid and had been someone you saw around occasionally your whole life. You actually babysat Jack for him once when he was in desperate need of a babysitter and you were luckily in town that day. To you Hotch was like the favorite uncle that you look forward to seeing at family reunions.

The rest of the team greeted you, shaking your hand, and smiling at you. They seemed like good people, but you weren't surprised since your dad would only want to work with the best of the best.

"Can I ask what's going on here?" you questioned, still confused as to why all these people were in your kitchen.

"Ah," your dad said, returning to his spot behind the counter, "I am giving these guys a much needed cooking lesson."

You nodded your head, "I see, and I assume it's going good since nothing is on fire."

Jennifer, or JJ, as she told you to call her, chuckled at your words and so did Emily.

"There wasn't a fire, but the counter and floor is covered in pasta sauce currently," Derek said, holding up the roll of paper towels in his hand.

You just shrugged, "It could be worse," you told them, "There's a crack right there from when my dad dropped a pot on the side of the counter."

You pointed at the spot thinking of the memory. Technically he dropped it because you had accidentally distracted him, but the team didn't need to know that.

"You're bringing that up?" your dad asked, to which you nodded, "Alright, then how about the scorch mark on my cabinet, or the countless times you've set off the smoke detectors?"

You made a face as your dad recounted your accidents in the kitchen, "Touché," you said, "Anyway, it was great meeting you guys, but I had a long drive and I think I'm gonna call it a night."

The team said a murmurer of goodnights to you as you turned around to make your way to your room. You thought of your bed and how soft it would be and how cold your pillow probably was. You thought about how fast you would fall asleep once you were all snuggled up in your bed, but that thought was broken the second you collided with someone's chest.

You were dazed for a second, but then took a step back, and looked up at the tall stranger in front of you. He said an array of sorries as he frantically apologized for not paying attention to where he was going.

"It's fine," you said, a small smile on your face from how worried he seemed.

"Sorry," he mumbled one more time before fully setting his gaze on you.

You looked up at him and were immediately entranced by him. Not just because of his pretty brown eyes, or how gorgeous he looked to the point you physically felt like your eyes were glued to his, but because of something else.

Someone in the kitchen cleared their throat, snapping you out of your daze as your head whipped around to see your dad looking at the two of you.

You turned back to the man in front of you, "Sorry," you said, "I just thought I recognized you from somewhere."

You were too tired to care about filtering out your thoughts and instead let your curiosity be spoken.

"I see," he said nervously, starting to fidget with his hands.

You two were silent for a second before your dad spoke for the two of you.

"Spencer," he said, getting the man's attention, "This is my daughter [name] Rossi, [name], this is the BAU's resident genius, Dr. Spence Reid."

At the mention of his name a lightbulb went off in your head as you immediately remembered how you recognized him.

"I know how I know you," you said, "You were a guest lecturer at Yale a few years back."

He nodded, "I did, I was a few times actually."

"I remember, I was doing my master's back then," you told him as he listened intently as you spoke.

"I'm guessing a chemistry or psychology major then?" he guessed.

You shook your head, "Sorry, but you're wrong there Dr."

His face contorted in confusion, "But I only ever taught those back there."

"My friends majored in those subjects and they convinced me to go with them," you said with a shrug, "I could barely pass high school chem, and surprisingly I'm not all that into psychology."

"Oh," he said, "What did you major in then?"

"Physics," you told him, "Currently I'm working on my PHD."

"Really?" he exclaimed, lighting up like a Christmas tree, "What specifically are you studying?"

"Astrophysics."

"You can't be that bad at chemistry then," he said, "The study of exoplanets requires chemistry to understand their exact makeup of their chemical compounds."

"That's why I study stars, no organic chemistry there."

"Why organic chemistry?" he asked, confused as to why you brought that up.

"Cause that's what your lecture was on," you said, surprised he forgot since he said he had an eidetic memory.

"Oh, right," he said, "Guess I forgot."

You thought that was weird, but let it slide.

"It was nice meeting you, but I had a long drive and I'm exhausted."

"Oh, yeah, it was nice meeting you too," he said, moving out of your way for you to make your way to your room, but before you could fully make it past him he spoke again, "Uh, nice shirt by the way."

His voice got quieter as he finished his sentence as if he was losing the confidence he was trying to gain to compliment you.

You looked down at your shirt as your smile grew, "Thanks,"

It was one of your stupid science shirts your dad had bought you as a joke a couple years ago. You continued your way to your room, unable to wipe the smile off of your face. Of course the genius your dad had told you about who had more degrees than you did years in college, appreciated your funny nerd shirt. You were so enthralled in your conversation with the Dr. that apparently you hadn't noticed how the entire team was watching the two of you, until you could faintly hear them teasing Spencer.

The second you laid down on your bed and your head hit the pillow your eyes were shut and you were moments away from a deep slumber. Some of your last thoughts consisted of Spencer and the hope that you would see him again soon.

taglist (ask to be added or removed)

_____

Spencer’s apartment is quiet except for the sounds of pens scratching against paper. Sunday evenings had somehow become planner nights. You’d started it months ago. Since Spencer got his planner. 

You’d order take out, sometimes Indian, sometimes Chinese, sometimes sushi or tacos, and drink freshly brewed tea while you sat for hours and planned the week ahead.

“I have to leave by 6:00 on Thursday," Spencer murmurs, scribbling something into the margin.

You hum distractedly, flipping to the next week. 

Tuesday.

Wednesday.

Thursday.

You pull a pen from the spiral binding and begin copying over your assignment deadlines.

Media Ethics Paper. Interview Professor Langley. Call bookstore about textbook.

You flip to another page, then stop. Your pen hovers over the paper.

That’s…weird.

You flip back a week. Then another. And another. All the way back to September 3rd. The dates blur together. Your stomach sinks.

No. That’s…That can’t be right.

You stare at the tiny flower you’d doodled in red pen on September 3rd. The little flower meant the first day of your period. You always marked it. A flower with five petals, all shaded on the 3rd. A flower with five petals, four shaded on the 4th, all the way to a flower with five outline only petals on September 8th, marking the last day of your period.

You’d been doing it since you were 13. Your mother had instilled in you that tracking your cycle was important. You used to just do little dots. But after…you transitioned to flowers. Because your mom loved flowers. And you loved your mom.

You count. One week. Two weeks. Your pulse starts climbing. Maybe you forgot to write it down. 

Except, no. You’d never forget. Not for five days straight. 

You knew you were obsessive about your planner. You color coded appointments. You highlighted birthdays. You had stickers for assignment due dates. There wasn’t a chance you just simply forgot.

You count again. September 3rd. Today is October 19th. Sixteen days.

Sixteen. Days.

Your throat suddenly felt dry. Maybe stress. People missed periods because of stress. You’d been stressed.

There was college, and Spencer’s schedule, and the whole being kidnapped thing.

Sixteen days.

Maybe your cycle changed. Maybe…

You begin counting backwards again. No matter how many times you do the math, it stays the same.

Sixteen days.

Your fingers tighten around your pen. Across from you, Spencer notices you've stopped writing. He looks up.

"Hey," he says, trying to get your attention. You don't answer. "Y/N?"

You blink, realizing you've been staring at the same square on the page for almost a minute. His planner quietly closes. His entire attention shifts to you.

"What happened?"

Your first instinct is to say nothing. Because maybe it is nothing. Maybe saying it out loud somehow makes it more real. 

"You look pale,” he says, studying your face.

"I'm okay.,” you lie. To him and to yourself.

"You don't sound okay."

You swallow. Your planner suddenly feels impossibly heavy in your lap.

“Did something happen?" he asks, leaning forward.

You shake your head. 

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“What’s wrong?”

You stare down at the calendar again.

Sixteen days.

"I..." your voice disappears just as soon as you start.

"Talk to me,” Spencer says, reaching across the coffee table and gently holding your arm.

You let out a slow breath. “...I think,” you start, eyes staying fixed on the planner. “...I’m late.”

“...Late?” he asks, his expression shifting from worry to a mix of confusion. “...Did you have plans today?”

For half a second you almost laugh. He's so wonderfully Spencer.

"No,” you say, looking up at him. "...Spence."

He’s looking at you. Searching for any hint in your face, but he just can’t figure it out. Such a smart smart boy, and such a strong hint, and he was too dense to figure it out. 

"My period,” the words barely leave your mouth. "It's..." you swallow hard. "...over two weeks late."

The color drains from Spencer's face almost as quickly as it had drained from yours. His eyes dart instinctively to the planner in your lap, then back to you, as if seeing the dates himself might somehow change them. He stares at you for a long moment, before leaning toward the stack of books beside the couch.

“Okay,” he says, his voice a strange mixture of calm and panic. “There are several possible explanations that have nothing to do with pr–” he stops on the word.

He grabs a medical journal from the bottom of the stack and flips it open, running his fingers along the page. You’re not really sure how he reads like that, and in literally any other circumstance, it would likely turn you on. 

"Stress can delay ovulation," he says, scanning the page. "Significantly elevated cortisol levels can disrupt the hypothalamic-pituitary-ovarian axis. Sleep deprivation can also affect luteinizing hormone secretion. Weight changes, increased physical activity, hormonal fluctuations unrelated to pregnancy, travel, illness, and anovulatory cycles are all documented causes of delayed menstruation."

He turns a page.

"In women under 25, cycle irregularity isn't uncommon, especially following periods of extreme psychological stress, which you…experienced."

Another page.

"There's also the possibility of delayed ovulation rather than a missed period, which would shift the entire cycle forward. Depending on timing, 16 days might not actually be as significant as it initially sounds."

Another page.

"And false assumptions about cycle length are relatively common because most people use 28 days as a baseline when actual cycles can vary anywhere from 21 to 35 days without indicating pathology."

Another page.

"And if we consider post-traumatic physiological responses, there are studies showing–"

"Spence."

 "...Right,” he pauses, one hand still holding the book open. You reach over and gently close the book in his lap. His shoulders drop slightly. "I'm trying to calm both of us down."

His honesty makes your throat tight. 

“Is it working?” you ask softly.

“Not really.”

The apartment falls quiet. You stare at your hands while Spencer's fingers rest on the closed medical journal, tapping against the cover. You can practically see him calculating probabilities behind his eyes. His eyes that soon widen with realization.

"I-I..." he swallows hard. "David is going to kill me."

Oh. 

Uncle Dave.

You remember the way he'd stood in the foyer, arms crossed, interrogating Spencer over dinner. The warnings. The suspicion. The months it took before he'd finally stopped looking at Spencer like he was one bad decision away from being thrown through a window. 

"He trusted me," Spencer says, his voice has gone noticeably higher. “If you’re pr–” he chokes, like the word is too much to say now, despite him having just explained the menstrual cycle in more detail than any school sex education could’ve.

"If I’m…pregnant," you finish for him.

"He didn't even want us spending time together," Spencer continues, sort of ignoring you. “He only tolerated us dating because he realized he wouldn’t be able to stop it.”

“He likes you, Spencer,” you say, trying to console him. And a little bit reminding yourself. 

“If you’re pregnant he’s going to think I–” he starts, then cuts himself off with realization. “No, that’s exactly what happened.”

“Spencer…” you say, trying to pull him back from his spiral.

“He’s going to think I…took advantage of you,” he says, voice breaking.

“No,” you say firmly. 

Even if your uncle would probably think that, it wasn’t true. And you didn’t want Spencer telling himself it was true. Because it wasn’t true.

You notice Spencer’s hands shaking as he sits the book to his side. His knee bounces so erratically that the coffee table vibrates.

“I was careful,” he says, more to himself than to you. “We were careful. We used condoms every single time. The failure rate is only two percent with perfect use, three percent with typical use, and I’ve been meticulous about expiration dates and storage conditions and–” He cuts himself off, pressing his hands against his eyes. “But two percent is still two percent. That’s one in fifty. That’s not zero.”

You feel sick. The numbers don’t help. They just make the possibility feel heavier, more real. 16 days. A little red flower that never appeared. Your stomach twists

“And David,” he continues, voice shaking. “He’s going to look at me and see every single thing he was afraid of. He’s going to think I was reckless, that I didn’t protect you, that I–” His breath hitches. “He’s going to think I ruined your life.”

You wrap your arms around yourself. Your skin feels too tight. The apartment suddenly seems too quiet, too small. You can hear the clock ticking in the kitchen. You can hear Spencer’s uneven breathing. You can hear your own pulse in your ears.

“I’m scared,” you admit, voice small.

Spencer’s head snaps up. The spiraling pauses just long enough for him to really look at you. Whatever he sees on your face makes his expression crack as he realizes that he needs to think about you rather than himself right now.

“I am too,” he whispers. “I’m so scared I can’t think straight and I keep trying to logic my way out of it but the math isn’t helping and I keep seeing your face when you said the words and I–” he stops, swallows hard. “I don’t know what to do.”

And that hurts to hear. Because Spencer always knows what to do.

You reach across the table and take his hand. His fingers are cold. He holds on like you’re the only solid thing in the room.For a long moment neither of you speaks. Then Spencer stands up abruptly.

“We need to know,” he says. His voice is shaking but decided. “Tonight. We need to go get a test right now.”

Your stomach drops. “Spencer–”

“I can’t sit here all night not knowing. I can’t. Every minute we wait I’m going to invent a new catastrophic scenario and I’m already halfway to convincing myself that David is going to have me arrested for statutory something even though you’re an adult and that’s not how the law works–”

“Can’t we just… wait?” you ask quietly. “Another week or two. Maybe I’m just late.”

Spencer looks at you like you just suggested he stop breathing.

“Are you normally this irregular?” he asks, his eyes wide.

“...No.”

He shakes his head hard. “We’re going. Right now. Please.” He holds out his hand, eyes desperate and terrified. “I need to know. And I think you do too.”

You stare at his open palm. Slowly, you take it. Your own heart is beating so hard it hurts.

"And honestly..." he says, voice barely above a whisper, "I'd understand why he'd think that."

Your head jerks up. “Don’t say that.”

Spencer won’t look at you. His hands are shaking so hard he has to press them flat against his thighs to keep them still. He stares at the floor like it might open up and swallow him, and you think he wishes it would.

“You’re nineteen,” he says, voice thin and raw. “I-it never felt wrong before. Not once. Being with you has always felt like the most natural thing in the world. But if you’re…pregnant…if we walk into a doctor’s office they’re going to look at me and see a grown man who got a teenager pregnant.” His face twists with something close to revulsion, directed entirely at himself. 

“Don’t say it like that,” you say, trying to stop him. It doesn’t work. He lets out a short, ugly breath that sounds almost like a laugh.

“I feel sick,” he admits, voice cracking. “I feel disgusting.” 

“Stop.” Your voice comes out sharper than you meant it to. You stand up so he has to look at you. “You are not some creep who took advantage of me, Spencer. Do you hear me?”

His eyes are glassy. He opens his mouth to speak, but you don’t let him. Because you know he’s just going to argue.

“I made every single decision consciously,” you say, still firm, but not as harsh. “I wanted you. I still want you. I love you. You have never once pushed me, or pressured me, or made me feel like I owed you anything. You’re the most respectful person I’ve ever met.”

He shakes his head slightly, like he wants to argue, but you keep going.

“You’ve had opportunities where you could’ve been a creep and you’ve proven you aren’t.”

“People are going to view it as inherently creepy though. I’m…old compared to you,” he chokes.

“But it’s not creepy. Remember when I went to that party and came back drunk? I was begging you to fuck me and you didn’t. You didn’t even kiss me! You got me water and you held my hair while I threw up.” he stares at you, but his face is starting to soften. “That is who you are, Spencer. You are not disgusting or a creep.”

His breath hitches. A tear ships down his cheek before he can stop it. He wipes it away quickly, looking furious with himself for crying. Or for feeling like this, or for needing reassurance in the first place.

“I love you,” you say, quieter. 

He stares at you, his eyes wet and breathing uneven. The self disgust is still there, you can see it in the tight line of his mouth, in the way he keeps curling his fingers into fists, but slowly, the fight drains out of his shoulders. 

“...Okay,” he whispers, his voice sounds almost painful. “I’ll try to believe that.”

“Well, just try to, please,” you say, giving him a half smile. 

You decide it’s for the best not to argue anymore, and just follow him as he grabs his keys from the bowl by the door. As much as you don’t want to know, you’re sure that if you don’t find out right now, it’s going to eat you alive.

The drive to the pharmacy is virtually silent.

Spencer keeps his hands too tight on the wheel, his knuckles pale under the glow of the dashboard lights. You both keep your eyes fixed forward, like looking at each other might make the possibility more real. Every red light feels longer than the last. Spencer’s knee bounces the entire time. You can hear the soft, restless tap of his shoe against the floor mat and the gentle shake of the car when stopped at a light.

When he finally pulls into the nearly empty parking lot of the 24-hour pharmacy, neither of you moves right away. The glowing red OPEN 24 HOURS sign casts a harsh light across the hood of the car. A single shopping cart sits abandoned near the entrance, one wheel turned at an odd angle.

“Okay,” Spencer says quietly, more to himself than to you. He turns off the car. The sudden silence feels heavier than the noise of the road. “Come on.”

Inside, the pharmacy is too bright. The fluorescent lights hum overhead in a constant, low buzz. The air smells like floor cleaner and something faintly medicinal. It feels impossibly public, like every other person in the store somehow knows why you’re here even though the only other customer is an older man in the cough syrup aisle who doesn’t even glance your way.

You wander toward the family planning section while Spencer trails half a step behind you, close enough that you can feel the nervous energy radiating off him. 

It’s strange, a few weeks ago you were at this same pharmacy with Spencer. Only buying what felt like simultaneously the furthest and the closest thing to a pregnancy test. Condoms.

There are boxes and boxes of pregnancy tests stacked in neat, colorful rows. Pink packaging. Blue packaging. Purple. Digital. Early detection. Extra sensitive. Double packs. Triple packs. Some with smiling women on the front. Some with soft pastel flowers. Spencer stares at them.

He picks up the first box with careful fingers, turns it over, and starts reading the back. He sets it down and picks up another. Then a third. You watch him compare sensitivity percentages under his breath, muttering about “mIU/mL thresholds” and “false negative rates in early testing windows” and “the reliability of digital versus line tests.”

He has six boxes in his hands before you finally reach past him and take a simple mid-range digital test from the shelf.

“This one,” you say.

Spencer looks at the box in your hand, then at the small pile he’s already assembled, then back at you. For a second it seems like he might launch into a full comparative analysis. Then his shoulders drop and he carefully returns the other boxes to their places, aligning them neatly so the shelf looks undisturbed.

“…Okay.”

He takes the box from you and follows you to the register. The walk feels longer than it should. The plastic edges of the box dig into his palm. 

At the counter the cashier, a tired looking woman in her forties, scans the test without comment. Spencer pays without making eye contact, his voice barely above a whisper when he says “thank you.” The plastic bag she hands him feels heavier than a single box could realistically ever be.

You’re halfway to the automatic doors when his phone starts ringing.

Spencer glances at the screen and winces like the name itself hurts. “It’s Morgan.”

You open your mouth to tell him to ignore it, but he already looks conflicted.

“It might be a case,” he says quietly. Fair. He swipes to accept before he can talk himself out of it, voice carefully neutral.

“Pretty Boy,” you can hear Derek’s voice clearly, despite the fact that he’s not on speakerphone. “I need you to look at the Rodriguez file first thing Monday. The timeline’s a mess and Garcia said you’re the only one who can make sense of the–”

“Okay,” Spencer answers. His voice is too flat. Too careful.

There’s a pause on the other end. The kind of pause that means Derek has stopped whatever he was doing.

“…You okay?”

Spencer’s free hand tightens around the plastic bag until the material crinkles loudly. “Yes.”

“You don’t sound yes.”

“…I’m fine.”

Another pause. Longer this time. You can almost hear Derek narrowing his eyes through the phone.

“Where are you right now?”

Spencer closes his eyes. You watch the exact moment his brain short circuits and the truth slips out before he can stop it.

“…I’m buying a pregnancy test.”

Dead silence. Your stomach drops.

“Oh my god, Spencer, why would you *say* anything?” you hiss under your breath.

“I didn’t mean to–” he whispers to you, already panicking, but Derek’s voice cuts through, sharp and loud enough that you flinch.

“Pretty Boy WHAT?”

Spencer’s face goes white. He looks at you with wide, horrified eyes, then back at the phone.

“Spencer,” you whisper urgently, “tell him not to tell anyone. Please. We don’t even know yet.”

He nods frantically, still holding the phone to his ear. “I shouldn’t have said that. Please don’t tell anyone. We don’t know anything yet. It’s just a test. And if Rossi finds out before we even have a result he might actually kill me and I would really prefer to keep living, so please–” His voice cracks. “Please just don’t say anything.”

There’s another stretch of silence on the line. When Derek speaks again, the teasing edge is gone. His voice is lower. Serious.

“I got you, Man. I’m not saying a word.”

Spencer’s shoulders relax with relief so visible you can almost see the tension leave his body. “Thank you.”

“You two alright?” Derek asks, quieter now but you can still hear him..

Spencer glances at you. You give a tiny, shaky nod.

“…We will be,” he says. “I have to go.”

“Okay, well,” Derek says, “Call me if you need anything.”

“Okay,” Spencer says before hanging up and shoving his phone into his pocket. He reaches for your hand, squeezing tightly as your fingers intertwine with his.

“…I really shouldn’t have answered the phone,” he admits as you reach the car.

You let out a breath that might have been a laugh if the situation wasn’t so terrifying. 

The drive back from the pharmacy is still fairly quiet, but not as heavy. Spencer still white knuckles the wheel, but he can at least look at you now. Instead of each other, now you’re both avoiding the paper bag that's sitting between the two of you. 

You dare take a glance at the bag. Your stomach feels tight and cold as every bump in the road makes the bag crinkle, which sends another shot of panic through your entire body.

Sixteen days.

You keep replaying the dates in your head like if you count them enough times the number will change. It doesn’t.

What if it’s positive?

The thought alone makes your throat close.

You’ll have to tell people. Uncle Dave. Spencer’s team. Your classmates. Your professors. Doctors. Strangers in doctors offices. You can already imagine the looks. The quick glance at your stomach, then at Spencer, then the quiet judgmental math happening behind their eyes. Even if the law says you’re an adult, that doesn’t mean people won’t look at him like he’s disgusting. You hate that Spencer is right about that. You hate that the first thing people will see isn’t you loving each other, but the age difference.

Your fingers tighten to a fist in your lap as you look over at Spencer. His jaw is still tight, but some of the panic has left his expression and worry is starting to take over. He must feel you staring because he reaches over without looking and finds your hand. 

Normally, he would make a joke about how you’re staring at him. And you’d smile at him and deny it. And he’d let you lie. 

Tonight, he doesn’t say anything. 

He keeps his eyes fixed on the road and gently brushes his thumb across your knuckles. You squeeze his hand a little harder than you mean to.

When he finally needs both hands for a turn, he releases almost reluctantly. The absence of his hand makes all the fear and panic rush back into you.

“...A-are you mad at me?” you ask quietly.

He turns his head so fast that the car swerves slightly. He corrects it, then looks at you with hurt in his eyes.

“Mad at you?” his voice is soft, almost disbelieving. “How could I be mad at you?”

“Because I’m making you deal with this too,” you say, looking at the bag. If you look at him, you are going to cry. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I could’ve just figured it out on my own and not put all this extra stress on you.”

His mouth falls open as he glances back over at the road, then back to you. He’s desperately searching for something to say, but can’t find it.

“If I am…everyone is going to look at you differently. You know they are. And I–” your voice catches as a tear pricks at your eye. “I don’t want you to resent me for it.”

Spencer pulls over so abruptly that the car behind you honks. 

“Spencer!” you shout, shocked at his sudden recklessness.

He puts the car in park and turns his body fully toward you. He takes both of your hands in his and holds them up.

“Listen to me, Y/N,” his voice is intense. “I could never be mad at you for this. No matter what happens, if everyone wants to look like me like I’m some…disgusting pervert, then that’s on them. I’ll deal with it.”

You pull one of your hands away to wipe several tears that have started tickling your face. He takes it back once you put it back down.

“If you are pregnant, it’s my fault. And I could never be angry with you for something that I caused,” he continues, voice cracking. 

The words settle heavy in the car. You swallow hard, the thick lump hurts a little bit going down. You lean over the seat, letting your head bury into his chest. He brings one hand up to cup your cheek, holding your head further into him.

“I love you,” he says into your hair. “No matter what, I love you.”

You pull back from his chest, looking up at him already looking at you. 

“I love you, Spencer,” you say, settling back into your seat. He puts the car back in drive, merging back onto the road. He keeps one hand in yours the whole rest of the way, like he noticed that it was making you feel better. Or at least distracting you.

When he finally parks, he sits for a moment without reaching for the door. Or the bag. Or away from you.

“Morgan won’t tell anyone,” he says quietly. “He likes to make fun of me, but he wouldn’t use something like this against me, if you’re worried about it getting around the BAU.”

You smile and nod. He didn’t realize how much you needed to hear that.

“Come on,” he says, taking a slow, deep breath. “Let’s go inside.”

You follow him up the stairs and into the apartment. The door clicks shut behind you, sealing the two of you into the quiet. The paper bag feels louder than it should when Spencer sets it on the kitchen counter. For a moment neither of you moves. The living room looks exactly the same as when you left, planners still open on the coffee table, half-finished cups of tea gone cold and leaving faint rings on the wood, but everything feels different now.

Spencer clears his throat. The sound is rough in the stillness.

“…Do you want me to just sit out here?” he asks softly, gesturing toward the couch. “I can wait. Give you privacy. Whatever you need.”

You look at the bag, then at him. The idea of walking into the bathroom alone with it makes your stomach twist so hard you feel sick.

“Actually…” Your voice comes out smaller than you meant it to. “Will you come with me? I don’t think I can do it alone. I want you there, is that weird?”

“No,” Spencer’s expression softens immediately. “Of course. Whatever you need.”

He picks the bag back up and follows you through his bedroom to the bathroom. The light is too bright when you flip it on, making the white tile look almost clinical. The air smells faintly of clean cotton and the leftover trace of Spencer’s shampoo from this morning. Spencer sets the bag on the counter with careful hands, taking the box out. He tears it open, the sound sharp in the small space, and hands it to you.

You read the instructions despite knowing how it works. Open the cap, pee on it, cap it, wait three minutes. The simplest thing in the world.

Except it felt like the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do.

You sit the waxy paper down on the counter and replace it with the plastic test. You unwrap it with trembling fingers. You sit it on the counter and hook your fingers through the waistband of your pants, before a wave of embarrassment rushes over you.

“Can you turn around?” you say to Spencer, blushing slightly. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, turning around to face the shower curtain to give you the maximum amount of privacy he can in the small room. 

He waits until you’ve re-capped the test and flushed before he turns back around. You’ve sat the test back onto the counter upside down, 

“Three minutes,” you say, taking a step back from the sink.

You try to lean against the counter. The edge digs into your palms. Your hands won’t stop shaking. The longer you stare blankly, the tighter your chest gets, until the pressure finally breaks and tears start slipping down your face. Quiet at first, then harder, the kind of crying that comes from pure stress and terror with nowhere else to go. Your breath stutters. 

Spencer is in front of you in an instant. He wraps his arms around you and pulls you against his chest. His shirt is soft and slightly wrinkled under your cheek. One hand cradles the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, the other rubs slow circles between your shoulder blades. His heartbeat is steady and strong against your ear.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs into your hair, voice low and close. “Eeverything is going to be okay. We’re going to figure it out. I promise.”

You fist your hands in the front of his shirt and cry harder, face buried against him while the seconds crawl by. The bathroom is so quiet you can hear both of your breathing. He doesn’t let go. He just keeps whispering your name, that he loves you, that whatever happens you’ll handle it together, until the built-in clock in his brain decides three minutes has passed.

“…It’s time,” he says gently.

You shake your head against his chest. The movement makes his shirt damp. “I can’t look. I can’t.”

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, then carefully turns toward the sink, keeping one arm around you so you stay pressed to his side. You feel the exact moment he sees the result. His entire body relaxes, shoulders dropping, the tightness of his spine softening, a long breath leaving him like he’s been holding it for hours. The arm around you tightens, steadying.

“Negative,” he whispers.

The word doesn’t fully register at first. Then it does, and the weight that has been crushing your chest since you first counted those sixteen days lifts so suddenly your knees almost buckle. Spencer steadies you, both arms around you now, holding you up while a shaky, watery laugh of pure relief escapes you. Your face is still wet. His shirt is damp under your cheek. The bathroom still smells like clean cotton and nerves, but it feels different now.

Lighter.

Negative.

You’re not pregnant.

Spencer rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed, still breathing like he just ran a mile. His skin is warm. You can feel the faint tremor in his hands as he cups the sides of your neck.

_____

Later that night, you’re lying in Spencer’s bed, curled into his side. One of his arms is wrapped securely around you as he lies on his back, staring at the ceiling with you against his chest, listening to the steady thud of his heart under your ear. 

The test still sits on the counter from just an hour ago, neither of you daring to move it.

“I’m a little sad,” you say, tilting your head up so you can see his face in the low light. “I mean, I know we’re not ready, I’m glad it was negative, but just…I don’t know. What if?”

“We would’ve figured it out,” he says, his fingers pausing in your hair for half a second. “But it’s better that we don’t have to.”

“Yeah,” you agree quietly. “I know. I just…”

“I know,” he says. “But we’re not ready. You’re still 19, you have so much to figure out.”

“I still have three years of college left,” you murmur. “I don’t even know what I want to do after graduation yet.”

“My job,” he adds. His voice is thoughtful, the way it gets when he’s turning something over carefully. “The hours. The travel. The danger. I leave for cases with almost no notice and sometimes I don’t come home for days. I’ve missed birthdays and holidays and ordinary Tuesdays. I don’t… I don’t know how Hotch balances that with a child.” He hesitates, fingers resuming their slow path through your hair. “JJ’s planning to come back after maternity leave, but I don’t know if she’ll go back into the field. Part of me thinks she shouldn’t. Part of me doesn’t know how the team works without her out there. And if she’s struggling with the idea of it, someone who knows how to be a parent, I can’t imagine how I’d even begin.”

The silence stretches again. You can feel him thinking. You can feel yourself thinking too. Someone who knows how to be a parent. 

“…Do you think we’d ever be ready?” you ask.

Spencer is quiet for a long time. You can feel the way his breathing changes, the slight shift of his ribs under your cheek as he really considers it. 

“I’ve always been terrified I’d inherit my mother’s illness,” he says finally, voice barely above a whisper. “Schizophrenia has a genetic component. The risk is higher if a first-degree relative has it. I’ve spent years calculating the odds, reading every study I could find, tracking my own symptoms...The idea of passing that on to a child…of watching them struggle the way she did, or the way I was afraid I would…It scares me more than anything.”

His hand tightens slightly around you. You can feel the faint tremor in his fingers.

“And I worry I’d fail them in other ways,” he continues, quieter still. “I’d work too much. That I’d miss the important moments because a case came up. That I wouldn’t know how to be a father because my own childhood wasn’t…normal. I didn’t have a father. I had books and hospital waiting rooms and a mother who loved me but only when she knew who I was. I don’t have a template for what good parenting looks like up close. I’m scared I’d get it wrong. That I’d be too clinical, or too distant, or that I’d freeze when they needed something I didn’t know how to give.”

You just listen, cheek pressed to his chest, letting him get the words out the way he needs to. Your heart hurts for him. You wish little Spencer could’ve been helped. You wish you could’ve helped him. Your own throat feels tight. You understand the fear of not having a map for something this big. You live with a version of it every day. When he’s finished, you take a slow breath. The words come out smaller than you expected.

“I don’t know if I’d be a good mom,” you admit. “I lost mine when I was fifteen. After that it was just…me and Uncle Dave. I never got to watch her handle the hard parts. I’m scared I’d mess everything up. Sometimes I still reach for the phone to call her before I remember I can’t.”

Your eyes are already stinging. You blink hard against his shirt. Spencer shifts carefully so he can look down at you. In the dim light his eyes are soft and completely serious. He doesn’t rush to fill the quiet. He just watches you for a moment, like he’s choosing every word with care.

“You remember everyone’s favorite coffee order,” he says. “Even the ones people only mention once. You stop to help little kids tie their shoes when their parents are distracted in the park. You cried for ten minutes because you accidentally stepped on a snail and couldn’t stop thinking about whether it suffered. You call Dave every night you’re staying here so he won’t worry, even when it’s late and you’re already half-asleep.” His thumb brushes your cheek, gentle. “You already love people like someone who’d make a wonderful mother.”

His words make your eyes burn, and then you’re crying again. Spencer doesn’t try to stop it. He just holds you, pressing soft kisses to your hair, one hand steady on your back, letting you get it out against his chest. You can feel the way his own breathing has gone a little uneven, like your tears are affecting him too. Eventually the heaviness starts to ease. You wipe your face on his shirt with a watery little huff of embarrassment and let out a shaky laugh.

“If we had a kid I hope they don’t get cursed with my nose,” you say with a choked laugh.

“Nasal shape is polygenic,” he says, the familiar cadence of a lecture slipping in even now. “Influenced by multiple loci, so the probability of any single feature dominating is actually lower than most people assume. There’s research on the heritability of craniofacial traits that suggests intermediate phenotypes are more common than exact replicas of either parent. Eye color, on the other hand, is more predictable in some combinations, though even that–”

You start laughing for real, muffling the sound against his chest. He cuts himself off, smiling properly now, and squeezes your hand.

“You have a cute nose anyways, our kids would look adorable with it,” he says. You smile at him.

The room feels lighter. The leftover fear is still there, but it’s quieter now, easier to hold. After a long while, he speaks again, softer than before.

“…Someday.”

Not next year. Not soon. Just…someday.

You nod against him, eyes already drifting shut, and let the steady beat of his heart lull you toward sleep. His arm stays around you the whole time, warm and sure, like a promise he’s not quite ready to say out loud yet.

The next morning you wake to the soft sound of running water.

Spencer’s side of the bed is already cool. You stretch under the blankets, still a little heavy from the night before, and sit up slowly. The bathroom door is closed, steam comes faintly underneath it. He’s in the shower.

You roll out of bed and make your way out to the living room, hair still messy from sleep. The apartment is quiet in that early morning way, sunlight just starting to filter through the curtains, the planners still open on the coffee table from last night, two tea mugs sitting beside them.

You walk past his desk on the way to the kitchen. A yellow legal pad sits near the edge, the top page covered in Spencer’s familiar, slightly messy handwriting. 

He never leaves a filled out page open. 

You step closer to the desk, looking at the list he has written.

Things to do before becoming parents:  - Learn infant CPR   - Watch Y/N graduate   - Philosophy doctorate? Maybe?   - Marry Y/N   - Ask Dave how to make pancakes as good as his  

You stand there for a long moment, fingertips resting lightly on the edge of the desk, reading the list again. And again. The casual way he wrote that he wanted to marry you like it was just another item between a doctorate and pancakes. The certainty of it. The fact that somewhere between last night’s heavy conversation and this morning’s shower, he had already started making a plan, not out of panic, but out of hope.

You press your lips together, smiling so hard it almost hurts, and carefully leave the legal pad exactly where you found it.

When Spencer eventually steps out of the bathroom, hair damp and glasses slightly fogged, you’re on the couch with a fresh cup of tea, looking completely innocent.

He has no idea you’ve somehow fallen more in love with him before breakfast.

_____

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a/n: this was the best i could do to appease both the people begging for pregnancy and the people begging for not pregnancy. also lore drop but the whole time i was writing this i was thinking abt the time i had a pregnancy scare with my ex when i was like 15 (the one with the coke addiction) and he beat the fuck out of me so you’re welcome for not making spencer do that

also this was the thing that i was talking about in this post if anyone was curious

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And he hated every moment your eyes met when Morgan or someone else on the team teased the two of you about each other, as if sharing something unspoken.

He didn't hate it because it happened. Truthfully, he couldn't stop thinking about whenever that happened. It would keep him awake at night, till the sun came up, just thinking about you and everything he wanted to do.

He hated it because even after all those secret shared glances, after every case where you moved in sync with him, he wasn't the one you went home to. Instead, it was him, your horrible boyfriend who never seemed to care about you.

Instead of dinner dates, or trips to the bookstore on your day off, or even soft Sunday mornings where you just laid in bed, whispering sweet nothings to each other, he was always nowhere to be found. He canceled dates because of something "more important"; which usually meant his shitty friends invited him to go get wasted. Or, he was at some girl's apartment, or trashy hotel; because not to mention he was constantly cheating on you.

You didn't know, except for one incident at the start of your relationship; but, stupidly, you forgave him for it. Spencer knew about the others though. He asked Penelope to do a bit of digging on your boyfriend, only to find a bunch of hotel room charges, jewelry that definitely wasn't for you, and countless charges at bars in the city.

He knew he should've brought it up to you. It would've felt good to rub it in your boyfriend's face that you knew all that he was up to and dumped his moronic ass for it.

Spencer even indulged himself in the fantasy of telling you everything and somehow ending up back in his apartment. Your clothes would be strewn about his room, mixed in with his things; as he laid you down softly onto his mattress. Your body on his sheets as he trailed wet kissed down your body. He would take care of you in the way he knew your useless boyfriend never did. Even after he’d admire you sleeping softly in his bed, holding you till you woke up. Then he'd make you breakfast, not leaving your side till you inevitably had to part. And even then he'd keep going back to you for more, always taking care of you when you needed to be.

And yet, he couldn't bring himself to tell you. There was something about the chance hurting you by telling you that kept him from doing so.

He knew it was stupid and even Penelope had ridiculed him for it, rather hypocritically though, since she knew. Although she claimed it was Spencer that caused her to be part of that mess, so he had to be the responsible one and tell you.

Still he couldn't muster the courage to do so. He continued to listen to vent about your boyfriend's latest behavior. Pretending to be interested, when really he was fighting the urge to show you how you should actually be treated.

The worst incident of this had to have been when you were working a case in some dingy small town. The unsub was kidnapping women—big shocker—their bodies turning up within three days. The team had been working on the case for two days, close to finding the unsub. They had Garcia looking through files while the rest of the team was told to return to the hotel and get some rest.

Usually, it was a relief for Hotch to let everyone return their hotel rooms, except when the hotel's air conditioning was broken in the middle of summer. The rooms felt sweltering even with the fans the staff had placed in each room.

You'd been looking through your files, trying to make any last minute connections before heading to bed for the night. Or, at least you tried to. Your head felt foggy, making you unable to focus well. Your boyfriend had called you drunk, babbling some nonsense. You thought it was cute that when he was drunk he was still thinking about you, until you heard some random girl's voice calling out for him. A pit settled in your stomach that just wouldn't go away. You tried convincing yourself you had nothing to worry about.

But not even the most gullible of people would truly believe that. This had happened before, so it wasn't impossible. That only made you question if he was actually as faithful as he had promised to be.

You tried to push the thoughts out of your head. You busied yourself organizing your files till you noticed one was missing. You tried to remember where you misplaced it. It wasn't in your bag, or on the hotel desk. You mentally retraced your steps, thinking you might've left it in the precinct.

You then remembered how you lent it to Spencer to look at when he asked to borrow it for a moment. He must've forgotten to give it back and still had it.

It wasn't too late into the night and usually Spencer was still awake at this time. You slipped out your room, making your way down the hall before knocking on his door.

You heard his footsteps on the other side of the door before he opened it. He was still wearing his work clothes, only he had taken off his sweater vest, leaving him in just his button down that had the top couple buttons undone. His tie hung loosely around his neck, having been also undone. His hair looked tussled, as if someone had just ran their hands through it.

You froze for a moment, unable to tear your eyes away from him. There was just something so enticing about how vulnerable he looked. Spencer was always very put together. With his perfectly curated crisp button ups, making sweater vests and ties, with his perfectly groomed hair. Getting to see him look so undone made your heart flutter and warmth spread to your face, as if this was something scandalous you shouldn't have been allowed to lay your eyes on.

It took you a moment before remembering that he was just your coworker, who you should definitely not be looking at like that. He was just your friend at most, who had no reason to make your entire body shudder at just the sight of him.

"Do you need something?" he asked, clearing his throat.

He hadn't noticed your staring as he was too busy doing the same to you. Not that you noticed either.

"Uh," you stuttered, trying to regain your thoughts, "yeah, I was wondering if you still had that file I let you borrow earlier?"

He paused for a moment, looking into his room, noticing the stray file he had packed into his bag.

"I do actually," he told you, opening the door wider to allow you in.

You took a couple steps into his room before he closed the door behind you. He brushed past you, sending shivers down your spine. He picked up the file, handing it to you.

It was truly a simple interaction that should only have taken a couple seconds. And yet, you couldn't bring yourself to step out of his room, and he couldn't bring himself to let go of the file.

He couldn't stop staring at you. Normally, you'd never appear in front of another agent in nothing but a tank top and rather short shorts, but the lack of air conditioning had a role to play in your outfit choice. He'd seen you a couple times in your pajamas, or comfier clothes, but never in something that showed off so much skin. He knew you were gorgeous, but to him that word felt like an understatement, and maybe even an insult. All he wanted to do was slide off your shirt and shorts, feeling every inch of your body before covering it in wet kisses.

Instead he was stuck having to remind himself you unfortunately had a boyfriend.

"T-thanks," you stuttered out, your gazes locked on each other.

"It's no problem," he said, his voice rather harsh.

He took in the rest of your appearance, studying your face. Your eyes looked devoid of something, as there was something fogging them up. He noticed the slight fading redness around your eyes, as if you'd been crying. He noticed every detail, coming to the conclusion that something had happened before you walked into his room.

He wanted to ask you what happened, letting you sit next to him on his bed as he held you. You'd explain everything and he'd kiss away the tears that fell from your eyes, placing delicate kisses on the corners of your mouth till he got you to smile again. He wanted to hold you in his arms, running his hands through your hair, whispering in your ear that everything would be okay.

Instead he had to settle for just asking you what was wrong as your gaze fell to the ground.

"I-it's nothing," you stammered, unable to look him in the eye.

He knew you better than anyone, especially your own boyfriend, immediately knowing something was very wrong.

"Don't lie to me," he said, his voice low.

"I don't want to burden you."

"You won't, I'll be more burdened if I know something's wrong and I can't help you."

At that moment he felt a bit of confidence and tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. Your face immediately felt on fire by his gentle touch.

You let out a deep breath before speaking.

"My boyfriend called me," that was all you said, yet it was enough to anger Spencer, "he was drunk and then I heard some girl calling his name, and I don't know what happened, but I hung up, and I can't stop thinking about it."

Your voice trembled as you spoke. Spencer was a mess of emotions. On one hand he felt angry at your boyfriend for his constant infidelity; but on the other hand he felt sad for you, and all you were going through.

He threw the file onto the nearby bed before pulling you into his arms. He knew somewhere it most definitely crossed a line to hold his colleague, and someone who was "just a friend", so closely, but he didn't care.

"You don't deserve that," he whispered in your ear, stroking your hair softly.

You rested your head on his chest, letting him hold you closely. You knew this crossed a line, and your boyfriend would be mad if he ever found out. But, at this point who cares. He was already probably cheating on you, so was it really so bad to be in Spencer's arms at a very vulnerable moment?

"I know," you sniffled against his chest, trying to choke back your tears.

"You deserve someone who actually cares about you, and would never cheat on you, and can care for you however you need."

You lifted your head up off his chest slightly, as his hold around you loosened.

"Sometimes that feels like too much to ask for," you joked, thinking back to your past relationships.

Spencer looked down at you, using two of his fingers to lift your chin up to make your gaze meet his. He looked into your glossy eyes, his gaze soft.

"It shouldn't be," he told you, "you deserve all of that and more."

"That's sweet, Spence."

You were both quiet for a moment, looking into each other's eyes. Neither of you had noticed, but subconsciously you started to lean in closer. Spencer's hand had remained on your chin, pulling you in close, as his other hand delicately rested on your waist. Everything in your brain had shut off. All you knew was that Spencer was in front of you, with his hands on you, as he pulled you closer.

Your hands made their way up Spencer's chest as you were mere inches from your lips meeting his. You were so close to kissing Spencer when you realized.

Oh shit, you were about to kiss Spencer.

At the very last possible second you came to your senses, pulling back. You shook your head a bit, avoiding his gaze as you tried to push what happened very far back in your mind.

Spencer took a step back, also realizing what almost just happened. As much as he really wanted to kiss you, he knew it was wrong. You had a boyfriend anyway. Granted, he was already cheating on you, there was no reason to make you a cheater too.

"I should head to bed, probably," you said, clearing your throat.

You walked over to the bed, picking up the discarded file. Spencer paced around the room, fidgeting with his hands before stopping noticing you leaving the room.

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered, "goodnight, I'll see you in the morning."

You smiled at him before walking out his room. The second the door was closed you paused, taking a deep breath. Everything felt like too much, and was feeling more like something you'd deal with in the morning.

Once you had closed the door Spencer sat down onto the bed, running his hands through his hair. He never expected anything like that to happen. Sure, he'd imagined it, and hoped someday it would, but he kept telling himself it just wasn't plausible.

And yet, there you were. One move away from kissing him.

He couldn't shake the memory out of his head no matter how hard he tried. Nothing was going to make him forget what almost transpired in his room.

Both of you knew how bad this was. Not even just for your personal relationship with each other, or yours with your boyfriend. Fraternization was very frowned upon at the office, and if it messed with your job, you'd both no doubt get scolded and lectured by HR till everyone in the office knew what happened.

And yet, even though you both knew just how much that shouldn't have happened, you both couldn't stop thinking about what would've happened. Even worse, found yourselves wishing it had.

a/n i'd be willing to do another part (or multiple) if you guys want, also I was debating if i should have them kiss, or write smut for this, but i decided not to so that reader isn't technically a cheater, but if we want that i'd write it lowkey 👀

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Spencer fucked up.

He's gripping the sink with both hands, water running down his face as he stares at himself in the mirror. The previous week has been hell, almost, and Spencer knows a thing or two about hell. It was the right thing to do, he thinks to himself, but he can't help the part of him that wonders if that's even true in the slightest. His mind flashes back to that fateful night.

"Spencer, what do you mean 'we can't do this anymore?'"

"Us. This!" he said, wildly gesturing to the space between you.

You stared at him, mouth parted like the words were there, ready to go, but stuck behind disbelief.

"Why?" you asked, quiet. Measured. Already bracing for an answer that would hurt. He hesitated. That was all the confirmation you needed— he didn’t want this either.

"I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep pretending this is okay.”

“What part of this isn’t okay? The part where we care about each other? Or the part where we’re actually happy for once?”

“You don’t get it—”

“No,” you cut in, sharper now. “No, I don’t get it. Please enlighten me.”

Spencer ran both hands through his hair like he was trying to yank the thoughts out by force. “People I care about get hurt. That's just how it goes. You’ve seen what we deal with. You know how dangerous it gets. I can’t— I won’t be the reason something happens to you.”

You blinked. “Spencer, we work the same job.”

“That’s not— it’s different.”

“How?” You're beyond exasperated at this point.

“Because I—" he broke off, breathing hard. “Because I really care about you.”

You laughed, humorless. “Bang-up job of showing it, then. Also, wh— you think I don't care? Spencer, what—”

“I’m sorry,” he said, almost a whisper. “I just… I can’t live with myself if something happens to you. I cannot do this knowing I am actively putting you at risk.”

“Look. I care about you too. You’re the smartest person I know, and I trust your judgment. But if you’re going to sit here and break us apart, then you better have a legitimate reason.” You stepped closer. “Because what you’re giving me right now? It’s bullshit, Spencer. YOu know that. And I’m not going to let you overthink your way into a breakup.”

He looked at you like he wanted so badly to believe you. Like you were the rope dangling over the cliff, and he didn’t trust himself to grab it.

“Yes, we deal with hell on a daily basis,” you continued, softer now, “but we also come home to each other. It's tedious, and awful, and exhausting, but we have each other, Spence. And I—”

You paused. Swallowed hard. Didn’t realize you’d said it until it was already out.

“I love you.”

Silence.

Something cracked in his expression. He looked at you like that was the one thing he wasn’t prepared for. The one thing that might’ve saved him— if he let it. So he did the only thing he knew how to do.

Destroy it.

“I don’t,” he said, voice flat.

You blinked. “Don’t what?”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t stutter. Just said it. Like ripping the pin from a grenade and waiting for it to blow.

“I don’t think I love you.”

It didn’t matter what he meant. It didn’t matter if he was lying through his teeth. Because the second you believed him, the second you stepped back and nodded— something broke. The damage was done.

Now he’s gripping the sink like it’s the only thing holding him upright, staring at a reflection that doesn’t look like him anymore.

“I am an idiot,” he mutters to no one. The mirror doesn’t disagree.

He sees you everywhere. On his couch in your pajamas, eating cereal straight from the box. He sees you on the jet, asleep on his shoulder, warm and close and real. He sees the last time you laughed at something he had said. How your head tipped back, how your nose scrunched. He sees your face the first time he kissed you, how your smile made him feel like he was bathing in sunlight.

He sees you and him tangled together in the back seat of his car, your eyes closed and head tilted back as his name falls out of your lips like a prayer. He sees your pile of clothes next to his on his bedroom floor, half forgotten in the haste of needing each other.

He sees you in the faint lipstick smudge still clinging to the collar of his favourite shirt. In the barely-there marks scattered along his neck and chest, fading now but not forgotten. His fingers brush over them without thinking, retracing each one like muscle memory, each a timestamp of a moment he’d give anything to relive. He wonders if you're thinking of him too.

He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes and laughs— bitter, breathless.

Yeah. Spencer fucked up big time.

You always thought that even if by some horrible twist of fate, your relationship with Spencer were to end, at the very least it would be amicable. You'd be able to work together, be friends, and still stand to be around each other. You were wrong.

Immediately after the fight last week, you were called to Detroit for a case. There was barely enough time to pack, let alone recover. So, you didn't say anything. Neither did he. To the team, or to each other. It’s easier that way, you thought. The team thinks everything is fine. Business as usual. You’re partnered up for interviews like always. Briefing side by side. Riding in the same car. Sharing a room.

But it's not all okay. It's not all fine, and you know that. He’s quieter than usual. You catch him zoning out in the middle of victim statements. His hands tremble when he thinks no one’s looking. He’s unravelling. And yet, every time you brush past him, he flinches like you’re the one that left.

He still looks at you the same sometimes. Like you’re his. Like you matter. Like nothing’s changed. And that, more than anything, is what hurts. You’re not angry. You’re wrecked. Because you can survive heartbreak. But what he did? That was reckless abandonment. You don’t show someone heaven and then blind them.

Neither of you has had a wink of sleep since then. Even familiar places feel foreign when you're not with each other. What makes it worse is that you're so used to being with and needing each other that it's second nature to you by now. There are absent-minded touches, kisses, lingering hands and eyes that none of you mention.

There’s a moment— small, forgettable to anyone else— when his fingers graze yours as he hands you a case file. It’s nothing. It’s everything. You both freeze. Just for a second. He doesn't look up. Doesn’t say a word. Just retracts his hand like it burned him.

And that’s how it’s been. Every second of this trip. A minefield of almosts. Close calls. Words left unsaid and looks held too long. Lying awake all night in the bed as far away from each other as possible. It's driving you insane. Damn Detroit's winter that makes you crave his warmth. And damn this forced proximity bullshit that the universe has punished you with.

You’re sharing a room, which is objectively a horrible idea, but it would’ve been suspicious to change it last minute. You'd mentally agreed not to bring it up now, so you had to soldier through. At least that’s the excuse you told yourself when you didn't protest. And so now, you’re both here, end of a long day, door shut behind you, silence thick enough to suffocate.

You're sitting on opposite ends of the bed like strangers in a waiting room. You hear him sigh behind you. A long, pained sound. And for the first time since the break, he says your name. It’s soft. Barely above a whisper. But it’s enough.

You turn, slowly. Not because you’re calm, but because you’re not sure what will come out if you speak too fast. He’s standing now, fidgeting like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Like he doesn’t know what to do with you. His shoulders rise with a breath he never quite finishes.

“I can’t sleep,” he says. “I haven’t. Since that night.”

You stare at him. “Okay.”

"Okay? That's it?"

"What do you want me to do, Spencer? Sing you a lullaby?"

"You know what, forget I said anything."

"Believe me, I'm trying," you say, your voice dripping with contempt. Spencer's face contorts like he's confused.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

“It means,” you say, finally standing too, “that you don’t get to say things like that and expect comfort. You don’t get to crack open this— this door like we’re still something and then slam it shut the second it scares you.”

He flinches.

“You think I’ve been sleeping?” you continue, voice shaking now. “You think I’ve been fine? Because I’ve been trying to be. I’ve been trying to hold it together. But it’s really fucking hard when the person I love tells me he doesn’t love me back and then acts like that never happened.”

He's trying to find the words, he really is, but he can't choose between the part of him that's mad at himself for being an idiot, and the part of him that's mad at you for believing him in the first place. He makes the wrong choice.

“You don't get to say that. You walked away. You believed me when I said I didn’t love you.”

Your laugh is sharp, disbelieving. “Oh, you major fucking hypocrite. I’m sorry— its my fault now? Was I supposed to not believe the man I loved when he looked me dead in the eyes and ripped my heart out?”

He throws his hands up. “I had to! You wouldn’t have walked away otherwise!”

“Yeah? And whose fucking fault is that?”

“Mine! Obviously mine!” he snaps, voice rising. “Is that what you want to hear? That I made a mistake? That I wake up every goddamn day hating myself for it?”

“Oh, poor you!” you shout back. “Waking up alone by choice. Because you couldn’t handle the idea of someone loving you. Spencer Reid— genius, coward, commitment phobe.”

He moves closer, eyes blazing. “Don’t twist this into me being scared of you. I was trying to keep you safe.”

You step forward to match him, nose to nose now. “Did I ask? Did I ask you to keep me safe, Spencer? You don’t get to protect me by abandoning me.”

“Oh, get over yourself—”

“Me? I need to get over myself? Jesus, you're so full of yourself. I can't even believe that I'm entertaining this right now."

"Nobody's making you stay. Door's right there."

"You know what, Spencer? Fuck you,” you snap.

“Fuck you.”

You let out a bitter laugh and shove his shoulder. “Bold words from someone who doesn’t even have the balls to tell their partner that he fucking hates them!”

“WHEN did I say that I hated you?” he roars, hands shaking now. “I never said that. I love you! Jesus Christ, of course I love you!”

You stare at him, heart pounding in your throat.

“Then do something about it, you moron.”

And he does.

He grabs your face like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth and kisses you so hard it knocks the air out of your lungs. It’s angry and desperate and messy, like trying to glue a shattered heart back together with nothing but skin and breath. Your hands fist into his shirt like you’re trying to tear it off or hold him closer, maybe both. Neither of you knows how to be gentle about it.

"You're an idiot," you mumble between kisses.

"Good, we're on the same page."

Your back hits the dresser with a dull thud, and neither of you flinch. His hands are everywhere— on your waist, your hips, sliding under the hem of your shirt like he can’t get close enough fast enough. His mouth moves from yours to your jaw, down your neck, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses that make your knees threaten betrayal.

He finds that spot just behind your ear, the one he knows drives you crazy, and lingers there like a punishment. No, like an apology. You gasp, hand tangling in the curls at the nape of his neck, tugging just hard enough to make him groan.

He is whispering apologies, begging for your forgiveness as he unravels you, his breath warm against your skin.

“Sorry’s not gonna cut it,” you whisper, voice already unsteady as you pull him back to your mouth. “You need to make it up to me.”

“I will,” he promises, between kisses that are more like confessions than contact. “I will. I swear to God, I will.”

And he did. Multiple times that night. For the first time in a long time, both of you slept. Not just passed out from exhaustion, but real, peaceful, uninterrupted sleep. The kind that only comes when the weight has finally lifted.

You woke up tangled in each other, your head tucked under his chin, his arm tight around your waist like he still didn’t quite believe you were there. He kissed your forehead before either of you said a word.

The case wrapped itself up faster than expected after that. Something about sleep and not repressing your feelings— radical concepts, really. You and Spencer cracked the final piece during the afternoon briefing, and the rest of the team rallied around the lead like clockwork. It felt good to feel like yourselves again. Felt even better not to pretend anymore.

You’re on the jet heading home, fingers loosely intertwined beneath a shared blanket when Emily strolls past and pauses in front of your seat. Her smirk is practiced. Lethal. Oh, this can't be good.

“I was in the room next to yours,” she says, casually. “I heard screaming. Was gonna knock, actually, see if everything was okay.”

Spencer tenses beside you.

Emily raises a brow. “But then the screaming turned into a, uh, different kind of screaming.”

“Oh my God,” you mutter, burying your face in your hands.

“Anyway,” she grins, completely unbothered. “Glad you two worked it out.”

She pats Spencer on the back as she leaves. You and Spencer look at each other, mortified and emotionally prepared to change your identities and leave the country. He leans in to whisper something.

"Worth it."