mae

The air shifts. You feel it in your chest, the way you always do when a case stops being abstract and starts becoming personal.

Morgan exhales sharply. “You’re saying the unsub is after FBI employees specifically?”

The room goes very quiet.

Spencer, who’s been standing near the edge of the group with his arms folded tight to his chest, speaks up, voice measured but strained. “Targeting FBI agents would indicate a grievance-based offender. Possibly someone with prior contact—disciplinary action, perceived injustice, or delusional belief of persecution,”

“Revenge,” Rossi mutters. “That’s never good,”

Your stomach twists. You think of badge numbers and names, of routines you know too well. Of desks left empty. And then, your mind jumps tracks entirely—to the small, soft weight that had been sprawled across your chest when you’d left the house that morning, warm and sleepy and blissfully unaware.

Hotch is already moving. “Until we know more, we’re initiating lockdown procedures at Quantico.”

You straighten. “Lockdown?”

“No agents leave the grounds. No non-essential personnel enter,” he continues. “Immediate family members are to remain on-site for their safety.”

You open your mouth, then close it again, jaw tightening. “My son—”

“You can bring him here,” Hotch says, not unkindly. “I’ll be doing the same with Jack. This isn’t negotiable.”

You nod, because you understand. Because you’d make the same call. Because inconvenience and overstimulation are a small price to pay compared to a body bag.

Still, your chest aches.

—

Traffic crawls, taunting you, every red light another minute Percy gets closer to waking up fully. He’s already half-stirring in the back seat, a low, unhappy whine curling out of him like smoke.

“Mama?” he mumbles.

“I’m here, sweetheart,” you say quickly, glancing at him in the rear-view mirror. His hair is flattened on one side, curls going wild on the other, cheeks flushed with sleep. “We’re driving, I picked you up from dad’s house whilst you were sleeping,”

“Going home?” His eyes blink open, confused. “Bed?”

“Not yet,” you admit softly. You hate that part. “We have to go to mama’s work for a little while,”

His face crumples instantly. “No.”

You sigh, already tired to your bones. “I know. I know, sweetheart,”

By the time you’re wrestling duffle bags out of the trunk and herding a fully awake, fully furious four-year-old into shoes, Percy’s mood has deteriorated from disgruntled to apocalyptic. He refuses the coat you hold out, flops dramatically onto the sofa when you try to get him dressed, and dissolves into tears when you mention leaving again.

You’d packed on autopilot. Pyjamas. Favourite dinosaur jumper. Snacks. The stuffed rabbit with the missing eye that he refuses to sleep without. Two duffle bags because one is never enough, and because experience has taught you that forgetting one small, stupid thing will somehow become the end of the world.

“I don’t wanna go. I don’t like your work. It’s loud.”

“I know,” you murmur, kneeling to tug his shoes on before he escapes his car seat. “I know it is,”

“You said today was park day.”

Guilt bites hard. “I’ll make it up to you. I promise,”

He doesn’t believe you. He never does when the promise involves maybes.

By the time you actually make it out of the car, dusk is bleeding into night, and Percy has worked himself into such a state that his crying has gone hoarse and quiet, like his body is running out of fuel. You haul the duffle bags over your shoulders, one strap digging painfully into your collarbone, Percy clinging to your leg like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

The guard at the gate gives you a sympathetic look as he waves you through.

Inside, the building feels harsher than usual. Brighter. Louder. Footsteps echo. Radios crackle. People move with urgency, purpose sharp enough to cut.

Percy freezes the moment you step fully inside.

His fingers tighten painfully around your hand.

“No,” he whispers, voice trembling. “Mama, no.”

“I’ve got you,” you say, immediately crouching down to his level despite the weight dragging at your shoulders. “I’m right here,”

But it’s too much. The lights. The unfamiliar faces. The noise that never quite stops. His breath starts coming too fast, little hiccuping sobs wracking his body as he presses his face into your leg.

Heads turn. Some soften. Some don’t know what to do.

You feel like you’re failing him in slow motion.

“Hey,” JJ says gently, appearing at your side. “This must be Percy,”

You manage a weak smile. “In all his glory,”

“He’s bigger than I expected,” she says, crouching a little, careful not to crowd him.

From across the room, Rossi watches with a fond sort of curiosity. Garcia waves enthusiastically, then seems to think better of it when Percy wails louder at the sudden movement. Morgan offers you a grin that’s meant to be reassuring but doesn’t quite land.

And then there’s Spencer.

He’s standing slightly apart, as he often does, hands fidgeting at the sleeves of his cardigan. He’d heard about your son, of course—heard the stories in passing, the offhand mentions of childcare logistics and emergency pick-ups—but seeing Percy in the flesh is something else entirely.

He stares.

Not rudely. Not intentionally. Just… openly stunned.

Because the resemblance is undeniable.

Percy lifts his head just enough to glare at the room through watery eyes, bottom lip wobbling, and for one strange, suspended moment, Spencer feels like he’s looking at you—shrunk down, softened around the edges, all the same expressions copied and pasted wholesale.

The same furrow between the brows. The same stubborn set of the jaw. Even the way his nose wrinkles when he cries.

It’s uncanny.

It’s like you performed mitosis and Percy came out the other side.

Spencer’s chest tightens painfully.

For half a heartbeat—a dangerous, traitorous half-second—his mind goes somewhere it has no right to go. To a version of reality that never existed. To a life where that resemblance might mean something else entirely.

And then reality snaps back into place, sharp and unforgiving.

Not his. Never was.

He swallows hard, forcing his gaze away just as Percy lets out another heartbroken sob.

You scoop your son up despite the awkwardness, despite the bags sliding off your shoulders. He wraps himself around you instantly, arms and legs locking tight, face buried in your neck.

“I don’t wanna be here,” he cries. “I wanna go home.”

“I know, baby,” you whisper, pressing your lips into his hair. “I know, I’m sorry,”

Spencer watches you hold him, watches the way your body shifts automatically to support his weight, the way your hand rubs slow circles into his back without you even thinking about it. There’s something achingly intimate about it. Something that makes his chest feel too small for his heart.

Hotch steps in to direct you towards a quieter corridor, but Percy’s crying doesn’t stop. If anything, it ramps up, distress feeding on itself, the unfamiliarity pressing in from all sides.

You feel eyes on you. Feel the pressure of being both an agent and a mother, both expected to cope flawlessly.

Spencer hesitates. Then, quietly, he steps forward.

“I—um,” he starts, voice softer than usual. “If you’d like… I could try to help?”

You look at him, surprised. Really look. He looks nervous, hands clenched, eyes flicking between you and Percy with careful consideration.

“That’s very kind,” you say honestly, “but he really hates new people,”

Spencer nods, as if he’d expected that. “I know. I just—sometimes children respond better to someone who isn’t… emotionally charged,”

You huff a weak, humourless laugh. “You’re saying I’m making it worse,”

“I’m saying,” he corrects gently, “that you’re his safe place, and that means he’s allowed to be emotional around you,”

Something in your expression softens. You hesitate, just for a second.

Percy peeks over your shoulder, eyes red and suspicious, and stares at Spencer like he’s trying to decide whether he’s a threat or merely an inconvenience.

Spencer crouches slightly, keeping his distance. “Hi,” he says, simply.

Percy says nothing. He presses his face back into your neck.

“I’m Spencer,” he continues, unperturbed. “It’s very nice to meet you, Percy,”

There’s a pause. Then, in a tiny, furious voice muffled by your jumper, Percy declares, “I don’t like it here.”

Spencer nods solemnly. “That’s fair. New places can be very overwhelming,”

Percy still doesn’t look at him, but his sobs quiet, just a little.

Spencer doesn’t rush it.

He stays exactly where he is—crouched, a careful distance away, hands loose at his sides as if any sudden movement might spook Percy beyond repair. The crying has ebbed into something quieter but no less intense, those sharp little breaths catching in Percy’s chest every few seconds like he can’t quite remember how to breathe properly.

You’re still holding him, arms starting to ache, shoulder burning where the strap of the duffle bag digs in.

“I can take one of those,” Spencer says softly, nodding at the bags.

You blink. “Oh—no, it’s fine, I—”

“I really don’t mind,” he adds quickly. “And it might… help. Sometimes reducing sensory input can make transitions easier,”

You hesitate, then sigh. “Right. Yes. Thank you,”

He takes one of the duffle bags from you with careful hands, as though it might be fragile, and slings it over his shoulder. The gesture is so gentle, so earnestly practical, that something in your chest loosens despite yourself.

Percy remains unconvinced.

He keeps his face buried in your neck, fingers fisted tight in your jumper, but his sobs are quieter now—more exhausted than panicked. You feel the way his body trembles with every breath.

Spencer watches closely, mind ticking away, cataloguing signs the way he always does. Overstimulation. Fatigue. Loss of routine. He’s read the studies, memorised the developmental psychology, but standing here, confronted with a very real, very distraught four-year-old, theory feels woefully inadequate.

Still, he tries.

“Percy,” he says gently, keeping his voice low, steady. “Can I tell you something interesting?”

Percy does not respond.

“That’s okay,” Spencer continues, unfazed. “You don’t have to answer. You can just listen if you want,”

You shift your grip slightly, adjusting Percy on your hip. He whimpers but doesn’t protest.

Spencer glances up at you briefly, as if asking permission without quite saying it. You nod, small and grateful.

“When people feel overwhelmed,” he goes on, “it’s often because their brains are trying to process too much information at once. Lights, sounds, new faces—it’s a lot of data,”

Percy sniffs.

“One thing that can help is focusing on one thing. Something that doesn’t change.”

He pauses, thinking. Then: “Did you know that octopuses have three hearts?”

There’s a beat.

Percy’s grip on you loosens, just a fraction.

Spencer keeps going, encouraged. “Two of them pump blood to the gills, and the third pumps it to the rest of the body. Which is actually why they’re so intelligent—they have excellent oxygen distribution.”

Percy lifts his head slightly.

“Three hearts?” he croaks, voice wrecked.

“Yes,” Spencer says, immediately softening. “And blue blood.”

“Blue?” Percy repeats, suspicious.

“Mhm. Because it’s copper-based instead of iron-based,”

You feel Percy shift, turning just enough to peer at Spencer through swollen eyes. His lashes are clumped together with tears, cheeks blotchy and flushed. He looks furious and fragile in equal measure.

Spencer’s heart gives an uncomfortable little lurch.

“There are also frogs,” Spencer adds carefully, “that can freeze solid in the winter and then thaw out again in the spring,”

Percy frowns. “They’d be cold,”

“Extremely,” Spencer agrees. “But they produce a kind of natural antifreeze that protects their cells,”

Percy considers this, thumb creeping into his mouth without realising. His breathing starts to slow, the hitching sobs fading into uneven but manageable breaths.

Spencer straightens a little, still careful not to crowd him. “We can go somewhere quieter,” he suggests. “There’s a small office near the conference room. Less noise. Fewer lights,”

Percy looks up at you then, eyes wide. “You coming?”

“Of course,” you say instantly. “I’m not going anywhere,”

That seems to satisfy him—for now.

The walk down the corridor feels longer than it is, Percy clinging to you like a koala, head heavy against your shoulder. Spencer walks just ahead, opening doors, glancing back to make sure you’re still there. The building seems to quiet as you move away from the bullpen, the noise fading into a distant hum.

The office is small but mercifully dim, a single desk, a chair, a low lamp casting warm light instead of harsh fluorescents. Spencer flicks the overhead lights off immediately.

“Better?” he asks.

Percy nods faintly.

You ease down into the chair, Percy still in your lap, his body slackening now that the worst of the panic has passed. He’s so tired it borders on painful to watch.

Spencer hovers awkwardly for a moment. “I can… keep talking, if you think it’ll help,”

You smile weakly. “I think he likes your facts,”

Spencer’s ears go pink.

He resumes, voice soft and rhythmic, facts spilling out in a gentle stream—about stars that are bigger than the sun, about ants that farm aphids, about how wombats have cube-shaped poo. Percy lets out a weak, surprised giggle at that one, the sound startling in the quiet room.

“Why?” Percy murmurs.

Spencer’s eyes light up. “Ah. That’s actually because—”

You watch them, something warm and unfamiliar blooming in your chest. Percy’s breathing evens out, eyelids drooping, thumb still tucked firmly in his mouth. Spencer’s voice never wavers, never rushes, filling the space with something steady and safe.

Eventually, Percy’s grip on your jumper slackens entirely.

He’s asleep.

Properly, deeply asleep.

You don’t move for a long moment, scarcely daring to breathe. Percy’s weight is heavy and comforting, his small body warm against yours. His face is relaxed now, mouth slightly open, lashes resting dark against his cheeks.

Spencer notices first.

“Oh,” he whispers, reverent. “He’s out,”

You nod, throat tight. “Thank you,” you murmur. “I don’t—he doesn’t usually… thank you,”

Spencer shakes his head quickly. “It was nothing. Truly,”

It doesn’t feel like nothing to you.

Carefully, slowly, you manoeuvre Percy off your lap and onto the small sofa tucked against the wall. He stirs briefly, frowning, then settles again when you tuck his rabbit under his arm.

You straighten, joints protesting quietly, and turn back to Spencer. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate that.”

“I’m glad I could help,” he says, earnest to the point of painful. “He’s… a remarkable child,”

You smile, tired and fond. “He gets that from me,”

Spencer huffs a quiet laugh before he can stop himself.

You both glance at Percy, asleep and blissfully unaware.

“We should get back,” you say reluctantly. “The case won’t solve itself,”

You leave the office with a lighter step than you arrived, heart still aching but soothed by the knowledge that Percy is safe and resting.

—

Percy wakes disoriented, rabbit half-slipped from his grasp, the room unfamiliar in that hazy, post-nap way that turns everything slightly unreal. For a moment, he just lies there, blinking up at the ceiling, trying to orient himself.

“Mama?” he calls softly.

No answer.

He pushes himself upright, confusion knitting his brows together. The chair where you’d been sitting is empty. The room feels too quiet. Too still.

“Mama?” Louder this time.

Still nothing.

The panic blooms fast and brutal, the way it always does with children that age—no gradual rise, no logic to temper it. Just a sharp, terrifying certainty that something has gone wrong.

That he’s been left.

He slides off the sofa, feet hitting the floor with a soft thump, and pads towards the door. It’s ajar, light spilling in from the corridor beyond. He hesitates only a second before pushing it open and stepping out.

The corridor is big. Bigger than it was before.

People move past him, tall legs and unfamiliar shoes, voices echoing in ways he doesn’t understand. He turns in a slow circle, chest starting to hitch.

“Mama?” His voice wobbles.

No one answers.

He spots the conference room next, glass walls revealing familiar faces inside. Relief surges—surely you’ll be there.

He pushes the door open and stumbles in.

The room goes silent.

Everyone turns at once.

Percy scans the table desperately, eyes skimming over Hotch, JJ, Morgan, Rossi, Garcia—faces he barely recognises—until the realisation hits him square in the chest.

You’re not there.

His face crumples.

The sound that comes out of him is raw and immediate, a wail ripped straight from his chest, loud enough to make more than one agent flinch.

He bolts forward, hands grabbing at the nearest chair, then another, sobs shaking his entire body. “Mama—Mama, where are you? You left me! You left me!”

Hotch is on his feet instantly.

“Hey,” he says gently, rounding the table, hands up in what he hopes is a calming gesture. “Percy, right? I’m Aaron. Your mom’s just stepped out, that’s all.”

Percy doesn’t hear him.

He’s crying too hard, breath coming in sharp, panicked gasps that don’t seem to be doing much good. Tears streak down his face unchecked as he backs away from Hotch, shaking his head violently.

“No! No, she’s gone! She’s gone forever!”

Garcia’s hand flies to her mouth. JJ looks stricken. Morgan mutters something under his breath that sounds a lot like shit.

Hotch crouches down, trying again, voice softer now. “Percy, listen to me. She’ll be back. She didn’t leave you.”

“You’re lying!” Percy screams, voice cracking. “You’re not my mama!”

Hotch winces—not because he’s offended, but because he knows that tone. Knows that look. Jack had cried like that once, years ago, after Hotch been called into office overnight for a case. He remembers the way Haley called him just so Jack could be reassured that he hadn’t been abandoned.

This is different, though. Percy isn’t Jack, and Hotch doesn’t know what to do.

Hotch reaches out carefully. Percy slaps his hand away with surprising force.

“No!” He scrambles backwards, nearly tripping over a chair leg. “I want my mama!”

No one quite knows what to do.

JJ looks helpless. Garcia looks ready to cry. Rossi rubs a hand over his face, clearly out of his depth. Morgan glances towards the door, clearly considering going to find you, but Percy’s distress has escalated too quickly to leave unattended.

The screaming ramps up, loud and relentless, words dissolving into sobs.

And then—

“Percy.”

Spencer’s voice cuts through the noise like a blade through water.

Percy turns, startled by the sound of someone saying his name like that—someone safe.

Spencer stands in the doorway, breath slightly uneven, eyes wide but focused. He takes in the scene in a split second: Percy in full meltdown, the team frozen, Hotch halfway to kneeling and clearly at a loss.

Spencer doesn’t hesitate.

He steps into the room and crouches immediately, bringing himself down to Percy’s level but staying well out of arm’s reach.

“Hey,” he says gently. “I was looking for you,”

Percy hiccups violently, eyes locking onto him. “She—she’s gone again,”

“I know it feels like that,” Spencer says quietly. “But she isn’t. She just stepped out for a moment. She’ll be back very soon,”

Percy shakes his head, sobbing harder. “But—what if she stays away forever?”

The question lands heavy and awful in the room.

Spencer swallows.

He doesn’t lie, instead, he reaches slowly into the pocket of his cardigan.

“I was going to save this,” he says conversationally, “but I think now might be a good time,”

He pulls out a chocolate bar.

Percy stares at it through his tears, confusion briefly cutting through the panic.

“Chocolate?” he sniffles.

“Yes,” Spencer says solemnly. “It’s scientifically proven to help in high-stress situations,”

That gets a weak, hiccupping laugh out of Garcia despite herself.

Percy takes a hesitant step forward.

Spencer holds the bar out but doesn’t push it into Percy’s hands. “If you want some, you can come and get it. No pressure,”

Percy hesitates, glancing back towards the door as if expecting you to appear at any second. When you don’t, his lower lip trembles again—but he shuffles closer, fingers closing around the chocolate.

The crying doesn’t stop immediately, but it dulls, sobs breaking up as Percy focuses on the familiar wrapper, the crinkle grounding him in something tangible.

Spencer stays exactly where he is.

“Your mom told me chocolate is one of your favourites,” he adds softly.

Percy frowns. “She did?”

“She did,” Spencer confirms. “She also said you’re very brave,”

Percy considers this as he fumbles with the wrapper. “I am,” he says quietly.

“You are,” Spencer agrees without hesitation.

The chocolate is half-melted by the time Percy manages to get a bite, but it doesn’t seem to matter. He chews slowly, shoulders still hitching but no longer shaking uncontrollably.

Spencer glances briefly at Hotch, a subtle I’ve got this passing between them.

Hotch steps back.

The rest of the team exhales as one.

Percy sinks down onto the floor, cross-legged, chocolate clutched tightly in his hands. Spencer mirrors him, settling opposite, maintaining that careful distance.

“She promised she’d come back,” Percy says after a moment, voice small.

“And she will,” Spencer says firmly.

Percy looks up at him, eyes red and glassy. “You?”

Spencer’s chest tightens.

“Yes,” he says. “I’ll stay,”

That’s when you burst back into the room.

The sight hits you like a punch to the gut. Percy on the floor, face tear-streaked, chocolate smeared at the corner of his mouth, the team standing around looking shell-shocked, Spencer crouched in front of him like a quiet sentinel.

“Oh my god,” you breathe. “Percy,”

He looks up instantly.

“Mama!” He scrambles to his feet and barrels into you, arms locking around your waist with desperate force. “You came back! I thought—you were gone!”

“I’m here,” you say, voice breaking as you scoop him up. “I’m here, sweetheart. I just went to the bathroom. I’m so sorry,”

He clings to you, burying his face in your shoulder, body trembling now with leftover adrenaline rather than terror.

Percy sniffles and pulls back just enough to look at Spencer over your shoulder. “You didn’t leave,”

“No,” Spencer says. “I said I wouldn’t,”

Percy studies him for a long moment, then nods decisively. “You’re my friend now.”

Spencer blinks. “I—well. I’d be honoured,”

—

Percy stays glued to your side for the next half hour, fingers knotted in your jumper like nothing short of divine intervention could prise them loose. You don’t try. You wouldn’t. You sit with him tucked into your lap at the edge of the conference room while the team gets back to work, his rabbit clutched tight, chocolate wrapper crumpled in his fist like proof that something good had happened in the middle of all that fear.

Spencer sits opposite you, legs folded awkwardly beneath the table, notebook forgotten in front of him. Every so often, Percy peeks up at him through his lashes, checking.

Still there.

Spencer always is.

Eventually, Percy wriggles. Just a little.

“I need to pee,” he announces loudly, because of course he does.

You sigh softly, already shifting him off your lap. “Alright, come on then,”

Percy slides down—then immediately turns, marches straight past you, and grabs Spencer’s hand.

“Okay,” he says firmly. “Let’s go,”

The room stills.

You blink. “Percy—”

“He said he’d stay with me,” Percy insists, chin tipping up in a way that is painfully, unmistakably yours.

Spencer freezes, eyes flicking to you in alarm. “I—I can—”

You hesitate. Weigh your options. Choose the path of least resistance, because the last thing you want is another meltdown in the middle of a murder investigation.

“Alright,” you say finally. “But just to the bathroom,”

Percy chatters the entire way down the corridor, voice echoing off the walls. “Did you know I can count to one hundred? Mama taught me. But I always forget seventy-seven. Why is seventy-seven so many sevens?”

“That’s an excellent question,” Spencer says earnestly, adjusting his stride to Percy’s much shorter legs.

You trail behind them, arms folded, exhaustion tugging at your bones—but there’s something else there too. Something strange and warm and utterly unexpected.

You watch Percy swing Spencer’s hand as they walk, utterly unselfconscious, as though this arrangement makes perfect sense.

In the bathroom, Percy barely lets go even long enough to wash his hands.

“You can wait there,” Percy instructs, pointing at Spencer with authority usually reserved for heads of state.

Spencer obeys.

He stands there awkwardly, staring resolutely at the ceiling tiles while Percy narrates every step of the process at full volume. You catch Spencer’s eye over the top of the cubicle door and mouth I’m so sorry.

He smiles back, small and genuine.

When Percy emerges, hands damp and shirt sleeves soaked, he latches onto Spencer again without hesitation.

“See?” he says proudly. “All done!”

“Well done,” Spencer replies solemnly. “Very hygienic,”

That’s it.

From that moment on, Percy refuses to be more than three feet away from Spencer Reid.

Coffee runs become a joint expedition.

Spencer barely makes it three steps out of the conference room before Percy’s voice rings out behind him. “Where are you going?”

“Um,” Spencer says, startled. “To get coffee,”

Percy gasps, scandalised. “Without me?”

“I—well—”

“I wanna come,” Percy declares, already tugging on Spencer’s sleeve. “Mama says I’m not allowed coffee but I can smell it,”

You throw your hands up. “Fine. Go. Just—don’t let him drink it,”

“I won’t,” Spencer promises immediately, like this is the most serious vow he’s ever made.

You watch them go, Percy bouncing at Spencer’s side, questions firing off like a machine gun.

“Why is coffee brown? Is it made of dirt? Why do grown-ups drink it if it’s yucky? Why does Mama say she needs it to live?”

Spencer answers every single one.

Patiently. Thoughtfully. Occasionally far more in-depth than strictly necessary.

By the time they return, Percy is clutching a cup of hot chocolate Garcia has procured from somewhere, cheeks flushed with excitement, while Spencer looks faintly shell-shocked but strangely… content.

Attempted naps fare no better.

You manage to coax Percy back into the small office during a lull, dim the lights again, tuck him in with his rabbit. He lies there for exactly thirty seconds.

Then his eyes snap open.

“Where’s Spencer?”

“He’s just outside,” you say soothingly. “You can rest,”

“No,” Percy says flatly. “He has to be here.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Percy—”

The door opens quietly.

Spencer peers in. “Everything alright?”

Percy bolts upright. “You left!”

“I was right outside,” Spencer says quickly, stepping in. “I promise,”

Percy studies him, then pats the sofa decisively. “Sit,”

Spencer sits.

Percy curls right up against him like this has always been the plan, small body warm and solid at Spencer’s side, one hand fisting the fabric of his cardigan. He sighs, deep and content.

Spencer goes very still.

You stare.

“I—um,” Spencer murmurs. “Is this… okay?”

You should say no. You should insist on boundaries and propriety and not imposing your child on your colleague who did not sign up for this.

Instead, you watch Percy’s eyelids droop, his breathing slow, his body slacken in a way that only happens when he feels truly safe.

You swallow. “Yes,” you say quietly. “It’s okay,”

Percy doesn’t fall asleep properly this time, but he rests—head heavy on Spencer’s arm, thumb in his mouth, eyes half-lidded. Spencer doesn’t move for nearly forty minutes.

When Percy wakes again, he does so with questions.

Endless, relentless questions.

“Why is the sky blue?”

“Why do people die?”

“Why do dogs not wear clothes?”

“Why does Mama have a gun?”

That one makes you choke on your water.

Spencer answers what he can, deflects gently when he should, and admits honestly when he doesn’t know.

“Why do bad people hurt others?” Percy asks quietly at one point, voice softer than usual.

Spencer pauses.

“That’s… complicated,” he says carefully. “Sometimes people are hurting themselves, and they don’t know how to make it stop,”

Percy considers this. “That’s sad,”

“It is,” Spencer agrees.

Some questions stump him entirely.

“Where do thoughts go when you stop thinking them?”

Spencer opens his mouth. Closes it again. Blinks.

“I… don’t know,” he admits.

Percy looks delighted. “Mama! He doesn’t know!”

You laugh, the sound surprising you both.

As the day stretches on, the team adjusts.

Morgan starts referring to Spencer as the ‘work dad’.

Garcia brings Percy stickers. JJ sneaks him biscuits. Hotch watches it all with a quiet, thoughtful expression, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

Through it all, Percy stays exactly where he’s decided he belongs.

One hand in yours. One hand in Spencer’s.

As if that’s simply how the world works now.

And the strangest part—the part that catches you off guard every single time—is how natural Spencer looks with him there. How instinctively he shifts to accommodate Percy’s weight, how he lowers his voice without thinking, how he listens.

You let it go on longer than you probably should.

That’s what you tell yourself later, anyway—that you indulged it, that you didn’t step in soon enough, that you allowed Percy to get too attached because you were tired and grateful and desperately in need of the quiet relief Spencer’s presence seemed to bring him.

But standing there now, watching Percy perched on the edge of Spencer’s chair while Spencer explains—at Percy’s insistence—why planes don’t simply fall out of the sky, the guilt finally outweighs the relief.

Spencer hasn’t had a moment to himself in hours.

He hasn’t gone anywhere alone. He hasn’t finished a cup of coffee. He hasn’t even stood up without a small hand immediately latching onto his sleeve, a bright voice asking where are you going?

And while he never complains—while he smiles and answers and adjusts and accommodates—you see it. The subtle stiffness in his shoulders. The way his eyes flick briefly around the room, calculating, before settling again on Percy with unwavering patience.

He didn’t sign up for this.

You swallow, heart sinking, and step forward. “Alright, Percy,” you say gently, crouching down. “Why don’t you come sit with me for a bit, yeah? Spencer needs to do some work,”

Percy turns slowly.

His expression darkens with alarming speed.

“No,” he says.

“I know you’re having fun,” you continue carefully, “but Spencer’s busy. You can’t—”

“No!” Percy shouts, voice rising immediately. “I don’t want to!”

Spencer freezes mid-sentence, eyes widening a fraction.

“Percy,” you warn softly, already bracing yourself. “We don’t shout.”

“I want him!” Percy insists, gripping Spencer’s sleeve with both hands now, knuckles white. “You said I could!”

“I said for a little while,” you reply, keeping your tone even though your chest is tightening. “This is too much. You’re being—”

The word unfair never makes it out.

Percy’s face crumples, and suddenly he’s screaming—proper screaming, the kind that comes from deep in his chest and rattles on the way out. He stamps his foot, tears spilling over as he yanks at Spencer’s sleeve.

“You’re mean! You always take people away! I hate it here!”

The room goes still.

Again.

Your stomach drops straight through the floor.

“Percy, that’s enough.” You reach for him, mortified but stern. “I’m sorry, Spencer, he’s just-”

“Hey.”

Spencer’s voice cuts in, gentle but firm.

You stop mid internal meltdown, breath catching as he turns fully towards you.

“It’s alright,” he says quietly. “Really.”

Percy is still crying, clinging to him like a lifeline, but Spencer doesn’t try to disentangle himself. Instead, he shifts slightly, grounding Percy with one steady hand at his back.

“You don’t have to apologise,” Spencer continues, eyes on you now, earnest and calm. “He’s not a burden,”

You shake your head helplessly. “He is. He’s loud and he’s clingy and he’s—he shouldn’t be your responsibility,”

“He isn’t,” Spencer says immediately. “He’s just overwhelmed, and honestly I get it,”

Something in his tone makes you pause.

Spencer glances down at Percy, lowering his voice instinctively. “Percy, can you take a big breath with me?”

Percy hiccups, then mimics him reluctantly. One shaky breath. Then another.

The crying ebbs, leaving behind sniffles and the occasional angry huff.

“There,” Spencer murmurs. “That’s better,”

Percy glares at you over Spencer’s shoulder, lower lip jutting out. “You were gonna make him leave me.”

“I wasn’t,” you say softly. “I jdon’t want you to think that,”

Spencer looks at you, and then Percy. “You shouldn’t say things if you don’t know they’re true,” He shakes his head gently towards Percy. “You need to listen to others too, okay?”

“But—”

“Is your mom ever really mean? Or does it just feel mean?”

Percy frowns. “I don’t want you to go away…”

“I’m not going anywhere, promise,”

You stare at him, searching for any hint of obligation, any trace of polite discomfort.

There’s none.

“He asks interesting questions,” Spencer glances up towards you, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “And he’s very honest. That’s… refreshing.”

Percy perks up at that. “I am honest.”

“You are,” Spencer agrees solemnly.

Your chest aches.

“I just don’t want to take advantage,” you admit quietly. “You already do so much,”

“You’re not, I can assure you of that.”

You don’t hear the rest of it. You can’t.

But Spencer does.

He feels it settle somewhere deep in his chest, heavy and warm all at once.

Because Percy isn’t just a child who’s chosen him at random.

Percy is yours.

Every inflection in his voice, every stubborn tilt of his chin, every dramatic flare of emotion—Spencer sees you in all of it. Like you’ve been distilled down into something smaller and brighter and unguarded.

An extension of you.

And the fact that Percy seeks him out—trusts him, clings to him, feels safe with him—does something profound to Spencer’s insides. Something he doesn’t quite have words for yet.

It feels like being allowed close to you in a way he never thought he’d be.

Not romantically. Not yet. But intimately. Meaningfully.

Like being handed a fragile, living piece of your world and being trusted not to drop it.

Spencer swallows, pushing the thought down before it can overwhelm him.

Percy finally loosens his grip enough to look at you properly. “I don’t wanna stop being with him.”

You sigh, all the fight draining out of you. “Alright,” you say quietly. “But we take turns, okay? You can’t yell like that.”

Percy considers this, then nods once. “Okay.”

He turns back to Spencer immediately. “You stay.”

Spencer smiles. “I’m not going anywhere,”

Percy relaxes against him again, crisis apparently resolved.

You straighten slowly, rubbing a hand over your face. “I’ll… I’ll get him a snack,” you mutter, needing an excuse to step away before your emotions get the better of you.

Spencer nods. “Good idea,”

As you walk towards the kitchenette, you risk a glance back.

Percy is chattering again already, volume creeping steadily upward as he launches into a story about a pigeon he once saw that looked “mean”. Spencer listens like it’s the most important thing in the world.

For a fleeting, treacherous moment, the image feels domestic. Intimate. Like a snapshot from a life that could exist if circumstances were different.

You push the thought away and keep walking.

Behind you, Spencer shifts slightly so Percy is more comfortable, heart thudding a little harder than usual as he does.

—

By the next morning, it’s no longer a question of if Percy will be attached to Spencer.

It’s simply a matter of logistics.

The lockdown stretches on, days blurring together in that strange, suspended way that happens when the world narrows to a single building and a single purpose. The case grinds forward in fits and starts—profiles refined, leads chased, dead ends discarded—but underneath it all, a quieter routine takes shape.

A new normal.

You notice it first when you walk into the conference room one morning with Percy half-asleep against your shoulder, his hair sticking up in odd directions, his rabbit dangling limply from one hand.

Spencer is already there.

He looks up the moment he hears Percy’s voice, eyes lighting instinctively before he can stop himself.

“Morning,” he says softly.

Percy perks up immediately. “Spencer!”

He wriggles out of your arms with surprising speed and toddles straight over, grabbing Spencer’s hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You open your mouth to protest—then close it again.

Spencer squeezes Percy’s hand gently. “Good morning, Percy. Did you sleep well?”

Percy nods enthusiastically. “I dreamed about a shark with four eyes.”

Spencer blinks. “Four?”

“Yes. It was illegal.”

You snort despite yourself.

From that moment on, the pattern is set.

When you’re pulled into a briefing, Spencer keeps Percy occupied with puzzles and whispered facts.

When Spencer needs to consult a whiteboard, Percy trails after him, marker in hand, contributing enthusiastic but entirely unhelpful scribbles.

When you’re on the phone with Percy’s father trying to explain that no, you can’t just drop Percy off for the afternoon, Percy sits on Spencer’s foot and hums tunelessly while Spencer pretends not to notice the pins and needles creeping up his leg.

They eat together. Walk together. Exist in the same orbit.

Spencer never assumes. Never oversteps.

But he’s there.

Always there.

Percy still comes to you first when he’s tired, when he’s hurt, when he needs comfort that only his mother can give. He curls into your side during late afternoons, thumb in his mouth, eyes heavy, murmuring half-formed thoughts into your jumper.

But now—now there’s a complication.

Because when Percy reaches for you, he reaches for Spencer too.

He insists on it with startling determination.

“No,” he says firmly the first time you try to guide him away. “Both.”

You pause. “Both?”

He nods. “Mama and Spencer.”

Spencer freezes beside you, breath catching audibly.

You look down at your son—at his earnest expression, his unshakeable certainty—and then at Spencer, who looks like he’s been asked to handle something infinitely precious.

Slowly, you offer your hand.

Just as slowly, Spencer does the same.

Percy beams.

And just like that, he slots himself neatly between you, one small hand tucked into yours, the other wrapped around Spencer’s long fingers, as though this has always been the arrangement.

The image hits you harder than you expect.

It’s such a simple thing. Such an ordinary thing. But it lodges in your chest and refuses to move, settling there with quiet insistence.

You walk like that down the corridor, footsteps falling into an easy rhythm. Percy swings your joined hands slightly, humming to himself, blissfully unaware of the way people glance at the three of you as you pass.

Garcia’s eyes soften. JJ smiles faintly. Even Hotch pauses, watching with something thoughtful and unreadable flickering across his face.

Spencer keeps his gaze firmly ahead, jaw tight, heart hammering.

He tells himself it’s just practical. Percy feels safer this way. Children seek symmetry, balance, consistency.

That’s all it is.

But the warmth of Percy’s hand in his, the steady presence of you at his side—it’s intoxicating in a way Spencer doesn’t quite know how to handle.

You catch him one evening, long after Percy has drifted off, watching your son with an expression so soft it steals the breath from your lungs.

“He’s… incredible,” Spencer murmurs when he realises you’re there.

You nod, throat tight. “He is,”

There’s so much you want to say. So much you don’t dare. Like if you name it, it might vanish.

Still, the symbolism is impossible to ignore.

You and Spencer on either side. Percy between you, anchoring you together with sticky fingers and fierce loyalty. And you can’t help but notice he hasn’t mentioned his father once since the first day you arrived.

It happens again and again—walking to the cafeteria, crossing the bullpen, even just standing in place while Percy chatters away. He insists on both of you, insists on balance, insists on together.

And every time, Spencer feels something settle a little deeper in his chest.

A quiet, dangerous thought takes root.

That this doesn’t feel like babysitting. That this doesn’t feel temporary.

That if this is what proximity to you looks like—if being near you means laughter and questions and small hands and shared responsibility—then maybe wanting more isn’t as impossible as he’s always believed.

You feel it too, though you don’t let yourself dwell on it.

You feel it in the way Spencer anticipates Percy’s needs before you voice them. In the way he looks at you when Percy laughs, as though he’s seeing you more clearly through him.

For now, you tell yourself it’s survival. It’s circumstance. It’s just what works.

—

“It’s over?” you ask, hardly daring to believe it.

Hotch nods. “It’s over. Lockdown will be lifted within the hour.”

The sentence lands differently for you than it does for the others.

Because for the team, it means movement again. Normal schedules. Planes and cases and distance.

For you, it means packing up a life that has—somehow—briefly rearranged itself into something steadier and starting over again.

You look down.

Percy is sitting cross-legged at Spencer’s feet, using Spencer’s tie as a racetrack for a toy car. He makes a loud engine noise, blissfully unaware that the world is shifting again.

“Percy,” you say gently. “We’re going home now,”

He looks up, face lighting instantly. “Home-home?”

“Yes,” you say, smiling despite the ache forming behind your ribs. “Home-home,”

He cheers, loud and unrestrained, leaping to his feet and throwing his arms around your waist. “I missed my bed!”

You laugh, hugging him back. “I know you did,”

Spencer watches from just behind him, something unreadable passing across his face.

You gather Percy’s things—duffle bags heavier than when you arrived, somehow—while answering half a dozen questions about bedtime and snacks and whether dinosaurs would still exist when you got home.

Spencer helps without being asked.

He folds clothes with careful precision, hands you Percy’s shoes, retrieves the rabbit that had been abandoned under a chair. He moves around you with an ease that feels earned, familiar.

Too familiar.

When everything is ready, when Percy is zipped into his jumper and bouncing on the balls of his feet, you sling a duffle bag over your shoulder and reach for his hand.

He doesn’t take it.

Instead, he turns to Spencer.

“You coming too?” Percy asks, cheerful and unquestioning.

The room goes very still.

Spencer’s breath catches audibly.

You freeze, heart sinking.

“Oh,” you say softly. “Percy, sweetheart—”

Spencer crouches instinctively, meeting Percy at eye level. “I can’t come home with you,” he says gently. “I have to stay here,”

Percy frowns. “Why?”

Spencer opens his mouth.

Closes it again.

He looks at you helplessly.

You crouch beside them, one knee on the floor. “Because Spencer works here,” you explain carefully. “Just like Mama does,”

Percy’s brow furrows deeper. “But you’re coming.”

“Yes,” you say, heart cracking a little. “Because we have the same house, Spencer has his own house,”

Percy processes this in real time. You can almost see the logic wobble and collapse under the weight of it.

“But Spencer helps,” he insists. “He stays. He holds my hand.”

Spencer swallows.

“I did,” he says softly. “I do. Just… not tonight,”

Percy’s lip trembles.

You know the look. You dread it. “Don’t cry—”

“No,” Percy whispers. “No, no, no—” It’s a full-bodied, gut-wrenching sob, the kind that seems too big for his small chest to hold. He throws himself at Spencer, arms locking around his waist, face pressed into his shirt.

“No!” he cries. “You can’t stay here! You have to come! You promised you wouldn’t leave!”

The word leave hits like a punch.

Spencer’s hands hover helplessly for half a second before settling at Percy’s back, holding him close.

“I know,” he murmurs, voice thick. “I know it feels like that,”

You feel utterly useless.

Your chest aches with a mix of guilt and grief and something sharper, something you hadn’t prepared for. “Percy, sweetheart, please—”

He shakes his head violently. “I don’t want to go if he’s not coming!”

A few feet away, the team pretends very hard not to watch.

Spencer looks up at you, eyes wide and lost. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s not your fault,” you say immediately, though your throat is burning. “None of this is,”

Percy sobs harder, fingers twisted desperately in Spencer’s shirt like if he holds on tightly enough, he can change reality.

You try again, voice soft, steady, even as your heart splinters. “Percy, listen to me. Spencer isn’t leaving you. He’s just… not coming with us right now.”

“That’s leaving!” Percy wails.

You nod, because lying won’t help. “It feels like that. I know.”

Spencer squeezes Percy gently. “Percy,” he says quietly. “Can you look at me?”

It takes a moment, but eventually Percy pulls back just enough to glare up at him through tears.

“I wouldn’t leave you without telling you,” Spencer continues. “And I wouldn’t disappear.”

Percy sniffs. “But you’re not coming.”

“No,” Spencer admits. “But that doesn’t mean this is the last time we’ll be together,”

Percy’s face scrunches. “For real?”

You inhale, then exhale slowly.

“For real,” you say carefully, “We’ll make a plan, okay?”

Percy looks between you, hope flickering uncertainly. “A plan?”

“Yes,” you say. “Spencer can come visit,”

Spencer’s head snaps up.

“He can?” Percy asks, breath hitching.

You meet Spencer’s gaze, something unspoken passing between you. “If he wants to.”

Spencer doesn’t hesitate.

“I do,” he says immediately. “I definitely do,”

Percy stares at him. “You promise?”

“I promise,” Spencer says, without a shred of doubt.

Percy considers this. The crying slows, hiccupping into something manageable. He wipes his nose on Spencer’s sleeve without apology.

“When?” he asks.

You smile weakly. “Soon,”

“How soon?”

“Very soon,” Spencer says, a faint smile breaking through his own emotion. “As soon as your mom lets me,”

“Tomorrow?”

You laugh, rubbing tear stains from Percy’s cheeks. “Not tomorrow, next week maybe?”

Percy sniffles one last time, then leans forward to press his forehead against Spencer’s chest. “Okay,” he murmurs. “But you have to come for real. Not just say it.”

“I will,” Spencer promises again. “For real.”

Percy finally releases him, turning back to you with a heavy, exhausted sigh. You scoop him up, pressing a kiss into his hair, holding him tighter than usual.

Spencer stands as you do, hands lingering awkwardly at his sides, like he doesn’t quite know where to put them now.

“Well,” you say quietly, voice rough. “This is it,”

Spencer nods. “Yes,”

You shoulder your bags, Percy tucked against you, and take a step towards the exit.

Then you stop.

You turn back.

“Thank you,” you say, meeting Spencer’s eyes. “For everything. I—I don’t think I could’ve got through this without you,”

Spencer’s lips part, then curve into a small, earnest smile. “I’m glad I could be here to help,”

Percy lifts his head from your shoulder. “Bye, Spencer,” he says solemnly. “Don’t forget me.”

Spencer’s chest tightens. “I won’t,” he says. “I promise,”

As you walk away, Percy twists to wave at him, rabbit flopping wildly.

Spencer stands there long after you’re gone, the bullpen slowly emptying around him.