RIP triangle pfp

the info-dumping is a way of him inviting you into his world. the facts and rambles about his tv shows, books, and studies judge how you will react to that side of him – they are the easiest way for him to share himself with someone without feeling too vulnerable. it is hardly a secret that he internalizes his stress to handle things alone. if you care enough to let him ramble, he could then be encouraged to communicate more openly with time. it's a game of patience, but one well worth playing.

spencer is already smart enough for two people – he doesn't need someone that can match him intellectually. he needs someone who will accept him, rather than strive to impress him. he adores curiosity, at the very least, enough to remember perhaps a fraction of what he rambles about. that is more than enough for him.

no matter when you meet him, spencer is protective, and not just in the sense of his work. while that does, of course, play a part, he has waited for so long to share himself with someone entirely, that he doesn't then want to share you with others. not entirely. it presents itself in small ways – keeping you close, checking in with you, not hesitating to say something if someone makes you uncomfortable.

speaking of keeping you close, spencer craves your physical touch to keep him grounded, and the simplest form of that is locking your fingers. it keeps him from fidgeting sometimes, stops him rubbing his own fingers raw. his fingers link between your own, firm, his thumb drifting over the back of your hand whether you're curled on the couch or on the jet.

cuddles are a non-negotiable, to the point where he will inconvenience himself for the sake of keeping you at his side. yes, his arm fell asleep twenty minutes ago. no, he does not care come back.

be prepared to wake up beside a mad scientist each morning. spencer's hair is wild at the best of times, but the mornings take the cake. it will stick up at all angles, no matter how still he slept, resembling something not to far from einstein. careful where your eyes pause, however. if you're caught staring, you'll soon have messy hair to match.

if he ever senses you are feeling low, he prescribes magic. you can remind him he is not a medical doctor, and that you're not actually ill as he places a palm against your forehead, but his response is the same nonetheless – a course of magic should clear it right up. besides, how else were you going to get that coin out of your ear? that can't be making things better, after all.

he brings magic into every part of your life when he can, and his proposal is no different. he practises for hours, even if he knows the trick inside out, your ring between his fingers, getting shinier with each run, trialled over and over again so that when his hands shook (and he knew they would) he wouldn't make a fool of himself.

that's what bothered him even more.

"spencer," your voice echoed from the hallway, the sound of his first name pulling him out of his thoughts. it felt like a bucket of ice brutally poured over him. you never called him that.

sure, you were here.

litteraly, you were.

he wasn't alone anymore, gazing at the sky through the jet’s window while he thought of you, or waking up from a nightmare in a shitty motel room, the squeaky mattress nothing like the one he usually shared with you.

in a way, there was no reason for him to be sitting there, creases under his eyes highlighted in the dim light.

spence, come to bed.

you have a week worth of cuddles to make up for, genius.

in another universe, that's what you would've said.

"don't let the light on if you fall asleep" you said instead.

because in this universe, he messed up.

put the role of agent first without realising it, and before he could get a chance to apologise, he'd traded romantic dinners for briefings, and late night conversations for additional hours.

the stars aligned, the entire universe participated in the series of events that led you to him all those years ago, so much that he'd unintentionally started to take it for granted.

you.

as if a constellation could be any less majestic on this day, for the simple reason its discovery went back thousands of years.

as if you didn't shine as brightly now, hair falling over your nightgown, with a sleepy expression that revealed pent up exhaustion, than you ever did.

"i won't," he croaked out in an embarrassingly weak voice.

he left, he was the one to be blamed.

cowardice, a sin. one he'd taken from his life's blood, dangerously repeating his father's actions unconsciously although he’d never admit the resemblance.

to a woman's love and honesty, a relationship built on trust, he responded with scribbles on a sticky note left on the bedside table before going away.

case out of state. love you.

"okay..."

he'd forgotten you were here, too busy analysing the lack of a crucial vowel he omitted. maybe that's why you were acting so cold. because he didn’t properly say those three words.

"i'm going to bed."

pushing yourself from the doorframe, you informed as you turned back around.

"wait-"

his hand reached out in the air, in a way that would appear romantic if it was just another day. the air in the room shifted, and it wasn’t from the cold breeze of the night that his throat closed.

your head tilted, spencer’s lips parted.

"could you... come here ?"

the space next to him felt like an invitation as he scooted over, a little spot he gestured at with the back of his hand. it was embarrassing enough for him to say the words out, to admit he needed you close.

but all the arguments in the world be damned, the files were the last things he wanted next to him right now.

you saw it.

a subtle shift in his eyes. the way his brows scrunched, searching for your reaction. he looked younger under this light, innocent, even.

"we don't have to solve this today,"

"no, this isn't about... that"

in a couple of long strides, you were at his side. lowering yourself onto the couch close enough that you could touch him if he asked.

"i don't wanna talk." he shook his head and stammered "i mean yes ! i do, i know i messed up... i just... need you to be next to me right now."

there it was.

the hint of the smile he loved so much. it threatened to show in the way your lips almost curved upwards, but you just nodded.

your voice was softer. "okay."

thankfully he didn't have to make the first step. quietly, anticipating his demand, your fingers laced together and interlinked, resting on top of his thigh. he welcomed your touch with a relieved breath.

"not ready to sleep just yet ?"

he shook his head. the nightmares clouded his mind, lingered around him in the posture of his shoulders and the way his clenched jaw stuck out in the darkness.

"no, not now."

you knew, so much that he didn't need to say a single word.

it was more than a simple hand holding situation. reassurance, comfort. the sleepiness you felt earlier dissipated instantly and you melted deeper into the couch, watching the way his curls lazily framed his sleep etched face.

"i'm not angry, yknow," you played absentmindedly with the fabric of a pillow, the cotton offering a distraction from the way his head tilted to find your gaze. "not that angry anyways... i missed you too much to care about fighting."

‘’you won’t look at me since i came back and you almost flinched when i touched you earlier" he recalls matter-of-factly, like his heartstrings didn’t tug when he felt you stiffen in his presence. ‘’i can tell when you’re angry,’’

"and..." he reminds you "i get it. you have every right to be"

across the room, you could swear the framed pictures were staring at you – nagging looks of the gallery of your love, displaying different moments of your shared story that now appeared distant.

‘’it’s just easier to be angry than to miss you while you’re away. then i can pretend not to care about whatever dangerous situation you put yourself in again.’’

his eyes trail to were yours are and land on a particular cherished memory.

to anyone else, that picture woud’ve appeared unworthy of being exposed. it’s far for perfect, from the angles that weren’t quite right to the blurry background, revealing how unintentionally perfect it turned out to be. The shot was owed to penelope, probably, hence why nothing other than your smile and spencer’s matching one seem to be taken into account.

it shows you, laughing after one too many drinks in rossi’s garden. same glint in your eyes, but younger features. innocent in the way that shows life hadn’t quite revealed all its tricks on you yet. and by your side, with a hand carefully draped around your hip like the world would fade without your anchor, is him.

soft, adoring.

looking at you like you hung the moon and completely falsified his of gravity, altering the chemistry of his neural pathways in a way that could never be undone. at this very moment, when you laughed at something he said - that must’ve involved statistics and unintentional rambling, like it always did - nothing else mattered.

‘’not for me," he counters in a low breath, like it pains him to admit it. "you might've gotten a couple of days of denial while i was away-"

impossible to tell him that no, you didn't. spending ever waking moment hoping he'll return and yell at you, fight with you again, or critisize your coping techniques with fancy psychological vocabulary that would've been once again way too accurate.

"-but it hurt me to know that we were on bad terms."

"why thank you, genius. that's so kind of you"

genius.

he took it like a punch to the gut. the kind of nickname related to teasing, playful banter about his immense incomparable knowledge you were so fond of. now, it only sounded insulting.

"i left. we fought and i had to leave. and i-" spencer's voice faltered for a second, anxiety creeping in. there was a truth he hated to admit, words we couldn't bear pronouncing out loud in fear they'd come true.

"i couldn't forgive myself if those were the last words i ever said to you."

there it was.

the dagger being held over him, the possible hypothesis that had made him shiver beneath the thin motel sheets. the covers were so harsh he'd closed his eyes and imagined the heat of your soft skin instead of the empty spot next to him.

right now on the couch, your lips parted. spencer was never scared, he'd grown into a confident agent whose weakesses never showed, hidden away in the secret garden of his that ony he had the key to.

you ducked your head shamefully.

he gets up in one swift motion, cearing his throat as to erase his confession. "i’m gonna make some tea"

just like that, the moment dissipated.

he gets to the kitchen before you could react and there's nothing for you to do but look at him from the couch, maneuvring behind the counter with a surgical precision that should make up for his crumbled facade. you see him grab two mugs carefully, the whistle of the kettle drowning out the leftover tension in the open space.

as the water got closer to reach the point of boiling, spencer was too busy replaying the conversation to hear your socked feet against the tiles.

until he felt your touch.

hesitant at first. your arms slide around his middle from behind, and the fact that you can't see his face doesn't keep you from catching his reaction. his body language speaks for itself.

shoulders sag in relief, and you carefully draw yourself closer until your forhead mets the cotton fabric of his shirt, soft and smelling of him from the years of wearing it.

"i'm sorry you felt like i wasn't there for you," your arms tighten their grip on him and you admit.

he shakes his head, hands stilling against the counter. steam lazily curls over the mugs and he adds. "no. i'm sorry i wasn't there for you. physically. emotionally."

he turns around, to wich you can finally tilt your head up and met his eyes. for the first time tonight, and he counted, your enchanting irises turn to him.

"we should talk to eachother more." it's honest. the kettle clicks. "statistically, is a major factor when it comes to reasons for divorce, the numbers sometimes reaching seventy percent-"

"we're not married" you remind him, unable to suppress a twitch of your lips.

spencer only shrugs sheepishly, though heat creeps up his cheeks.

"better be prepared, i guess"

you giggle fully this time. and it reverbates in the tiny space illuminated by nothing but your smile and the faint light over the stove.

"i need to find a better balance between you and the job. to be... okay with not always being dr reid all the time."

even in those moments, the quiet conversations between two individuals too trusting to hide parts of themselves from one another, he was honest with you. the struggle between this shift of identity wasn't new, no, it was what he got for putting others before himself and dedicating his life to helping the world with the use of his intellect.

but you never saw him as dr reid.

the diplomas and PhDs and FBI rewards he'd accumulated were nothing but mundanities that came with your boyfriend. spencer. the one whose casual and relaxed side only you got to see once he came bck from work, or during his rare days off.

"i just need you," you explain, your hands flat on his chest. "to be yourself. to be a boyfriend. a best friend."

to be there. alive. happy.

that's what he knew you were thinking. "i will"

the promise feels real this time, sworn with not only words but sealed by a kiss. he leans into you hesitantly, only to grace your lips when he feels you melting into him.

"you're-" you breathe out, smiling and kissing the corner of his mouth again, because how could you resist after going so long without his touch. "crazy- to think i know how to keep my mind of you"

spence meets you halfway, aiming for another kiss. a smaller peck this time. the grip of his hands tighten around your waist and he gives you a heartwarming dopey smile brighter than anything.

"i'd apologise for that, but it wouldn't be very honest.... i like to know you think about me..." he explains, brows scrunching telling you he's searching for the right words. "it makes me feel nice to know there's someone waiting for me when i come back."

after all, coming back to an empty apartment was all he'd known for years. dust collected on the shelves for however long the case had lasted, and the feeling of sudden emptiness in his heart matching with... well, the one in his fridge.

here, he was wanted, expected, needed. and most of all, loved.

"smooth," your nose bumps against his playfully. "but i won't settle for just words, baby. i need actions."

he nodded solemnly. baby again, not just first name basis.

you pinch his side, aiming for the skin beneath his prominent ribs. the efect is immediate, followed by a sharp gasp.

"-hey !"

"i'm serious," you warn, pupils getting visibly smaller like a cat about to hiss. he can't take you seriously like this, the flames of your pretend anger are nothing more than a modest spark. you're not even mad at him anymore, you just want him to smile again.

"you need to find a way to distance yourself from the BAU sometimes. it would be healthier for you to leave cases and bad guys away from, well," you vaguely gesture to the kitchen space with the two long forgotten mugs behing him.

"i perfectly know how to do that-" he retorts in a high pitched voice that betrayed his words.

"my files and all other aspects of my work life," he says, pointing to the coffee table in the living room space. "are over there. and you, my personal life, are right here."

your brows raise in amusement, shifting the attention away from the smile that threatens your lips. "seriously ?"

spencer shrugs. "i have established a boundary between work and life - that boundary being defined by the kitchen island."

"oh, dear" you sigh, shaking your head. the tea has gone cold when you grab your mug and his eyes don't leave your figure moving gracefully under the dim light. "you've got a long way to go."

"but i'll help you"

his head tilts up, hopeful. he's not alone anymore, really, he never was. not when he has a home - not just a flat, a real home - warm and full of love he shares with a woman who can read him like the back of her hand.

"you will ?" spencer's words linger in the air, promises untold he yearns for you to confirm. you nod, handing him his own mug to match yours.

"yeah, because i love you. and also, i can't sleep without you next to me" you add honestly. being home lone had never felt so boring than when it involved spencer leaving. apparently, you didn't need social battery to spend time with him.

he plants a soft kiss on your temple, a brush of his lips that leave you grinning.

and the next morning, you wake up by his side with limbs completely tangled and trapped in a form hold, that same smile is on your lips. the shine filters through the curtains, casting hues of gold over the angelic figure of a deeply asleep spencer. the pent up exhaustion from the past weeks events finally released, he looks the most relaxed you've seen in a while - and you let him rest.

because even without words, without meaningful eye contacts or grand gestures, you know he loves you too.

and the sticky note on the bedframe proves your point.

the sentence is carefully etched on the paper this time, elegant letters written in the peculiar handwriting you've learned to recognize after seeing it in letters and work files you sometimes got to see. three words, he got it right this time.

i love you, with an i. always have and always will.

It was ridiculous, really.

You had to remain beneath the shower long after there was any reason to. Long after the shampoo had disappeared down the drain and the soap had been washed from your skin. The water had long since turned cold, yet you never reached for the faucet. Instead, you stood there motionless beneath the relentless stream, arms wrapped tightly around yourself as icy water cascaded over your shoulders, your spine and your chest. You just welcomed the discomfort because it was easier to endure the ache of freezing water than the unbearable warmth that had settled beneath your ribs the instant your hands had touched Spencer again.

It had been so innocent.

He was injured, still izzy from the concussion and barely able to stand without swaying. You had simply done what anyone would have done, guided him carefully beneath the spray, steadied him when his knees threatened to buckle and helped him wash around the bandages the doctors had warned you to keep dry.

And yet your body had betrayed you with humiliating ease the moment your fingertips settled against the broad slope of his shoulder.

All because showers had never simply been showers with him.

They had been stolen mornings before work, when one of you inevitably wandered into the bathroom after the other with the flimsiest excuse imaginable. They had been quiet reunions after cases, when he returned home exhausted enough to barely keep his eyes open, yet somehow still found the strength to pull you beneath the water with him because seeing you was the only thing that truly convinced him he was safe. They had been conversations, laughter echoing off tiled walls, shampoo bottles exchanged absentmindedly between sleepy hands, arguments about whose turn it was to buy more soap dissolving into kisses.

Oh...the kisses.

You could remember every single one with a clarity so sharp it almost hurt.

Because Spencer had never kissed you carelessly. Every kiss carried the intensity of someone determined to commit a moment to memory before it disappeared forever. He always approached you slowly, giving you every opportunity to pull away, though neither of you ever did. His hands inevitably found your face first, cupping it with such impossible gentleness that it often left you wondering whether he truly understood how loved he made you feel with such simple gestures. His thumbs would brush absentmindedly over your cheeks while he looked at you for one lingering heartbeat too long, studying your expression as though there were something endlessly fascinating hidden inside it.

Then one hand would drift upward, disappearing into your damp hair while his fingers settled at the nape of your neck, slipping effortlessly between wet strands until his palm rested against your skin. He would tilt your head ever so slightly before his mouth found yours again, deepening the kiss. Outside the shower, the world continued to exist—cases, paperwork, deadlines, violence, grief—but inside those four tiled walls it all ceased to matter. There was only the rhythmic percussion of water striking porcelain, the damp curl of his hair brushing your forehead, and the slow rhythm of two hearts beating close enough that you sometimes couldn’t tell which belonged to whom.

Now, you could almost feel his hands finding your waist again. You could almost hear the quiet hum he always made whenever he was content, vibrating softly against your lips whenever he smiled into a kiss. It felt so vivid that your body leaned into the illusion before your mind could stop it.

Your eyes opened.

Oh.

The shower was empty.

There was no Spencer standing in front of you, no shy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, no hazel eyes looking at you as though you were still the safest place he had ever known. There was only cold porcelain beneath your feet, pale steam clinging stubbornly to the glass, and the deafening absence of the man your body still remembered with humiliating precision.

Your arms wrapped instinctively around yourself, holding your own elbows so tightly your fingertips blanched white. You weren’t entirely sure whether you were trying to warm your chilled skin or keep your heart from splintering all over again.

Then your phone began to vibrate.

The insistent buzz shattered the stillness with startling violence, echoing across the marble countertop and pulling you so abruptly out of the past that you physically flinched. Your pulse leapt into your throat as you blinked through the curtain of water still clinging to your eyelashes. Through the fogged bathroom, the screen glowed brightly against the counter.

Penelope.

Your hand reached the faucet before your brain fully caught up. The rushing water disappeared instantly, leaving behind a heavy silence interrupted only by the rhythmic drip…drip…drip from the showerhead. You snatched the nearest towel, wrapping it hurriedly around yourself before crossing the room in damp footsteps and grabbing your phone almost before it had finished vibrating.

“Penelope?”

“There you are!” Garcia’s voice burst through the speaker with its usual sunshine, though underneath it lingered the unmistakable exhaustion that had settled over everyone since Spencer had been shot. “I was beginning to think you’d fallen asleep.”

You frowned, absently rubbing the towel over your damp hair as cold droplets slid lazily down the back of your neck.

“…What?”

A brief pause followed.

“What do you mean what?” Penelope laughed, genuine amusement bubbling through the phone. “Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten.”

Your brow knitted together.

Forgotten…what?

Then, almost audibly, the pieces clicked together.

Dinner.

“Oh my God,” you breathed, squeezing your eyes shut in disbelief. “I did forget.”

“I knew it!” Penelope exclaimed triumphantly. “Morgan insisted you’d remember because you’re terrifyingly organized, but I told him trauma beats planners every single time.”

Despite yourself, a tired laugh escaped your lips. You pinched the bridge of your nose, still feeling the lingering ache behind your eyes.

“What time is it?”

“A little after six.

Six.

You had spent nearly forty minutes standing beneath freezing water trying to convince yourself your heart hadn’t just betrayed you.

“We’re only about ten minutes away,” Penelope continued brightly. “Morgan stopped to grab dinner because he refuses to believe either of you has actual food in that kitchen after…” She hesitated delicately before finishing more softly. “…everything.”

A helpless laugh escaped you.

“He’s probably right.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” she laughed. “He’s absolutely right.”

Your gaze shifted toward the bathroom door. Beyond it, the house had settled back into its quiet rhythm. Somewhere down the hallway Spencer was exactly where you had left him. Maybe asleep beneath the comforter. Maybe stubbornly reading every line of his discharge packet despite strict instructions to rest. You could practically picture him with his glasses perched low on his nose, mentally cataloguing recovery statistics instead of allowing himself to simply exist for five uninterrupted minutes.

“I’ll be ready,” you promised.

“You don’t have to impress us,” Penelope replied, her voice gentler now. “We’re coming to see Reid…and maybe confirm neither of you has accidentally burned the house down.”

A genuine laugh slipped free this time.

“I think we can manage that.”

“Mmm.” You could almost hear her grin through the phone. “I’ll reserve judgment until I see the kitchen.”

The call ended with another round of affectionate teasing.

You lowered the phone slowly, your hand lingering around it for a moment as silence reclaimed the bathroom. The mirror in front of you had fogged over completely now, softening your reflection into blurred outlines and muted colors. Even so, you could still make out the evidence the shower had failed to erase. Your cheeks remained flushed despite the freezing water, loose strands of damp hair clung stubbornly to your temples and neck...but no amount of cold water had managed to wash away the memories that lingered beneath your skin.

With a slow sigh, you tightened the towel around yourself before reaching automatically for clean clothes. Familiar motions steadied your hands where your thoughts could not: soft sweater, comfortable jeans and dry socks. The ordinary ritual of getting dressed became something to focus on, each small task another step away from the woman standing beneath the shower only moments ago, remembering kisses she had no business remembering.

Ten minutes.

You should probably warn Spencer.

The thought arrived with enough practicality to interrupt the dangerous direction your mind had been drifting: dinner, just Derek and Penelope, familiar faces and voices. Normality, however temporary, you welcomed the distraction. Taking one final breath, you smoothed invisible wrinkles from the front of your sweater, more out of habit than necessity, before quietly stepping into the hallway.

The bedroom door stood slightly ajar.

You paused outside, lifting your hand to knock softly against the wood despite knowing he would almost certainly tell you to come in anyway.

“Spencer?”

No answer.

“…I’m coming in.”

You pushed the door open carefully.

Spencer was standing beside the bed.

Or, more accurately, trying to.

One hand remained firmly planted against the mattress to steady himself while the other was hopelessly trapped somewhere inside the sleeve of a pale blue button-down that had twisted itself halfway up his injured arm. His hospital sweatpants rested low against his hips, the loose waistband sitting carefully above the thick bandage wrapped around his upper thigh, while the rest of the shirt hung completely open, exposing the pale expanse of his chest and abdomen. And fresh bruises painted themselves across his ribs in uneven shades of violet and yellow, and every few seconds he paused, blinking faintly as though his brain needed another moment to remember how sleeves were supposed to work.

It was strangely endearing.

He looked up the instant he heard the door.

“Oh.”

There wasn’t a trace of embarrassment on his face, only relief.

“I appear to have encountered…” His gaze dropped thoughtfully to the offending sleeve. “…a surprisingly complicated engineering problem.”

The corner of your mouth betrayed you before you could stop it.

“You got stuck putting on a shirt.”

“I did.”

His agreement was so completely sincere, that any teasing remark died before it reached your lips.

“The statistical probability of this occurring under normal neurological conditions,” he continued gravely, giving the twisted sleeve another experimental tug that accomplished absolutely nothing, “is relatively low.”

“But you’re not under normal neurological conditions.”

“No.”

He sighed softly.

“I’m also making a conscious effort not to elevate my right arm beyond approximately forty-five degrees because you specifically instructed me not to.”

Your smile threatened to become an actual laugh.

“I did, didn’t I?”

“You did.”

For a moment neither of you spoke.

The room settled into a gentle silence broken only by the quiet rustle of fabric and Spencer’s careful breathing. Without the distraction of conversation, your eyes finally lingered on him properly.

His curls were still damp from the shower, darker than usual where they curled untidily against his forehead and temples. Tiny droplets continued their slow journey down the graceful line of his neck, slipping across his collarbone before disappearing beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. You noticed the faint tension around his mouth every time he shifted his weight, the careful way he unconsciously favored one side.

He looked so tired that your chest tightened painfully.

“May I…” Spencer hesitated and his fingers loosening around the stubborn fabric before he lifted his eyes to yours. “…ask for assistance?”

You didn’t answer with words and simply crossed the room before he had the chance to regret asking.

“Turn around.”

He obeyed immediately.

The mattress shifted softly as he pivoted, careful of his balance, until his back was facing you. Standing this close to him again felt profoundly unfair, close enough to catch the clean scent of his shampoo mingling with the sterile trace of antiseptic ointment lingering around the bandage on his upper arm. If you leaned forward the smallest fraction, your forehead would rest naturally between his shoulder blades, exactly where it had countless times before.

You refused to let yourself think about that.

Instead, you focused on the shirt tangled stubbornly around his arm.

“Relax your shoulder,” you murmured, already gathering the twisted fabric between your fingers.

“I’m trying.”

Very carefully, you eased the sleeve down over the thick white bandage, lifting the fabric millimeter by millimeter so it wouldn’t catch against the gauze. Your fingertips barely grazed his skin, more conscious of where you weren’t touching than where you were. Every adjustment required you to stay close enough to feel the slow rise and fall of his breathing beneath your hands.

Spencer remained perfectly still, just as he always had.

It had always been like this with you. Whether you were standing in front of him before an FBI banquet, frowning in concentration as you straightened the knot of his tie because he insisted yours somehow always looked better, brushing away invisible flecks of lint from the shoulders of his jacket before a case, or sitting cross-legged on the living room floor with one of his favorite cardigans pooled across your lap while you patiently stitched together the sleeve he’d torn climbing a fence after a foot pursuit, Spencer had never once flinched beneath your hands.

Now, once his injured arm was finally eased through the sleeve, the rest came naturally. You guided his other hand into the fabric with care before lifting the shirt over his shoulders, settling it carefully against his back. The cotton fell into place with only a few stubborn wrinkles remaining, and almost without thinking, your palms smoothed over them in slow strokes, flattening the fabric the same way you had done hundreds of times before.

“There,” you murmured softly.

Spencer turned to face you, allowing you to finish what you had started. The shirt still hung open, revealing the pale skin beneath and the fresh bandage wrapped around his shoulder. Your fingers found the first button automatically. Then the second. Then the third. One by one, you worked your way upward with precision, each button sliding through its place beneath fingertips that remembered the task far better than your mind wanted to admit.

By the time you reached the last button, there was nothing left to fix.

The shirt sat perfectly against his chest. Every crease had been smoothed away. Every edge lay exactly where it belonged.

You should have stepped back.

Instead, your hands remained there.

Your fingertips rested lightly against the soft cotton over his heart, feeling the steady rhythm beneath it. Perhaps it was truly his heartbeat...or it was only your own pulse echoing loudly enough to convince you it belonged to him. You couldn’t tell anymore.

Only then did you realize how close you had drifted.

Close enough to count the impossibly long lashes resting against his cheeks. Close enough to notice the tiny scar tucked beneath his jaw, the one you’d kissed absentmindedly so many times throughout your marriage that you’d eventually stopped seeing it altogether. Close enough to catch the faint scent of cedar soap lingering in his damp curls, fresh from the shower.

A loose curl had fallen across his forehead and before you could think better of it, your hand lifted entirely on instinct.

You brushed it back with a tenderness so deeply ingrained it no longer felt like a conscious decision. Your fingers slipped gently through the still-damp curls before settling for the briefest moment against the side of his face, your thumb barely grazing his cheekbone and his eyes closed.

When Spencer finally opened his eyes again, they didn’t wander. They found yours immediately, searching your face with a softness that felt almost vulnerable, as though he were looking for evidence that this wasn’t another concussion-induced dream. Neither of you spoke. Neither of you seemed capable of it. So the silence stretched between you, delicate enough that even breathing felt like it might disturb it.

Then, so carefully it felt more like a question than a movement, Spencer lowered his forehead until it rested lightly against yours.

You didn’t pull away and your noses brushed, featherlight, and for one suspended moment the rest of the world simply ceased to exist. His breathing mingled with yours in slow rhythms, his eyelashes rested against his cheeks once more, eyes closed as though he couldn’t bear to look at you and risk discovering you’d disappeared and the distance between your mouths dwindled until there was almost nothing left of it, only the smallest sliver of trembling air separating two people who had once known each other so completely that kisses had never required thought.

“You…” Spencer whispered, your name caught somewhere behind the single broken word, his voice little more than a breath that ghosted across your lips.

One of his hands lifted hesitantly, slowly enough that you could see him thinking through every inch of the movement. It trembled hovering beside your waist without quite daring to touch you. His fingers curled faintly in empty air, stopping just short of your sweater, waiting for a permission neither of you knew how to ask for.

Oh.

And then the doorbell rang.

The sharp sound cracked through the silence with almost violent force, followed immediately by the unmistakable boom of Morgan’s voice from the front porch.

“Pretty boy! If you’re unconscious again, I’m kicking this door down!”

The moment shattered so completely it almost hurt.

You stepped back too quickly, your hand slipping from Spencer’s cheek as though waking from a dream. His own hand dropped immediately to his side before it had ever reached you, fingers curling into his palm instead. And for a heartbeat neither of you moved, you simply stared at one another, both trying to remember how to exist inside a room that suddenly felt ordinary again.

“I…” You cleared your throat, though it did nothing to steady your voice. “They’re here for dinner.”

Spencer blinked once, twice, as though the sentence had to travel a much greater distance than it should before making sense.

“…Right.”

Another impatient knock rattled the front door.

“Derek Morgan,” Penelope called over his shoulder, “stop traumatizing the recovering patient!”

A small breath escaped you, somewhere between relief and disappointment, because the interruption had arrived at exactly the wrong moment…or perhaps exactly the right one. You weren’t sure anymore.

“I’ll let them in.”

You had almost reached the doorway when Spencer spoke again.

“Thank you.”

You looked back.

He wasn’t talking about the shirt.

But you simply offered a small nod before leaving the room, carrying the weight of another unspoken conversation with you as Morgan knocked dramatically for what was undoubtedly the third time.

***

The front door had barely swung halfway open before Penelope swept inside in a whirl of bright colors and floral perfume, two grocery bags hanging from her wrists and somehow still managing to gesture animatedly while she talked. Behind her came Morgan, nudging the door shut with his foot as he balanced enough takeout containers to feed an entire squad rather than the handful of people expected for dinner.

“There they are!” Penelope announced triumphantly, already smiling before she’d properly crossed the threshold.

Then she stopped.

“…Huh.”

You frowned before you could stop yourself.

“What?”

Penelope didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she continued studying the two of you with the exaggerated seriousness of someone examining evidence at a crime scene.

“You both look…” She narrowed her eyes dramatically. “…different.”

Morgan finally looked up from the stack of containers he’d been carefully preventing from collapsing, following Penelope’s line of sight. His gaze landed on Spencer first, then shifted to you, lingering just long enough for a slow grin to begin spreading across his face.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I was just about to say the exact same thing.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you replied a little too quickly.

“Uh-huh,” Morgan drawled.

Penelope abandoned the grocery bags on the entry table and wandered closer, circling the two of you with the kind of open curiosity that only she could somehow make seem affectionate rather than invasive. She hummed softly to herself as though mentally cataloguing every tiny inconsistency.

“Okay…” she murmured. “Let’s see…Spencer’s wearing a clean shirt.” Her finger lifted thoughtfully. “Which is impressive considering a few days ago he could barely lift one arm.” Another finger. “And…”

Her smile widened.

“Your hair’s wet.”

You instinctively reached for it and your fingertips found damp strands immediately.

“It hasn’t dried yet.”

“No,” Penelope agreed brightly. “It really hasn’t.”

Morgan’s attention shifted to Spencer, whose curls were still dark with moisture despite his best efforts to towel them dry. A tiny bead of water escaped one stubborn curl near his temple, tracing a slow path down the side of his neck before disappearing beneath the neatly buttoned collar of his shirt.

Morgan watched it happen and his grin became positively dangerous.

“And his hair’s still dripping.”

Spencer, entirely unaware of the significance of the observation, reached up absently to smooth the offending curl back into place.

Morgan’s eyes flicked between the two of you again.

“Were you two showering?”

Your heartbeat climbed into your throat.

“No,” you answered instantly.

“Well…” Spencer began at exactly the same time.

Both of you stopped.

Morgan’s eyebrows climbed so high they practically disappeared beneath his curls, while Penelope clapped both hands over her mouth in delighted horror.

“Oh,” she breathed. “Oh, this just became significantly more interesting.”

“I helped him shower,” you corrected immediately, the words tumbling over one another with enough speed that even you knew it sounded suspicious. Folding your arms across your chest, you forced yourself to slow down. “His stitches weren’t supposed to get wet, and the doctor specifically said someone needed to supervise him because of the concussion—”

Morgan nodded solemnly through the entire explanation.

“Perfectly reasonable.”

Relief began settling into your chest.

Then—

“I just hope nothing happened that elevated his heart rate.”

Your head snapped toward him.

“Derek.”

“What?” he asked with flawless innocence, adjusting the stack of takeout containers in his arms. “I’m talking about the patient’s recovery.” He turned toward Spencer with exaggerated professionalism. “So…how was the assistance?”

Spencer blinked.

Then, with complete sincerity that only made everything worse, he answered, “It was very helpful.”

Morgan barked out a laugh.

Penelope made a sound somewhere between a squeal and a cackle before immediately rescuing you from the conversation, slipping her arm through yours and steering you toward the kitchen before you could formulate a rebuttal.

“Come on,” she declared, patting your arm with exaggerated sympathy. “Let’s leave the children unsupervised while we find plates.”

“I’m older than both of you,” Morgan called after her.

“Yes,” Penelope replied over her shoulder without missing a beat as she opened the first cabinet she came across. “And somehow you’ve made that everyone else’s problem.”

The two of you disappeared into the kitchen, cabinet doors opening and closing as Penelope accepted the stack of plates from your hands. The kitchen looked almost untouched by time, with the pale blue kettle still rested on the stove beneath the little shelf Spencer had insisted on building himself despite having absolutely no business handling power tools. Even the tiny chip in the corner of the butcher block remained exactly where it had always been after the two of you had accidentally dropped an entire cast-iron skillet during your first attempt at making homemade pasta. Most people would’ve looked at the room and simply seen a kitchen but Penelope saw six years of your life.

“It’s almost exactly the same,” she murmured, the observation slipping from her lips so quietly it barely sounded like a question.

You followed her gaze almost reluctantly. It wasn’t that you hadn’t noticed before. Time had moved forward everywhere else but inside these walls, it had simply…settled.

“I suppose it is.”

Penelope looked at you then, studying your face with the kind of gentle concern only someone who had known you for years could wear.

“I thought you would’ve sold it.”

A quiet laugh escaped through your nose, though there wasn’t much humor in it.

“So did everyone else.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No.”

The answer came easily.

You reached into the drawer for the cutlery, carefully separating forks from knives more because your hands needed something to do than because the task required any concentration.

“I bought an apartment instead.”

Penelope blinked.

“I know that,” she said. “But why keep both?”

Your hands slowed.

“It’s closer to work,” you answered first, almost automatically. “The apartment makes more sense. It’s twenty minutes from the courthouse instead of almost an hour. I practically live there now. But this place…” You said and glanced around the room again. “I couldn’t sell it.”

Penelope waited.

“It wasn’t because of Spencer.” Your fingertips rested against the edge of the counter, tracing absent circles across the wood worn smooth by years of dinners, paperwork, birthday cakes, late-night coffee and ordinary conversations. “I mean, my life happened here, so much of who I became happened inside this house.”

Your eyes wandered toward the dining room.

“I passed the bar while living here, and I painted that wall three different colors before deciding I liked the first one after all.” You shook your head softly. “I planted those herbs because I thought keeping basil alive couldn’t possibly be that difficult.”

Penelope smiled.

“I loved my husband and being married.” You added and your fingers curled against the countertop. “I’m not going to erase six years of my life because they ended badly.”

Penelope reached out instinctively, but you shook your head before she could touch your hand.

“Honey...”

“No.” You stopped her and smiled sadly before she could say anything else. “I know where this conversation is going.”

“Do you?”

“You think this…” You gestured vaguely toward the living room where Spencer and Morgan’s voices drifted faintly through the wall. “…means something.”

“I think,” Penelope corrected softly, “that he still looks at you like you’re the first beautiful thing he’s ever seen.”

You looked away.

“That doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to him.”

“It didn’t matter enough.” You inhaled slowly. “He left.” Your voice remained calm, almost frighteningly so. “He looked me in the eye, signed divorce papers, and walked away.”

Your gaze settled on the wedding photograph that no longer sat on the sideboard because you’d packed it away months ago.

“I begged him to stay.”

Penelope closed her eyes briefly.

“I remember.”

“And he still left.”

You shook your head.

“So whatever he felt…” Your voice caught for the first time. “…it wasn’t enough.”

Penelope stepped closer. “He loves you.”

You laughed softly.

“If that’s what love looks like…” Your eyes stung. “I don’t think I want it anymore.”

The words hung between you, heavy and terrible.

After a long silence, you forced yourself to straighten the stack of plates, needing the distraction.

“I’m taking care of him because he’s hurt.”

Penelope didn’t answer.

“He’ll recover.” You picked up the serving bowl and started toward the dining room. “He’ll go home and I’ll go back to my apartment.”

Penelope watched you for a long moment before speaking, her voice so gentle it almost broke your heart.

“Oh, sweetheart…”

You stopped, but you didn’t turn around.

“That man doesn’t need a nurse. I think he just needs you.”

You closed your eyes.

“Let’s talk about something else,” you said suddenly, forcing another smile onto your face before she could answer. It settled on your lips too easily, practiced from years spent standing in courtrooms where feelings were liabilities instead of truths. “How’s your life going?”

Penelope looked at you for a long moment.

She knew that smile.

It was the one you wore whenever you had already made up your mind. The one that politely informed everyone around you that the discussion was over, whether they agreed or not. She had watched you use it on stubborn witnesses, difficult judges, reporters outside courthouses, and, years ago, on Spencer himself whenever you refused to let him know how frightened you really were.

So she let the subject die.

“Oh, don’t get me started,” she sighed dramatically, accepting your escape with theatrical reluctance as she reached for the serving bowl in your hands. “My dating life continues to resemble an FBI behavioral profile titled Serial Disappointments.”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

“That bad?”

“Sweetie, at this point I’m considering marrying my computer. At least it already knows all my passwords.”

The laughter that followed was quieter than before, but genuine enough to drift through the open doorway separating the kitchen from the living room. It mingled with the clink of ceramic plates, the scrape of silverware against the countertop, cabinet doors closing softly, and the low whistle of the old kettle settling on the stove after being nudged aside. For a brief moment, the house sounded almost exactly as it used to.

Alive.

The sound carried farther than either of you realized.

Out in the living room, Morgan’s shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly as your laughter reached him through the hallway. He waited until your voices dissolved back into indistinct conversation before turning away from the kitchen and looking across the room at Spencer.

“So.”

Spencer looked up from where he’d been staring toward the hallway for the better part of five minutes.

“So.”

Morgan leaned back against the couch, crossing one ankle over the other as though the conversation were casual.

“How’s it going?”

Spencer instinctively reached toward the bandage on his arm before stopping himself.

“The headache’s improving. The dizziness is mostly positional now. My short-term recall appears unaffected despite the initial concussion symptoms, although I suspect the fatigue will—”

Morgan held up a hand.

“I’m not talking about that.”

“No?” Spencer frowned.

“No.”

Morgan gestured subtly toward the kitchen, where the muffled sound of you and Penelope debating where the serving bowls were kept floated through the house.

“I’m talking about…that.”

Understanding dawned slowly.

“…Oh.”

Morgan settled into the armchair opposite him.

“So?”

“I don’t know.” Spencer said and looked toward the kitchen doorway without really seeing it.

“You don’t know how it’s going?”

“I don’t know what it means.” His voice had quieted considerably. “She’s being kind.”

Morgan nodded.

“But she would’ve done this for anyone.” Spencer added.

“Doubt it.”

Spencer finally looked at him.

“She would’ve helped anyone. We know she’s that kind of person.” Morgan started and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “But she didn’t bring just anyone home, she brought you.”

Morgan didn’t answer immediately.

He simply sat there, elbows resting against his knees, listening as another burst of your laughter drifted from the kitchen. It was softer this time, almost muffled beneath the sound of cabinet doors opening and Penelope’s dramatically offended voice insisting that you had absolutely moved the serving bowls since the last time she’d been here. Spencer smiled before he realized he was doing it, the expression appearing so naturally that it seemed completely disconnected from conscious thought. It was small, but Morgan caught it anyway.

“You still look for her,” he said quietly.

Spencer didn’t answer.

His eyes remained fixed on the kitchen doorway, not really looking at it anymore but listening, waiting for the next sound of your voice the way someone waits for a familiar song to begin again.

“You hear her laugh,” Morgan continued after a moment, “and you stop listening to everything else in the room. You’ve been doing it all evening.”

Spencer lowered his gaze to his hands, fingers absently turning the edge of the blanket draped across his lap. For a long moment he seemed determined not to respond, as though silence alone might be enough to keep everything inside him contained. When he finally spoke, his voice had dropped so low Morgan almost had to lean forward to hear it.

“I never stopped loving her.”

There wasn’t any drama in the confession.

No tears or visible breaking apart.

And Morgan wasn’t surprised.

He’d known long before the divorce papers had ever been signed. He’d known because he’d watched Spencer stay at Quantico long after everyone else had gone home, volunteering for every case that crossed the bullpen whether the team needed him or not. He’d watched him bury himself beneath reports, research, lectures, consultations and anything that filled enough hours to postpone returning to an apartment that had become unbearably empty. He’d watched him show up to Rossi’s Sunday dinners with the same polite smile every week, only to spend the evening unconsciously staring at the chair where you used to sit before eventually inventing an excuse about paperwork or an early meeting and leaving before dessert was served. And Morgan had seen heartbreak before. Hell, he’d lived through his own.

But Spencer hadn’t healed from losing you.

He had simply become frighteningly efficient at functioning while carrying the wound.

“I kept waiting for it to get smaller,” Spencer admitted, still staring down at his hands. His thumb drifted unconsciously over the scar across the back of one of them. “People always say grief changes. That eventually it becomes…manageable.” A humorless laugh escaped him. “I thought I’d stop walking past bookstores and wondering whether she’d already bought whatever was in the front window before I had a chance to recommend it.” His voice caught almost imperceptibly. “I thought eventually I’d stop missing her every time the world reminded me she existed.”

Morgan let him speak.

He knew Spencer well enough to recognize how rare this was. Spencer didn’t confess things. He analyzed them, categorized them, buried them beneath statistics and probabilities until they became manageable enough to survive.

“I kept working,” Spencer continued quietly. “More cases. More lectures. More consultations. It made sense mathematically. The fewer hours I spent alone, the fewer opportunities I’d have to think about…” His voice faded. “…her.”

Morgan nodded slowly.

“I know.”

“No.” Spencer shook his head. “I don’t think anyone did.”

Morgan looked at him carefully.

“So why’d you leave?”

Spencer didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, his eyes settled on the scar crossing the back of his own hand, his thumb absently tracing it.

“My mother’s neurologist changed her medication.”

Morgan remembered.

He remembered every frantic phone call Spencer had excused with, “It’s nothing.” Every morning he’d arrived at Quantico looking like he hadn’t slept. Every case where his coffee had gone cold because he’d spent the night in a hospital chair instead of his own bed. He remembered watching Spencer lose weight without seeming to notice, watching exhaustion settle permanently beneath his eyes while he insisted everything was under control.

“It stopped working,” Spencer murmured, his attention never leaving the scar beneath his fingertips. “Around the same time… I started getting migraines.”

“You never told anybody.”

“I told myself they were stress.”

“Were they?”

A bitter smile crossed Spencer’s face.

“I still don’t know.”

Silence stretched between them.

“My memory is…” Spencer swallowed, searching for words he had probably never imagined saying out loud. “It’s the only thing I’ve ever trusted about myself. Intelligence changes. Knowledge expands. Skills deteriorate if you don’t practice them. But memory…” His eyes finally lifted, hollow with something Morgan had never seen in them before. “Memory has always been the constant. It’s who I am.”

Morgan didn’t interrupt.

“Then one morning I walked into Hotch’s office…” Spencer’s expression unfocused, replaying the memory with agonizing clarity. “I reached for the doorknob, walked inside…” His breathing caught almost imperceptibly. “…and I couldn’t remember why I’d gone there.”

He laughed once, but it sounded broken.

“It lasted three seconds.”

Morgan didn’t interrupt.

“Three seconds,” Spencer repeated, almost to himself. “Objectively insignificant. Most people would’ve forgotten it happened before lunch.”

“But you couldn’t.”

“Because I couldn’t afford to.”

His fingers tightened until the tendons in his hand stood out beneath his skin.

“After that…” He exhaled slowly. “I started watching myself.”

The confession sounded almost ashamed.

“Every headache became evidence. Every forgotten word. Every misplaced file. Every moment I lost my train of thought halfway through a sentence.” His jaw tightened. “Every time I walked into a room and needed a second to remember why.”

His breathing became slow, deliberate.

“I was profiling myself.”

Morgan felt something twist painfully in his chest.

“I made lists and I tracked sleep deprivation, migraine frequency, vocabulary retrieval, episodic recall, processing speed.” Spencer’s voice had become frighteningly clinical, as though retreating into science somehow made the memories less terrifying. “I compared my cognitive performance against my own baselines.”

“And what did you find?”

“I found exactly what fear wanted me to find.”

Another burst of laughter floated from the kitchen.

Without thinking, Spencer turned toward the sound.

“When she’d talk about our future…” His entire expression softened before grief quietly erased it again. “She’d already picked baby names.”

Morgan closed his eyes briefly.

“She wanted a little boy who looked like me.” A faint smile appeared despite everything. “She used to wonder whether he’d inherit my curls or her smile. Whether he’d spend afternoons buried in libraries because of me or come home covered in paint because of her.”

The smile vanished.

“And all I could think about…” His voice almost disappeared. “…was whether he’d inherit schizophrenia.”

A long pause.

“Or Alzheimer’s.”

The living room became impossibly still.

“I stopped imagining birthdays.”

His gaze drifted somewhere far beyond the room.

“I started imagining neurologists.”

Morgan said nothing.

“I couldn’t stop seeing her twenty years from now.”

“Forty.”

“It didn’t matter.” Spencer’s voice was barely audible now. “Every version ended the same way.”

His throat tightened.

“I kept seeing her sitting beside my hospital bed exactly the way I used to sit beside my mother’s.” His eyes closed. “Watching me disappear a little at a time. Correcting my memory. Introducing herself to me over and over until one day…” His voice broke for the first time. “…until one day I forgot she had ever been my wife.”

The silence that followed felt sacred.

“I loved her too much to ask her to survive that.”

“I know,” Morgan said softly.

Relief flickered across Spencer’s face, but it lasted less than a second.

“But that’s not what happened.”

Spencer frowned.

“You didn’t save her from watching you get sick.” Morgan leaned forward, his voice calm but unyielding. “You made her watch the man she loved walk away without giving her a reason.”

The words landed with visible force.

“You didn’t spare her grief, Reid.” Morgan shook his head slowly. “You just chose a different version of it.”

Spencer looked away.

“You know what she spent the last two years believing?”

Nothing.

“She believed she wasn’t enough.”

Spencer shut his eyes.

“She believed somewhere along the way you stopped choosing her. That every promise you made together meant less to you than it did to her.” Morgan’s own voice thickened despite himself. “She came to me, you know.”

Spencer looked up.

“She asked if I’d noticed when you started pulling away. Asked if maybe there’d been someone else.” He shook his head slowly. “She kept trying to find a reason because the truth made even less sense.”

Spencer’s face folded inward.

Morgan had seen Spencer cry but somehow this was worse because there weren’t any tears. Just the horrifying realization that every nightmare he’d imagined for you had been replaced by one he’d never considered.

“I thought…” He whispered.

“I know what you thought.”

Morgan’s eyes glistened.

“You thought if she hated you, it’d be easier for her to move on.”

Silence settled heavily over the room.

Morgan let it before he asked quietly,

“Did she?”

Spencer couldn’t answer.

Because less than thirty minutes earlier, you’d stood beneath the shower with sleeves rolled to your elbows, carefully washing his hair so he wouldn’t reopen his stitches. Because you’d buttoned his shirt with hands that still knew him by memory and when he nearly kissed you, you’d almost let him.

Morgan already knew the answer.

“You were wrong.”

Spencer inhaled shakily, his shoulders sagging beneath a weight that suddenly seemed too heavy to carry anymore.

“So…” he asked quietly. “…what am I supposed to do now?”

Morgan looked toward the kitchen where your laughter drifted through the house once again, familiar enough to make the years between then and now disappear for just a moment.

“For the first time in two years,” he said, “stop deciding what’s best for her and use this opportunity to fix it.”

He looked back at Spencer.

“She deserved the truth before you left.”

A pause settled between them before Morgan finished, his voice softer than it had been all evening.

“And if you still love her as much as I know you do…” he said, “…then stop protecting her from a future that doesn’t exist yet and let her decide whether it’s one she’s willing to face with you.”

Spencer stared at him for a long moment before quietly shaking his head.

“Telling her doesn’t change genetics.”

Morgan’s expression softened with something painfully close to pity, but before either of them could say another word, Penelope’s voice carried brightly through the house, cutting effortlessly through the heaviness that had settled over the living room.

“Dinner’s ready! And if you boys don’t get in here in the next thirty seconds, I’m declaring the garlic bread legally abandoned!”

Morgan exhaled through his nose, a sound that might have been a laugh under different circumstances, and pushed himself to his feet. As he passed, he rested a hand against Spencer’s uninjured shoulder, giving it one firm squeeze that lingered just long enough to say everything words no longer could.

“Think about what I said.”

Then he disappeared toward the kitchen, where the warmth of conversation swallowed him almost immediately.

Spencer stayed where he was, only for a few seconds.

Eventually, he stood, careful not to pull too hard against the stitches beneath the fresh bandage. His shoulder protested immediately, the sharp ache radiating down his arm as the lingering concussion left the room swaying almost imperceptibly around him. Under any other circumstances he would have catalogued the symptoms automatically because physical injuries had always obeyed rules, they announced themselves honestly and could be measured, monitored, predicted. Bones knitted. Skin scarred. Neurons recovered. Given enough time, the body almost always found a way to heal itself.

The human heart, he had learned too late, followed no such science.

By the time he reached the dining room, everyone had already slipped into the effortless rhythm they used to share every Sunday evening, as though years had collapsed into minutes while he had remained behind in another lifetime. Penelope was animatedly recounting how she had apparently searched five different cabinets for serving bowls that had been sitting directly in front of her the entire time, accusing the kitchen itself of malicious intent while Morgan laughed so hard he nearly dropped his fork trying to defend the cabinetry. You sat across from her shaking your head with that helpless, affectionate smile you had never quite managed to hide whenever Penelope committed herself wholeheartedly to complete nonsense.

Nobody realized Spencer had stopped in the doorway.

So, for a brief moment, he simply watched.

The dining room glowed beneath the warm light suspended above the table. Steam curled lazily upward from the food Morgan and Penelope had brought, carrying the scent of roasted garlic, rosemary, butter and fresh bread through the house. Someone reached across the table for the pepper. Glasses clinked gently together.

It was ordinary.

Ordinary in the quiet ways that had once made Spencer believe this life could never disappear. There had been a time when he assumed evenings like this would simply continue indefinitely, accumulating one after another until they became decades.

Oh.

Then you looked up.

The moment your eyes found him, you smiled automatically, the expression arriving before thought ever had the chance to intervene. Without interrupting your conversation with Penelope, your foot hooked gently around the empty chair beside you, pulling it away from the table just enough that he wouldn’t have to wrestle with it using one injured arm. It was an almost invisible movement, so absentminded that no one else even noticed it had happened.

Spencer did.

Because he remembered the first time you had done it when he had thanked you.

You had laughed and told him that married people eventually stopped thanking each other for things like that because love, after enough years, stopped announcing itself. It became instinct and lived in gestures so ordinary they disappeared almost as quickly as they happened. A mug of tea already waiting before the other person realized they wanted one. Picking up their favorite cereal during grocery shopping without checking the pantry first. Straightening a crooked tie in the middle of a conversation neither of you would remember the next day. Sliding out a chair because your body had memorized someone else’s comfort long before your mind thought about it.

Love had never lived inside declarations, it had always hidden itself inside habit.

His chest tightened so suddenly it became difficult to tell whether the ache came from grief or from the bruising beneath his ribs.

Because your body remembered him, even after everything.

You were still quietly dividing the food into portions before anyone asked. Still passing Morgan the pepper without him reaching for it because you knew he’d want it eventually. Still carefully avoiding the mushrooms on Penelope’s plate because she insisted she hated them unless they were chopped so finely she couldn’t identify them. Still noticing that Spencer’s glass was empty before he’d realized it himself, your hand already reaching for the pitcher without interrupting the conversation unfolding around you.

You had loved people for so long that kindness had become involuntary.

You had loved him for so long that caring for him still happened before you remembered you weren’t supposed to anymore.

Only then did Spencer move, lowering himself carefully into the chair beside you. The movement pulled uncomfortably against the stitches beneath the fresh bandage, but before he had even settled completely, you had already turned toward him.

“Does your arm hurt?”

The question was so simple that it almost undid him.

Not Why did you leave me? Not Why wasn’t I enough? Not Did you ever stop loving me? There was no accusation hidden beneath your voice, no bitterness sharpened into politeness, no attempt to collect the explanations you had deserved two years ago and never received. You looked at him with nothing more complicated than concern, as though the first thing that mattered after everything that had happened was whether he was in pain.

He wondered, with a guilt so profound it bordered on unbearable, how someone whose heart he had broken so completely still instinctively reached for his wounds before her own.

For as long as Spencer could remember, his life had been governed by a single certainty: every mystery surrendered eventually to knowledge. Every impossible equation possessed an answer whether humanity had discovered it yet or not. Every cipher could be broken, every pattern understood, every unanswered question yielded eventually to enough intelligence. It was the principle that had shaped him long before the FBI, long before profiling. When his mother became ill, he had met terror the only way he knew how. He had read every paper ever published on schizophrenia and Alzheimer’s, memorized neurological pathways until he could sketch them from memory, devoured clinical trials, inheritance models, molecular studies, experimental therapies. He had learned languages simply because another country’s research might contain a sentence no one had translated yet. Somewhere, he had believed it with the stubborn conviction only geniuses and desperate sons possessed, there had to be an answer hidden inside enough information.

There wasn’t.

For the first time in his life, Spencer Reid had found a problem intelligence could not solve. No theorem could rewrite a strand of DNA. No probability model could bargain with heredity. No amount of brilliance could negotiate with fear. And somewhere between trying to outrun a future that might never come, he had forgotten the one variable he had never had the right to remove from the equation.

You.

His eyes drifted almost involuntarily toward your left hand as you reached across the table for the bread basket, your fingers brushing absentmindedly against Morgan’s before apologizing with a smile that came as naturally to you as breathing.

The ring was gone.

He had been the one who slipped it from your finger in a lawyer’s office that smelled faintly of coffee and old paper, convincing himself that every signature he placed on those documents was another act of love. He remembered how cold your hands had been that day. He remembered noticing the pale indentation the band had left behind after years against your skin and wondering, absurdly, how long it would take for it to disappear.

He knew now.

Two years.

Long enough for the mark to fade, but not nearly long enough for the absence to stop hurting.

Yet memory betrayed reality with effortless precision. And for one impossible heartbeat he saw the gold band exactly where it had belonged, catching the warm dining room light as you laughed over something Penelope had said, your fingers colliding with his while both of you reached for the last piece of bread. He remembered saving part of every paycheck because nothing displayed beneath those jewelry store lights had ever seemed worthy enough of you. He remembered visiting three different shops before finding the one you had insisted was “far too expensive,” only for you to burst into tears when he opened the little velvet box because, in your own words, it looked like forever.

Forever.

Such a deceptively simple word.

Such an impossible promise.

For someone who had built his entire identity around certainty, forever should have been the easiest concept to reject. There was no mathematical proof for permanence. Entropy alone guaranteed that everything eventually unraveled. Stars exhausted themselves. Languages died. Civilizations disappeared beneath the earth. Every statistical model pointed toward impermanence.

And yet…he had believed in forever the moment you slid that ring onto your finger.

Not because the odds supported it.

Because you did.

The laughter around the table continued uninterrupted. Morgan was insisting he’d only taken one potato while Penelope accused him of crimes against carbohydrates with the theatrical indignation only she could manage. You quietly reached across the table to refill Spencer’s glass without asking if he wanted more water, your hand finding the pitcher almost before he’d realized it was empty. It was such an ordinary gesture that no one else noticed.

You had loved him for so long that your body still remembered him, even when your heart had every reason to forget. And that, more than anything Morgan had said, became the realization Spencer could not survive.

Because the future he had spent two years trying to protect you from had never arrived. Instead, he had created one infinitely crueler.

He had feared a disease that might one day make him forget the woman he loved, so he had left while he still remembered her perfectly.

As conversation carried on around him and warmth filled every corner of the room, Spencer found himself wondering whether every great tragedy began the same way: not with cruelty, nor hatred, nor even the absence of love, but with one terrified person convincing themselves that destroying something beautiful today was kinder than risking its loss tomorrow.

He had spent years believing the cruelest inheritance his family carried was written into its genes.

He knew better now.

Fear could be inherited too.

And unlike every illness he had ever devoted his life to understanding, this one had no treatment, no trial, no cure waiting somewhere inside another language, another country, another forgotten journal article.

Because this disease had never lived inside his blood, it had lived inside a single decision and he would carry its symptoms for the rest of his life.

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You must look like a corpse, next to him; it's a wonder he doesn't shit the bed when he wakes up beside you each morning.

But Spencer Reid has looked at you the same way since the day you met; like he worships you. 

It was disconcerting at first, but you grew used to it. In all fairness, it wasn't like you had much choice, not when he insisted on lingering at the peripheral of your life, buying your coffees and walking you to your office even though it was two floors up from the BAU and totally, definitely not stalking you. (You called him out on it once. He almost cried, but he backed off. Kept his distance until you realised you actually missed having him around, and the rest is history. You still debate what you'll tell your grandkids when they ask how you met; whether you'll stick with the facts or try to paint Grandpa Reid in a less…unconventional light, if such a thing is even possible.)

It still gets you, every now and then. Especially in the early mornings when you feel like you've been dragged backwards through a bush and he looks like sleeping fucking beauty, and he looks at you like he's ready to drop to his knees and kiss your feet. You aren't sure what you did to be loved so fervently; maybe you were a saint in a past life, or something.

"I-I'd rather not get it on your clothes, either," he says, smiling that stupid, sheepish little smile that always makes him look a little fearful, like you might jump up and bite him.

If he thinks he can fool you with his politeness, he's wrong. 

"If you want me to take my shirt off, Spence, you need to ask."

His brows shoot up like you've just accused him of murder. This weak, almost painful sounding scoff forces its way out of him as heat rushes to his cheeks, and he looks around the room in disbelief, as though his neatly put away Doctor Who slippers may come alive and back him up. He seems offended when they don't.

"Spencer."

"Semen contains acids that can stain or discolour fabrics," he says quickly, "I'm just, um, looking out for your shirt. It's a nice shirt. I wouldn't want to ruin it."

You nod along with his explanation, lips pressed into a thin line. It's incredible, really, how he can turn a two minute sexual encounter into a ten minute debate. 

"So, if you could please remove your shirt so we can keep it out of harm's way, then— what are you doing?"

"My knees hurt," you mutter.

Immediately, Spencer's helping you to your feet. "You should sit on the bed," he offers. "Or you could kneel on a pillow, if—"

"Yeah, I have a better idea."

You lead him into the bathroom by the drawstring of his pyjama pants, ignoring how he stammers as you drag him away. By the time you let go, the knot has unravelled, and his pants drop to his ankles in one smooth, almost comical motion. Spencer doesn't try to hold them up; he just stands there, half-naked, almost as bewildered as he is hard.

"…what are we doing?"

He sounds almost hesitant to ask, like your answer will yield something sinister; maybe you keep a butcher knife behind the mirror, or maybe you'll just give him a good old fashioned swirly. 

"Take your shirt off," you instruct, leaning over to turn on the shower, "unless you want it to get wet."

Your non-answer does nothing to clear up his confusion, but Spencer removes his shirt anyway and places it, alongside his pants, in the laundry basket. Neatly folded, right on top of your crumpled clothes from yesterday.

Before he can pester you with any more questions, you take his wrists and guide his hesitant hands down, slowly, to the hem of your shirt. He holds your waist, studying your expression with wide eyes as he pushes the soft fabric up with his thumbs, just enough to expose a sliver of tummy.

"You want me to take it off?" he asks quietly. His words are tinged with disbelief, as though you're bestowing some lavish gift upon him—as though he hasn't seen you naked hundreds of times already.

"You just listed a million reasons why I should," you mutter. "But no, Spence, I just want you to touch it."

Disappointment flickers across his face before he realises you're being sarcastic, and then he huffs. "I listed one reason," he says, lifting your shirt a little further, up to your ribs, "and I was making a valid point. Semen stains are—"

"I've heard enough about semen stains, 'kay?" You pinch his side; he yelps like a kicked puppy. "Shirt. Now."

He doesn't try to bicker with you further, not when you're standing there telling him to undress you. 

Carefully, he slips your shirt off over your head, exposing your skin—you—to the rapidly warming bathroom air. 

His face is obscured by fabric for barely a second, but when you see him again his demeanour has transformed completely. 

His throat bobs, and his tongue pokes out to wet his lips as he takes you in. He's staring, utterly transfixed, at your body. Chest, stomach, hips, all of it. Honestly, by the look on his dumb face you'd think he was seeing God (if God happened to give him a massive erection).

It makes your skin crawl a little, being stared at like this, and you have to fight the instinctual urge to cover yourself under the weight of his adoring gaze. He's studying you like you're a work of art, mouth agape like he's seeing you for the first time. It makes you want to slap him, just a bit.

"…wow."

You scoff and force yourself to look away before you burst into flames. Seriously, it's like he's trying to freak you out.

Spencer's standing with your shirt balled up in his hands, squeezing it like a stress ball, too hypnotised to notice the discomfort simmering deep in your bones. Or maybe he does notice, and that's why he does it; maybe this is some fucked up kind of exposure therapy for your ridiculous fear of being perceived.

"You're so—"

You put an end to his incessant gawking by pulling him into a kiss, and he turns to putty in your hands. He moans against your lips, letting your shirt fall to the floor so he can hold your face, pull you closer, and you let him. Keeping one hand anchored in his hair, you shimmy out of your panties, leaving them discarded on the bathroom floor as you step backwards, dragging him with you.

Without breaking the kiss, the two of you stumble into the shower. Your back meets the wall; the feel of the cold tile against your skin makes you gasp, and the warm intrusion of Spencer's tongue in your mouth makes you moan. How he can go from awkward and nervous to bold and hungry in a matter of seconds is beyond you, but you'll never complain—maybe it's all the steam. 

"Mm…" You pull away, hold him by his jaw as he tries to chase your lips. "You were saying?"

His hair is already drenched. Some strands stick like glue to his forehead, others develop a slight curl, finding their freedom under the spray. He wipes the water from his face but doesn't move out from under the shower head, so he has to do it again; push the droplets from his cheeks like a weaker, wetter Sisyphus. They bead on his eyelashes. Glisten like fresh tears.

"Beautiful," he says, breathless. "You're so beautiful."

He repeats this notion, and variations of it ("Pretty. God, so pretty. My pretty girl. My girl. My—"), until the words slur into melody, too drunk on that steam-kindled reverence for the rules of language to apply. He gets his point across, anyway; both through his fervent praise, and through the firm press of his hips against your stomach. 

That sweet voice muffles as he brings his lips to your neck, but his ramblings do not cease. Vibrations send a shiver down your spine, laced with need and half-facts about attraction and all the parts of the brain that contribute to it. You stop listening after "ventral tegmental area"; he stops trying to explain once he reaches "nucleus accumbens" and instead reverts to his mantra of compliments, which are quickly becoming as irritating as they are superficial.

He always does this; gets ahead of himself, allows that oh so brilliant brain of his to be reduced to mush. His cerebrum shuts down, his frontal lobe goes to sleep; he stops thinking, and starts feeling. And a Spencer Reid driven by nothing but instinct and carnal desire is hardly a Spencer Reid at all; he's a dog, untrained, experiencing his first rut. All slobber and whines, humping anything that moves like he'll die if he doesn't.

"Spence."

Your voice clashes with his songs of praise; threatens to disprove them all with a single, disgruntled utterance, filled with a sigh that speaks far more of boredom than it does of pleasure.

"Spencer."

Again. Firmer. Harsher. Accompanied by a rough tug on sodden chestnut strands and a yelp that reeks of helpless desire. His gaze locks onto yours through the steam as his still parted lips mouth a single, innocent word; "What?"

You feel like an ass. One "bah humbug" away from donning the nightcap and gown and taking up the mantle of the modern day Scrooge, world's worst girlfriend. Spencer's pretty girl is a buzzkill, too high strung to relinquish herself to feeling. Too self-conscious.

"Chill out," you mutter, deaf to the irony of your own words. "And stop— Spencer, stop grinding on me. You'll give me fucking carpet burn."

"But—"

"Please?"

Ice. Buckets of it. You'd think the shower had gone cold with how fast Spencer freezes up.

Bah fucking humbug. 

"I'm sorry," he says. The apology practically leaps from his tongue. A knee-jerk reaction. A dog's guilty look. He doesn't even know he didn't do anything wrong.

I'm too much. You know what he's thinking without him needing to say it. 

Slumping back against the wall, you expel your frustrations through a sigh as you cradle his face. A slight pinch, and his gaze finds yours once more, apologetic. You shake your head—a quick, subtle motion—and let him know, silently, that it isn't him you're frustrated with; it could never be him, not in a million years.

Your thumbs trace circles on his damp, heat-flushed skin, and you tilt your head to the side.

"You think I'm pretty?"

"Yes." He doesn't miss a beat. "Very pretty."

You nod along with his eager compliment, narrowing your eyes. "Is that all you can say?"

"…what do you mean—"

A hand slips down, grasps him by his jaw. Grip firm enough for the skin to blanch under your fingers. "I want you to be specific," you say, keeping your voice soft, barely audible over the sound of running water. "Showering me with basic compliments is sweet and all, but I know you can do better than that. You're supposed to be a smart guy, aren't you?"

"I—" Spencer clears his throat. "…I am a smart guy, yes."

You flash him a smile. Sickly sweet. Almost menacing. "Then act like it."

For a moment, he just stares at you, letting the water drip from his lashes as he studies you like you're some kind of puzzle. "You…you're asking me to—"

"Tell me what you like about me, and why you like it. In detail," you say, feeling your cheeks burn. "Can you do that?"

"Well, yes. But…"

"But?"

"I like everything about you."

You're going to kill him. Cuteness aggression will be a fair defence in court, right?

"Cute." You tighten your grip. His breath catches. "But I'm telling you to do something, Spence. Are you saying no to me?"

He shakes his head against your hand, frantic. "Nonono— I-I'm not saying no, I'd never say— I was just—"

You watch him, brows raised, as he stumbles over his words. His face grows redder, cheeks turning a painful looking shade of crimson, with each passing second until, like a car that can't quite get going, he gives up completely.

The silence stretches out for a moment, then two. His hands settle on your waist, thumbs pressing thoughtfully against the soft skin of your stomach. 

"…I like your thighs," he eventually says.

You knew he'd start there.

"From a, um, biological standpoint…certain fat distribution patterns are subconsciously recognised as a sign of good health and fertility. Fuller thighs specifically are often indicative of a wider pelvic structure, which the human mind associates with, um, lower risks of complications during childbirth, but—" 

He sighs, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips.

"Personally…I like how nice they, um, feel…" His hand slips down to the back of your thigh, and he lifts it, gently. "…under my palms, and— and how gor-gorgeous they look when you— when you wear shorts or skirts— especially when you wear skirts. There's this one miniskirt—the burgundy one—that you wear sometimes, and I just…"

Your grip on his jaw loosens, and he slips free to press his face to your neck as his words fade into nothing; heavy breaths and an earnest, desperate hunger that seeps into your skin, saturates your every inch with a deep, weighted kind of satisfaction. It collects in your core, so pungent it almost makes you sick.

"…keep talking."

Spencer whines into your skin, cock straining against your stomach. His hips shift, a single, helpless thrust, as he whispers a quiet "please".

You take his hand, guide it down between your slick bodies. With your other hand, you pull his hair, forcing him to look at you as you repeat, in a firmer tone:

"Keep talking."

He looks like he might drop to his knees; you can't say you'd have any complaints, if he did. A strangled, needy little whimper escapes him as he wraps his fingers around his cock, and you hold him steady—one hand in his hair, the other cupping his cheek.

"I-I also…um. I like your hips and— and your ass…" He leans into your touch, nuzzling the palm of your hand as he bites his lip to suppress a groan. "A-attraction to those areas are again…influenced by biology—hips, especially. But, God…perfect. You're— have I ever told you how perfect you are?"

The room is starting to tilt, earth shifting to accommodate the electricity between you. Ricocheting from him to you, you to him, voltage doubling with each exchange.

"You have," you say. You're trying to keep the admiration, the weakness, out of your voice, but you're sure it shines through on your face; you're looking at him like he hung the fucking stars. It would be gross, cringe, if it weren't so—

"Perfect." He repeats the word again, voice trembling. "You're so…perfect. I-I don't know what I did to— mhh…"

Moans vibrate around your fingers as you push them into his open mouth, cutting his fluffy ramblings off at the root. He accepts them without complaint, swirling his tongue around your digits as he tugs on his cock, and watching you so intensely you feel you could melt under the heat of his gaze. 

It takes a concentrated effort not to moan yourself as he sucks on your fingers. You pull him closer, touching his forehead to yours as you carefully withdraw your hand, smearing saliva across his lips, his chin, dragging it down to his neck.

"You're so fucking pretty…"

You echo his basic compliments without thought, hypocrisy lost on you, but Spencer doesn't seem to mind. 

"…y-yeah?"

The word "pretty" goes straight to his head; you can see it rewiring his brain, short-circuiting, which doesn't make much sense because you know he's called pretty on regular basis—you've heard it. 

But it's different, when it comes from you. 

Everyone else? What they think isn't important to him. But you?

He needs to hear you say it again.

"Yeah," you murmur, matching his breathy, needy tone—mocking it. "You're my pretty boy, aren't you Spence?"

"Mhm…" He nods feverishly, flicking water onto your face like a badly trained pup. "I'm— I'm your pr-pretty boy…"

"God, and you're so good for me, aren't you? Yeah? You gonna finish for me, puppy? You gonna make a mess?" 

He loses his words then, devolves into whimpers that grow louder as he fucks into his fist, pushing himself closer and closer to that edge, spurred on by the mere sight of you, by the steam and the spray clinging to your skin, the heat that's steadily dissolving the both of you, merging you into one.

You shift your hand, applying the slightest amount of pressure around his throat—and that's all it takes for him to come apart completely. His pretty moans fill the shower as he finishes on your stomach, collapsing against you like his very soul has left his body.

There isn't much you can do to support a man gone limp, not when he's so tall and slippery, so you just wrap your arms around his waist and pray he doesn't pull you down with him. He braces a trembling arm against the tile wall, just about keeping himself upright as he comes floating down from his high. His lips meet your cheek, and he whispers a weak "thank you". 

Thank you. You didn't even touch him.

Spencer catches you rolling your eyes at his gratitude, but he just smiles and plants another kiss on your jaw before leaning down to nuzzle your neck. 

And what he doesn't see—what he'll wish he had seen—is the smile that attacks your face right after. The same as his; raw and gooey, full of so much love it's almost disgusting.

"Come on," you groan, giving the back of his head a light pat. "We've gotta get ready for work—cold shower?"

He nods. You can feel him smiling against your skin. "Cold shower. Please." 

Relief came only from the click of the lock on his door, the scrape of keys hanging from a keychain as one turned, and the soft thud of a bag full of books hitting the entryway floor. Shoes came next, then coat, the familiar routine ending with the flick of a light switch, the dim lamp on the entryway table spilling light across the worn leather of the sofa, catching on the minuscule recesses in the weave of his thick socks, feet draped over the edge of the arm. 

“Sorry I’m so late, I thought I was never going to escape that marking.” 

He offered little but a hum of acknowledgement, still fixed on the dust marks of the ceiling. 

The bustle continued. The bag picked up and deposited on the armchair, the pad of socked feet across the wood, the soft give of the leather and padding under palms, rested there to support weight as lips lowered over the high back, seeking his forehead. 

“Busy brain?” 

“Yeah.” 

A nod, then a retreat to the bedroom. In the silence, he could easily make out the clink of hangers against the closet rail, and the crinkle of the bed sheets as they were pulled back to seek out that evening's pyjamas from their usual spot beneath the pillows. 

“Are you coming?”

There was no need to ask twice. For the first time that evening, he found the will to move easily, shuffling as each step might have been, to the edge of the mattress, and most importantly, the comfort of the open, waiting arms – the balm to his overactive amygdala.

“Come ‘ere, then.” 

One hundred and thirty seconds. 

That was all it took for the scrape of fingernails against his scalp and thump of a heartbeat beneath his cheek for the noise to dampen, the worry to melt. In the tangling of legs, the slip of his hand beneath shirt fabric to the soft, warm skin beneath, Spencer shifted, minute by minute, back to himself. 

“I love you.” The words were nearly lost as his face pressed deeper into the comfort he found in the crook of your neck. His grip tightened.

“I love you too, Spencer.” 

the first time you sleep together, he barely lasts a couple of minutes. he is whimpering and apologising, sorry babbling from his tongue in between rushed self-depreciation, pleading eyes unable to decide if he should look at you or anywhere besides, tears of frustration threatening his lashline. it was nothing a kiss to the tip of his nose didn't solve, with a soft offer of helping you in another way earning you an eager, desperate nod.

he values being fed infomation, however. anything you give him – pointers, whimpers of appreciation, soft moans and sighs of his name, anything that tells him what you enjoy is catalogued away, saved for later, repeated and perfected with every round, each night (and morning) spent tangled together.

spencer prefers any position where he can see your face. it isn't some odd profiler trait, as he has had to assure you – he is not trying to read your reactions (most of the time), but he does like to see them. to watch the way your eyes roll or flutter, or the tug of your lip between your teeth.

he also loves to be able to kiss you – to capture your lips with his and swallow your sighs and gasps, to feel the hum of your groans against his tongue as you unravel above or below him, his brow furrowed with the concentration of driving his hips into you.

speaking of above him, the moment you straddle him, he is a complacent mess. his hands are roaming every inch of available skin, fussing over your hips and thighs, trailing along the curve of your stomach and chest, settling against your waist. he is fighting to keep his eyes open to watch the way you grind against him and bounce in his lap.

as a serial fidgeter, his fingers almost never tire. it's a true blessing, the way his fingers can circle at the ridges of your clit for what feels like hours without relenting. the dextrous length of them dipping and curling into you intently, finding your sweet spots perfectly and using them to his full advantage.

there are very few sights prettier than when he lifts his head from between your thighs, his chin smeared with your slick, cheeks flushed, lips plump from the effort of suckling your clit and lapping at your mess, his wet fingers squeezing at the plush of your thigh as he asks if 'that was alright?'

verbal by nature, spencer is not quiet in bed. if he is not whimpering, voice cracking with the feeling of you squeezing him, then he is seeking reassurance. the boy thrives on praise – he's asking if something feels good, muttering about how perfect you feel, how lucky he is, repeating how he loves you like a litany. he just wants to do well for you.

similarly, don't expect sex without statistics. little distracts this man from his facts, and while his mind might be blank enough in the moment, the minutes following are fraught with them. when you're pulled into his chest, or you lay panting beside him in his sheets, there will be a line about how cunnilingus can improve emotional wellbeing for both participants, or the 'chemical cocktail' released by climax.

aftercare is a big deal for him. he is fastidious, pressing a cloth between your legs gently, urging you up on shaky legs to pee so you do not risk a uti, kissing over any marks left when his better senses abandoned him. cuddling after is a non-negotiable.

for this reason, spencer will almost never indulge in sex unless in one of your apartments. his love for you is a very private thing. he protects it intently, so quick hook ups in office bathrooms or the backs of cars is a no-go for him. he needs to feel loved, and needs you to feel loved in return. the bedroom (or a sofa) is the best place for this.

all in all, spencer gets off on your pleasure. as his stamina improves, he cannot finish unless you do, pleading with you softly to let him hear you, let him see you unravel for him, 'please'. quick or slow, hard or gentle, every time is another excuse to show you he adores you.

"Latte with—"

"Two sugars. Two percent milk. Dusting of cocoa powder."

Lacquered nails drum against the countertop, beats spaced unevenly, but intentionally—her hand posture, and the unmistakable melody of Bach's Prelude and Fugue in C major, says she's a pianist when she isn't interrupting customers. 

It would be easy to think she were judging you, but her smile reeks nothing of your typical mean girl archetype. It's genuine; bright and dimpled, like you could be her friend. 

Your head falls to one side, lips pursed in a sheepish smile. "This feels like a sign to change my order."

"Please." The barista gives a stern shake of her head. Her dog-eared name tag reads MADEILYN in bold, handwritten letters (why her parents opted for that instead of the traditional Madeline is a mystery). "We love our regulars because of their signature drinks. You know Tony? Probably not; he's usually here at the crack of dawn. Anyway, the staff and I have started making his drink before he even gets to the register. Extra hot americano with a splash of heavy cream. We hand it to him without him needing to order, it's great."

"Until he decides he wants a different drink," you say.

Madeilyn shrugs. "Hasn't happened yet. Tony's an older guy, very stuck in his ways—and kinda cute. Anyway, that'll be four dollars and fifteen cents when you're ready. Cash or card?"

The cash is already in your hand; the exact amount. It has been since you were third in line. Your preparedness is as predictable as your coffee order—neurotic, almost. It's a ritual of sorts; a mechanism in place to appease a high-functioning anxious mind. 

The money leaves your hand and lands seamlessly in Madeilyn's, and she slots it into the register without stopping to count, but she'll count the coins of the teenage girl behind you—not because she's ever underpaid, but because she's new, and trust is earned. Smiles are exchanged between the two of you, and you move aside to wait on your cocoa-dusted beverage. 

The queue shuffles forward, and your drink is presented before that girl can stumble through her mouthful of an order, rattling off creams and syrups that are sure to mix atrociously together. Madeilyn's smile stiffens, and her brows raise barely a millimetre; customer service front crumbling by the nanosecond. The girl retracts one of her alterations, swaps it for something else, and poor Madeilyn's thoughts practically leak out into the air around her; I don't get paid enough for this. How unfortunate it must be to be stuck with a misspelled name and an unremarkable minimum wage job.

Their interaction drags on, much to the dismay of the accountant standing, arms crossed, behind the girl; she has places to be, even on a Saturday, and she is plain, laughably so, compared to you—everybody in this place is.

Spencer watches as you pick up your coffee, fingers cradling the mass-produced cup like it's something sacred. It feels as though the cartoon puppy printed on the sleeve is staring right at him, mocking him from under the palm of your delicate hand. If only there were some way to trade places; hell, he'd even become a coffee cup, discarded in the trash by the day's end, if it meant you'd hold him like that for just a moment.

His keen gaze tracks you to your seat; sofa chair, close enough to the window to watch the cars pass, and far enough away to avoid the glare of the sun on your laptop screen. You weave through the populated tables like water, cardigan shrugged from one shoulder, strap of your worn leather bag keeping the other side secured in place. 

The woollen fabric slips down the length of your arm as soon as you remove your bag, and it catches on your bracelet as you try to readjust it.

One barely withheld sigh and an adorably frustrated nose scrunch later, you've freed yourself. Your cardigan is back in place, still intact after its tussle with the problem bracelet; all is right in the world, but you still glance around the room as you take your seat, like you're expecting to find people staring, or worse, laughing.

Casually, Spencer transitions his focus to his own bag to search for his wallet. He keeps his head bowed, face safely hidden from your pretty eyes, and you pass over him without second glance.

As far as you're concerned, he's no more than another face in the crowd; now second in line, and fast running out of time to prepare his coins before he's called up.

—

Saturdays are Spencer's favourite day. The weekend has never much appealed to him; too much empty space in his schedule opens doors for bad habits—oversleeping, skipping meals, thinking too much about everything under the sun until he feels that tightness in his chest; that deep, soul-aching sense of purposelessness. Even as a child, he favoured structure, routine, over free-falling through the days. They're less likely to blend together, that way.

To this day, weekends still don't do it for him, not like they do for his coworkers. Whilst Derek and Penelope are "getting their freak on" in clubs and bars across the city, Spencer is sitting at home with a stack of case files, waiting for Monday to roll back around and bless him with a job to do; unsubs to catch.

He always felt he had more in common with Gideon, who hangs around the office for hours after the day is done, pouring over paperwork and draining the coffee pot before disappearing to his cabin to "sleep off" everything he's seen that week—but his bag will be weighed down with files; consults that he technically isn't supposed to take home with him but always does. 

But even Gideon has a life outside of work, primarily in his birdwatching hobby. Everyone has their thing. The glue that keeps them from falling apart under the weight of this job. For some, it's friends and family. Others, clubs and birds. 

Spencer never felt he had a thing of his own; no hobby to keep him afloat outside of the office, no birds to watch. Not until he found you.

You were perfect. The first drops of rain after a twenty-four year dry spell, saturating him with a nectar so sweet it left him dumbfounded, slack-jawed in the line of a coffee shop he'd only entered because he felt dead on his feet, in dire need of a pick-me-up—and what he happened upon instead hit him harder than any amount of caffeine ever had.

Too busy exchanging smile-softened words with the barista, you had picked your coffee up by the plastic lid, failing to notice how it was sitting slightly askew. The cup came apart, hot coffee coating the front of your sweater, and landed back on the counter on its side, spilling its remaining contents out everywhere like the eviscerated corpse Spencer had studied the day before.

Apologies came next, from both you and the barista; two melodies clashing in competition to see who could pile on the most blame, all while coffee dripped steadily onto your shoes. You laughed it off, coughing up a self-deprecating comment with a scotch tape smile; forced, unsteady, yet still utterly captivating. 

You couldn't have been more marvellous if you tried. Even as your hands trembled removing your sweater, Spencer thought you were fantastic. Elegant in such a true, unapologetically human fashion; something he could watch all day, like Gideon with his birds.

Your drink was remade. Your mess was cleaned up. You moved on, completely unaware of the life changing behind you, reshaping to accommodate— no, revolve around you. 

Core collapse and rebirth. A supernova in his chest cavity; the neutron star heart left behind, bound by gravitational need to an oblivious sun. His sine qua non. 

Spencer had to drag himself out of that coffee shop in a daze, caffeine craving forgotten; replaced by something softer, harsher. Turbulent and lithe all in one. A single butterfly in his stomach, tearing the lining with serrated wings. He felt sick. He felt high. 

He felt you.

Your self-conscious laugh, your shaky hands, your ruined sweater; it was all a part of him, somehow. Ingrained into his biology as authentically as his own genetic code.

He had to see you again. Had to know you, intimately. Keep knowing you until the lines blurred and there was no telling where one ended and the other began. He needed a cosmic collision; to tear through outer layers and burrow himself in your chest and become the first proven, perfect Thorne-Żyktow object. A star within a star. 

A fool would have thrown caution to the wind and marched back into that coffee shop. No plan, no thought, just the scattered, spiralling notions of a man who had just survived an explosion, now choking on the dust; the pieces of a cosmic devotion lodged in his throat. A fool would handle you indelicately, and he would scare you away in seconds.

But Spencer is no fool. As hard as it was, he pushed every screaming, irrational instinct down and walked away, each step a struggle against your commanding gravity. 

He vowed to return, clear-headed, and approach the issue of you, of knowing you, as he would anything else; like a profiler's game of chess. In-depth study, fail-proof strategy, and, above all, patience. 

He'd learn the language of you, and he'd speak it fluently before you even knew who he was. It would take time—weeks, maybe months—before he was ready for you to know him, and by then his success would be all but guaranteed; it was the logical approach, one that mitigated any risk, trampled any possibility of failure.

This was the one game he couldn't afford to lose. So he was going to do everything in his power to ensure he won; he'd find a way, no matter what.

—

"Black americano…with five packets of sugar—"

"On the side."

"On the side." Madeilyn looks up at him with a manufactured smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. It's perfectly cordial. Corporate. Lacking the sincerity she displays with other customers, and quietly simmering with something that seems to teeter close to discomfort.

Spencer would take offence, if she were the only person to treat him this way. But this kind of stiff awkwardness—uneasy smiles, stilted conversations—is something he's long since grown used to, especially with women. It doesn't bother him much anymore.

"Anything else?" she asks. 

"Oh, um—" He glances back over his shoulder and quickly finds your face in the, line four bodies down. You're studying the pastry display, bottom lip caught between your teeth as you deliberate between the cinnamon bun and the pain au chocolat—you'll choose the latter. Clearing his throat, Spencer turns back to Madeilyn with a calm, steady smile. "The woman in the brown cardigan, I'd like to pay for her drink."

She stares at him, expression blank, like he's just veered wildly off script—and he supposes he has; never in the months he's been a patron here has he asked for anything beyond his regular coffee. 

But then Madeilyn's face does something he doesn't expect: she grins. 

Laughter taints the edges of her voice as she says your name, confirming she has the right girl. Spencer nods, certain. It's the first time he's heard your name spoken aloud; it's seraphic, almost song-like.

He sees it in flashes: him, calling you by your name in casual conversation; murmuring it in your ear, soft, as he presses a kiss to the shell of your ear; moaning it into your skin between thrusts as—

"Well," Madeilyn clicks her tongue, still grinning, "if my predictions are correct, that'll be four fifteen on top of your drink. Cash or card?"

Spencer blinks hard, nodding without thought as his mind fights to catch up to her question. "Cash. Um— here," he hands over the coins, for his drink, and then holds out a crisp ten dollar bill, for yours—and for the pain au chocolat. "I'll give you ten, just to be safe. You can keep the change."

"That's one way to do it." She takes takes the cash and sorts it into the register, smile still sticking to her face. "Thanks, uh…"

"Spencer," he says. 

"Spencer, right. Your coffee will be with you in a sec."

"Thank you. Oh—" He turns back to her last minute, voice lowered to just above a whisper. "Can you not, um…tell her? You know, that I'm…doing this?"

Madeilyn narrows her eyes, and Spencer's heart drops.

"I-I just—" He stammers, already feeling heat rushing to his cheeks. "I, um—"

"Your secret's safe with me, don't worry," she says simply, offering one last reassuring smile before adding, "Now go, Spence— can I call you Spence? It has a nice ring to it. Real cute. Anyway, you're holding up the line. Get out of here."

By the time he's collected his coffee and found a seat, you're already standing at the register, exchanging pleasantries with Madeilyn. He steals an anxious glance as he retrieves his book from his satchel, but all he can see is the back of your head.

Today was supposed to be a regular day. No big moves, no changes in the routine, just regular: he stands behind you in the line, grabs a table a safe distance from yours, pretends to read whilst he watches you work, and you type away on your laptop, oblivious to it all. He thought if he felt particularly daring then he'd pull out his camera, steal a few photographs to add to his collection—but that was all. 

He didn't plan for this to happen today, but you hadn't been there when he arrived. Your spot in the line had been filled by a person that Spencer did not recognise, and with every minute that passed he found himself growing increasingly agitated. Frustrated. With you; with himself; with this stupid, puppy-branded coffee shop that served, at best, subpar beverages that he only bought because of you, and now you weren't even there. 

So when you walked through those doors a few minutes late, hair dampened with the beginnings of a rain shower, looking like poetry in its purest form, it felt like fate. 

He understood, then, that today was not intended to be a regular day. The universe had created an opening, provided an opportunity, and he wasn't going to ignore it.

If only he had the confidence to reach for his camera, he'd be able to capture the look on your face as you turn around: brows pinched in a confused, slightly alarmed frown; lips parted, corners upturned to produce an uncertain smile which, on second glance, seems closer to a grimace. 

Your eyes dart across the room in search for your mysterious benefactor, but you find nothing; no smug smiles, no knowing looks, just the usual crowd of caffeine addicts, likely too busy moaning about the price of their own drinks to even consider paying for yours.

Shaking your head, you turn back to Madeilyn, and Spencer watches, pleased, as you try to refuse his gift; the money's already in your hand, ready to be exchanged, but when you present it to her all your stubbornness earns is a shrug. She waves you away with a smirk, but not before muttering something that makes you scoff. 

The next time he catches a glimpse of your face, your cheeks are flushed pink, and Spencer's game is officially in motion.

—

This becomes your new routine. Spencer pays for your coffee, Madeilyn upholds her promise of concealing his identity, and every Saturday you are left increasingly perplexed. Increasingly suspicious. It's addictive.

Each prepaid coffee brings with it an elevated risk of exposure, and Spencer is hooked on the thrill of not knowing when the ball will drop. 

And when it does, when the pieces click into place and you see him, for the first time, he'll be ready. Armed with his wealth of knowledge and a smile that the staff at his mother's sanitarium say is charming, he'll leave a strong, terminally positive first impression. It's inevitable. 

In the meantime, he continues to watch, taking note of whatever he can, over-analysing you to the atom and building his ever-growing portfolio of things to discuss with you; TV shows to reference, bands to mention in passing, books to sit and flick through now in the hopes that you might notice as you walk by, so when he brings them up in the future you'll know he's being genuine. 

If he sits in the right spot, studies your hands for long enough, he can just about piece together what you're typing on your laptop every week. He initially assumed it would be work related. Emails, most likely; you work in administration for a local health clinic, and Spencer would be willing to bet your inbox is always full.

But upon further inspection, he found that your focus—the slight frown that boarded your face the moment you sat down and stayed, persistent, until you left—was not related to your work at all, but something far more interesting: a manuscript.

Your social media profiles never betrayed any desire to become an author. Your social media profiles never betrayed anything, period, aside from your job title and a few photographs from a vacation you took to Italy two years ago. As far as the internet was concerned, you hardly existed at all, and Spencer had to dig to find evidence of you on the accounts of friends and family, hidden among your mother's posts about her garden, and your friend Scarlet's third trip to the Canary Islands since winter struck DC. 

You knew how to keep your private life out of the public eye. Smart girl; there's no knowing what kind of creeps would try to stalk you, if given the chance.

This, of course, made it all the more difficult for Spencer to learn about you, but he won't complain too much; really, he's just glad you're keeping yourself safe. 

For one peaceful hour every Saturday, your writing consumes your entire world. Everything collapses down to you and your laptop, the clack of your keyboard, and Spencer often wonders what it would take to snap you out of your haze—a fight, maybe? Some days it seems a bomb could strike the street outside, and you wouldn't bat an eye. 

So when Spencer reaches for his camera, he isn't worried that you'll catch him. 

He's worried that someone else will. 

He operates it with one hand, keeps it under the shadow of his table, angles it blind as his heart hammers against his ribs. Most of the photographs he takes of you (in the coffee shop, and elsewhere), are out of focus, so bad it looks purposeful. He's sure any professional photographer would laugh at his work; hell, even a beginner would.

But sometimes he does it. Captures the perfect image of you, chin resting on your hand as you review a passage, chewing thoughtfully on your lower lip with the sun painting half of your face in its light, looking so perfect it's almost offensive. 

He cherishes these pictures of you, cosmic deity among common folk, like they're made of solid gold. Idols made to be revered, kept safe in the leather bindings of an old photo book for him to flip through at his leisure, and to worship on those cold nights when the ache he feels surmounts to agony, straining and pulsating with the need to be beside you. 

This is the only thought on his mind as he leaves the coffee shop a few minutes after you do; printing today's pictures, selecting his favourite, christening it as he wonders what it would be like to touch you. Hold you. Love you—

You're standing right in front of him as he turns the corner. Wearing a frown that he can't even begin to interpret on account of the fact that you are standing right in front of him. 

You're real, and you're looking right at him. Seeing him, at last.

"It's you, isn't it?" you ask, voice carefully calm. Perfect. "You've been buying my coffees."

A beat.

Another one; longer.

Fuck, Spencer. Speak.

"…huh?" Wrong; that's a noise. 

"What?" Okay, we're getting somewhere.

"Huh?" Never mind.

Your brows raise with each sound he chokes out. He wasn't prepared for this. He thought he was, but he wasn't. 

The camera, buried deep in the bottom of his bag, now feels impossibly heavy. Guilt stuffed into metal casing. You can smell it, he's sure.

He can smell you. Cardamom, cinnamon, sandalwood; all the warmth he's come to associate with you, only ever experienced from a distance, now flooding his nose, hijacking his brain. He feels nauseous. He feels—

"I'm not mad," you say, cautiously trying to ease his distress with a soft smile. Spencer adjusts his bag to cover his crotch. "Madeilyn and I…we had this agreement where if I guessed who was buying my drinks, she'd give me a free pin, and…"

You gesture to your chest (God help him), pointing at a small puppy dog brooch—the coffee shop's stupid mascot.

"…I got it right."

You look almost proud, self-consciously suppressing a smile that would be sure to make his head explode if you let it blossom. It's enough to make him forget Madeilyn's betrayal, forget everything, completely. If you were to ask his name right now, he's pretty sure he'd end up saying yours.

"I'm sorry," he manages, face ablaze with a suffocating heat despite the winter breeze. Under his tweed jacket, his shirt sticks to his back, soaked through with sweat. 

Someone kill him. 

"I was, um— I thought it would be…I don't know. It wasn't my intention to make you uncomfortable, or anything. It's just that you seemed…nice, and— and I wanted to, um, do something good? I-It's like what Anne Herbert wrote; 'practice random acts of kindness and senseless acts of beauty', and I personally really, um, identify with that philosophy, and…and I don't know. I'm sorry."

You stay quiet as he speaks, silently watching him spiral before saying, at last, "I was gonna thank you, but…okay."

"What?"

He's staring at you like you've just sprouted another head, caught somewhere between disbelief and amazement.

"I mean, with how expensive a coffee is these days…" You shrug. Casual, like you're not in the middle of delivering a divine blessing. "You've been saving me a decent chunk of cash."

You hold out your hand. He watches it, wide-eyed, like he's never seen a hand before in his life; like this is some kind of prank, and you might hurt him.

But then he gathers his courage. He wipes his sweaty palm on his pants, and he takes your hand, grip firm.

"Thank you, uh…Spencer, right?"

You know his name. 

His pants are so tight he's beginning to fear he might pop a stitch. 

"Yes," he breathes. "And— and it's no big deal, really. I'm happy to, uh…help."

Too happy to help; he's so hard it hurts, and the rush of blood to his crotch deprives the areas that need it most—his brain, for instance. He forgets to move his arm as you shake his hand, and he forgets to let go when you stop; he just stands there, dumbstruck, holding onto you like you're the only thing keeping him upright.

"Of course," you slide your hand out from his seamlessly, "I can't not pay you back. And I know that kind of defeats the point of a random act of kindless, but I'm sure Anne Herbert won't mind—"

This isn't happening. This isn't real; there's no way.

Your words glide through one ear and out the other. Focusing on what you're saying is an impossible task when you're here, be it real or imagined, and looking like that ("that" being utterly mundane; utterly beautiful). There isn't anything provocative about your outfit; there can't be, given the season. You're wearing loose-fitting slacks and a blouse under a cardigan and coat; you aren't showing anything, and you're leaving everything to the imagination.

And that's the problem, because Spencer Reid's imagination is a force to be reckoned with. 

It's enough to bring him to his knees, almost; the thought of what you're hiding under your clothes. The thought of him peeling away the layers slowly, methodically, so he can study you. Every curve, mapped. Every freckle, memorised. He could study you for the rest of his life—he has been for months already, and you've been fully clothed, out of reach, the entire time.

"So, how about coffee? Next week, on me."

He tunes back in then, just in time to catch your offer, and he almost drops right there, in the street, to kiss the pointed toes of your pumps and thank you profusely for doing this for him, but he refrains. 

Pursing his lips, he swallows any mortifying response bound to come spilling out if he tries to speak, and he settles instead on a nod. Quick and simple, and safe.

Coffee. Next week. On you.

—

He never should have said agreed to this.

Watching is easy. It's passive; there's no thought required when watching someone, no social game to play. You can't do something wrong if you're hardly doing anything to begin with. 

But this? This is different. He isn't equipped to handle this. Couldn't be. No amount of watching, no amount of preparation, could prepare him for the hurricane that is you.

Sitting across from you in this coffee shop, Madeilyn's amused gaze burning into his side profile when she isn't speaking to customers, Spencer is convinced—wholly, utterly convinced—that he is dying. There is no other explanation for what is happening inside of him other than death, slow and painful, and ecstatic. 

"So…" You shift in your seat, crossing your legs as you observe him with unconcealed curiosity. "What do you do for work to afford so much coffee?"

"I—" Spencer swallows hard—why is he hesitating? "I work in the FBI's, um, Behavioural Analysis Unit."

"The BAU?"

It isn't a question asked out of confusion. You aren't asking for clarification (which, admittedly, he was just about to give); you know what the BAU is, and you're impressed. 

"Yes," he confirms. 

Which is about as terrifying as it is giddying, because that means you know what he does. What he can do. 

"So you're Agent Spencer, then?"

He expects you to ask about profiling; how much he can learn about someone just from watching them, for example. Or about serial killers, like most other people do. People's morbid curiosity tend to flare up when they're discussing his job, but you stick with surface-level questions.

"It's Doctor, actually," he says. "Doctor Spencer Reid."

You raise an eyebrow. "Doctor?"

"I have three PhDs." He feels like a child showing off his good grades. "Mathematics, Chemistry, and Engineering."

"You've been busy." You narrow your eyes, studying his features a little more closely. Immediately, he feels his cheeks flush. "And you are…"

"Twenty-four." He finds that if he speaks fast enough he's less likely to stutter. In exchange, though, he sounds absolutely terrified.

"So there's no Benjamin Button business going on?"

"No ma'am."

Maybe he should just stop talking entirely. You'll ask him yes or no questions, and he'll just shake his head up and down, and left to right; that seems to be the only way to save himself from complete humiliation.

Because "no ma'am"? You're younger than him, for Christ's sake. Even if you weren't, he has no business calling you "ma'am"; it's weird, if not downright inappropriate. 

But it feels good, too good, to have those words flow from his lips—which is exactly why it's inappropriate. It's perverse; he just hopes you fail to take notice of the way he has to shift in his seat to counteract the growing tightness in his pants.

"You know," you reach for your coffee, but you don't take a sip. The warmth against your palms is a comfort measure, something to keep you grounded when your nerves pick up—when you first sat down, it took you seven minutes and forty-two seconds to relinquish that cup. "My friends actually tried to talk me out of this. Meeting with you."

Spencer frowns. That isn't what he wants to hear. "May I ask why?"

"They figured you were, um…I don't wanna say a creep, but…yeah. That's their word, though, not mine. Hell, they even tried to convince me to move to a different coffee shop when you started paying for my drinks, but that's—" You cut yourself off mid-sentence, and Spencer watches as you run calculations in your mind, deciding what you can and cannot say. In the end, you just smile. "They can be protective."

Why?

It's a question he doesn't ask, but one that sits too heavy on his tongue to just swallow. Sure, to you, it isn't any of his business, but it is to him; understanding your relationships and your past—both of which he has struggled to get a grasp on thus far—is important. If your friends are protective, if they have a reason to be, then he needs to know why.

But he can't push or pry, not now. So he just sits with it, and he takes a sip of his coffee before changing the subject.

"Did you know that some predators have been known to stalk their prey for days on end?" he asks. "Crocodilians, for example, can lie completely still at the water's edge, just…um— they blend in, opting to wait for their prey to come to them rather than engaging in an active pursuit."

You blink at him, confused, but also intrigued. "And this is relevant…how, exactly?"

He turns his coffee cup so the grating little dog is facing you. "This place uses a havanese in their marketing, likely because they're percieved as cute, or— or innocent. They're what's known as a, um, 'velcro dog', meaning they're prone to intense separation anxiety, and their size and shape, their fluffy coats…it all lends itself to an adorable, almost helpless look."

Your gaze flicks between Spencer and the dog as you cross your arms. You've no idea why he's saying any of this, that much is clear, but you're listening, trying to understand, and that's what's important to him; if this relationship is going to play out like it does in his fantasies, you ought to get used to listening to his various tangents.

"But dogs are, well…dogs," he continues, turning the cup back to himself. "Natural predators. They've been domesticated for centuries, but you'd be surprised to learn just how little it can take for primal instinct to override their designer genetics. Under the right circumstances…even a havanese can be a wolf."

He watches with keen eyes as you nod thoughtfully. You take a sip of your coffee and examine, briefly, the havanese printed on your own cup.

"So…what are you, then? A wolf, or a crocodile?"

Spencer almost chokes on his own saliva, blood running cold as your words reach his ears and scorch their way into his brain. 

To you, it's an innocent question; to him, it's everything. Eros and a landmine.

You're quick. Perceptive. And that about terrifies him just as much as it turns him on.

He could tell you he's a crocodile; entertain your curiosity and watch the true meaning of his words skim over the top of your head. 

"…I, uh— What? I-I wasn't, um—"

…but that would require a working brain, and a confidence that has just dropped, alongside his pounding heart, right out of his ass.

"…the weather's finally starting to clear up, have you noticed?"

—

The bar is loud. 2005's Greatest Hits interrupted by Christmas songs; Mariah Carey's voice blending into the chorus of people, all a little bit too drunk for a Wednesday night. 

You're yelling at the bartender—not because you're upset, but because it's the only way he can hear you—with a face alight with an angel's smile, asking for a refill, and for another round of shots. The cash is already in your hand, and you drop a few coins as you make the exchange. 

Spencer feels like a fish out of water.

This isn't the first time he's followed you here, this has been part of his routine for a good while now, but it's the first time he's had the courage to step inside; partly because he was afraid you may recognise him, mostly because he hates bars. 

But tonight, he was willing to sacrifice his comfort for you. Loud environments aren't so bad if he has something to focus on, and you've checked that box a thousand times over.

Low rise jeans and a black camisole are all you're wearing, despite the chill outside, and as you lean over the bar to watch your drinks being made, Spencer feels himself growing lightheaded. The arch of your back, sculpted by the hands of a lustful God, is one thing, but the deep red lace peeking out from your jeans is something else entirely. If the world were to end tonight, he'd certainly die happy. And hard. Fatally hard. Words cannot describe how grateful he is for this place's dim lighting.

He came up with today's plan on the fly, which is something he rarely does, but the thought of you weighed so heavy on his mind, drowning out all other stimuli, that he simply had to act; else he'd turn up to work tomorrow with rocks for brains, as he had done every other day this week. 

It isn't good. He can usually force himself to forget you when he's working, he'd get no work done otherwise, but ever since he met you (officially) he's found it impossible to do so. 

You've breached containment, and the team have noticed. 

They've noticed his lack of focus, his spacing out during meetings, the decline in his work speed. Soon enough, they'll start asking about it, and Spencer will have no choice but to confess that he's interested in someone—and he really doesn't want to do that; the team will never leave him alone again if he does that.

Seeing you again was the only way he could quell his restlessness, fill the you-shaped hole in his soul, that way he could make it through the rest of the week. Focus on cases. Save lives. 

But merely seeing you isn't enough anymore, not after knowing the bliss of speaking to you.

So he makes his move.

He weaves through the crowd with about as much grace as a blind dog; stepping on toes, bumping shoulders, tripping over his own feet because he's too busy watching you. You're thanking the bartender, carefully picking up the tray of drinks, turning around, and—

"Woah—"

…almost walking straight into him.

Each shot glass loses about half of its contents. Liquid sloshes over the sides and pools on the tray. A few dribbles of your vodka cranberry (your third one of the night) land on your chest, trickles down between your breasts.

Oh, God help him.

"…Spencer?"

His gaze snaps back to your face. "I'm so sorry, I-I wasn't— are you okay?"

"I'm fine. It's fine." Your smile is lopsided. Relaxed. Almost fond. "I really need to start, um, watching where I'm going, don't I? Gosh, the girls are gonna be so mad I wasted half of their shots."

There's no concern in your voice, just amusement. Pure, almost childish amusement.

You're drunk.

"Here." Spencer eases the tray from your hands. "Where are you sitting?"

The far left corner, by—

"By the, uh…" You gesture vaguely to your left before reaching for the tray. "The pool table, that's it. But you don't have to—"

"I think you should just watch where you're going," he says.

You scoff and shake your head, but you're grinning. "And I think…" You let your arms fall to your sides. "That you're completely right. Come on."

Spencer trails behind as you lead the way, keeping a steady grip on your tray of drinks like he's carrying the crown jewels and staring, quite shamelessly, at your ass. The sway of your hips is almost hypnotic, and he has to tear his gaze away before your friends see him.

They're standing around a cocktail table, deep in a conversation that cuts off when they see you approaching. All three of them greet you with bright smiles that, like a flash of lightning, start to fade once they catch sight of Spencer behind you; not upset, but…apprehensive, and understandably so. He's a stranger.

"This is Spencer." You're still beaming; a star in the night sky. "The guy from the coffee shop."

Recognition washes over each of their faces, and they relax slightly—though they're still watching him closely, eyes narrowed  like predators. 

"Sorry, can I just…" Spencer squeezes past you to set the tray on the table, and he flashes them a painfully self-conscious smile. "Hi."

"And these are Cassandra, Scarlet, and Abby. My friends," you say, gesturing to each girl. "Friends, Spencer; Spencer, friends."

Three lionesses and their baby deer, that's what Spencer sees when he looks at the four of you. 

Cassandra looks more like a Scarlet than the actual Scarlet does; her hair is dyed a dark shade of red, and she's making no attempt to appear warm or welcoming. She shifts closer to you, just slightly, like she's preparing to pull you away from him at a moment's notice.

The real Scarlet is flaunting her winter tan lines in a tube top. She's smiling at him, but her eyes are sharp. Hungry, almost. 

Abby is the only one who doesn't look as though she's about to bite his head off. 

"This is who's been funding your caffeine addiction?" she asks.

Nodding, you reach for a not-quite-full shot glass. "Yup," you say, popping the "p" before knocking your head back. The glass, now empty, gets set back on the table, and you reach for your vodka cranberry in its stead. "He's an FBI agent."

"He's cute." Scarlet leans over the table, eyeing him up like a piece of meat. And then, to his horror, her gaze drops to his hips. "Do you carry, agent?"

Please don't see his erection please don't see his erection please don't—

"Hey." You give her a playful shove before turning to Spencer with an apologetic smile. "Ignore her. She's drunk. We're all, um…drunk." Laughter rises in your throat, tainting your words as you shake your head. Your attention flicks back to Scarlet. "And it's Doctor."

"Doctor?" she and Abby echo in unison.

"Three PhDs in, uh…very impressive subjects that I am totally not forgetting…"

You nudge him with your elbow, and Spencer damn near jumps out of his skin.

"What? Oh. Um…Mathematics, Chemistry, and Engineering," he says with a smile, so stiff around the edges he thinks his skin might split open. He's never particularly enjoyed being the centre of attention, but this is so much worse than delivering a presentation, or a profile; you've thrown him into the lion's den, naked and afraid.

But you're cheering him on; talking him up to your friends like he's something important. Something to show off. Smiling and laughing and touching him, however briefly. Looking lighter than air, carefree and beautiful in all the ways he dreamed you'd be.

He tells himself it's the alcohol; the final wall of realism put up against a bewitched, senseless heart. You can't like him as much as you appear to, it doesn't make sense. You don't know him.

But you feel him, maybe as strongly as he does you. Maybe the gravity is mutual; cosmic collision already in motion. 

What if this isn't a chase, but a dance? Souls entwined from first glance, no words needed. No touch. 

Maybe you're already his. 

Further interrogation yields surprisingly positive results; the lionesses are impressed by his job title and "heroic" lifestyle (Abby's words, not his), but what interests them even more is his extensive knowledge of different alcoholic beverages and the effects they have on the brain. He mentions the term "aphrodisiac" once when discussing red wine, and everybody, even Cassandra, leaned in to listen. 

He wasn't expecting to make such a good first impression on your friends. Hell, he wasn't expecting to make an impression at all; his half-baked plan only involved saying hi, maybe buying you a drink, and then parting ways—a quick hit of you, your scent, your smile, was all he needed. 

And now he's commanding a table of women he was so sure were going to maul him, handling the social pressures with ease even though he hasn't had a drop of alcohol; he doesn't need it, not when he has you.

He is, however, very thankful when Cassandra takes back the reins.

"I'm gonna go order another drink," she says, smiling at everyone but Spencer. He doesn't take it personally. "Who's coming?"

Abby and Scarlet are already moving, quietly scheming to split the cost of a bottle of red wine. You hold out your empty glass to Cassandra, grinning.

"Water?" she asks.

"Oh, boo." You pull the glass back as she tries to take it. "Come on, Cass. You can't cut me off; I'm having fun."

"And the last time you had fun, we had to carry you home because you were too sick to get in the cab, remember?"

"That was—"

"I'm getting you that water, 'kay?"

She walks away before you can protest further. 

Reaching for your purse, you huff as you begin rummaging around for cash, but then you feel Spencer's gaze on you. You pause, fist full of coins, and sigh before setting everything back down.

Turning, you flash him a strained smile. It doesn't quite reach your eyes. "Like I said, protective," you sigh, leaning back against the table. You're quiet for a moment, but the silence proves too much to deal with so you jab your finger into his bicep. "Hey, well done though."

Spencer blinks at you. "…for what?"

"For disproving their whole ‘creep' theory," you say. "They're, um— they like to assume the worst, especially when it comes to…" You gesture vaguely to Spencer and shrug. "I keep telling them to lighten up, but I'm not really— …they just— they have their reasons, you know? Sorry, I should stop talking. I'm drunk, and I—"

"It's okay," he says quietly. 

You look up at him then, all soft-eyed, like you're seeking reassurance. The world goes quiet as Spencer offers you an equally gentle smile.

You take it, hold it, and you move on.

"What's an FBI agent doing in a bar on a Wednesday night, anyway? Don't you have work tomorrow?"

Spencer's smile hardens like wax. Split-second panic attacks his neck, goes for the throat, but he fights it off in time to say, "Don't you have work tomorrow?"

"I work a desk job, I'll be fine," you say. "Not sure you can afford to be hungover whilst chasing serial killers, though."

"Oh, I'm not drinking."

It just kind of comes out. 

In all fairness, it was either this—telling the truth—or making himself out to be an irresponsible agent. 

"Then…" You frown. Uncertainty is starting to creep into your expression. Apprehension, the same kind he'd witnessed in your friends. "Why are you here?"

"I, um…"

Come on, Spencer. Use your brain. 

"I take pictures." Oh, Jesus Christ. "I-I'm a photographer. Amateur."

Curiosity replaces suspicion, and you raise an eyebrow. "A photographer?"

"Yes," he says quickly. "Candids, mostly. I like, um, capturing people—their essence—in the moment. So I go to bars and…other places to take photographs. I-I might indulge myself in a drink or— or two, but only on weekends. I have my, um—" He gestures to his satchel. "I have my camera with me."

The moment he sees your face light up, the regret hits him like a fucking truck.

"Oh, cool! Can I see?"

No. No, you can't see. You absolutely, definitely cannot see.

"I-I actually don't— woah."

In his panic, he doesn't notice the way you're swaying until you're stumbling, heading straight for the floor. He moves quickly, grabbing you by your arms and holding you steady as you try to blink away the dizziness.

"Are you okay?"

"Mhm. Yeah, I just…" You rub your eyes. Spencer's still holding onto you. His grip loosens to something gentle, but he remains unwilling to let you go. "Fuck, I'm drunk."

You say it like it's a realisation; like you haven't been told it, and said it yourself, already. 

"Oh, God," you groan, shaking your head. "This is so not cool. I'm sorry, I don't usually do this. I don't— I swear I…"

"Hey, it's okay." Spencer gives your arms a light squeeze, hoping to reassure you. "Do you want to get some air?"

You cough up a laugh so bitter he can almost taste it, laced with a regret that he can't place; an insecurity that runs impossibly deep. "Yeah," you mutter. "You know, I should probably just— I think I should go home. I have work tomorrow, like— like you said."

"Should I call a cab?"

"No, it's okay. I can walk."

Spencer frowns. "On your own? I'm not sure that's—"

"Everything okay?"

Cassandra has reappeared, bottle of water in hand. Her gaze flicks between you and Spencer, his hands on your arms, and she purses her lips.

"We're going home," you announce, easing yourself out of his grasp. 

"We?"

Spencer and Cassandra's voices overlap, disbelief harmonising.

He's misinterpreted your words, surely, because there's no possible way you mean what he thinks you mean. 

He stands as a statue of himself, frozen in wait for the pinch that'll wake him up. But it never comes.

"I'll call you when I'm home," you say, gathering your belongings, "and you have my location. It'll be fine. You guys should stay and enjoy yourselves."

Cassandra's jaw works as you speak, teeth grinding the same way Hotch's do when he doesn't like the sound of something, but there's a grim kind of acceptance about her expression, like she knows there's no point in arguing with you. 

"Call me." Is all she says.

You flash her a small smile as you put on your coat. "I will."

Without waiting for Spencer, you turn towards the exit. He rushes to catch up to you, but Cassandra grasps him, gently, by his sleeve before he can get away.

He expects a lecture, a threat, a warning, but all she does is press the water bottle into his hand and mutter, "Keep an eye on her, will you?"

Spencer nods, a silent, earnest promise, and she lets him go.

—

The two of you walk in near silence, which should feel like a blessing after the oppressive noise of the bar, but it doesn't; it feels suffocating, overwhelmingly dense and yet exceedingly empty.

He hands you the water bottle. You don't notice how he turns every corner before you do. Don't question how or why he knows where he's going; you're too busy looking at the cloudless sky. At the stars that you can barely make out for the city's light pollution. One day, he'll take you to the observatory. 

"Have you heard of a Thorne-Żyktow object?" he eventually asks.

You crane your neck to look up at him, and your unsteady feet lead you into him. Your shoulder bumps his arm; proof of the gravity thrumming between you. "A what-what object?"

"It's a conjectured type of hybrid star," he explains, keeping his words soft and slow—as slow as his overzealous mouth will allow. "Kip Thorne and Anna Żyktow hypothesised that it would be formed if a neutron star were to collide with another star. They spiral inward— it's almost like a dance. The forces between the neutron star and the core of its companion are so strong that, once they collide, there's no undoing, and eventually they merge. If their combined mass exceeds the Tolman-Oppenheimer-Volkoff limit, then the two will collapse into a black hole."

"And if it doesn't?"

"They coalesce into a single star," he says. "A red supergiant with a neutron star at it's core. Technically the entire star would be considered a neutron star but, observationally, it continues to resemble a red supergiant."

Your gaze drops from the stars to the sidewalk, and Spencer watches as you chew on your bottom lip. 

"Sorry," he says.

"For what?"

"I have a habit of, um, rambling." He's sweating. It's below freezing out here, and he's sweating. "I-I just thought that talking, giving you something to focus on, might…help."

"Don't apologise," you say. "I think it's sweet."

Spencer has to watch his feet to make sure he doesn't start floating in the wake of your words.

"The star thing, I mean. Who doesn't want to merge with someone and spend the rest of time…floating through space together?"

Oh. Okay. That's okay; at least you're getting his point—

"You trying to cheer me up is sweet, too."

Oh. 

Okay.

—

He has to help you up the stairs to your apartment. 

Genuine tears formed in his eyes when you asked him to walk you up to that first floor, east-facing set of rooms he's spent the last few months dreaming about, walking past, mapping it out in his mind using your building's floor plan. He wasn't expecting to get past the door, but that was okay; simply seeing the door, and the glimpse into your living space it would provide, would have been enough.

But you let him in, and you give him a mission: pyjamas. Third drawer of the dresser in your bedroom—could he grab a pair for you whilst you use the bathroom? Anything will do.

Spencer can't breathe in here. He thought the living room was bad enough, but the bedroom? The place where you sleep? Relax? Do all the beautiful things he can't let himself picture because it will have damning consequences for him and his pants? It's too much.

Everything smells like you. Your scent sticks to his skin like a divine perfume, seeps into his bloodstream like a narcotic. He tries to narrow his world down to that dresser, to that drawer, and stop himself from letting his gaze, his mind, his hands, wander anywhere they aren't supposed to go.

But it's a losing battle, and there's a laundry basket in the corner of your room. Wicker. Stuffed full of you; practically begging to be opened. 

He tends to the pyjama problem first; grabs a pink pair that look like they'll keep you warm through the night, tucks them under his arm, and moves on to his true target.

It's half-full. An abyss of clothes; some that he recognises, some that he doesn't. 

He picks a pair of panties from the second layer—pale blue cotton with scalloped hems and a pretty little bow—and stuffs them into his pocket just as he hears the click of the bathroom door unlocking.

After steadying his racing heart, Spencer meets you in the living room and presents your pyjamas with a humble smile. You seem steadier now, more like yourself; the fresh air did you some good. 

But you're still drunk, more so than he thinks you want to let on. Your cheeks are flushed and, no matter how hard you try, or how purposefully you move, you can't shake that looseness. Every movement is fluid, mesmerising, even the way you hug your pyjamas to your chest as you look up at him.

"Thank you," you say. The ghost of that happy, drunken grin haunts your face, threatens to resurrect. 

Spencer shrugs. It's the best he can do to appear casual, like his heart isn't a ticking time bomb in his chest. "Don't worry about it. Just…remember to drink plenty of fluids, okay?"

You tilt your head. "Doctor's orders?"

"I—" Oh God. "Yes— yes, Doctor's orders."

There it is. That smile. It moves quick, conquering every feature until you're glowing. Radiance exuding from every line, every dimple. You're a cosmic anomaly; perfection incarnate. Spencer couldn't tear himself away from such a sight even if he wanted to.

Your gaze wavers. Falls to his lips. Reverts to his eyes. Wanders down again. 

Please.

It wouldn't take much to bridge the gap; you know that. One small step. The tilt of a head. 

Pleasepleaseplease.

You jerk back, lowering your head in one quick, abrupt motion. Severing the tie. Resisting the pull. It hurts; a bruise stamped behind his ribs, pulsating to the beat of what could have been. You feel it, too. You must.

"I should, um—" You clear your throat. You're still smiling, but it has melted. Reshaped into something bashful. "I should go to bed, I think."

Spencer forces himself to nod. He even manages to flash a smile. "You need to be well rested for work."

"Yeah…" You mime his actions, unable to hold his gaze for more than a few seconds at a time. "You too. I'm sorry for keeping you—"

"It's okay," he says.

"…okay." A sigh escapes your lips, soft and breathy—wistful, almost. "Thank you, again, for walking me home. Now get out of here."

"Yes, ma'am."

He doesn't curse himself for saying it, this time. The shame is long gone, replaced by something light; the butterfly in his stomach, wings newly softened; the delicate blue fabric in his pocket.

As he steps out of the warmth of your apartment, you call out to him.

"I'll see you on Saturday?"

Spencer nods, smiling. "You'll see me on Saturday."

But he'll be seeing you a lot sooner than that.

The most recent discovery came when you moved in with him. It was only your first month living together when your period came. He always knew you felt a lot of pain during the first two days, he just didn’t know it was that much pain.

He was horrified, to be quite honest, and something about it just put him in helpful mode. You knew his love language was acts of service, but this felt like having a personal butler.

He bought you every type of chocolate the store had, packet up the bathroom with pads – and was really disappointed when you told him you used a diva cup during the day and absorbent underwear at night.

“I’ll leave some there, just in case.” He said and kissed you goodbye before he went to give the rest of them to the homeless. Yes, he was an angel, you were sure of it.

He did everything in his power to help you feel better, and when he saw you crying out in pain as you scrunched up on the bed almost broke him. He was basically in tears, begging you to tell him how he could help, and obeyed like a puppy when you asked him for a hot water bottle.

The sound of the kettle filled the otherwise silent apartment as he prepared it for you, and you couldn’t help but chuckle amidst the pain when he returned with two of them in hand.

“Here, my love. I made one for your back as well.” He said, carefully pressing them against your lower stomach and back area before leaning down and gently kissing your forehead.

“Still hurting a lot?” He asks, hands gently caressing your sides as he lays down behind you and wraps you up in a cocoon of love, his body pressing up the hot bottle on your back more firmly against your skin.

“Yes” You murmur, flinching as another wave of pain hits you.

“There’s more effective ways of dealing with that pain, darling.” He says, gently brushing your hair away from your neck before pressing a soft kiss there.

“I beg of you to tell me how.” You plea and whimper in pain.

“Well, the best way is through an orgasm.” He says and you perk up your ears almost instantly. That was new information.

“When we orgasm, we release a burst of chemicals, like dopamine, a chemical messenger involved in pain processing in our brain. The release of dopamine acts as a natural painkiller by increasing pain tolerance, and, consequently, decreasing the pain from menstrual cramps.” He rambles, talking in scientific terms as he explains.

“Orgasms also increase blood flow. When you orgasm, the blood flows faster to the uterus and helps relieve the cramps. Not to mention, during menstruation there’s an increase in circulation, which can increase arousal, sensitivity and pleasure.” He says, kissing your neck as his hands slip under your shirt. It would never not be funny to you how he almost never used foul language, not even during foreplay.

“And blood makes great lube.” He adds, his voice a low murmur as he smiles against your skin. See? That’s the farthest he got.

“How do you know that?” You smile, your hand pressing the bottle on your stomach as you listen to his words.

“I did some research since the day you told me they hurt a lot. I just never had the opportunity to offer this.” He was still kissing your neck, not in a sexual way. Not yet at least. He always made sure you were in the mood for it before he did anything. “Have you ever tried it?”

“Period sex? No.” You said, your hand seeking for his as you intertwine your fingers together. You knew he was blushing. He always did when you were direct, and you just loved to take advantage of that. He couldn’t blame you. Not when he looked so beautiful with those rosy cheeks.

“Do you want to try it?” He asked, now kissing your cheek as he hovered over you to be able to look at your pretty face. “We don’t have to do much, obviously. The part about blood being great lube was just a joke, I could just help you and we go to bed, it’s not like I’m expecting anything in return. You know I never do. I just want you to be happy, and I hate that you’re in pain, and right now this is all I can think about to be able to help, and-“ He stopped talking when he needed to breathe, and smiled sheepishly when he saw your own lips curved up. “Anyway, you can say no if you don’t want to. I’d never force you, darling.”

“I know, Spence. You can relax, you know.” You chuckled, turning around slightly and touching his face, your fingers tracing the rim of his glasses. “If you think it’ll help with the cramps, I’d love to try it. But only if you’re sure, I know it can’t be a little disgusting, with all the blood-“ His finger, pressing against your mouth shuts you up, and the smile he flashed at you made you feel like you were floating.

“Disgusting? Honey, nothing about you could ever disgust me, much less period blood. That’s the most natural thing ever.” His smile was so calm, it soothed all your nerves like a fresh breeze on a hot summer day. “And I don’t mind getting dirty. I’m not made of sugar, I can wash up after.”

“Okay” You say, smiling as he leaned down to briefly peck your lips.

“I do, however, must prepare things here. Just to make sure our mess isn’t too big.” He pecked your lips again before pushing himself off the bed.

When he returned, his hands were soft and gentle as they placed a towel under your hips. His lips were sweet as they kissed the skin of your lower stomach, an apology for removing the bottle, the only tiny relief from the pain you had in the moment.

Just as delicately, he helped you lay on your back, his fingers slowly hooking on the waistband of your shorts.

“Can I take these off, my love?” He looked up at you with those pretty doe eyes, and no matter how obvious it was that your answer would be yes, he still made sure to ask.

“Yes, darling.”

He kissed every inch of skin that he revealed, the ends of his silky curls tickling your skin as he deliberately pulled your shorts off and placed them on the bed. Next, came off the panties, and just as he did before, the trail of kisses he left followed the path from your hips all the way down to your ankles.

Spencer could have done this with his eyes closed. He had memorised every cell in your body a long time ago, and the motions before pleasuring you were always the same. First, he’d settle and lay down between your legs, his body initially propped up on his elbows. Next, he’d move each of your legs to rest on his shoulders, his hands holding the back of your thighs as if they were the most fragile thing in the world. And finally, he’d look at you, with such intensity that it made you blush every single time.

“Beautiful.” He whispered, just like he always did, as if the sight of you spread out before him was so gorgeous it could not be contained within the confinements of his thoughts.

His lips were gentle and tender as they placed small little kisses on your inner thighs, his thumbs caressing the skin of your hips as his warm palms rested against your legs. Your eyes flutter close, your head resting on the pillow. And when his lips finally reached your core, your back arched off the bed, your fingers threading through his hair. The soft moan that left your lips was like music to his ears.

The forbidden fruit. Something so utterly delicious, and yet, so out of reach.

Spencer had never been religious, not a day of his life. But when he was with you, he couldn’t help but notice the parallels. This, that you two were doing right now. So taboo, so prohibited. And so marvellous. It was a good analogy, the fruit. He felt like a man changed after doing this for you, your soft sounds of pleasure like a song straight from the Heavens. And it was just as messy as eating a berry.

His lips and chin were coated in red, low hums that vibrate against you flowing like a river out of his mouth. His fingers, tightening on your legs and hips, held you in place as your own tugged at his hair.

Your brain was mush, uncapable of forming any coherent sentences except for moans and his name, sounding like a prayer every time you said it.

“You sound so pretty, baby.” He murmurs, his eyes not knowing where to focus. He couldn’t decide which view was more beautiful, the mess of crimson under his lips or your face, contorted in a pleasure that made his chest flare up with pride.

“God, Spencer… Please, don’t stop…” Your voice was a mere whisper, breathless and desperate as you, shamefully, pushed his face back down. That earned a laugh from him, but he complied, delving back in with fervour.

Your eyes shot open and your mouth slacked in a silent moan when he added a finger. Just one, entering you slowly and gently, making sure not to hurt you.

You felt like you were going to pass out. Not in a bad way, though. What was it that he said? During a period the increase in blood circulation increases arousal and sensitivity? That was the truest thing you’ve ever heard.

Then his finger curled, his lips sucking, and you saw stars. The wave of your orgasm hit you so hard you didn’t even had breath to let out those high-pitched moans one sees in movies. You simply melted. Your legs shook for just a second, squeezing around his head in a way that made him think you might suffocate him. He couldn’t think of a better way to die. Your fingers tugged hard on his hair, and he smiled against you as he pulled his finger out.

When you relaxed again, your eyes taking longer then usual to open back up, you were met with the most sinful sight of your life. There he was, laying between your legs, his finger, lips, chin and a bit of his cheeks stained in blood.

“You’re so perfect.” He murmured, a lovesick smile on his lips as he remained there, completely unbothered by the mess.

“You… that…” You didn’t even know what to say, random words escaping your lips before your mind could form a connection. So, you settled for something simple enough. “Wow”

He laughed, that gorgeous smile gracing his lips as he tilted his head, resting his temple against the inside of your thigh. His fingers on the clean hand were still subtly caressing the skin of your hips, a faint comfort.

“Do your cramps feel better?” He asked simply, not bragging like any other men would after the reaction you just gave him.

“Yeah… Yeah, they, um, hurt a little less.” You stammer, completely entranced by him. Him, his perfect features, and that magical mouth.

“Just a little?” His eyebrows crease, a look of disappointment – not in you, but in himself, - taking over his features, and you had to smile.

“You know how bad my cramps are. But you were amazing, it’s not like it’s your fault.” Your fingers were gentle in his hair, caressing the soft strands and soothing the places you’d pulled too hard.

“No, but I can do better.” His hand ran up and down your thigh, his touch so loving you felt like melting again.

“You… want to do this again?” You ask, a little incredulous.

“Oh, honey. I’d do this all night if it’s what it takes for your pain to stop.” His tone betrayed how obvious that was for him, as if pleasing you was simply the most natural thing in his world.

“But you don’t have to.”

“But I want to. That is, if you want it too. If not, I can also just do a massage and we’ll go to sleep-“

“I want to!” You were quick this time, interrupting him mid-sentence and making him laugh again.

“You don’t need to sound so desperate; the offer won’t leave the table.” He smiles, turning his head to kiss your inner thigh again. “I’ll do it as many times as you want.”

“Yeah? What if I want to test out the ‘blood makes great lube’ theory?” Your question makes the desire in him grow tenfold, a smirk stretching across his lips.

“Well, you know how it is…” He murmurs, slowly leaving his place between your legs and climbing up on top of you. “As a man of science” He murmurs, his lips leaving blood marks with each kiss as he makes his way up your body “I can’t not seek the truth when it comes to a theory.” His voice was sultry when he murmured against your lips, and a smile of your own appeared in them while you listen to him nerd out. Up close, you could see a smudge of blood in the lenses of his glasses, and again, his nonchalance about it melts you.

His eyes met yours, and with a subtle nod of affirmation from you, he closed the distance between your faces. His mouth tasted like iron, metallic from your blood, yet unlike how you always felt about period blood, kissing him like this wasn’t disgusting. Not when it was him. Not after what he’d just done.

She had been stripped of her modern jeans and threadbare canvas sneakers, discarded and left in a crumpled pile by the rotting doorframe. In their place, her cold, rigid limbs were shrouded in a coarse, unbleached linen gown that scraped against her skin like sandpaper. Her body bore the red, blistering chemical burns of lye and sulfur, a violent attempt to scorch away the perceived filth of the modern world. She had been arranged with meticulous, terrifying reverence upon a hand-carved oak altar, her fingers woven together across her sternum, her dead, unblinking eyes forced wide open to stare through a hole in the collapsed roof toward the thick canopy of weeping willow and moss above. Her killer had offered her up, a corrupted sacrifice framed by a warped, extreme interpretation of Levitical purity laws.

–

When the BAU’s two black SUVs rolled through the rusted iron archway that marked the limits of Oakhaven Fen the heat hit like a wet velvet curtain. The town was an eerie, suspended breath of a bygone era. Women in ankle-length, dark cotton dresses stood on porches, their hair bound tightly in severe knots, watching the government vehicles with eyes devoid of warmth. Men in sweat-stained linen shirts and braces paused their work, their faces hard and lined like dry riverbeds. There were no brightly coloured signs, no radios playing or any sound except the heavy thrum of cicadas. The atmosphere was stale, suffocating, and swaddled in an isolationist paranoia that felt less like a rural town and more like a frozen cult compound.

Inside the cramped, wood-paneled Sheriff's station, the team gathered around a weathered oak table. Aaron Hotchner’s jaw was set as he pinned the crime scene photos to a corkboard, while Jason Gideon stood off to the side, his gaze drifting toward the window to watch the silently staring locals outside. 

“The local authorities are overwhelmed, but more than that, they’re uncooperative,” Hotch said, his tone low. “They don’t view these girls as victims of a serial predator, but as sinners who brought judgement upon themselves.”

“They’re leaning heavily on Leviticus,” Spencer murmured, his fingers gently tracing the edge of an autopsy photo without touching the burned skin. “Specifically the purity rituals of Leviticus 15, cross-referenced with nineteenth-century holiness movement literature. The use of lye for ritualistic washing, the unbleached linen, it’s an attempt to force a physical state of sinlessness before death. To the unsub, he isn't committing murder. He believes he’s performing an act of mercy.”

“Mercy?” Morgan raised his eyebrows, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, his eyes dark with disgust. “The second girl was nineteen, Reid. She was scrubbed raw while still breathing.”

You stood beside Spencer, your shoulder brushing against his rough, tweed sleeve. You could smell the distinct, comforting scent of his sweet coffee, and fresh cedar that always seemed to cling to him, a stark contrast to the thick, metallic tang of swamp humidity slipping through the screen door. You reached down, adjusting your FBI badge at your hip, acutely aware of the eyes watching you from the front desk, the local deputy hadn’t stopped glaring at your trousers, your badge, or your exposed forearms since you walked in. 

“We need to speak to the local spiritual leader,” Gideon said, turning from the window. “A community this closed off doesn’t move without its shepherd.”

That shepherd was Pastor Silas Thorne. 

You found him behind the First Covenant Chapel, a whitewashed building whose bell tower leaned slightly toward the swamp. Thorne was a tall, gaunt man with knuckles like gnarled oak roots, and milky blue eyes that never seemed to fully focus. As you, Spencer and Morgan approached, the pastor didn’t pause his work. He continued splitting logs with a heavy iron wedge, the rhythmic thunk echoing through the heavy air. 

“You bring the noise of the outside world to the quiet valley,” Thorne said, his voice a deep, gravelly rasp that seemed to vibrate in his chest. He set the axe down and wiped his brow with a graying rag, his eyes lingering on you with a cold, piercing disgust. “A world of corruption. Of loose garments and brazen women.”

“We’re here to find out who tortured and killed Mary-Anne Miller and Sarah Smith, Pastor,” Morgan said, stepping slightly in front of you, his posture radiating a controlled warning. “We’re not interested in a sermon.”

Thorne’s thin lips curled into a mirage of a smile. He looked directly at you, stepping closer until the stench of old tobacco and bitter herbs radiated off him. “The scripture teaches us that the foot of the rebellious woman leads down to death. Those girls… they strayed into the deep woods. They painted their faces, cast off modesty. They tasted the filth of the cities. What befell them was the harvest of the seed they sowed. A righteous cleansing.”

Spencer stepped forward, his tall frame awkward but firm as he subtly shifted himself into Thorne’s line of sight, effectively shielding you behind himself and Morgan. “Leviticus 20:27 speaks of judgement, Pastor, but the early American purity cults of the 1880s warped those passages to justify human sacrifice, a heresy condemned by every major Christian synod of the era. Are you preaching heresy to your congregation, Mr Thorne?”

Thorne’s eyes flicked to Spencer, a sudden, dangerous flash of heat crossing his pale face. “I preach the word, young man. Pure and unrefined. And those who walk in brazen arrogance,” he looked past Spencer’s shoulder towards you again, “will find the fire catches them soonest.”

The hostility only deepened as the afternoon wore on. As the team split up to interview the townspeople, the reception was universally stone cold. Leaving the churchyard behind you, you paired up with Emily to canvas the town’s main dirt thoroughfare, hoping to find anyone willing to speak off the record. 

The heat felt thicker now, pressed down by the gray storm clouds gathering on the horizon. The dirt under your boots was soft and powdery, kicking up fine dust that clung to your clothes. As you and Emily walked, the silence of the town felt violent. Doors snapped shut at the sound of your footsteps on the wooden boardwalks. 

“Notice how no one here looks us in the eye?” Emily muttered under her breath, her hands tucked casually into her jacket pockets. “It’s not just distrust of federal agents. It’s fear. They’re terrified of stepping out of line.”

“Or terrified of Silas Thorne,” you said, glancing toward an old woman sitting on a porch. The woman snapped her bible shut, spat on the dusty floorboards and ducked inside, locking the door with a loud iron latch. You sighed, turning back to Emily. “He’s a classic narcissist with a messiah complex.”

“He fits the profile,” Emily said, her brow furrowed as she scanned the empty street. “High dominance, absolute control over his flock, deep-seated misogyny masked as following the word of the Lord.”

“Did you see the callus on his thumb?” You asked, Emily shook her head. “That’s from carving. He could easily be the one making those altars. When Spencer called him out on the heresy, he didn’t argue the theology. He made a threat. He stared right at me and talked about fire catching the brazen ones.”

Emily inhaled deeply, her voice dropping as two men in sweat-stained shirts crossed the street ahead, staring at your badges with open malice. “He wants to punish women who break his mold. The victims were trying to leave Oakhaven. Thorne couldn’t let them take his authority away. Killing them, cleansing them… it re-establishes his total control over the town.”

You approached a small library, stepping up onto the porch. An elderly man sweeping the wooden steps immediately stopped, clutching his broom like a weapon. “Excuse me, sir,” you said gently, holding up your badge. “We’re investigating the deaths of Sarah Smith and Mary-Anne Miller. Did you notice anyone near the old chapel-”

“A foolish woman seeketh her own destruction,” the man interrupted, his voice cracking like dry leaves. He glared past you, his eyes locking onto Emily, then sliding down to your badge. “Pastor Thorne warned us the pestilence would wear the skin of pride. The Lord sees your unbowed heads. You tread on holy ground with filth on your soles.”

“Sir, two young women from your town were murdered,” Emily pressed, taking a half-step forward, her voice hardening. “A killer is walking these streets.”

“The killer is the sin inside them!” The man spat, slamming the broom down onto the porch with a crack that made it vibrate. He leaned in, his yellowed eyes wild and unblinking. “The Pastor spoke the truth from the pulpit on Sunday. The judgement shall scrub the land until the flesh is white as wool. You keep walking these roads, girl, and you’ll find yourself lying on the altar right alongside them.” 

He backed into the library and slammed the heavy oak door in your faces, throwing the deadbolt on with a heavy clunk. You and Emily stood on the porch for a moment, the heavy silence settling over you again.

“Charming,” Emily muttered. “They’re totally indoctrinated. Thorne has them convinced that these murders are divine interventions.”

“He’s feeding them the exact rhetoric used at the crime scenes,” you said. “The lye, the linen, the white wool… Thorne isn’t just preaching this stuff, Emily. He’s weaponising it. He’s directing the violence.”

You reached the steps of an old carpenter’s workshop. Inside, the air was cooler than the heat outside, but it carried a different kind of heaviness, stale, thick with the scent of unrefined lard and cedar shavings. As you and Emily stepped over the threshold, a bell clinked dully above the door. Sitting at a low workbench in the corner, illuminated only by the tim, sickly yellow light filtering through a dust-crusted window, was a man with narrow shoulders and hollow, sunken cheeks. He was working with a heavy drawknife, peeling long, smooth curls of pale wood from a block of solid oak. His movements were smooth, practiced, and rhythmically quiet.

"Excuse us," Emily said, her tone professional, though her eyes immediately swept the quiet room. "FBI. We're looking to ask a few questions."

The man didn't jump. He didn't even drop his knife. He simply slowed his hand, letting the steel blade rest against the raw wood, before slowly raising his head. His eyes were a muted, clouded blue, wide and strangely unblinking.

"Mmm," he hummed. His voice was shockingly soft, almost gentle, contrasting sharply with the harsh, rasping venom of the other townspeople. "You shouldn't be out in this heat. The air is sour today. It turns things."

You stepped forward, your boots clicking softly on the floorboards. "We're investigating the deaths of Sarah Smith and Mary-Anne Miller. We're asking if anyone saw anything unusual near the old chapel grounds over the last few days."

At the mention of Sarah's name, the man's fingers tightened just slightly on the wooden handles of his blade, the knuckles turning white.

"Sarah was a fragile girl," he said, his tone flat, devoid of grief, yet laced with a peculiar, unsettling reverence. "Her mind was easily clouded by the weeds of the road. People think she was lost... but she isn't lost anymore. She’s at peace now."

You narrowed your eyes, taking in his physical presence. His shirt was a plain, unbleached cotton, tucked neatly into rough canvas trousers, but his hands were deeply stained, grimy slate-gray around the cuticles, the skin dry and cracking from harsh chemicals.

"You knew her well?" you asked, taking a careful step closer to his workbench.

"I'm her brother. Eli," he said simply. He didn't offer a hand, nor did he look away from you. His gaze drifted down from your eyes, lingering on the open collar of your shirt, then down to the leather holster at your hip. "Sarah used to wear bright things. Red ribbons. Blue glass beads. She thought they made her pretty. But bright things only attract the rot, don't they?"

A prickle of cold discomfort traced its way up the back of your neck. Unlike Pastor Thorne, who radiated loud, theatrical hostility, Eli radiated a deep, hollow stillness that felt far more dangerous.

"Eli, if you know anything about who hurt your sister, you need to tell us," Emily said, her posture shifting subtly as she read the odd energy in the room. "We want to catch the person responsible."

Eli let out a faint, breathy sound, a shadow of a laugh that barely made it past his lips. He picked up a handful of fresh oak shavings from his lap, letting them spill slowly through his rough fingers like coarse sand.

"Man doesn't hurt what God cleanses, Lady," Eli said softly, his eyes locking back onto yours. The intensity in his gaze was terrifyingly calm. "The river washes the mud from the stone. Is the river hurting the stone? No. It’s just making it white again. Preparing it for the sun."

He reached out with a thumb, gently touching a drop of raw, milky sap oozing from the carved wood, rubbing it between his stained fingers.

"You're very loud," Eli added, his voice dropping to a near-whisper as he stared at you. "The way you walk. The metal on your belt. You carry so much weight from the outside world. It must be very heavy... carrying all that rot around on your skin."

The hair on your arms stood straight up. He didn’t raise his voice, or quote scripture, there was no overt threat, just an absolute, unshakeable certainty in his hollow eyes that made your chest tighten with an instinctual warning.

"We're done here for now," Emily said sharply, her hand hovering near her belt as she picked up on the sudden, toxic atmosphere. She placed a subtle hand on your shoulder, gently pulling you back a half-step. "If you think of anything else, Eli, you let the Sheriff know."

Eli didn't answer. He simply picked up his drawknife again, setting the steel blade against the white oak.

As you turned to exit, you could feel his clouded blue eyes tracking your every move, watching the sway of your dark trousers and the flash of your badge until the screen door clicked shut behind you.

Out on the porch, Emily rubbed her temples, exhaling a long breath. "Lovely town. That guy was creepy, but Thorne is still our primary. He’s feeding them the exact rhetoric used at the crime scenes, he’s directing the violence. We need to get Hotch to pull his records."

"I'm with you," you said, trying to shake the lingering feeling of Eli's stare. "If Thorne isn't holding the lye brush himself, he's holding the leash."

“She walks in the attire of a harlot,” a woman with sunken cheeks hissed at you from a garden gate, her fingers clutching a wooden rosary so tightly her knuckles were white. “The storm is coming to wash the plague. You’d do well to strip yourself of your pride before the wood takes you too.” 

You swallowed thickly, the warning seeming more like a threat. Emily took your elbow, guiding you away towards the street corner where the rest of the agents were gathering. “Ignore her.”

–

By late afternoon, the sky had turned a bruised, unnatural purple. The air pressure dropped so violently it made your ears pop. Seeking shelter from the rising wind, you and Spencer slipped into the porch of an abandoned general store at the edge of the woods. The wind rattled the loose tin roof above, creating a metallic roar that cut off the rest of the world. Rain began to fall in massive, heavy sheets, turning the dirt road into a churn of red mud. 

You leaned your back against the weathered wood, exhaling a long, shuddering breath. “I don’t like it here, Spence.”

Spencer turned to face you, adjusting his leather messenger bag strap over his shoulder. The dim, violet light of the storm caught the softer angles of his face. His eyes watched your fingers, picking at the skin around your nails. You were usually strong, these cases rolled off your back, but Spencer noticed the shift in your demeanor. He reached out, hesitating for a fraction of a second, before his long fingers gently touched your forearm, right where the cold air had raised goosebumps on your skin. 

“They’re living in a shared delusional system,” he said softly, his voice a quiet, grounding anchor amidst the howling wind. “It’s a defensive mechanism against the isolation and decay of the geography, but… You don’t have to listen to them.” He pushed, his brown eyes searching yours with an earnest, vulnerable intensity that made your heart skip a beat. “You’re strong, and you’re brilliant, and your presence here is saving lives. Don’t let them make you forget that.”

You looked up at him, the wind catching his hair, blowing a strand across his forehead. You gently reached up to move the curl back behind his ear, a faint blush creeping up his neck at the contact. “Thanks, Spence.” You said softly as your thumb moved to gently trail across his cheekbone, making his breath hitch as the pad of your thumb brushed underneath his eye. “Don’t know what I’d do out here without you.” 

His eyes softened into something tender, his head tilting into your touch for a moment, his mouth opened to say something more, his lips parting, an unguarded look in his eyes. A massive clap of thunder ruined the moment, shaking the very boards beneath your feet. 

“We should get back to the station,” Spencer said reluctantly, looking out at the sheet of gray rain as your hand fell from his face. “Hotch wants us to regroup before the roads flood entirely.”

–

The atmosphere at the station felt like a held breath, Spencer stepped in, holding the door for you when you paused. He turned to face you when the weight of the door didn’t ease on his hand. “What is it?”

“I left my notebook in the unit by the cemetery,” you said, already turning back to the steps. “Go ahead, I’ll be two minutes.”

“I’ll come with you,” he insisted immediately. 

“It’s twenty yards, Spence,” you offered him a small reassuring smile. “I think I can handle a puddle.” 

He hesitated, watching you for a second longer before nodding. “Two minutes. I’m counting.”

You darted off the porch, shielding your head with your jacket as you ran toward the lone SUV parked near the ancient, moss draped iron fence of the cemetery. The rain was deafening, blinding. You pulled open the passenger door, reaching across the console to grab the leather-bound logbook, and stepped back out into the rain. 

You couldn’t hear the footsteps over the roar of the storm. 

A heavy, burlap sack reeking of lye, stagnant water and old tallow was shoved violently over your head. Before you could draw in a breath to scream, a pair of thick, iron-strong arms pinned your elbows to your sides. A rag soaked in a sweet, suffocating chemical was slammed against your nose and mouth. You thrashed wildly, driving your heel back into your attacker’s shin, but the fumes invaded your lungs instantly, turning your limbs to lead and spinning the dark, stormy sky into complete blackness. 

–

“You’re alone.” Hotch glanced behind Spencer as he waited for you to make your entrance. There was a silence that hung heavy over Spencer’s head, one that was thick with regret. “I told you all specifically to not walk around alone.” He said, keeping his eyes on Spencer as he moved around him to push open the heavy wooden door to the tempest outside. Morgan followed. 

The driver's side door of the secondary vehicle was hanging wide open. The sight stilled them, Spencer followed out, his chest already twisting with guilt.

Your notebook was lying in a puddle on the red dirt, its pages rapidly drinking in the muddy rain.

Spencer called out your name as he rushed into the rain, his voice instantly tightening with panic as he sprinted toward the car. 

Silence, save for the violent roar of the wind through the cypress trees.

He dropped to his knees in the mud, his hands hovering frantically over your dropped radio and the fresh tread marks of a heavy, rusted farm truck spinning out into the dirt road. "Hotch! Morgan!" Spencer’s scream ripped through his throat, raw and terrified, barely recognisable as his own. "HOTCH!"

Within seconds, the BAU descended into chaotic, furious motion.

Inside the makeshift command post at the Sheriff's station, maps were slammed onto tables. Hotchner was on the satellite phone, his voice dripping with controlled, lethal authority as he demanded state police air support, despite the storm grounding most helicopters. Morgan slammed his fists down onto a wooden desk so hard a water glass shattered, his eyes bloodshot and wild as he paced the room like a caged predator.

"She’s been gone twenty minutes!" Morgan roared, turning on the local Sheriff, who sat quietly sipping coffee in the corner. "You have deputies on these roads! How does a giant government SUV get breached and an Agent dragged off without a single one of your men seeing it?!"

"The storm's heavy, Agent," the Sheriff drawled, unfazed. "Things go missing in the Fens when the water rises."

Morgan grabbed the front of the Sheriff's uniform collar, hauling the older man out of his chair until they were nose to nose. "You listen to me, you corrupt son of a bitch. If anything happens to her, there isn't a holy law in this swamp that's gonna protect you from me."

"Morgan! Back off!" Hotch commanded, grabbing Morgan's shoulder and forcibly pulling him back, though Hotch’s own eyes were burning with a cold, terrifying rage. "Threatening him doesn't find her. Reid, where are we?"

Spencer was standing over the topographic map of the county, his long fingers trembling so violently he had to press them flat against the paper to steady himself. His breathing was shallow, his hyper-analytical mind spinning into an agonising loop of worst-case scenarios and brutal timelines.

"The chemical used on the previous victims was a mixture of industrial lye and sulfur," Spencer stammered, his voice tight and raspy. "It takes... It takes approximately forty-five minutes to prep the ritualistic washing. If he follows the exact Levitical timeline of the previous two victims, he won't attempt the final offering until midnight... but the chemical burns... the lye destroys skin tissue within fifteen minutes of application..."

"Reid, breathe," JJ said gently, placing a hand on his back. Her own face was pale, tears pricking the corners of your eyes, but she kept her voice steady. "We are going to find her. Think. What is the profile telling us?"

"We were wrong," Gideon declared suddenly, stepping into the center of the room from the front window, his hands clasped tightly behind his back.

The room went dead silent.

Spencer whipped his head around, hair plastered to his forehead by rain and sweat. "What? Why? He matches the dominant profile, he threatened her-"

"Thorne is a narcissist, he wants an audience," Gideon said firmly, pointing toward the window where Pastor Thorne was currently standing on the church steps across the street, calmly watching the storm. "Look at him. He’s enjoying the chaos. He preaches on the porch, he confrontationally defends his doctrine because he craves power over the living. But this offender is covert. He operates in the deep shadows of the flood zones. He doesn't want power over a living congregation, he wants to present dead, immaculate offerings to God."

"Thorne is the catalyst. The spark," Hotch realised, his jaw tightening. "The unsub is someone who lives in absolute, total submission to the doctrine, someone who thinks he's the unseen, humble instrument."

"Eli Smith," Emily breathed.

Spencer’s eyes widening as a cascade of facts locked into place. "Sarah’s brother! You talked to him…” 

Emily nodded gravely. “He works for the parish drainage board, he knows every abandoned structure in the swamp. He’s a woodworker. He built the oak altars. He has access to the carpenter's shop, the lye, the unbleached linen...He wasn't acting out of grief," Emily said, her hands flying to her mouth as horror dawned on her face. "When we interviewed him, he spoke about Sarah like she was... like she was clean now… He looked at her clothes, her belt... he said she was carrying rot on her skin."

"He's consecrating them," Spencer whispered, a tear finally spilling over his lash line. "He thinks he's saving her. Where would he take her? Where is the highest, most isolated consecrated ground?"

He slammed his hand down on the map, his thumb hovering over a faded blue landmark buried deep in the green expanse of the marsh. "The old sunken chapel. St. Jude's in the Fens is already flooded, but there's a twin site built by the same settlement in 1888, the Chapel of the Seven Wounds. It's built on a hill inside the basin. It’s accessible only by the drainage access roads he maintains!"

"Load up," Hotch barked, unholstering his weapon to check the chamber. "We move. Now."

–

Meanwhile, miles away inside the gloom of the Chapel of the Seven Wounds, consciousness returned to you in agonising stages.

The air was heavy with the reek of burning tallow, heat radiating from dozens of candles ringing the hand-carved altar. You opened your eyes to find yourself strapped down, your wrists bound tightly with hemp rope to iron rings embedded in the oak block. You were stripped of your clothes, wearing the same unbleached linen gown as the other victims. The lye paste already smeared across your neck and collarbone bit into your skin like hundreds of hot needles.

Eli Smith towered over you, his eyes wide with a terrifying, ecstatic devotion as he carefully mixed a bowl of white chemical paste with a wooden spoon.

"You're awake," Eli murmured softly, setting the bowl beside your head. "Good. The soul must be present for the scrubbing. It loses its grace if the body sleeps."

"Eli..." you gritted out, forcing your voice through the chemical haze in your lungs. You looked up at him, focusing on keeping his attention locked on you, trying to buy every second possible. "Eli, listen to me. Your sister... Sarah... she didn't want this. She loved you. You don't have to carry out Silas Thorne's sickness."

Eli’s face contorted violently, a sudden, blinding rage flashing in his pale eyes before vanishing back into hollow calm. "Do not speak his name in this holy place. Pastor Thorne is a hypocrite. He talks of judgment, but he is weak, He lets the rot walk the streets. He let Sarah buy tickets for the bus. He let her laugh in the square."

"So you killed her to keep her from leaving?" you asked, gasping as a drop of lye splashed onto your shoulder.

"I saved her!" Eli said, leaning over you, his breath sour and hot against your face. "I washed her clean before the city could put its black marks on her soul. I placed her spotless before the throne… And now... now He gave me you. The boldest one. The one who carries the gun and speaks with the voice of men."

He picked up the boar-bristle brush, soaking it in the thick lye solution. "When I am finished scrubbing you, you will be white as wool. They will find you, and they will see what true purity looks like."

You pulled against the ropes with all your strength, the coarse fibers tearing into the skin of your wrists, blood slicking the wood. 

"Let the men come," Eli whispered serenely, bringing the bristled brush down hard against your exposed neck.

You screamed as the caustic paste seared through your flesh, tears streaming down your face as you fought against the unbearable heat.

"Scour the stain!" Eli began to chant, his voice rising over the howling storm outside as he scrubbed violently. "Scour the flesh until the spirit shines!"

"FBI! Don't move!" Hotch's voice boomed through the high-vaulted, burning room.

Eli froze, his wide eyes turning toward the entrance. Through the haze of candle smoke and rising heat, you saw Morgan and Hotch with their weapons drawn, taking point, with Gideon right behind. And behind them, his face pale with utter terror, was Spencer.

"Drop the weapon! Put your hands on your head!" Morgan roared, stepping around a cluster of burning tallow candles.

Eli looked down at you, then up at the agents. A sickly, triumphant smile spread across his face. "You cannot stop the consecration!" he said, his voice too calm for the current predicament.

With a sudden, violent sweep of his arm, Eli knocked a heavy iron candelabra containing dozens of open flames off the altar. It crashed into a stack of dry, resin-soaked pine firewood and ancient, dry-rotted velvet pews. The flames took instantly, hungry for oxygen, roaring up the walls in a terrifying wall of fire that completely severed the altar from the chapel entrance.

"Fallback! The roof is going to collapse!" Hotch shouted, grabbing Morgan's vest as a blazing cypress beam crashed down near the entrance, showering the room in sparks. "Reid, stay back!"

Spencer didn't hear him. Or rather, he completely ignored the direct order of his senior agent.

His eyes were locked on you, on your body bound to the oak altar, the red burns on your skin, the raw terror in your eyes as the flames began to lick at the edges of your linen gown.

"Spencer, NO!" Hotch yelled.

Spencer didn't hesitate. He threw his arms over his face and hurled his body directly through the wall of roaring fire.

He crashed onto the burning floorboards on the other side, his tweed jacket catching fire at the hem. He scrambled to his feet instantly, beating out the flames on his sleeve with his bare hands, his eyes wild as he sprinted to the side of the altar.

"I've got you, I've got you," Spencer sobbed out, his voice cracked with raw, unadulterated emotion. He pulled a heavy pocketknife from his trousers, his hands shaking violently as he worked the blade under the thick hemp ropes at your wrists.

Behind him, Eli lunged forward with the heavy iron wedge, his face contorted in rage, but a single shot echoed through the roar of the fire, Morgan had found a narrow angle through the smoke, dropping Eli to the floor.

The hemp rope snapped. You pulled your hands free, instantly reaching up to grab the lapels of Spencer’s singed jacket. He sliced through the ankle bindings in seconds, then gathered you up into his arms, pulling your trembling, chemical-burned body tightly against his chest.

"I have you," he whispered frantically into your wet hair, his body trembling violently against yours as heat roared around you both. "I've got you. You’re okay."

He hoisted you up, carrying your weight with a frantic strength you didn't know he possessed. He carried you through the blinding, choking smoke, dodging falling embers as Morgan and Hotch cleared a path through the burning structural debris, guiding you both out into the torrential, cool deluge of the Mississippi rain.

The air outside felt cold and shockingly pure.

The storm was beginning to pass, the heavy rain washing away the stink of lye and tallow from your skin. Paramedics immediately swarmed the area, placing a thick, warm blanket over your linen gown and tending to the chemical burns on your neck and arms with soothing ointment. Nearby, Eli Smith was being hauled into the back of a state trooper's cruiser in handcuffs, his lips still moving in silent, mad prayers. Pastor Thorne stood near the edge of the police perimeter, watched closely by Gideon, the pastor's authority completely shattered as the town watched his loyal follower led away in irons.

Spencer refused to leave your side. He sat on the back bumper of the ambulance right next to you, a blanket wrapped around his own singed shoulders, his hands raw, soot-stained, and blistered. The rest of the team was giving you both space, Hotch standing near the lead vehicle, watching Spencer with a quiet, knowing expression before turning to speak with the state troopers.

You sat shivering, staring down at your bandaged hands. "Spencer..."

He turned to look at you. In the faint, soft blue light of the emergency vehicles, his brown eyes were glossy with unshed tears. The usual calculated, analytical barrier he maintained was completely gone, shattered by the night's horrors.

"When I saw that car empty..." Spencer began, his voice barely louder than a whisper, trembling with an intensity that made your heart stop. "When I saw your notebook in the mud... my heart stopped. I couldn't process the statistics. I couldn't process the profile. All I could think was that the world couldn't exist without you in it."

He reached out, his soot-stained, trembling fingers gently taking your bandaged hand, holding it like something impossibly fragile.

"I.. I’m so sorry" Spencer said softly, leaning his forehead against yours, his warm breath fanning across your damp cheek. "I love you. I think I've loved you since the moment you walked into my life."

You looked at him, feeling the heat of his skin, the frantic, steady beating of his heart beneath your hands, and for the first time all night, the cold darkness of Oakhaven completely vanished.

You make a quiet hum of complaisance. Like you’re not sure what you are, but you’ll consent to having his sweater anyway. It’s good enough for Spencer. 

He leans forward in his chair to help you sit up, getting one arm and then the other through the sleeves of his worn old cardigan. Your concentration doesn’t seem much better than it has been since he arrived here to find you. Any time Spencer’s not prompting you to look so you can help him guide your hand into a sleeve, your eyes are on him. Drowsy, muddled. Transfixed. 

Eventually, he asks, sitting back with all the buttons dutifully affixed, “What is it?” 

“You’re here,” you breathe. As soft as if your exhalation might blow him away. 

Spencer’s heart breaks. 

“Yeah.” He intertwines your fingers, giving you a small smile. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.” 

That seems to be your one prevailing worry. This isn’t the first time you’ve woken; you’re invariably confused, with questions about what happened and how you got here, and you require lots of reassurance that Spencer really, really isn’t going to leave the second you close your eyes again. For whatever other concerns you might have, that’s what you’ve asked for the most. 

“How’d you get here?” you mumble. 

Spencer knows you’re not asking whether he took a taxi or the metro. He runs his thumb over the side of your hand. “You called me, sweetheart.” 

Your brows cinch. “When?” 

“A few hours ago,” he answers simply. 

It was a heart-seizing sort of call. You’d been at your apartment—that, at least, you were crystal clear on—but slurring your words so badly Spencer could barely make out what you were saying. He’s not sure if you knew, either. Hanging up on you to call 911 was one of the hardest things he’s done, but putting his trust in the emergency responders was rewarded; by the time Spencer got to your apartment, you’d already been picked up by an ambulance, and he had to turn straight around to meet you at the hospital. 

But you don’t remember any of that, and it’s not the time yet to revisit it. Spencer attempts to redirect you. “How are you feeling?” 

You frown. He catches himself mirroring it unconsciously. “Tired,” you say.

Spencer hums. 

“My head hurts.” 

“Yeah?” You look bothered by the hopeful pitch in his voice, and so he hurries to explain, “That might actually be a good thing. It means your trigeminal nerve has been activated and your vasodilator neuropeptides are being released.” 

“Spencer.” You say his name in a whine he’s heard before. It means you need him to stop speaking textbook, as you call it, and it’s so familiar Spencer smiles a little despite himself. 

“It means any depressants are leaving your system.” He squeezes your fingers lightly. “You should start feeling better in the next few hours.” 

This news clearly is not as cheering to you as Spencer hoped. You slump down onto your pillow with a punched-out sigh. “I didn’t…I didn’t think I drank that much.” 

There’s a painful tug in Spencer’s middle. “I don’t think you did, either,” he says softly. “We’re not sure what happened.” 

Your head turns sideways, your face full of questions and something that looks worryingly like guilt. “I’m not sure how much I had. I only remember one, but I…” You search Spencer’s gaze like he knows something you don’t. “I felt like I was fine then. Maybe I forgot?” 

“I don’t know,” Spencer murmurs, hating how the admission tastes in his mouth. “The doctors are going to do their best to find out, okay? But I don’t think this was something you did.” 

“No?” 

“No.” He swallows. Your eyes track the movement. You bring your joined hands to Spencer’s face, pressing your knuckles to his cheek like he’s the one who needs someone to lean on. He has to clear his voice again to speak. “I’m going to call the nurse in here, okay?” 

Instantly, your fingers tighten on his. “Wait.” 

“I’m not leaving,” he reassures you. “I’m just calling for them.” He presses the button attached to the side of your bed. This is the longest you’ve been awake yet, and really Spencer knows he should have called someone sooner. He isn’t immune to lapses of selfishness. “They’re going to want to run a toxicology report.” 

You don’t know what this means, but the doctor explains rather succinctly when he comes in. They’re going to test your blood for drugs, alcohol, and other chemicals. It will reveal what’s in your system as well as approximate concentration levels, so it should tell them what you took to make you so out of it. 

“She didn’t take anything,” says Spencer. More clipped than he’d normally be, perhaps, but you’re confused and too unsure at the moment to advocate for yourself. “She was given something. Do you know how much reported use of benzodiazepines has increased in the last ten years?”

You say Spencer’s name in that whining voice, tugging on his hand. The doctor blinks before answering, “No.” 

“Nine times.” Spencer holds his gaze. “It’s reported nine times as much.” 

“Spence,” you mumble. Spencer turns to devote his attention to you. You’re giving him a pleading look, pained lines still etched between your brows. 

“Sorry,” he says, just to you. 

You both listen to the doctor explain what’s going to happen next without further interruptions. He’s more careful with his words, cutting Spencer a look every now and then as though to ensure he hasn’t offended anyone before continuing. A nurse will come take your blood in a few minutes. When the doctor leaves, Spencer turns to find you already watching him. 

“Will you stay with me?” you ask, almost sheepish. 

“Where do you think I’m going to go?” Spencer asks genuinely. 

“I don’t know. Please?” 

*~*~*

You don’t know exactly what a breakup feels like, but you suspect it’s probably something similar to this.

You resist the temptation to buy tubs of Ben & Jerry’s, to watch Bridget Jones’ Diary, to play sad music at full volume. If you don’t perform any of the rites of heartbreak, you can continue to tell yourself that’s not why everything hurts, why you struggle to get out of bed, why the food you eat all tastes the same. You probably just have the flu or something.

The last time you experienced the end of a relationship, you were 12 and Parker Simon came to your house one afternoon (so close to dinnertime your mother almost refused to let you come to the door) to tell you his family were moving to Wyoming; he didn’t feel the two of you were in the right place to do long distance and maybe he was too young to be tied down like that, wanted to explore his options in this new school he was going to.

You had just nodded and shaken his hand in goodbye when he held it out to you, and then you closed the door on him retreating down the porch steps, not waiting for him to get on his bike and go. Back in the living room your mother was pushing the box containing your new TV out of the way with an annoyed sigh as she placed a bowl of three bean salad on the dining table.

Your old TV had also decided it wasn’t up for long distance, packed into the back of the U-Haul your father shoved all his belongings into a week before. You wouldn’t see it again until your summer vacation.

When your mother asked what Parker wanted, you told her the truth, pretty much repeated his clearly rehearsed speech verbatim. She had rolled her eyes and told you, “That’s what they do, Sweetie. They leave,” and then she went back into the kitchen for your plates of chicken.

The way you feel now is nothing like the way you felt then, when you just sat down at the dinner table and ate the food your mother put on your plate and wished your father had been there to sneak you a soda in the garage later, when your mother did the dishes.

And your mother was wrong, anyway, the way you grew up to realise she was wrong about a lot of things, because they don’t always leave. Not if you leave them first, and up until now you’ve been very, very good at that.

It’s strange that for all the things Spencer taught you, about the universe and the Knights Templar and what the mitochondria being the powerhouse of the cell actually means if you use all the long words, he also made you forget how to walk away in time.

How to walk away at all, because you’re not doing this well, and you used to be so good at it.

* * *

You never say anything to Simon about what happened. You don’t need to. He was in that bar, and while Spencer might not have recognised him, beard gone and wearing a suit instead of his off-duty khakis, Simon definitely clocked Spencer. Probably noticed him leave right after you as well.

An assignment opens up in Tehran, five weeks, maybe six, not strictly something that’s in your job description, but when you ask for it anyway, he gives it to you.

That’s what makes you realise how miserable you must look.

It might have a faint whiff of excitement geographically, but it's strictly back-office stuff, really you might as well be on desk duty in Sweden or somewhere. Nothing's going to happen, you'll be bored out of your skull, and he tells you that but more as a warning than a deterrent.

Still, you go home and pack your bags and then you order a taxi to take you to Dulles. Because luck isn’t something that happens to you, you run into Spencer as you’re leaving. He eyes your suitcases but doesn’t say anything, just steps aside to let you pass him on the stairs.

When the cab driver asks you if you’re excited about your trip, you can’t summon the energy to pretend, that mask of indifference painted on Spencer's face etched into your retinas.

You want to think to yourself that he looks thinner, that he looks tired, that he looks like he misses you. But then you remind yourself that no, you don’t want that. You don’t want any of it. What you want is simple and casual and no complications.

Spencer feeling bad doesn’t give you any of that, it just makes you feel worse.

So you blink, readjust, and tell yourself it’s all in your head, you’re imagining things, of course he isn’t still thinking about you. It’s been nearly a month, after all. He’s totally over it, probably getting cosy with the pretty blonde he was talking to at work.

You don’t feel any better.

At the airport you browse the paperback section at random and your eyes snag on an author’s name. It takes a moment for you to realise it's Spencer's colleague, and you pick up the book to leaf through it.

It feels just self-flagellatory enough for the mood you're in, so you buy the book and stuff it into your handbag, wondering if you're hoping you'll see something of Spencer in it or not.

The plan was to sleep on the plane, arrive in Iran ready to get to work, but instead you end up reading the whole book, not even pausing to eat, stuffing food into your mouth with one hand while the other holds the book, and in the end all you manage is a short nap, interrupted by your layover in Istanbul. Then the reality of what you're doing lands like a bad joke as you board the second plane and you spend the second part of the journey feeling jittery and hating yourself a little.

* * *

The work is monotonous, endless stretches of just sitting around, waiting for disaster while reminding yourself that nothing happening is a good thing. The most entertaining thing that happens is listening to recorded conversations you could have listened to from the comfort of your own office chair, sleeping in your own bed at night.

But of course, your bed and what you’ve been doing in it is a very big part of the reason you’re here in the first place, and you try very hard not to have to remind yourself of that.

You run into an old friend at the bazaar, he’s buying pomegranate juice and insisting on doing it in broken Farsi although the vendor keeps trying to switch to English, and you roll your eyes at the old man in the stall, who shrugs, like, what are you gonna do?

When Mark turns around, he looks delighted to see you. Gives up on foreign languages and lets you complete the transaction for him. You order two large drinks, hand over Mark’s money and decline the change you’re offered.

“I’m not sure which one of you just hustled me,” Mark says as you lead him away, his posh British accent somehow posher than you remember it.

“That means we both did.” You nod your head towards a kid, running in the other direction. “And that boy stole your wallet.”

Mark pads his pocket, eyes wide, then feels his wallet still safely in it, and you shake your head at him.

You used to wonder how someone this gullible could ever get hired by MI6, but you’ve seen him at work and you know this is all just pretend.

Mark is the second-smartest guy you ever met.

The last time you saw him, he was the smartest.

You don’t ask him why he’s here, he doesn’t ask you, and without discussing it you make your way to the American hotel.

“Did you know,” Mark says, taking the first sip of his second non-alcoholic beer, wincing just like he did with every sip he took of the first one. “That I was born on the day the hostage crisis began.”

“I did know that,” you tell him, taking a sip of your tea. “Because you’ve told me before.” In fact, he has told you four times, and you still have no idea if it’s even true, or if it’s just a date that’s easy to remember.

“And yet, not a single birthday card from you.” He sounds wistful, but his eyes are twinkling.

“Where would I even send it?”

“So what’s up with you?” he asks instead of answering you, his eyes suddenly alert, all his attention focused on you in a way that makes your brain conjure up all that hostage training you went through so many times it’s a reflex by now: Reveal nothing. Just, maybe it wasn’t meant for this.

“Not much, you know.” You shrug lightly. “What’s up with you?”

“Not much, you know,” he parrots, matching your tone but keeping his British accent.

You take another sip of your tea, waiting him out.

He sighs. “Bloody nightmare, getting you to talk. About anything. Shame we're not allowed to waterboard American citizens without doing the paperwork first.”

You smile. “What are you doing in Tehran?”

“Oh, you know, I go where they send me.” He shrugs, then quirks an eyebrow like he thinks you’re giving him an opening. “You?”

“Oh, you know. Same.”

“Really?” He smiles, all Cheshire cat like you did give him something. “I heard you asked for it.”

You stare at him.

“Who the fuck asks for Tehran?” He waves his beer at you in accusation, as if it’s your fault he’s having to drink it.

“When was your birthday again?”

“Oh, sing a different tune, love. That’s not what you’re doing here. If you think there’s a real crisis coming, you’re in for a very dull surprise.”

It’s not a surprise, but it’s definitely dull, although you don’t tell Mark that. “So what do you think I’m doing here?”

“I think you’re running,” he says flatly.

“There’s no way you can just come to that conclusion based on ‘Tehran’,” you argue, before you realise the appropriate response would have been to pretend you didn’t know what he meant.

He smiles pityingly at you. “What happened to you?”

You shake your head. “Nothing happened, I just got bored.”

He laughs at that, finishing off his beer. “Normally I’d believe that, but I wasn’t lying when I told you I go where they ask me.”

You refuse to react when he pauses dramatically. You have no idea what’s coming, but there’s no way you’re letting him know you’re interested in hearing it.

“I just didn’t tell you who asked.”

Your first thought is ‘How would Spencer know an MI6 agent, and how would he know how to send that agent to find you?’ Your second thought is just how insane those questions make you seem. Your third thought seems safe enough, so you let slip out. “Who asked?”

“Don’t ask me why, but Simon seems very worried you’re not planning on coming back to DC.”

You stare at the table. It’s not a question you’ve allowed yourself to actually take shape, going back or not going back. There’s no way you’re staying in Tehran long term, but maybe you could go to Europe. There are rumours of an opening at the consulate in Naples. You think you'd like Naples.

You could just stay away, have someone empty your apartment, send it all back into storage. Never have to listen to those annoying pipes again.

Your stomach turns uncomfortably and you push your cup of tea away. Clearly you’ve had too much of the stuff.

“You should probably go back.” Mark pushes up your head with a hand on your chin and you look at him.

“Why?”

He leans over the table, pulling you closer, and you realise he’s going to kiss you. You remember sex with Mark. It’s good and it’s fun and it’s uncomplicated. It’s never ever messy and no-one ever gets attached. You pull away from him, leaning back in your seat.

“That’s why, darling,” he tells you, a glint in his eye like he just won an argument.

You don’t think he did, but you’re pretty sure that you lost one.

When you get back to your apartment the lights are already on in the hallway and there’s a suitcase sitting in the living room, a stranger asleep on the sofa. He stirs when you turn on the light, points to the table and the envelope he left there, on top of a dossier.

You grab them both, wave a hand in apology, and head to the single bedroom that’s clearly only going to be yours for one more night.

Out of the envelope falls two plane tickets. One to DC, the other to Berlin. You weigh them both in your hand, then start packing your bags.

The concrete was cold, pressing into your tear-soaked cheeks, eyes puffy and red from crying. 

You looked pathetic. 

Salty tears continued to run down your face as you heaved in the far right corner of the room, the corner that had become your default resting place over the last few hours. Lying on the floor like a rag doll, time a fragmented concept to you, the same as sleep. The unsub's random appearances were frequent enough to disturb any hope of sleep you had, storming in only to drag you around and torment you, recording his crimes to add to his collection. 

Cigarette burns littered your upper arms, complementing the purple and red hand marks around your neck, merging all into one cacophony of brutality. 

You, and your body the unwilling participant in it all. 

It was becoming a routine: once he left, you pulled yourself on your hands and knees to the corner of the box you called a prison in some desperate attempt to console yourself. The only true comfort it brought was the knowledge that it was the furthest away from the camera. You didn't want the team to see you like this … you couldn't stomach it. 

Especially Spencer.

Poor, sweet Spencer. 

In a last-ditch attempt to get any semblance of rest, you let yourself curl into a ball and lie on the floor. Closing your eyes for a moment, exhaustion washing over your limbs. Your good hand, or rather unrestrained hand, tangled into your hair, nails scratching gently along your scalp. Maybe if you just forgot for a moment that your nails were caked with grime and blood, that your whole body ached and shivered, you could sleep for a moment. 

Pathetically, you imagined it was Spencer's hands running through your increasingly tangled hair, gently lulling you to sleep in his cozy apartment. The one that smelled of old books and cinnamon, with the ridiculously comfy couch that he insisted wasn't good for sleeping on. Something- something, lack of proper spinal support. You always secretly hoped it was because he wanted you in his bed, deep down somewhere in your gut and more realistically loins. 

He was always so gentle with you, sickly sweet and attentive. His stupidly good profiling skills and equally skilled, veiny hands.  

God, you were disgusting. Why was captivity doing this to you? Why were you enjoying this? 

Your cuffed hand pulled painfully, shattering your daydream and dragging you back to reality. Desperate, cold and alone. 

You just hope the team finds you sooner rather than later. You’d haunt these idiots for the rest of your undead life if you're dragged out of here in a body bag. 

________________________________________________________________

Eight hours… it had been eight hours since you were taken, and with each agonizing moment that passed, Spencer was increasingly becoming restless. Worse than before- at least, if that was even a measure considering his state since they reported you missing. 

Morgan, arms crossed over his chest as he half-leaned on the edge of a desk, watched Spencer from afar. He was almost scared to approach the boy, unsure if his presence would be comforting or send him deeper into his profiling spiral. Just as Hotch’s well-intentioned “maybe you should take a step back” had half an hour earlier. 

Leading the team to their current predicament: a sleep-deprived Spencer, pacing around the conference room, talking to himself. 

Tilting his head to get a better view of the boy through the glass windows that made up the outer-facing wall of the room, Morgan finally voiced what everyone was thinking. “He's gonna drive himself into a wall and burn out.” Despite the enjoyment Derek got from seeing Reid all flustered, this was just painful. He too was missing your presence. 

You were like a sister to him, and he was more than ready to beat this unsub half to death when the team finally caught the bastard. But seeing Spencer like this, so frantic and out of his element, it almost scared him more. 

He already lost you; he didn't need to lose Spencer too. 

JJ, holding a pile of villain folders stacked in her hands, rounded the corner. “He's on what, his fifth cup of coffee?”

“Great, so he's running frantic on a sugar high,” Emily piped up from where she sat across Morgan, eyes still trained on the papers in front of her, scribbling notes in the margins. 

“I'm worried for him; I've never seen him act this way. And with the shit we've been through the last few years, that terrifies me.” Morgan hesitated as he spoke. 

“I mean, I can understand why, ” Emily paused. “The two were practically attached at the hip; it's as if he lost his other half. If anything, he's strangely put together.” She shrugged, looking over at Morgan and the look of disbelief that crossed his face.

Pointing to the conference room, “That looks put together to you, Prentiss?”

Exasperated, she slammed her open palms on the hardwood table. Emily huffed out. “Morgan, he watched the footage with Garcia. I think he's compartmentalizing it pretty well.”

“He's not compartmentalizing nothing right now; he's throwing himself into work so as not to confront that reality of the situation.” Morgan didn't realize it in the moment that he was yelling and that the entire bullpen was watching his and Emily’s exchange. 

But as he looked around, reality hit him so hard in the face; they weren't watching the yelling match, they were watching Spencer stand in the middle of the room. An ugly expression crossed the boy's face as he bit his lower lip not to let it tremble. 

Emily’s reply dried in her mouth as she too saw Spencer, choosing the smart approach and shutting her mouth before she could do any more damage. 

The silence that stretched in the room was suffocating; the tension hummed for a second too long before Morgan jumped in to do damage control. 

“Reid, that's not what I meant.” It was the same voice he used to talk to victims’ families, calm, controlled, too professional to leave any room for real empathy. 

A curt nod of his head was all Spencer could muster up before storming away, he had no energy left to scream and yell. The coffee he kept drinking wasn't sweet anymore, the office was no longer the cozy and controlled chaos he'd come to call home. 

His world that was once so bright and filled with colour had become void, and he knew why. 

Spencer wasn't one to gloat, but he was often the smartest person in almost every room he walked into; he was also a formidable profiler. And just like every profiler before him, he too couldn't help but fall into the trap of picking apart his own behaviour. Hyper aware of all the inconsistent justifications he gave himself when it came to you, you were his exception in everything. 

His social anxieties, his distaste for handshakes or any physical touch. The stupid scratchy material he hated but you loved, so he kept a blanket made of it in his apartment anyway. All the coffee shops he took you to because he knew you loved trying new things, just to order the same drink. Every book he lied about reading so he could watch your face light up telling him about it. Every game of poker he let you win to feel better so you'd continue to play with him.

All the nights he insisted you stay at his place because he selfishly couldn't let you go. 

Dragging you to sleep in his bed and not the couch because greedily he wanted to watch your delicate sleeping form as the moonlight seeped through his curtains and over your face. Capturing the fleeting moment in his memory as you rested and Spencer watched on, feeling like the biggest pervert in the world. 

It was you who made him squirm, you who made him feel crazy at times. You, always you. 

His whole world. 

And it was you, with all his intelligence, that he failed to protect. 

________________________________________________________________

You were gonna kill someone, or maybe yourself; you weren't sure yet, but every time the unsub or rather Jonathan, as you learned, came back, you considered it. 

Gritting your teeth, you refused to give him the satisfaction of your screams. He had your jaw in his hand so tight it was gonna leave bruises, again. Pushing the back of your head further into the concrete wall of your prison, yelling something incorrect about leaving him. Crushing you, further and further. You couldn't move. God, why couldn't you just pull your hand free? 

Your neck was straining in the awkward position, leaving your throat completely exposed and vulnerable. Blood-crushed nails scraping at the stone wall, your animal instincts the only thing driving you at this point. Pull your hand from behind your back, you screamed in your own hollow mind, pain filling your temples as it pooled behind your eyes. The pressure building as you wracked your sleep-deprived brain for something coherent; something real. 

You needed space. 

To breathe. 

Anything. 

Just to get away.

Kicking your legs up was doing nothing to deter him; it egged him on further until you finally landed the side of your foot into his ribcage with a desperate half-cry.  

With a grunt, he threw your head back, letting go as he did, walking far enough away to pace around. The room swam for a moment as you stayed there, crumbled against the wall, your shaky hand pressing into the concrete for support as you waited for your vision to clear. 

The thought hit you before you could catch your breath: you could hear him, but you couldn't see him. 

Your faltering vision serves as an echo chamber for your laboured breaths, thoughts racing. 

Fuck, you couldn't see. You needed to see. You could hear him moving. Closer. 

Muttering to himself, once again walking in rushed circles. “You listen, you're supposed to listen. Listen.” Each repetition, slowly transforming into a mantra. His tone evolving into something more aggressive until he was straight out yelling. Flinching, you cowered to the floor, cradling your head. 

You couldn't stay still; that was a death sentence. Pull yourself together, you were an FBI agent for crying out loud. Feeling out the ground directly in front of you as you hesitantly crawled along the wall, one hand in front of the other, gently tapping the ground to navigate. Relying on your non-compromised senses and the hope that Jonathan would stay distracted with whatever psychotic break he was going through right now. 

With each small step you shuffled forward, crawling on your hands and knees. For a split second you almost celebrated, cried, screamed; you didn't know anymore. The breath you didn't realize you were holding escaped your lips, until the deafening crackle of the cuffs rang out in the room and you were plunged into ice. 

No, no please no. 

Your nails dug into the floor like it was the concrete's personal fault you were here. You tried to run, pulling yourself onto your feet. The hazy world fell around you in waves, the handcuff still around your wrist mocking your futile attempt. 

From the weight of his steps alone, you could hear the man barreling towards you. “Listen, you listen!"

Barely recognizing your own voice, you croaked out, “I'm sorry, Jonathan. You're right, I didn't listen.” The words came out in fractured gasps as you fought him; the second apology you had on the tip of your tongue faltering when he slammed you back against the wall. Your nails dug into the meaty parts of his palms, leaving crescent-shaped marks in their wake as he planted one hand on either shoulder. 

You pitied the poor woman you were meant to replace. You'd been a profiler long enough, you knew it was a woman. It wasn't even a question anymore. 

You gagged on the stale air of the room, the ceiling was coming back into focus. You breathed, again and again; another greedy gulp. Blinking once, then twice, your vision clearing. 

“I’m sorry for not listening, I really am. I'll listen, just stop." Your eyes closed, bracing for another hit that didn't come. Slowly you glanced up, only to find him huffing in your face, fuzzy behind the eyes in a trance-like state. 

“You'll listen.” It almost sounded like he was asking a question. 

“Yes, yes, I'm listening, see.”

Nodding, his grip loosened, backing away enough for you to breathe in your own air. Another breath of silence stretched, and he let go completely, heading for the door without so much as a look back. 

The sound of the heavy metal door shut behind him, and your eyes found the camera involuntarily. You tried your best to ignore it or hide from it entirely, but now you had no choice. You knew how these kinds of cases ended; you knew the progressions, he was already spiralling, becoming more frantic and risky. 

Your time was running out. 

________________________________________________________________

After hour eleven, the exhaustion finally caught up to Spencer, and he begrudgingly took a break from the case. The team had made some progress using the previous kills to narrow down the unsub's comfort zone, but they still had no way of narrowing down your location. The unsub was obviously operating out of a house; he had to be. He would need the space and privacy to set up and record his crimes, and since he was torturing his victims, it had to be remote enough for no one to hear.  

The thoughts rushed through Spencer's head as he made his way into his apartment, keys tossed somewhere on the mahogany coffee table as he dropped his messenger bag. The worn leather thumped onto the ground, slouched beside another bag he was too tired to remember he put there. Spencer rubbed his eyes, a migraine steadily building behind his tired sockets, slumping onto his couch with a huff. 

He knew Hotch was right; he needed to take a break. More realistically, take a step back from the case entirely, it was all getting too personal for him. 

The only problem was that he couldn't bring himself to. 

Each time he closed his eyes, he saw your scared expression, your face as your lips trembled, hurt, alone, terrified. He couldn't rest knowing you were still in danger, all the while he lounged around feeling sorry for himself. The guilt was eating him alive. Driving him up the wall, settling into an abhorred amalgamation of vile emotions Spencer couldn't identify. 

Like now, as he lay face-first on a couch cushion in his apartment, the apartment you loved so much, on the couch you spent so many nights curled up with a book from his collection. 

His own subconscious was torturing him at this point. And honestly, the more he thought about it, the more it dawned on him that maybe the team wasn't crazy in thinking you two should date. Albeit Morgan and Garcia’s effort in getting you two to go on dates was invasive; he would never admit it to their faces, but he was starting to see their point. 

His every waking thought revolved around you; you were his sun, the dominant force he orbited helplessly around.

It was only in your absence that he saw how cold it could be.   

The pressure pooling behind his eyes was becoming painful. Spencer begrudgingly dragged himself from the couch and to the little medicine drawer he kept next to his cutlery. Digging through its contents to find the little greenish bottle of migraine pills he had on hand, followed swiftly by a gulp of water. 

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed the pills, leaning against the counter, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He stared off, his gaze trailing back to his living room and the couch that held so many memories and movie nights. Memories of you he wished wouldn't be buried under the new image of your scared face pleading for help. For a moment, his eyes drifted to his work bag and the files he knew he should have left at the office inside, but slowly his eyes paused on the other bag beside it. 

It was a small leather tote he was certain didn't belong to him. Aside from the fact that he knew exactly what was in his apartment, the cherry keychain on the bag gave it away.

In a few strides, Spencer crossed the room, picking the bag up off the floor, inspecting it. As Spencer pulled the tote open, familiarity washed over him; it was your bag. 

Inside was a pair of pyjamas, a bag of toiletries, jeans, a sweater…

It was one of your spare to-go bags; after the second night you crashed at his place, you had brought a bag. Insisting it would be easier to head straight to work from his appointment rather than going back to your own. Spencer was grinning like an idiot the rest of the day after; he remembered because Morgan made it a point to comment on it.  

Holding the knit sweater in between his fingers, he closed his eyes for a moment, trying to remember anything but your scared expression carved into his memory. 

Any other memory would do, literally anything.

Like the time when he wore his glasses, so absorbed in what he was doing he barely registered them sliding down his face until your soft, nimble fingers pushed them up onto the bridge of his nose. He sat there for a good five minutes completely forgetting how to function, his brain drawing a blank for the first time in his life. He flushed so hard he turned red, not the usual tips of his ears but his whole face. You and JJ had burst out laughing, and Garcia called him tomato boy the rest of the day. 

Before he realized what he was doing, Spencer brought the soft fabric up to his nose, burning his face into it, taking in your lingering smell. Your sweet perfume mixed with just the naturally intoxicating smell of your skin. 

It still smelled like you, and with another deep inhale, Spencer froze. 

It still smelled like you. 

________________________________________________________________

You were losing it, officially. 

You had managed to finally get some sleep, the dark circles under your eyes becoming a little less unsightly. Rather than waking up refreshed or with a clearer mind, a pit settled in your stomach; you were gonna be sick. 

You hadn't seen Jonathan in a while, which was a break from his typical routine. Once again, a blaring neon sign that he was starting to get sloppy. After napping, you weren't entirely sure if your concept of time was still reliable. If you were to guess, it had to have been a few hours at least; a few hours with still no sight of your tormentor. 

You felt strange, not quite sure what to do with yourself as dizzying nausea settled over you. The only indicator that time was real and you weren't hallucinating or dead was the little red dot flashing on the camera. 

One, then twice. Again and again; counting each second as the footage kept rolling. 

The hushed words fell from your lips in whispers:

“One,”

“Two.”

Blinking for a moment, you missed one, forcing yourself to start over as you drifted further into nothingness. With the sudden abundance of time, you couldn't help but let your mind wander: to the team, the outside world, Spencer’s awkward smile. 

All pressing and very important thoughts when you've been kidnapped. 

Depressingly enough, you laughed at your own joke. The chuckle filled the suffocating silence of the room, the almost painful rasp of your strained vocal cords settling in the air. For a moment, the realization knocked you back into reality, and hard. Your hands wandered up the side of your face, feeling the once soft skin under your fingertips. The slight pressure mapped out every bruise and gash on your face; the pain was intoxicating. 

What did you even look like anymore? 

Dishevelled, sure. You knew you had bruises and a variety of other injuries—  you felt them, but seeing it, genuinely perceiving the damage. That thought crashed through you, and you almost felt angry. 

You had spent so long in fight or flight; you almost forgot about the outside world and the after of it all. You could tell you were changing, as you sat applying intentional pressure to your own open wounds just to feel something. Rocking yourself, knees to your chest as you tried to laugh it off. 

Would you be able to go back to the team? Act like everything is normal, completely block out what happened? You saw what happened to Elle. 

You didn't want to lose the team; they were your family, you loved them. 

Suddenly you wished for Jonathan to come back, to beat you and drag you around; at least you could rationalize the pain of a physical wound. 

Feel it, treat it, watch it heal. 

If it was his hands causing the damage, it wouldn't be as bad, right? Better than your own, than the thoughts that started to consume you when you were alone for too long. Because no one could save you from your own mind or the endless depth of your lonely thoughts. Dragging you deeper into the abyss, staring straight back into you.

________________________________________________________________

Emily was relieved that Hotch finally got through to Spencer. Just like Morgan had said, the kid was burning himself out and would crash sooner rather than later. The team didn't need an Icarus on their hands; a burnt-out profiler helped no one. 

Prentiss hovered over the coffee pot as she waited for it to brew, her right hand tapping the opposite arm as they sat crossed.  In the corner of her eyes, she spotted Morgan as he joined her in the break room, his eyebrows etched with worry. Concern, maybe.

“What's wrong?” Emily's tapping stopped as she glanced over Morgan, his shoulder drawn stiff and his usual air of confidence dulled.  

“Hm, nothing.”

“You have that look.”

With an exasperated huff, Morgan let out, “You're losing me, Prentiss.”

Gesturing vaguely to her own eyebrows, Morgan's jaw tightened as Emily drew an exaggerated circle with her pointer finger around her face. 

“What happened to no profiling each other?” He quipped, his signature smirk finding his way to his face once more.

“It's not profiling if it's an observation.”

“Oh, so now you got jokes.”

In the distance of the bullpen, the two heard a commotion followed by Rossi’s voice calling Reid’s name. Quickly exchanging confused expressions, the coffee long forgotten as they headed towards the sounds of a frazzled Spencer. 

“Kid, slow down, I have no idea what you're saying.” With a hand on either one of Spencer's shoulders, Rossi held the boy in place. Reid looked almost manic as he kept talking, stumbling over his own words, waving around what appeared to be a sweater in a clear plastic bag. The increasing volume of the bullpen drew Hotch from his office, JJ following in step behind him. 

“I found this in my apartment. It's hers. She was there the night before the raid.”

“Whoa, pretty boy, take a breath,” Morgan chimed in, patting Spencer on the back in an attempt to be comforting.

Emily watched as Hotch’s eyebrows drew together, his expression guarded as Reid continued to ramble. 

“It still smells like her. We could use it to track her, track her scent.” In one long breath, Spencer huffed out his final words and the room quieted for a moment. Incisively, the team looked over to Hotch. 

“I'll call in the search dogs. Reid, go help Garcia- everyone else with me.” Without missing a beat, the team leader pulled out his phone in a swift motion. 

Just like that, the bullpen was plunged back into chaos. This time, however, the flicker of hope settled comfortably within the buzz of the room. 

________________________________________________________________

"Sorry. Sorry, I should've looked." You mumbled out, then cleared your throat, forcing yourself to speak again and not sound like a weak mouse. "My apologies."

"No worries. You're, uh, new here, right? First day?"

You looked up. The man in front of you was tall, almost lanky, with his tie and dress shirt peeking out his sweater collar. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, veiny arms on display, and he was looking at you with a tiny smile.

"It's normal." He continued without waiting for you to reply. "Reported that at least 50% of new hires in any workplace get mishaps on the first day. That can be fixed with a tour guide. I can help you around."

You blinked. You weren't used to a man offering to help you before you even said anything; especially not with your dating history of douchebags and idiots.

"That…would be great. Thanks." You attempted a smile, holding out a hand for a shake. The man just ignored it with a little wave instead, saying; "I'm Spencer."

Disregarding the lack of contact, you followed behind him as he showed you around the office. He showed you meeting rooms, facilities like printers or bathrooms, and finally, your own desk. It was conviently just a few rows down from his own. The space was empty, and he gestured to it with one hand.

"I'm sure you'll decorate it as pretty as you look."

You hardly had time to process the compliment before he smiled awkwardly and backed away, turning around to head down a hallway.

Well. This would be more interesting than you thought.

Location: The BAU printing room. Time: 2:12pm.

While you waited for papers to print, you got time to think.

It was simple, really. All the things others called bare minimum were legendary in your world; you were lucky for a boyfriend to even touch you at night, let alone get flowers or plan dates or notice little details without words. You had settled for guys doing drugs at parties, guys with fake jobs, guys that weren't smart or funny. None had ended well, and while you (and your closest friends) could have deducted that at your first meeting, you had stuck to him with a I-can-fix-him attitude.

Yeah. You could admit you were a bit too hopeful sometimes.

You needed standards. Expectations that your boyfriend will do the same things your friend's boyfriends did. Expectations that he won't be an asshole that'll just leave you in the dirt as soon as a prettier girl slided up next to him at a bar.

What you had started doing, though, after five months as part of the BAU team, was to keep a list. Not of cases or to-dos, but of every time Spencer did something like that. No, you weren't dating, nor would you let yourself think you had a crush on him. But he was doing more sweet things as a coworker-friend than some six month long relationships had.

As of now, you counted four things. The time you didn't want to interrupt at a group meeting, so he let you whisper your idea in his ear and he spoke it out, crediting you afterwards. The time he left a bouquet of flowers on your desk with a note that read as a new decoration. The time he read his science book to you when you couldn't sleep on a plane ride home, enunciating softly so you could hear each word in that nerdy voice of his. The time he brought coffee for you, exactly the way you liked it despite you having never told him explicitly what you liked.

In between the more memorable services, he found ways to slip more kindness in every day interactions. He never spoke much after he did these acts for you, just giving you the same smile you'd grown so fond of or a little finger brush that made you shiver each time.

The printer dinged. It had finished. As you collected your papers, you heard a voice behind you that you instantly recognized;

"What'cha working on?" Spencer asked, going past you to get to the coffee machine in the corner. He placed his mug down, going for a refill as he kept his gaze on you. You loved that about him; when he talked to you, he talked to you directly, like he wanted to hear your response.

"Some papers for Hotch." You replied easily. You found it easy to talk to him — and the rest of the team — now that you had been at the BAU for a few months now. Other than long cases, you were used to the hustle every day; and you woke up every morning excited to see Spencer again. He really had an effect on you.

Spencer nodded, taking a sip of his now finished coffee. "What are they about?"

Through his questions and curious gaze, you ended up talking to him for at least fifteen minutes, the two of you slowly inching closer and closer like magnets until you were standing side by side in the printing room. Spencer had read over your papers with his usual quick speed, and while you started talking about work, you ended up talking more about your own lives.

He had told you about a few of his published research papers, and you were excited to get home and read them. You had told him about all your extracurriculars in college, and he seemed interested about what you were interested in. You talked about what you thought your lives would look like in ten years, and you had to bite back the urge to say something about how you hoped Spencer was still in yours.

There was a loud knock on the door, and you could tell it was Hotch wanting the papers. You laughed quietly, just for Spencer, collecting all the sheets and heading out the door.

With your back turned, you didn't see how he kept looking at you while you left.

Location: The BAU business jet. Time: 11:54pm.

Everybody on the plane was asleep except for two people; you, and Spencer.

You were sitting side by side, as you now usually did. Penelope had noticed it first, how close you two had gotten over the year you had been at the BAU, and then everybody else caught on. You weren't a hundred percent sure if that was because of how you acted or because of Penelope's love for gossip, but now it wasn't a secret how close Spencer and you were.

Spencer was reading a book, flipping pages so quickly you could barely read a full paragraph before it was onto the next.

"Slow down." You murmured softly, your elbow propped up on the armrest between your seats, leaning over to look down at the book. You laughed quietly to not wake up the rest of the team asleep in their spots. "It's almost scary how fast you read."

"You think I'm scary?" Spencer whispered back, and you turned your head to look at him. Underestimating the closeness, your lips nearly brushed his as you met his eyes. Neither of you moved.

"I think you're lovely." You replied whole-heartedly, which got you a small smile.

You turned your head back to his book when you knew he wouldn't actually reply. He never really did after you tried to compliment him, and it wasn't annoying; no, it was just another trait you loved about him.

Liked. You liked about him. Where did that come from?

The problem was that it was late, almost midnight, and you still had a few hours until you landed back in Quantico. After a long day and a bumpy start to the ride, you were feeling tired. You dropped your head on Spencer's shoulder, barely noticing his freezing as your eyes drifted close.

You felt one of his hands come up to the side of your head, gentle fingers brushing through your hair, and you let out a sleepy hum of contentment.

You weren't sure if it was Spencer's lips or a slight breeze that grazed your forehead, but you knew what you were wishing it was.

Location: Brenna's Bar, downtown Virginia. Time: 10:32pm.

You hadn't meant to get drunk. You really hadn't. And if you thought about it hard enough, you weren't that wasted; enough to stumble a little as you moved on the dancefloor, but not enough to not register what Penelope or Derek were saying.

Despite it being a work celebration after a long case, you had dressed up cute, pinning your hair up and slipping into a short dress and heels, and you felt pretty. While applying your makeup before leaving, maybe you had thought once or twice about Spencer's reaction to seeing you.

To your disappointment, he just gave you the same smile and sat down a few seats away. No jaw drop, no heart eyes, and you knew it was childish to feel that way, but you couldn't stop it. Not after spending so long with kind and gentle touches and acts and feelings, not after everything Spencer had done for you under a friendship label. Friends didn't do what you two did.

At least, that's what you said to get yourself to sleep at night.

You were dancing now, the pink and purple lights reflecting off the disco ball and your shimmery dress. You were up with JJ and Penelope while the guys sipped their drinks on their stools or talked about whatever guy things they talked about. You were too tipsy to care, too tipsy to notice Spencer's subtle glances to you, too tipsy to see Morgan punch his shoulder with a teasing grin.

You wanted to show off. It was a Friday night, and you hadn't been with anybody in ages, not since before you joined the BAU. You were desperate to get Spencer off your mind, which was why you were moving so energetically next to JJ and Penelope's bodies, not really paying attention to anything other than the pounding of your heart.

You felt a pair of hands slip over your hips and waist, and craning your head over your shoulder, you saw the guy that stood behind you, swaying along. His body was tall and chiseled, his lips curved into a smirk with light stubble growing on his chin. He was hot enough, and his hands were warm and confident, nothing like Spencer's soft and tentative touches. He whispered something in your ear. You didn't hear it.

If you squinted enough, you saw Spencer in his features.

And then you actually did see Spencer, as he had gotten up from his stool and stormed over, pulling the man's hands off your waist. You hardly had time to gasp before he reached for your wrist, pulling you away to the back exit.

When you felt the cold night air hit your face, you exploded.

"What the fuck, Spencer?! I spent months trying to be confident and flirty and get you to want me, but you never do. I never stop thinking about you, as much as I fucking hate it. As soon as I think I can get some sort of distraction and be with somebody who wants me, even for just a night, you storm in and act like I'm a cheating whore!"

"I never said that." Spencer cut in, running a hand through his hair.

"I never said you did!" You pushed his chest, too drunk to filter the words coming out of your mouth. "But you sure are making me feel like one! Did any little thing you ever did mean shit to you, or am I just losing my fucking mind?"

"What do you want me to say? That I'm in love with you? Because I am, and that doesn't change anything!"

It took a minute to process his last words. Because I am. He was in love with you. You weren't crazy, you weren't making things up to satisfy your own desires.

You deflated. "You…you are?"

Spencer let out a long sigh, turning his head away, down the allyway to the street. "…yes. And seeing you with some random person just…I don't know."

Wow. Spencer never didn't know things. He was the smart one, the nerdy one, the one who never shut up about science or math or miscellaneous facts. You had never heard the words "I don't know" come out of his mouth, ever.

"Can you do something about it?" You asked quietly over the cool wind breezing through the alley.

"I think I should now, huh?"

Location: Spencer's apartment. Time: 11:06pm.

It didn't take too much time to get to his place.

You had gotten a taxi, and the two of you barely sat restrained in the back, the only connection being your hands laced together. You kept glancing over at Spencer, your head starting to clear ever so slightly from the lack of new drinks, though you knew you were still a bit tipsy.

The second the door closed behind you, he was kissing you.

It was all consuming now; the way he pressed you to the door, the way you could feel his body heat through layers of clothes, the way his lips moved so desperately against yours like he had wanted to act on his feelings for months, just like you had. Your hands came up to thread through his hair while his own hands laid hesitantly on your waist, careful not to touch skin.

You broke your lips apart just enough to murmur out a; "Touch me, Spencer."

You could feel him swallow harshly, gently prying you off the door and taking you further into the living room. He laid you down on the couch softly, as if all the desperate pent-up desire he had back in the allyway fizzled out now that he actually had you under him. You could still see the want in his eyes, the hunger, but you could also see the sweet man you had fallen in love with so many months ago.

Love. That was a big word, yet no word felt so right.

"We can't. We shouldn't." Spencer whispered. You were laying down on the couch, and he hovered over you, legs bracketing your hips and propping himself on his elbows beside your head so he didn't crush you under him.

"Why not?" You asked, tilting your head up, chasing his lips.

He sat up fully, delicately pushing your shoulders down to the soft cushions. "You're drunk. Or tipsy. I don't know how many drinks you had, and that's what makes me nervous. You aren't in your right mind as of now."

You huffed. You really thought this was going somewhere. "What does that mean? Are you kicking me out?" "No, god no." Spencer reached one hand down to brush over your hair. "Just…wait until the morning. See if you still feel the same way, then we can do everything you want to."

Location: Spencer's apartment. Time: 8:48am.

Sunlight poured in from the windows.

The breeze of the air conditioning wafted through the house.

You were being pushed into the mattress.

Spencer never stopped being gentle with you; when you woke up, he had tucked your hair behind your ear. When you said you wanted to do the same thing you wanted last night, he had just nodded and kissed you deeply.

Now, the same hands that barely grazed yours months ago was holding your waist down to the mattress as he thrusted in and out of you with gentle purpose, eyes locked on your face to watch your expression for any twitch of discomfort or — god forbid — pain. He wanted to make you feel good, as good as you could feel with a hangover, and while you pulled at the nape of his neck and moaned out his name, all he did was smile and kiss you again.

"Love you." He whispered against your lips. You knew he did, you knew he fit all your expectations, from the day you met and he showed you around the headquarters to just last night at the bar.

It wasn't possible to say anything else. "I love you too."