spencer reid's fingers

It must've been the meds kicking in, lulled you to a nap, blunted your senses to this syrupy haze. The pain in your lower belly has dulled to a tolerable, constant ache rather than something sharp and crippling. When you sit up, the crocheted blanket—handmade and gifted by Penelope a few years ago—slips from your shoulders and pools over your waist.

Meanwhile, pandemonium seems to happening in your kitchen.

You can hear your daughter giggling wildly. Spencer's groans are muffled, and a suffocating, smoky scent finally wafts to the living room and reaches you from your position on the couch.

You squint at the clock on the far end of the room and huff when it stays blurry. And then, footsteps, light and quick, followed by a delighted gasp.

"Mommy wakey!" she announces loudly—probably for her father's sake.

Beatrice.

Your daughter hurls herself on your lap before you even see her, but your arms band around her tiny form in reflex. A soft oof leaves your lips from the impact. Somehow, some part of you still expects her to weigh the same as she did when she was still a crawling baby. Like the way she's growing hasn't registered completely, or perhaps it's the speed at which she's growing that's throwing you off.

She used to be so tiny.

Now, you're convinced she would have knocked your glasses off, had you been wearing them.

"Hi, honeybee," you press your nose into her halo of rumbled curls, the exact same texture as Spencer's. She smells like smoke and baby powder, "What have you been up to?"

"Cooking!" she says proudly, her hands resting on your chest. Right over your heart, which feels close to bursting when her face scrunches seriously, an expression that doesn't seem to fit her chubby-cheeked loveliness. "Mommy feel better?"

"Yes, mommy feels better now, thank you."

"No more blood?"

You wince, remembering her panic earlier when you'd bled through your dress after lunch. Her only conscious experiences with blood have so far been limited to skinned knees, so Beatrice had thought you'd gotten a scrape on your butt somehow.

"Well, there's still some blood. But mommy's better."

"Daddy says you—you peeing blood."

You have to bite your lip to stifle a laugh. "Did he now?"

"Yes," your daughter nods gravely, settling herself on your lap. She places a sticky hand to your cheek in a vaguely reassuring way. It's a gesture she'd learned from watching Spencer. "Daddy says you peeing blood and I have to be good so you rest."

Maybe it's her matter-of-fact tone, or the way the words stumble from her lips in her clear, lightly lisping voice, but your mouth finally curls into a grin. You tuck her to your chest so you can have a moment to silently giggle without her thinking she's being laughed at, and reach forward for your glasses.

They're sitting neatly on the coffee table, folded and completely free of any stains. Spencer must have cleaned them when you fell asleep, just as he'd covered you in the blanket.

"What else has daddy said?" you ask, slipping your glasses on.

The world sharpens into focus. The bookshelves lining the sage walls, now home to multiple children's books and framed pictures—you and Spencer had moved your joint collection in the newly refurbished basement not long after Beatrice had been born. There's a TV that rarely gets used, and an open chest of toys.

In the heart of it all, you and your daughter, on the couch, perfectly content.

"It's every… every month. And it hurt." Beatrice says, brows furrowing in focus as she recalls her own version of Spencer's explanation.

"I pee blood every month, huh?"

"I did not say you pee blood!" comes Spencer's flustered voice. He pads from the kitchen with his own glasses so low on his nose you're afraid they'll slip right off. Sweat gleams from his forehead, beading down his temples.

"Did too!" Beatrice exclaims.

You laugh, reaching a hand out to him. "It's okay, it's a pretty close approximation."

Spencer is pink as he holds your outstretched palm, though you're not sure if it's from the stress or from embarrassment. He settles on the couch beside you, tucking your hand to his chest.

"I'm sorry, I didn't really expect her to start asking about that and had to improvise."

Of course, neither of you had anticipated it. Beatrice is a little too young to be having the talk, but she's also… Beatrice. Daughter of two professors who, at their core, have lived for the pursuit of knowledge their whole lives. If anything, it's naive on you and Spencer's part to have been unprepared for this.

You're still grinning, holding Beatrice to your chest with one arm, cheek resting on the crown of her head. "You didn't expect our daughter, with our combined genes, to start asking questions?"

"You're right," Spencer admits with a sheepish laugh, "She's got the curious instincts of researchers and scholars."

"Exactly. This won't be the first she pursues a topic through rigorous questioning, right Bea?"

Beatrice nods, even though she looks a little lost from the adult conversation.

You smile and kiss her brow. "You're a smart girl, Bea."

She giggles, tickled by the compliment. "Like you?"

Spencer's free hand ruffles her hair. "Exactly. Smart, just like mommy."

The words land somewhere unexpectedly tender. It would've been so easy to claim that for himself; he's the genius between the two of you, after all. But he doesn't. Didn't even insert himself and say like mommy and daddy, which would have been objectively true.

You look up with the softest exhale, eyes misting. He grins, lifts your hand to brush his lips over your knuckles. A soft, warm look settles on his face, as reassuring as it is loving.

"You're feeling better now? Do you need more meds?" he asks, casual and sweet and perfect, as if he hadn't just undone you only moments ago.

"No, no, I'm all right." you scoot closer to him. Spencer lets go of your hand to wrap an arm over your shoulder, tugging you gently until you're tucked to his side. On your lap, Beatrice yawns and blinks at the two of you.

For a moment, it's silent. A perfect snapshot of peace. Your chest tightens a little more, some invisible force strangling your throat.

"You could've woken me up, you know, to help with dinner." you murmur.

"I can handle it."

Your brows raise, head tilting up so you can pin him with an incredulous glare. "It still smells burnt in here, Spence."

"It's not that bad."

"Really? What are we having, then? Char with a side of chicken?"

"Daddy burn the oven." Beatrice supplies seriously.

Spencer shakes with laughter. "No, the chicken just burned inside the oven, honeybee."

Beatrice pouts as she considers, dimples on her cheeks deepening. She's got your coloring, but the most noticeable features are Spencer's—messy curls, massive hazel eyes, a collection of dimples exactly in the same spots as his.

"But dinner," you say with a groan, "I'll go see—"

"You don't have to cook, darling," he interrupts, his arm around you tightening to prevent you from moving, "I've already ordered takeout. Lo mein for you, of course."

You swear you've lost the ability to breathe. It never quite settles, this realization that he knows you to the bone. Well enough to anticipate your needs, to provide without being asked. That he'll keep doing them without expectation or prompting.

"And extra wontons!" Beatrice adds enthusiastically, "because mommy likes them, even when she says she don't."

Oh. Now there's two of them.

You don't think the twisting in your chest will ever stop, but at least now you know it's not a bad feeling. It never was, even in those early days, before Beatrice, before building a life together.

You recognize it for what it is now.

You laugh. It's a thin, watery sound. Spencer pulls you even closer, warm lips pressed to your temple.

"You stay right here," he whispers, nosing a line down your cheek, "With us."

"Only if we keep getting snuggles."

Spencer squeezes his arms around the two of you playfully in response, tight enough that Beatrice is overcome with giggles, not loosening until you wheeze a laugh yourself.

In his arms, with your daughter in your lap, the period cramps feel like a distant memory.

The patient was drenched in sweat, muscles straining violently against the straps. His pupils were blown wide, unfocused, jaw clenched so tight the tendons strained in his neck. He thrashed the second you stepped close, nearly catching a you in the jaw. The trauma bay lights were brutal overhead, all sharp white glare and humming electricity, making the blood at his temple look darker than it probably was.

“Sir, we need you to hold still,” you said, keeping your voice steady, low, and nonthreatening. He responded by trying to tear himself off the stretcher entirely.

“That’s enough,” Dr. Abbot snapped, already gloving up, moving to grab ahold of the patients thrashing legs. “We’re sedating.”

Dr. Ellis moved in on the opposite side, bracing one forearm across the patient’s chest. “You got that arm,” she muttered, nodding toward the arm thrashing closest to you.

You didn’t hesitate. You grabbed the patient’s upper arm, fingers digging into trembling muscle. He was stronger than he looked—adrenaline fuelled and panicked—and he bucked hard enough to nearly throw you off balance. Abbot swore under his breath as the patient tried to twist free.

“Ketamine ready,” Dr. Whitaker called from your left. His voice had that tight edge to it—focused but nervous. The syringe was already drawn, clear liquid catching the light.

“On three,” Abbot said. “One... two—”

The patient jerked violently.

Your grip shifted just as Whitaker moved to inject the patient.

Before you realized, sharp pain exploded in your hand.

“Ow—what the fuck!”

It was sharp and immediate, a hot, blooming sting that made you recoil. You looked down in disbelief.

The needle was buried in your hand not the patients arm, the plunger already fully depressed.

For a split second, nobody moved.

Whitaker went sheet white. “Oh my God—I didn’t mean for that to happen! The angle changed right before and I-I’m so sorry.”

“Get another syringe!” Ellis barked, not even looking up as she continued wrestling the patient down. “We need to sedate the actual patient.”

A nurse was already moving, efficient and fast. The second injection went into the correct person this time, clean and precise. Within moments the patient’s movements slowed, then stopped entirely, his body going limp against the stretcher.

Meanwhile, the world had started to tilt.

The overhead lights felt wrong. They were too bright, too close. Your heartbeat thudded in your ears, but your limbs felt distant, like they belonged to someone else.

“Okay,” you said carefully, blinking hard. “Someone get a gurney.”

Your words came out thick and slightly slurred. The floor shifted under your feet like you were standing on a boat. You tried to steady yourself by grabbing the edge of the stretcher.

“And please someone break my fa—”

Your knees buckled.

And everything went black.

—————————

Waking up felt like dragging yourself through syrup. The fluorescent lights overhead were blinding, stabbing through your eyelids until you groaned and rolled your head away from them. Your mouth was dry and your thoughts were slow, floating lazily out of reach.

“Hello,” you mumbled, voice thick.

“Hey there, kid.”

You knew that voice immediately.

You blinked several times until the blur focused into Jack sitting beside the bed, elbows resting on his knees, watching you carefully.

“Jack,” you whispered, smiling dopily. “I’m so happy you’re here.”

He let out a soft breath, tension easing from his shoulders. “Yeah?”

You frowned slightly.

Something wasn’t adding up.

You glanced around—the monitor, the IV pole, the curtain pulled halfway around the bed.

“W-where am I?”

“At PTMC. You were working on a patient and Whitaker injected you with nearly five hundred milligrams of ketamine.”

You stared at him.

“Oh,” you said after a long pause. “That’s not good.”

“Nope.”

You shifted under the blanket and felt thin fabric against your skin. You looked down, and froze.

You were in a hospital gown.

“Why am I in this?” you questioned. “I’m a doctor. I should be saving lives.”

Jack’s lips twitched. “We’ll need a raincheck on that. We’re observing you until the medication wears off.”

You processed that slowly. “Did you put me in this?”

He leaned back slightly. “No. Lena did.”

You rolled your eyes dramatically. “Boo. I was hoping you did.” You squinted at him, expression soft and hazy. “You’re so hot.”

Jack blinked.

“…I’m sorry?”

“You’re really hot,” you repeated matter-of-factly, then dissolved into giggles. 

Jack's eyebrows launch up.

You poked your own cheek experimentally. “My face feels like jello.”

Your fingers drifted upward and found the nasal cannula. You tugged at it lazily.

“Nope,” Jack said immediately, gently catching your wrist. “That stays in. Your O2 levels dipped earlier.”

You frowned at him like he’d personally betrayed you. Then your eyes dropped to the IV taped securely in your arm.

“Oh no, they forgot to take the needle out,” you whispered, horrified, reaching toward it.

“That has to stay in too.”

You huffed out in frustration, but then, for absolutely no reason, you started laughing again.

“What’s so funny?” Jack asked, a small smile making its way over his lips despite himself.

You looked at him very seriously, leaning slightly closer like you were about to share classified information.

“You smell like cologne and money.”

Jack blinks, shifting slightly in his chair. “Do I?”

You nod and hold his gaze, eyes heavy but locked on him. “Sometimes it makes me want to drag you into an on call room and lock the door.”

Silence.

Complete, stunned silence.

His jaw tightens. “That’s—”

“I’ve wanted to for months,” you add softly, like you’re commenting on the weather. “Its hard not, especially when you look like that.”  

He just stares at you, visibly recalibrating, breath shallow now.

“You don’t mean that,” he manages. “You’re high out of your mind.”

You opened your mouth to continue, but before the words could leave your mouth, the door to the trauma room opened, revealing none other than Whitaker.

“Huckleberry!” you say with sudden excitement, your smile widening instantly.

Whitaker gulps nervously and closes the door behind him. “I—I just wanted to come and apologize to you, for, you know… injecting you.”

“It’s okay, white chocolate,” you reply generously. “I forgive you.”

Whitaker winces immediately. “I see you’ve been hanging out with Santos and Garcia.”

“Yeah, they’re funny ladies,” you giggle, completely unbothered. “If it makes you feel better, I think the nicknames are cute.”

A wave of exhaustion crashes over you mid laugh. You yawn, blinking slowly as your eyes begin to droop.

“We should let you rest,” Jack says, already beginning to stand.

“No,” you protest immediately, instinctively reaching out and grabbing his hand before he can step away. Your fingers curl weakly around his. “I want you to stay.”

Whitaker shifts awkwardly, mumbling something under his breath, clearly aware he’s interrupting something he does not understand but definitely does not want to be part of.

“I have some patients to see,” Jack says gently, voice softening as he looks down at you. “But I’ll come back in a little.”

“But I’m your patient,” you mumble stubbornly.

Before Jack can respond, your grip weakens. Your head tilts slightly to the side, mouth falling open as the medication pulls you under again, breath slow and heavy.

Jack stands there for a moment longer than necessary, still holding your hand.

Whitaker clears his throat quietly, slipping out of the room awkwardly. 

Jack finally lets go, leaving to room.

—————————

You woke up again, this time slightly more coherent and felt less like you were floating. 

“Good morning, sleepyhead.”

Jack’s voice pulls you fully out of dreamland. His thumb brushes lightly over the apple of your cheek, slow and uniform, like he’s been doing it without realizing. When your eyes focus on him, he pulls his hand back.

You blink up at him. The room isn’t spinning anymore, just a little foggy at the edges.

“…How long was I out?”

“A couple hours,” he says. “It’s almost shift change.”

You push yourself up carefully. “The patient?”

“Stable. All scans were clean. You can relax.”

You nod, then your brow furrows.

“I remember you were here,” you say slowly. “And Whitaker came in.”

“He did.”

You squint at him. “Did I say anything weird?”

Jack doesn’t miss a beat. “You were… chemically compromised.”

“That’s not an answer.”

A flicker of something crosses his face, but it’s gone just as quickly. “We’ll talk later.”

Your stomach tightens. “Jack.”

“Later,” he repeats calmly.

Before you can press him again, the door whips open.

“Well, look who's alive,” Santos announces, stepping inside like she owns the hospital. Garcia follows behind her with a coffee and a grin that immediately makes you nervous.

“Oh no,” you mutter.

“Oh yes,” Garcia says. “The nurses have been talking.”

You sink back against the pillows. “About what.”

Santos gasps dramatically. “About how you were calling Whitaker dessert items.”

“I did not—”

“You absolutely did,” Garcia cuts in. “Whitaker is currently furious that we’re spreading ‘white chocolate.’”

You clap a hand over your face. “I’m never coming back.”

“He says it’s unprofessional,” Santos continues solemnly.

Garcia nods. “We say it’s branding.”

Despite yourself, you laugh. “I don’t even remember saying that.”

Jack clears his throat quietly. You’d almost forgotten he was there. He’s standing now, composed, hands in his pant pockets.

“She needs rest,” he says evenly.

Santos raises an eyebrow. “We’re being gentle.”

Garcia’s gaze flicks between you and Jack, clearly noticing the tension. “We also heard something about cologne and money?”

You freeze. “What…?”

Jack looks entirely unfazed. “It’s time for shift change,” he says smoothly. “We’ll talk when you're fully sober.” His eyes meet yours briefly.

And then he’s gone.

The second he disappears down the hall, Santos leans in. “Okay. What else did you say?”

“I don’t know!” you whisper. “I don’t remember!”

Before they can dig any further, the door opens again.

“Alright,” Robby says, stepping in with a tablet in hand. “You’re clear to go home.”

Relief floods you.

 “You two,” he looks at Santos and Garcia. “Out. Patients exist.”

They groan in unison but shuffle toward the exit.

“We’re not done with you,” Santos warns.

“White chocolate forever!” Garcia adds before disappearing into the hall.

"Garcia stop saying that!" Whitaker exclaims as he rounds the corner.

Robby shakes his head, amused, and starts disconnecting your leads. “Heard you had the trip of a lifetime.”

“I’m gathering that,” you mumble.

He peels the IV out of your arm. “Vitals are good, you just need food and sleep.”

You hesitate. “…Did I say anything to Jack?”

Robby pauses, then gives you a look. “Depends,” he says. “Do you want the nurse version or the attending-approved version?”

Your stomach drops. “The attending-approved version.”

He smirks slightly. “According to Jack, you told him he smells like cologne and money. Then you informed him you’d thought about what would happen if you both went into an on-call room.”

Your entire body goes rigid.

“I said that.”

“Mhm.”

You stare at the wall in horror. “Please tell me I stopped there.”

“I’m not sure,” he shrugs. “That’s all he told me.”

“Oh my God.” You drop your face into your hands. “I have to work with him tomorrow.”

Robby chuckles, handing you your discharge papers. “You’ll survive.”

“I’m never going to be able to look him in the eyes again.”

Unfortunately, this time you were completely conscious for the humiliation.

—————————

It's been 22 hours and 30 minutes since you embarrassed yourself in front of Jack.

And you've been avoiding him all night.

Every time Jack stepped into a trauma bay, you found a reason to step out. When he rounded the nurses’ station, you disappeared into a supply closet. The ED had been mercifully slow, which made it easy to slip through the cracks.

You almost thought you’d succeeded.

Almost.

You’re scanning a chart at the nurses’ station when you feel it—that awareness. The shift in the air.

“We need to talk.”

His voice is low as he leaned down to talk right in your ear.

Goosebumps ripple down your neck instantly.

Before you can even respond, his hand wraps around your forearm—firm and controlled—as he guides you across the ED. Not rough, but not gentle either.

“Jack—” you start.

He pushes open the break room door and ushers you inside. The door swings shut behind you.

You swear you hear the click of the lock.

Your heart stutters.

He turns to face you, jaw tight, eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them.

“Do you remember anything you said yesterday?”

You swallow. “No. Not really. Robby… kind of filled me in.”

And then it starts—the rambling.

“I’m so sorry, I was high, and that’s not an excuse, I just—I don’t normally say things like that and I promise I’m not unprofessional and I completely understand if that made you uncomfortable—”

He steps closer.

You keep going.

“I mean obviously I think you’re attractive but that’s not the point, the point is I should not have—”

His hand comes up suddenly, fingers warm against your jaw, thumb pressing lightly into one cheek, steadying you.

“Stop.”

You freeze.

His other hand cups the other side of your face, forcing you to look at him.

“Did you mean it?” he asks quietly. “What you said last night—was any of it true?”

Your pulse is probably in v-tach.

You try to look away. He doesn’t let you.

“Answer me.”

You inhale shakily.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I meant it.”

Silence.

Then the smallest smirk touches his mouth. Before you can process it, he pulls you in.

The kiss is not tentative. It’s deep and deliberate, months of restraint snapping all at once. Your hands fly up in surprise, but they don’t push him away. They grip his scrubs tightly instead.

You melt before you can stop yourself.

When he finally pulls back, your breathing is uneven.

“I’ve felt the same,” he murmurs against your mouth. “For months.”

Your brain short circuits.

“Jack—”

“I was trying to be responsible,” he says, thumb brushing along your jaw again. “You made that very difficult.”

His mouth trails briefly along your cheek, your jaw, down to the curve of your neck—slow enough to make your knees weaken.

“You wanted to know what I’d do if you locked the door,” he murmurs.

Your stomach flips.

“I think you’re about to find out.”

And then—

BANG. BANG. BANG.

“What the hell?” Dr. Shen’s voice comes muffled through the door. “Why is this locked? My coffee’s in there.”

You and Jack jump apart like you’ve been electrocuted. You scramble to smooth your hair. He adjusts his scrubs, clearing his throat.

You unlock the door quickly and swing it open.

Dr. Shen looks between you both suspiciously.

“Must’ve locked automatically,” Jack says smoothly as he steps past him.

Shen narrows his eyes but grabs his coffee and mutters something about 'new facilities policies.'

You do not make eye contact with anyone as you speed walk away.

A nurse calls from down the hall, “Can someone come look at bed four?”

"I've got it," you latch onto that lifeline immediately and start walking towards to bed.

Jack catches up to you easily, falling into step at your side.

“Come home with me after our shifts over,” he murmurs, low enough that no one else hears. “I’ll let you finish what you started.”

Your face burns instantly. 

“Yes,” you say eagerly. “I mean—sure, yeah sounds good.”

Jack gives you a knowing look, the corner of his mouth lifting before he turns around to go check on a patient, looking like the picture of professionalism.

By the time you reach bed four, your face is still burning. And you're painfully aware that he’s watching you from across the ED. 

Derek Morgan’s farewell happy-hour felt wrong from the moment Spencer arrived.

It wasn’t the bar—​one of those polished Georgetown places with Edison bulbs and exposed brick—​nor the live trio nudging jazzy covers across the room, not even the hazy warmth of bourbon sliding down throats. It was the space Derek would leave behind after tonight: a hum in everyone’s conversations, a gravity that should have been there and wasn’t.

You were already at the corner table, a sundress brushing your thighs like spilled paint. Spencer caught himself cataloguing the color—something between butter and marigold—before jerking his attention to the exit sign overhead. He told himself he wouldn't look, the first of many small promises he meant to keep tonight.

It lasted only ten minutes.

“Spence,” Your palm skimmed his arm when he slid in beside you—​not scandalous, just friendly, but his pulse drummed anyway. “You okay?”

He managed a nod. “‘m fine.”

But when you asked how he felt about Morgan leaving, the conversation ping-ponged—​statement, reassurance, statement, reassurance—​until every conviction he’d rehearsed at home overturned itself in real time. You kept tilting your head, waiting for a genuine answer. Finally, he muttered, “I’m happy for him… and terrified for us.”

It landed heavier than he intended.

You ordered another round before he could retreat—​two Belgian ales and two small bourbon backs “because it’s a farewell, after all.” He rarely drank anything–let alone something aged in charred oak. You teased that he was about to get an education. Soon, the glass was warm at his lips, the varnish on the table shimmering at the edges. Memory began flickering, softening, like light bending through the bottom of the tumbler.

Morgan left not long after the party had started–a wife and a newborn son to get home to. Somewhere between glass two and three, Garcia dragged JJ onto the front patio for photos, Rossi found a captive audience at the bar, and Emily disappeared to chat with an off-duty MPD detective. The group, tight as a braid an hour ago, had begun to fray. You noticed it first.

“See?” you murmured, leaning close enough that your dress brushed his sleeve despite all his intentions. “Morgan leaves, and the weave unravels.”

He wished he had a counterargument.

“Step outside with me?” You asked. If it was anyone else right then, he’d have probably said no. Instead, he nodded and slid out of his seat and followed you to the back door.

You sat on a stool on the worn-down patio the bar called its ‘smoking area’, then dug in your purse for a carton. You tapped out one cigarette, lighting it as he raised a brow.

“You smoke?” he asked. Never once had he thought you had–never smelled it on you, never noticed the carton in your bag, never caught you with one stuck between your fingers.

“Rarely,” you reply. “When the occasion calls for it.”

You held it out to him between your pointer and middle finger. He just stared at it for a moment, thought about saying no. But for some reason, he took it.

One drag. The filter pressed to his lips carried a ghost of your lipstick—​cranberry-rose, the shade you kept in your go-bag because it worked for any occasion. The taste startled him with its intimacy; he felt it coil in his chest, threaded through with smoke and want.

He held in the cough as he exhaled before handing the cigarette back to you. 

You exhaled toward the night sky. And then you said it, voice quiet, eyes not on him:

“I think we’re all coming apart.”

He swallowed. “You mean the team?”

You gave a small nod. “Yeah. But not just that.”

Spencer felt something tighten in his chest.

You didn’t elaborate. You didn’t need to.

For a moment, the alley dissolved: no dumpster scent, no buzz of streetlights—​just the two of you in a hush so dense he could hear his own pulse. You flicked ashes, eyes shining with something that scared him more than any unsub ever had.

He’d known you for years. Watched you come alive in interrogations, fall silent in grief, laugh at his dumb facts when no one else did. You’d been steady–fierce, compassionate, closed in the way that made people wonder what you were holding back.

He always wondered too. 

“I keep thinking about what happens when it’s just me,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “After everyone else is gone. If I would even wait to be the last one left.

He hated how much he understood that. The deep, gnawing fear of being the last one standing.

“You’re not alone,” he said, more urgently than he meant to. “You have me.”

You looked at him then, and there was something there–tiredness, maybe, or guilt. But also something softer. Something sad.

“Yeah,” you said. But it didn’t sound like you believed it.

Inside, the hallway outside the restrooms bustled with laughter and camera flashes—​a last congregation of the team before rideshares scattered them to the four corners of D.C. Rossi clapped Spencer’s shoulder on his way past, saying, “Take the night, kid. He’ll still be Morgan in the morning.” JJ hugged you, whispering an inside joke Spencer didn’t catch; you laughed, cheeks flushed bourbon-pink.

You stayed longer than you meant to.

Even Garcia, who usually closed down nights like this with glitter and tequila, had slipped away after one last emotional toast. But you stayed. And so did Spencer.

Your dress swayed as you turned back toward him. “I should get a cab,” you said—​but made no move for the exit.

His best judgment looked at the scene, weighed every potential risk, and quietly signed its resignation. He reached for your hand.

He had told himself he wouldn’t touch you.

He’d spent years keeping his feelings in check–tucking them away behind professionalism, fear, rationality. It wasn’t just that you were a teammate. It was that you were you. A constant. A quiet. The person he could sit beside in silence and still feel understood.

And if he reached for more… it might shatter that.

But you didn’t stumble out onto M Street. Instead, you followed him to his apartment—​a silent agreement neither of you named. Rain had started, light as static, by the time the elevator reached his floor. Your shoulders were damp; he pressed you back against the hallway wall as he fumbled for keys, and the kiss that followed tasted faintly of rainwater, smoke, and that impossible lipstick.

It had started like a question. You answered it with your hands in his hair, his fingers brushing your jaw like he was still afraid you might vanish if he touched you too hard. You weren’t sure who deepened it. Maybe both of you. You kissed him like you were trying to memorize something you already knew you’d lose.

You were warm from the whiskey. He was shaking a little. You pulled him closer, and something gave way inside him—some long-held resistance finally folding under the weight of everything unsaid.

The door clicked open. You kicked off your heels in the entryway, laughter stranded in your throats between kisses that kept disintegrating into need. You tripped—​both of you, graceless and dizzy—​over stacks of medical journals, bumping a side table, then into the guest room because it was closest. His cardigan hit the floor first, your dress pooling moments later, and all the space he’d so carefully maintained over the years compressed into nothing but heat and skin.

His hands trembled when he touched the bare skin of your waist. He’d spent too many nights imagining how impossibly soft you would feel and never daring to test the thought. And now you were here, and it felt both impossibly wrong and all too right.

Your breath hitched, and the sound rang through him like a struck bell. For one fragile heartbeat he paused, forehead resting against yours, eyes asking a silent Are you sure?

You answered with the faintest nod and the curve of your palm around the back of his neck, drawing him closer until nothing but uneven breaths fit between you. He slid the strap of your bra from your shoulder, kissed the place it had pressed a faint line into your skin. Memorized the scent of your perfume without having to try.

Years of restraint splintered under the quiet urgency of your hands–down his shirt undoing each button, then fingers tracing up his bare chest to his shoulders, down his arms as you pushed the fabric away. You weren’t hurried, but deliberate, like this was something you wanted to remember, detail by detail. Like you already knew it wouldn’t last.

When your fingers skimmed the waistband of his slacks, he hissed in surprise at his own need. You gave a small, rueful smile, as if you understood how long he’d kept all this hidden.

You fumbled with his belt. He wasn’t sure if it was from the alcohol or nerves, but he didn’t have time to think it over long before his belt was undone, and you were shoving his pants down his legs. He sucked in a breath through his teeth as your hand palmed him through his boxers. You looked up at him through your lashes, and all he could think was You’ll be the death of me.

His mouth found the curve of your collarbone, then lower, brushing open-mouthed kisses across your chest. You arched into him slightly, and he felt the sigh that left your lips more than he heard it. He wasn’t sure if it was reverence or need that made his hands so careful, but he traced every inch of you like he’d been waiting years to be allowed. And he had. 

Each soft sound you made carved itself deeper into him. When he kissed the hollow just beneath your ribs, your breath caught. When his hands slid down your thigh, his name left your mouth again, so quiet it broke him. 

He led you backward until your knees hit the edge of the bed, and you sat slowly, eyes never leaving his as he dropped to his knees in front of you.

The gesture felt like a surrender. Not just to the moment, but to everything he’d been trying not to feel for years. His hands found your thighs again, fingertips grazing up along the soft skin until they reached your underwear. His fingers hooked in the waistband, and he watched your breath catch–just the smallest shift, but it made something in him ache. He pulled the garment down your legs, and they joined the rest of your discarded clothes on the floor.

Now, beneath the muted glow from the streetlights outside, you were laid bare in front of him. Your legs parted slightly. An invitation. Or maybe a dare. 

Spencer swallowed hard. He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee, then higher, and higher still. You exhaled a slow breath, threading your fingers through his hair as his mouth finally met the place you needed him most. 

His tongue licked a broad stripe up your slit, and you gasped. His hand gripped your hip instinctively, and he wasted no more time before his mouth found your clit. His lips wrapped around the sensitive bud and he sucked gently. His mind stuttered between thought and sensation–your body, your voice, the way your thighs tightened around him as he ate you out. He took every whimper and moan as a sign to continue his ministrations, tongue circling your clit, then swiping over it as you moaned.

Soon, you were falling apart under him, his name tumbling off your tongue as you reached your climax.

And somewhere in the storm of it, he heard the whisper of doubt.

We’re moving too fast.

But you pulled him up to you with gentle insistence, kissing him with hunger and warmth and something fragile underneath. He followed you without resisting, like a man being led to a place he already knew he shouldn’t go.

He couldn’t help the thought that this would hurt when it was all over.

But he didn’t stop you. He didn’t even slow you down as you tugged his boxers from his hips. You guided him to sit, and then you were climbing over him–confident, sure, everything he’d tried not to imagine all these years. You straddled his hips with a confidence that caught him off guard–equal parts graceful and deliberate, like you’d already decided this was the only place you belonged tonight. You looked down at him with flushed cheeks, eyes full of something he didn’t dare name. It wasn’t just lust. It was grief. Anticipation. An ending baked into the beginning.

You lowered yourself onto him with a slow, breathless sound, and he choked on his own gasp. You were so warm, so tight around him, and every cell in his body responded with desperate gratitude and sharp-edged want. Your head fell against his shoulder, and he gripped your hips, trying to stay grounded as you began to move. Slow. Purposeful. Like you meant to memorize every second.

He wanted to say Wait. To say this isn’t how it should happen–not after bourbon and fear and a goodbye neither of you had spoken but Spencer felt sure was coming. But all that left his mouth was a stuttered version of your name and a groan he couldn’t hold in. 

You rode him with aching slowness, your thighs trembling around his hips, your breathing uneven. Every time your hips rolled, your nails dug into his chest a little harder, and his body chased the rhythm like it had a mind of its own. He was unraveling underneath you, and he didn’t want to stop. Couldn’t.

But even as pleasure burned through him, something kept whispering that this was too much, too soon. That he’d regret letting go like this, that you would. That in the morning, you might be gone—not just from his bed, but from his life. This could be the moment that breaks what he’d clung to for so long.

I rushed this. We moved too fast.

But you leaned down and kissed him, whispering his name into his mouth like it was a secret, and everything inside him caved. He buried one hand in your hair, the other sliding along your spine, and let it happen. Let himself give in. Even if it was a mistake. Even if it ended everything.

Your mouth was on him–his jaw, his neck, his collarbone. Your hands were on his shoulders, nails digging into his flesh. He didn’t mind the thought of the marks that were sure to be left behind–the idea of some reminder, however temporary, had him searching for ways to have you leave more.

One hand snaked up your waist, finding your breast, squeezing the soft flesh before his thumb swiped over your nipple. You moaned, nails biting into his skin hard enough that he hissed out a curse. So he did it again, and you whimpered against his skin, breathing more ragged. The sound of his name rolling off your tongue again had him nearly falling over the edge, and he held you tight as he thrust up into you.

Your name–again, a whisper, a warning–left his mouth just before everything tipped over. Your body clenched around him as you came, your moan soft but sharp in his ear, and the sound undid him completely. He followed you seconds later, breathless and trembling, holding you like you were already slipping away. 

And maybe you were.

You collapsed onto his chest, sweaty and silent, breathing heavily. He wanted to ask you what this meant. If you’d stay. If this had been a beginning, or just an end disguised as comfort.

Afterward, you lay half-curled against him, one hand resting lightly on his chest. His heart thudded beneath your fingers, steady and too fast.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he.

The silence was worse than anything else. He was used to your quiet, but not like this. Not when your body was still warm beside his, and your gaze was on the ceiling, not him.

You looked like you were already somewhere else.

He turned his head. “You feel far away.”

The first real words either of you had spoken since you’d been at the bar. You didn’t answer.

And then, softly—so softly—it came:

“That’s because I am.”

He didn’t ask what you meant.

He didn’t ask where you would go, or if you were planning to leave the BAU, or if this was some kind of delayed grief for Morgan’s departure, or something darker you hadn’t told anyone. He didn’t ask if you’d meant to let this happen—or if it had just been loneliness.

Because part of him already knew.

This wasn’t the start of anything. This wasn’t love blooming in the wake of loss. This was a moment you both had fallen into because the ground beneath you had shifted too fast, and neither of you wanted to be alone when it did.

And tomorrow… he’d wake up to an empty space in the bed and maybe a folded blanket on the couch. A note, if he was lucky. Nothing, if he wasn’t.

He’d catalogue fading bruises of your touch like evidence of a life briefly possible, and you–quiet, guarded–might slip away with nothing but a tired promise to see him at work. He would keep this night in his chest like all the other things he never let himself want. And he’d go to work, and he’d smile when you walked in, and he wouldn’t say a word about it.

Because whatever this was—it wasn’t meant to last.

And you?

You were already halfway gone.

The day starts ordinary enough.

Spencer’s in his usual weekend rhythm—hair still mussed from sleep, sleeves pushed up, moving around the kitchen like it’s second nature. You watch from the couch as he empties the dishwasher, humming softly under his breath. He pauses to line the mugs neatly in the cabinet, then wipes his hands on a dish towel before reaching for the coffee pot.

It’s nothing flashy. Just him being… him. Thoughtful, careful, methodical.

And yet, every small thing he does sends a slow, molten warmth through your veins.

He glances over his shoulder to ask if you want sugar and you can’t even form a coherent answer. You nod, a little too quickly.

Later, he’s in the living room, glasses sliding down his nose as he fixes the leg on the wobbly bookshelf you’ve been complaining about. His hair keeps falling into his face, and he keeps huffing it away with a puff of air, muttering to himself like an old man. You should be helping. You’re not.

You’re watching the veins in his forearm flex every time he tightens a screw.

Then it’s the laundry—him methodically folding towels, matching socks like it’s a puzzle. Then it’s him remembering to water the plant on the windowsill.

And then, Christ, it’s the way he looks at you—his eyes soft and sweet and his voice so, so gentle when he tells you to go get ready.

“For what?” you ask.

He smiles. “I’m taking you out to dinner.”

He doesn’t phrase it like a question. He’s not asking permission.

And something about that makes your knees a little weak.

You take a quick shower, throw on a pretty sundress, do your makeup and hair, and when you’re about to step into your heels, he kneels down in front of you.

His fingers brush your ankle as he buckles the strap. Then he does the other foot.

It’s so simple. But it turns you on more than you can explain.

He stands and looks at you, brushes your hair behind your ear. “You okay?”

You can tell by the look on his face—gentle, knowing, a little amused—that he knows exactly where your mind has gone. But you just smile and say, “Yeah, I’m fine.”

He says, “Okay,” and the two of you walk out to his car.

Your hands are wrapped around his elbow like it’s 1942 and he’s taking you to the dance. He opens the door for you, and you freeze.

For a second, you're glad he can't hear your thoughts. The dirty ones. The ones where he bends you over the hood of his car and fucks you in broad daylight. But he’s just standing there, waiting for you to get in the car.

Then he raises a brow at you—a bold smirk on his lips and you wonder… maybe he can hear your thoughts.

“Let’s go back inside,” he says. And you nearly melt into the ground.

You’ve been living together for a couple of months now. And he’s finding out—little by little—how unbelievably, downright, unhinged horny you are. He leads you back upstairs. And as soon as the door falls closed behind you, you’re pinned against it, his soft lips on yours.

You can taste the toothpaste on his tongue.

You’re still in your heels and sundress, and he’s fully clothed, and he’s kissing you so hard you can’t catch your breath. His hands are in your hair, tugging, pulling, and your fingers are fumbling for his belt. You think how easy it would be to undo it, unbutton his pants, let them fall. You want them to pool around his ankles; you want him to kick them away and take you right here, up against the door.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispers. And even though his tone is loving and tender, he’s also a little rough. A little commanding.

You have to tell him. He won’t move until you do.

“I want you,” you breathe.

He shakes his head. “No. Tell me exactly what you want me to do.”

“I want you to fuck me,” you whisper. “I want you to bend me over the couch. I want you to pull my hair and make me come on your cock. I want it to hurt just a little bit.”

He nods. “Good girl.”

Then he spins you around, bends you over the arm of the couch, flips your dress up, and yanks your panties down to your knees.

And for a second it's embarrassing—the idea of him seeing you like that. It’s easier when it’s dark, when you can pretend he can’t really see you.

But it’s broad daylight and you know he can see everything. The way your thighs are shaking, the wet spot on your panties, the way your body is so, so ready for him.

“Spencer,” you whisper, trying to look over your shoulder at him. But he presses a hand to your back—keeps your face and chest pinned to the cushions.

“Don't move,” he tells you. “I’m going to take care of you.”

You feel his lips brush the back of your thigh.

He kisses a path from your knee to your ass. And when he reaches the soft flesh there, he sinks his teeth in.

“Ow,” you whine, even though it doesn’t really hurt.

He soothes the skin with his tongue, and you feel his hands on your thighs, spreading you wider for him. Then his tongue is on your pussy—licking a slow stripe up your center, and you nearly whimper.

“Shh,” he tells you.

And you don’t know why you have to be quiet. The two of you are alone in the apartment. But something about the command, about him shushing you, makes you bite your lip to stay quiet. You press your cheek into the couch cushions, muffling a moan.

“Good girl,” he praises. “You look so pretty like this.”

You can feel his tongue on your clit, lapping at your slick folds, dipping into your hole. He fucks you with it, pressing it inside you as he grips your ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh.

He hums against your pussy, and the vibrations make you shiver.

“God, you’re so wet. You’re making such a pretty mess, baby.”

His words send a shockwave through you. And you wonder if this is turning him on as much as it is turning you on. If it’s possible for him to be just as gone, just as crazy for you.

You hear the sound of his belt being undone, then his zipper coming down.

And then he’s pushing inside you, so slow, so careful—like you’re fragile.

You feel every inch of him stretching you, and you let out a gasp. He’s so hard. You can feel it in the way his cock twitches inside you. In the way he hisses when he bottoms out, and his fingers dig into your ass.

He pauses for a moment, lets you adjust, and then he’s pulling out, and thrusting back in—so hard you let out a cry.

“Does it hurt?” he whispers. “Tell me if it hurts.”

You shake your head, and he thrusts again.

It hurts just a little, but it feels good, too. Feels like you’re full. Like your body is being rearranged to fit him.

And you can’t help the way your walls clench around him.

He groans.

Even though he’s being dominant—even though he’s telling you what to do, fucking you from behind—he’s still so, so loving. He mutters soft compliments, tells you how good you feel, tells you he doesn’t deserve you.

And every time he’s all the way inside you, he sits there for a second—lets you clench around him, lets you feel every inch.

“You’re taking me so well,” he purrs, fingers tangling in your hair. He yanks, and you move with him, sitting up on your elbows. “Good girl.”

He reaches around to yank your dress down, freeing your tits. And his fingers are kneading, massaging, before he’s pinching and rolling your nipples between his fingers.

You let out a whimper.

“Tell me you want it,” he hisses. “Beg me to keep fucking you.”

“Please,” you cry, pressing back against him. “Please don’t stop.”

He keeps that deep, torturous pace—keeps toying with your nipples, pulling and rolling them between his fingers.

“What got you so horny for me, baby?”

And you have to tell him. You have to say the words out loud, even though they sound so dirty, so depraved.

“It was you helping me. Fixing the bookshelf. When you emptied the dishwasher. God, I wanted to drop to my knees and blow you right then.”

He moans and fucks into you—hard and fast.

You swear you feel him hit your fucking cervix. You let out a loud moan.

Then he pulls out, and you’re empty and cold and you whimper at the loss.

"Stand up."

You do, shaky legs and trembling thighs.

He sits down, looks up at you.

“Come here, ride me.”

He doesn’t have to ask twice.

You straddle him. Your knees sink into the soft cushions, and your hands find his shoulders. You raise up on your knees and position him at your center. And slowly—oh, so slowly—you sink down on him.

You can see his face now. The way he watches you like you’re a work of art. Like you’re something to be worshipped.

And it makes you feel powerful and sexy.

You raise up again, and slam back down. He lets out a hiss and bites his lip. So you do it again.

His hands are on your hips, helping you, guiding you. And it’s not long before the two of you find a rhythm. He thrusts up to meet you, and you fuck yourself on him—slow and deep. It’s so good. He’s so good.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers. His eyes haven’t left your face. He kisses your neck, your shoulder, the curve of your breast.

Then his lips find yours again.

And it’s sweet and gentle, the way he kisses you. The way his hands hold your face, his tongue licks at yours. He sucks on your bottom lip before he bites it. And it takes your breath away. It feels like a dream—the way he’s looking at you. Like you’re the only person in the world.

Like nothing else matters.

“I love you,” he breathes. “God, I love you so much.”

His voice is so soft, so sincere, you feel a lump form in your throat.

“I love you too,” you whisper back.

And he smiles—this little boyish grin that makes him look so young. Makes him look like the world isn’t weighing him down. And you press your forehead to his, feeling his breath on your lips, and then you’re riding him again.

“Touch yourself,” he tells you.

His voice is husky, and his eyes are on you—watching the way you bounce on his cock. You reach down between your legs, playing with your clit in slow circles as you fuck yourself on him. 

He grips your hair, pulling your head back gently so he can look at you.

“I’ll always give you what you want,” he tells you softly. “Anything you ask for.”

“I love you,” you moan again.

“I love you, too.”

You’re still touching yourself like he asked you to. Like you promised. And he notices.

“Good girl,” he moans, and starts fucking up into you—harder. Faster. “My girl.”

“Spencer,” you're breathless as you say his name. “I’m gonna come.”

He’s thrusting up, hitting that spot inside you that feels so fucking good. “You feel so good, baby. So warm and tight.” He bites your neck softly, sucks the skin into his mouth.

“Please,” you whine. “Spencer, I can’t.” Your hands are gripping his shoulders, your nails are biting into his skin, and you can feel your orgasm building. “Please let me come.”

He kisses your lips—soft and gentle.

“Of course you can come, baby,” he murmurs against your lips. “Come on my cock. I want to feel it.”

You let out a moan and do exactly that. You clench around him and see white. You’re gasping for air and shaking and whimpering.

He keeps fucking you through it—slow and gentle, and it feels so good you think you might come again.

“That’s it,” he coos. “You did so good, sweetheart. You made yourself come on my cock.”

And you nod, biting your lip, still feeling the aftershocks of your orgasm as he fucks you. He’s going harder now. You know he’s close. He whispers how good you feel. How beautiful you are. And then he’s coming—groaning softly as he fills you. You can feel him pulsing inside you and you clench around him. It makes him moan and bury his face in your neck. You can feel him smiling against your skin. And the two of you sit there for a moment—him still inside you, his arms wrapped around you, holding you tight.

“You’re so pretty,” he whispers, smoothing your hair down. He pulls back to look at you and you smile. He kisses you again—so lovingly, so tenderly you melt into him.

And then you’re lying on the couch together. He’s holding you in his lap, your head on his chest. You’re tracing the lines of his chest as he strokes your hair. It’s quiet—save for the sound of your breathing.

You could fall asleep like this. With your head on his chest and his fingers in your hair.