☆austin

You collapse onto the pillows in a sprawling, uncoordinated heap, giggling helplessly into Spencer’s mouth as he lands right after, warm and solid and perfectly weighted. You imagine some celestial force eavesdropped on your wishes and promptly deposited him on top of you.

You remind yourself to thank them and gravity. Tonight, at least, it’s completely forgiven for all those stubbed toes and spilled coffees.

And gravity is making your limbs feel like noodles. No, scratch that, noodles would have infinitely more structure. It’s possible you’re not even a person anymore. Perhaps you’ve melted straight into the mattresses, becoming one with it, all fluff and sighs and goofy grins. 

Is that a thing? Can people turn into beds? You’ll ask Spencer later.

Right now there’s kissing to do. Right now, your fingers are stumbling over a jawline so sharp and lovely and you think he smells like laundry straight from the dryer. You suffocate in it as your nose nudges to the hollow beneath his throat. 

And his hands — oh, his hands — they’re now under your shirt and it tickles and you think you’re giggling again, because what else is there to do when heaven is handsy?

He sighs, hands sinking into the plush curve of your waist.  It’s a familiar sigh you love hearing, one of those overly dramatic, pretend-exasperation sounds to signal his patience is running thin. Except you know better. Intimately so. Because beneath that theatrical huff is a smile he can’t quite hide, not when you can almost taste it if you turned your head just right.

He loves this, you’re certain, even if he refuses to say it. But that’s fine. You’re smart, even drunk-smart, and knowing is basically just as good as hearing. Actually, it’s even better because now you’re filled with the giddy determination to chase after that invisible grin with your lips, to hunt down the saccharine concealed there until it blossoms fully into laughter.

“I think,” you whisper loudly, your own smile mashed sloppily into the roughness of his cheek, “you just wanna get me naked.”

Spencer snorts. "I think you need to drink more water."

Killjoy. Beautiful, smirking, possibly medically correct killjoy.

Spencer gently lifts your arms, pulling off your shirt in one very smooth, very grown-up motion. Textbook Spencer Reid, all responsible bedtime procedure and absolutely zero funny business.

But your brain is champagne bubbles, pleasantly fizzy and a little devilish, so your fingers mound absently, tracing warm, languid circles along your newly exposed skin.

You watch him shamelessly, delighted when his cheeks flush just enough that he’s forced to look away, trying to convince you both he’s entirely unaffected.

"Don't need it," you murmur, eyes half-lidded and full of affection. "Just need you, thanks."

"Nice try, angel."

You sigh, softening like butter left too close to the stove as his fingertips coast feather-light down your back while coaxing you upright.

He takes his time, smoothing out each bump of your spine vertebrae by vertebrae. C1 all the way to C7. Then, with a sigh of his own, he pulls back, a moment stretched too thin, and reaches for your pajama top.

You take the time to look at him. Really look.

His belt hands low on his hips, leather biting into the fullness of his stomach, and you ache, physically ache, to trace that little line where cotton gives way to skin. His dress shirt, rumpled and sleep-wrinkled, clings across his chest like it wants to be closer too, buttons tugged taut over the breadth of him. 

His tie is gone. Hours ago, probably. Lost to some hallway or couch or whatever innocent piece of furniture was first to fall victim to your pawing hands.

Spencer tugs the pajama top he fished from the drawer down your arms, moving slowly so you don’t lose balance, not that you’d fall when you’re glued to the bed and using him as a human anchor, arms looped around his neck.

“You know,” you begin, lips dragging along his jaw like a love-drunk GPS, “Penelope is so funny.”

"Mhm."

"No, like, funny-funny. She made songs. About people. Little jingles. Did you know Derek has a theme song?”

"I did not."

"Well, he does. And so do you."

Spencer pauses. "Should I ask?"

"No, because you'll be mean about it."

"I'm never mean to you."

You narrow your eyes at him, or try to. They’re a little too heavy to cooperate.

“Spencer. You once corrected my math during sex.”

He shrugs. “In fairness, it was a bold miscalculation.”

He exaggerates.

Spencer had been beneath you, hands clutching greedily at the back of your thighs, his pupils blown so wide you could drown in their inky hunger — hunger he never bothered trying to disguise. You were gasping, half-lost on the exquisite stretch of him inside you, feeling so full it was like your body had molded itself around him, rewriting its shape in his image.

In the hazy gaps between thrusts you murmured a proud little tally into the air. Three times, maybe four. You couldn’t remember, didn’t care. It felt triumphant enough. Spencer, it seemed, had not.

He corrected that the first time wasn’t technically full sex, so the current count stood at two. You could still remember how your palms had flattened on his chest.

He looked up at you with a smirk that said, what? It’s true.

And you kissed him hard enough to shut him up. Not because he was wrong, but because you absolutely refused to let him be right. 

“So you’re admitting you’re mean to me on,” you say, squinting at him as you try to remember the word you were looking for, “occasion.”

Spencer’s lip tugs upward as he puts a hand to his chest. “Slandered in my own bed.”

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” you gasp, cupping his face. “You are the opposite of mean. You’re… you’re nice. You’re, like, aggressively nice. Stupidly nice. But you’re not stupid. You’re so smart. And — you’re the best boyfriend ever. Literally ever.”

“There's a lot of praise tonight, sweetheart.”

You groan, face smooshed right into his chest as embarrassment wars with your lingering bravado. Blame the tequila. Blame your poorly-timed confidence at the bar, when you sidled up to him, inspected him head-to-toe like he was some stranger, and purred, what’s a pretty thing like you doing all alone?

Never mind the fact that you arrived together. Never mind the fact that he had been holding your purse.

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.”

His voice spills out all velvet and sweet enough that your brain happily gives up on forming a coherent rebuttal. Gentle fingers squish your cheeks together, molding your lips into a pout that you’d probably laugh at if he weren’t already leaning in to kiss it. 

And he does, of course, soft lips pursed just slightly, showing you a peek at that deeper, cherry-stained color hidden inside. 

Lips shouldn’t look that edible, should they?

But with him, everything feels bite-worthy, nibble-able, lickable, and utterly unfair in how pretty he is. You constantly remind him, watch as his ears bloom pink, eyes narrowing in an attempt to deflect your adoration, especially when you’re in public.

You know he struggles with it. The receiving. The enormity of being loved without proof, without conditions, without demands. But that’s never scared you off. If anything, it draws you closer, makes you cherish every reminder, every repetition, every soft retelling of the truth he’s still learning how to hold. Because one day, maybe, you’ll say it so many times that even he can’t deny it anymore.

“You know,” you mumble, eyelids drooping as your finger taps his lower lip, voice slurred like honeyed bourbon. “That thing you did earlier, kissin’ my wrist all slow — mm-hmm — was that on purpose?”

A low laugh escapes him as he guides your form onto the bed, sliding down to lay beside you. He props his head on one hand, studying you. 

“On purpose? As opposed to… what? A spontaneous wrist-kissing seizure?”

You wrinkle your nose, staring up at the ceiling with glazed eyes. 

“Spence, there’s accidents, and then there’s… purposeful stuff, right? Like when someone just does things because they wanna make you feel good. Little things, like kissing wrists, and… remembering your favorite cereal and —” You lose yourself briefly, blinking sleepily. “And it just feels really, really nice when someone does things on purpose for you, ‘cause it means you’re worth noticing, I think. And you do that a lot.”

He smiles, thumb dragging a lazy arc along your cheek. You lean into the touch like a cat, nuzzling closer.

“I love your mind. Drunk Socrates, but cuter,” Spencer teases, pulling you closer so your head rests comfortably against his chest. “You probably won’t remember any of this in the morning,” he adds, “but I will and… I don’t know, noticing you has never been something I try to do.”

He exhales slowly.

“It’s actually harder not to,” he continues, “You know, yesterday you left your book on the counter, spine cracked and bookmarked with a receipt, and I couldn’t stop thinking about what part you’re up to. I actually looked up the chapter summaries to figure it out.” He chuckles under his breath. “You’re just constantly… there. In my head. Background processing, even when I’m thinking about something else.”

You dissolve further against him, the lines between your bodies blurring pleasantly, warmth pooling so deeply that your outlines vanish. You silently plead with yourself to remember this clearly in the morning, and that your expression in daylight won’t too obviously reveal how completely you’ve fallen in love again.

“So what you’re sayin’,” you mumble, wrapping your arms around him, nipping at the slope of his shoulder, “is I’m basically a parasite you can’t get rid of.”

“Exactly,” Spencer says, fingers digging into your side. “Mutually beneficial symbiosis. I’d let you take over my entire life if you wanted. Full infection. No cure needed.”

“Mmm, you’re gonna regret sayin’ that when you wake up stuck with me forever.”

“I’m counting on it.”

And you believe him.

The door doesn’t slam.

Spencer never slams doors.

But it closes a little too firmly, a little too carefully controlled, and that’s how you know.

You look up from where you’re curled on the couch, the soft glow of the TV painting the room in low light. For a second, he just stands there with his hand still on the handle, shoulders slightly hunched like he hasn’t quite made it all the way back yet.

“Hey,” you say softly.

His head lifts at your voice. The tension in his face shifts, not gone, just… tucked away. Filed under something neater.

“Hi.”

It’s automatic, the way he crosses the room to you. Like muscle memory. Like you’re part of the routine he trusts. He leans down, presses a quick kiss to your lips—gentle, familiar—but it’s over before it can settle into anything.

Too quick.

“Case ran long,” he adds, already pulling back, already halfway somewhere else in his head. “I’m—uh—I’m gonna shower.”

“Spence—”

But he’s already moving.

You watch him disappear down the hallway, the quiet click of the bathroom door following a second later. Then the rush of water.

And just like that, the apartment feels… off.

You frown slightly, staring at the space he left behind. The way he didn’t linger. Didn’t ramble. Didn’t even really look at you beyond that quick, checking-in glance.

Something’s wrong.

Not catastrophically wrong. You know what that looks like. You’ve seen it before.

This is quieter than that. He’s wound too tight.

You mute the TV, the silence settling in around you, filled only by the distant sound of running water. Your mind runs through possibilities—bad case, lack of sleep, something that stuck with him longer than usual.

Probably all of the above.

You push yourself off the couch, padding down the hallway. The bathroom door is still closed, steam already curling faintly from beneath it. You hover there for a second, considering knocking.

You don’t.

Instead, you lean your shoulder against the wall, arms crossing loosely as you wait.

The water runs longer than usual.

When it finally shuts off, there’s a pause. A long one. Like he’s just standing there, gathering himself, piecing something back together before he has to step out and be a person again.

Your chest tightens a little.

The door opens a minute later, and Spencer steps out, hair damp, t-shirt clinging slightly where it hasn’t fully dried him off. He looks… better, technically.

Cleaner. Still not okay.

He blinks when he sees you there. “Oh—hi. I didn’t—uh—realize you were—”

“Waiting?” you offer.

He gives a small, sheepish nod, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to disappear like that.”

“It’s okay,” you say, but your eyes narrow just a little, studying him. “You just got back. You’re allowed to be weird for at least, like, an hour.”

That earns you the faintest hint of a smile. It flickers across his mouth, brief but real. “Only an hour?”

“Mhm. After that I start charging you for emotional distance.”

A quiet huff of laughter leaves him, softer than usual, but it’s something. Still, he shifts his weight like he doesn’t quite know where to go next. Like standing still might let something catch up to him.

You tilt your head slightly, softer now. “Hey… are you okay?”

Spencer doesn’t answer right away.

His gaze drops somewhere between you, unfocused, like he’s flipping through thoughts too fast to grab just one. You can almost see the calculations, the quiet sorting, the way he tries to find the most accurate answer instead of the easiest one.

A few seconds pass before he exhales.

“I—” He stops, presses his lips together, tries again. “I will be.”

It’s honest. Not reassuring, not entirely comforting, but real. And you’ve learned that’s what matters with him.

You nod, stepping a little closer, your hand brushing lightly against his arm. “Okay. ‘Will be’ is acceptable.”

His shoulders loosen a fraction at that. Not fully. Just enough to breathe a little easier.

“I think I just…” He rubs at the back of his neck again, damp curls catching between his fingers. “I should probably sleep. Reset a little.”

“Yeah,” you murmur. “That sounds like a good plan.”

There’s another pause, smaller this time. Hesitant.

Then, quieter—almost careful—“Will you… come with me?”

It’s not a big question. Not really. You’ve done this countless times before. Fallen asleep together, limbs tangled, his breathing evening out beside you.

But there’s something different in the way he asks it now.

Less routine. More… needing.

Your expression softens instantly. “Of course.”

Something in him settles at that. Not all the way, but enough that the sharpest edges dull.

“Okay,” he says, almost to himself.

He shifts, gesturing faintly down the hall like he’s not entirely sure how to transition from standing here to actually moving. You don’t wait for him to figure it out. You slip past him, bumping your shoulder lightly into his as you go.

“C’mon, genius,” you tease gently. “Doctor’s orders. Bed.”

A quiet breath of amusement escapes him, and this time the smile lingers just a little longer.

He follows you.

The bedroom feels softer somehow. Dimmer. Safer.

You tug the blankets back and climb in first, settling into your usual spot without thinking. Spencer hovers for half a second before joining you, movements slower, more deliberate, like he’s still shaking off the outside world piece by piece.

The mattress dips under his weight. There’s that same brief hesitation. Then he shifts closer.

Not dramatic. Not even fully intentional, maybe. Just instinct. His arm slides around you, tucking you in against his side, his hand resting warm and steady at your waist.

You hum softly, adjusting so you fit better against him, your cheek brushing his shoulder.

For a moment, neither of you say anything.

You can feel it, though. The tension still coiled in him. Quieter now, but not gone. His fingers flex slightly against your side, like he doesn’t quite know how to let go of everything yet.

Your gaze flicks upward.

He’s staring at the ceiling. Wide awake.

Yeah. No. Not happening.

A small smile tugs at your mouth.

“You’re terrible at this,” you murmur.

Spencer blinks, glancing down at you. “At what?”

“Sleeping.”

“I just laid down,” he protests mildly.

“Mhm. And you’re already thinking too loud.”

His lips twitch faintly. “I don’t—think loudly.”

“You do when you’re trying not to.”

That earns you a slightly more real look. A little more present.

Good. But you have another idea.

You shift suddenly, twisting out of his hold just enough to grab one of the pillows from behind you.

Spencer frowns, confused. “What are you—”

You hit him.

Not hard. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to surprise.

The pillow makes a soft whump against his arm.

He stares at you. You stare back.

“…Did you just—” he starts.

You hit him again. That does it.

“Okay,” Spencer says slowly, pushing himself up onto one elbow, eyes narrowing just a fraction. “I see what’s happening.”

“Do you?” you grin, already backing up on your knees across the bed.

“I was under the impression we were going to sleep.”

“Revised plan.”

He watches you for a second longer. Then, something shifts.

It’s subtle, but you catch it. The way the tension in his shoulders loosens, replaced by something lighter. Sharper. Awake in a different way.

“You know,” he says, reaching for a pillow of his own, “there are several strategic disadvantages to your current position.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes. For one—”

You don’t let him finish. You swing the pillow, aiming for his chest.

This time, he’s ready for it. And just like that, the room changes.

Laughter breaks through the quiet, sudden and bright, as Spencer catches the pillow and immediately retaliates. The first hit he lands is clumsy, glancing off your side, but the second—

“Hey!” you laugh, scrambling away as he moves forward.

The bed dips and shifts under both of you, turning the whole thing into unstable territory. You grab another pillow, swinging wildly, barely dodging his reach as he tries to corner you.

“You started this,” he reminds you, breath already a little uneven—but lighter now, threaded with something almost playful.

“And you’re losing,” you shoot back.

“I am not losing.”

“You absolutely are—”

Your sentence dissolves into laughter as he lunges, catching the edge of your pillow mid-swing and using it to yank you forward. You barely twist out of it in time, scrambling off the bed entirely with a soft thud of your feet hitting the floor.

“Oh, that’s cheating!” you accuse, already darting backward.

Spencer sits up fast, pushing his hair out of his face, eyes brighter now—really bright, the kind that only shows up when he’s fully, genuinely in something.

“That’s not cheating,” he argues, grabbing his pillow and sliding off the bed after you. “That’s adaptation.”

“You’re literally making up rules—”

“You didn’t establish any rules!”

You laugh again, breathless, backing toward the door as he advances. There’s something delightfully unfair about him like this—long limbs, quick reflexes, a surprising amount of coordination when he’s not overthinking every step.

“You’re supposed to be bad at this!” you protest.

“That seems like an assumption you made without evidence.”

“You trip over air, Spencer!”

“I trip when I’m thinking,” he corrects, already closing the distance, pillow raised like a very soft weapon. “I’m not thinking right now.”

“Oh, that’s terrifying—”

You dart sideways just as he swings, the pillow grazing your arm instead of landing square. You laugh, breathless, circling back toward the bed like it’s home base, except he’s already anticipating that, cutting you off with a step that’s just a little too quick.

Unfair.

“You’re taking this too seriously!” you accuse with a laugh, backing up until the mattress bumps into the backs of your legs.

“I take all competitive activities seriously.”

“This is not a competitive—Spencer!”

He lunges.

You try to dodge, really you do, but he catches your wrist mid-retreat, momentum carrying both of you forward. The mattress dips hard as you fall back onto it, a surprised laugh punching out of you as he follows, one knee landing on the bed beside your hip, the other sinking into the blankets for balance.

The pillows are forgotten somewhere in the chaos.

You twist beneath him, still laughing, trying to shove him off, but he’s already got you—hands catching your wrists, pinning them lightly above your head as he leans over you, hair falling into his eyes, glasses slightly crooked.

“Got you,” he says, a little breathless, a little triumphant.

“You cheated,” you counter immediately, though the words dissolve into another laugh.

“I adapted,” he corrects again, but there’s a smile tugging at his mouth now—real, unguarded, lingering.

You both go still for a second.

Not fully. Your chests are still rising and falling too fast, breaths mingling in the small space between you. But the movement slows. The laughter fades into something softer, quieter, like the room is catching up with you.

Spencer doesn’t let go of your wrists right away.

His gaze flickers over your face, like he’s remembering where he is. Who he’s with. The shift happens again, subtle but unmistakable, the playful edge softening into something warmer. Something heavier.

“Hi,” you murmur, softer now.

His lips twitch faintly. “Hi.”

“I missed you,” you say softly. 

“I missed you too,” he says, and it lands softer than everything else—like something he didn’t realize he was holding onto until it slipped out.

Your chest tightens in that quiet, familiar way.

You don’t rush it. You just… shift.

One of your wrists twists gently in his grasp, and he lets it go immediately—of course he does, there’s no resistance, no hesitation. Spencer has never been someone who holds on when you pull away.

But you’re not pulling away.

Your freed hand slides up, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his shirt, and you tug him down.

The kiss meets him halfway.

It’s warm and intentional. Your lips brushing his first, testing, and then settling when he exhales softly against you like something in him just… gives. He melts.

His grip loosens on your other wrist, not dropping it entirely at first, just easing—like he’s making sure you don’t want to move again. When you don’t, when your fingers tighten slightly in his shirt instead, he lets go completely.

His hand slides down, slow and careful, tracing the line of your arm before settling at your side.

The kiss deepens—not dramatically, not all at once. It builds. Soft turns into something warmer, something that lingers a second longer each time your lips meet. His breathing shifts, uneven at the edges, like he’s still catching up to the moment.

Like he didn’t expect this. Like he needed it anyway.

You hum faintly against him, and that does something—something visible. His hand tightens just a little at your waist, pulling you closer without thinking, pressing you more firmly into the mattress beneath him.

Grounding. Needing.

When he pulls back, it’s not far. Just enough to breathe, to look at you, curls falling messily into his eyes.

There’s still a trace of that earlier tension in him—but it’s changed now. Softer. Warmer. Redirected into something that hums low under his skin.

“Is this…” he starts, voice quieter, a little rougher now. “Is this your official treatment plan?”

Your lips curve, brushing his again, lighter this time. “Mhm. Very advanced technique.”

He huffs a small breath of laughter, forehead dipping briefly against yours. “Peer-reviewed?”

You laugh. “Extensively.”

Another kiss—shorter, but more certain.

His hand shifts at your waist, thumb brushing absent, slow circles like he’s thinking without meaning to. The rest of him follows in small ways—his weight settling more comfortably over you, one knee adjusting against the mattress, his body fitting closer instead of hovering.

Less distance. Less thinking. More here.

You slide your hand up from his shirt to his jaw, thumb brushing lightly along the edge, and his eyes flicker shut for a second at the contact.

When he kisses you again, there’s less hesitation in it. Still gentle, still Spencer, but steadier now—like he’s chosen this instead of stumbled into it. He sighs when he pulls away, a deep and satisfied sound that makes you smile again.

“Thank you,” he says.