Konyshunka:3

Emily hadn't had a drop of alcohol that evening. Not one, and yet, when she'd seen you there, sitting unceremoniously on the curb, eyes trained on a moth that had landed on your knee, she'd lost every semblance of sense. The first endearment that had fallen from her lips had been unintentional, but when she realized that you probably wouldn't recall the words she spoke, she indulged in her own pretense.

So when you asked she keep referring to you with the loving nicknames she used to, some part of the spell she'd cast on herself, the one where everything was fine, where you were still hers to care for, shattered. In its place surged a bitter truth – this was all play-pretend. You never would've called sober. She shouldn't have stayed around once you were back to your apartment.

Yet she had, and when you'd uttered that sweet, traitorous word, paired with the softest plea, no amount of willpower could have made her cross the front door.

When light started seeping through the blinds, Emily thanked her internal clock for being so thoroughly tuned. She would slip away quietly, and you'd wonder if her presence had been a drunken hallucination. The plan was simple, all she needed to do was get up and fetch her shoes. In her life, Emily Prentiss had gone through much greater hardships – she'd moved from country to country, battled with her own identity in search of acceptance, she'd gone deep undercover, so deep that she sometimes wondered if Lauren was engraved into her soul, she'd died, clinically, then had come back, only to fake her own death and leave her loved ones distraught in an attempt to protect them, to protect you. And yet the simple task of leaving your drowsy embrace seemed Herculean in its magnitude.

In your slumber, you had nuzzled into her neck, and she swore she could've fainted. One of your arms was wrapped around her waist, the other tucked between both of your chests, and she held her breath as you stirred. She needed to leave, needed to go before you woke up and realized just how far you'd gone past the limits you'd set for yourself. Past the promise you'd pulled from her.

"I can't– I can't do this. I don't want to see you again. I don't want to hear from you, I don't want to speak to you. I grieved you, Emily. You're dead. So stay dead. Stay away from me."

The words still rang in her ears as she looked down at your sleeping form. She shouldn't be here. She shouldn't have stayed. She had no place in your bed anymore. She had no right to be by your side, to witness the scrunch of your nose as you slowly regained consciousness, the soft grunt you would let out as you stretched your legs under the covers, or the way your eyes would look for hers before anything else.

She wanted to stay more than anything. She wanted to hear the soft rasp of your voice, wanted to hear you complain about your head, hell, she'd listen to you yell at her all morning if it meant she was allowed to take care of you. But Emily was no fool. She knew you, probably better than she knew herself, and you would never let her stay, much less fuss over you upon waking up.

Her fingers wrapped loosely around your wrist, slowly unwinding your arm from her waist until it rested over the mattress. She allowed herself a moment of selfishness, storing away the feeling of your nose pressed into the crook of her neck before tearing herself from you. She watched as you stirred, holding her breath, only for you to curl into yourself. Fighting against the urge to climb back in next to you and wrap you in her arms, she reached for the edge of the blanket and pulled it over your shoulder.

Maybe some part of her was waiting for you to wake up, because she roamed around the apartment for longer than necessary. Plucking a pill from your medicine cabinet and pairing it with a glass of water, she placed both on your night stand, accompanied by a pastel pink sticky note reading "For your head". She debated with herself for a moment on whether or not to write more, to apologize, to urge you to call her, to beg you to take her back, but ultimately settled on the original message.

The ride to the BAU seemed to stretch on forever as her mind played over the evening on loop. When she finally walked out of the elevator, she passed Garcia's bubbly greetings like a mindless specter, sweeping down the hall with no recognition of anything happening around her.

It was only a few minutes later, when fingers snapped right in front of her nose as she sat at her desk, that Emily fully regained consciousness.

"Uh, Earth to Prentiss ?" Morgan's eyebrow was raised questioningly as he looked down at her, Penelope standing just a little distance behind.

"Hm ? What is it ?" Emily blinked, gathering some files in her hands in an attempt to look composed.

From over his shoulder, the concerned glint in JJ's eye betraying the half smile on her lips, "You're acting like a ghost, Em," she huffed softly, before quickly adding a quiet "no pun intended, obviously."

"Sorry," the woman breathed, pressing two fingers to her temple, "I just– I haven't slept much is all."

Morgan's instant grin was a tangible thing. So was Penelope's sudden interest.

"Tell. Me. Everything." the tech analyst beamed as she perched up on the edge of her friend's desk. Derek had his arms crossed, and JJ was sipping her coffee, eyes on the news-bearer. Even Reid had stopped reading, glancing up at the group from his desk.

Rolling her eyes, the raven haired woman fought against a smile, "Not like that."

"Not like what ? We haven't said anything," Morgan retorted.

"You guys clearly have something in mind, and I'm telling you it isn't it."

"Then what is it ? Because you should know by now that I can smell hot goss' from miles away so spill," Garcia chirps as her manicured hand pins the files Emily was fussing over onto the desk.

"Oh yeah," Chocolate thunder adds, a hint of pride in his tone, "she's like a blood hound."

About two weeks ago, when Emily had complained about her headaches, JJ had jokingly mentioned how often she rolled her eyes, pinning it as a possible cause. Of course, Spencer, who often missed the inflection in their voices that pointed to humor, had pointed out that the strain on her optic nerve –paired with her inability to remember that she needed glasses to read, glasses that she forgot about so often that none of her team members knew about them – could very well be the reason for her pain.

That's why, when Penelope sniffed playfully, as if seconding Morgan's comment on her emotional detective skills, Prentiss had to physically stop her eyes from rolling.

Spinning her chair around to face her nosy colleagues, Emily sighed in defeat, "It's nothing. Really, you're getting excited over nothing."

"It's never nothing," Garcia insists, her own eyes rolling, as if to spite her. Of course, the tech analyst never forgot about her glasses. Maybe fun frames really were the trick. Maybe she should get fun glasses.

"Well this is the exception to the rule then," she waved her enthusiasm off, and JJ decided to chime in.

"Oh come on, don't you see you're killing us with the suspense there ? Even Spencer's on the edge of his seat."

The young doctor straightened in his chair, cheeks flushing, "I am not."

The distress portrayed in the higher pitch of his voice made the entire group burst into laughter, and something in Emily's chest loosened ever so slightly.

"Alright, fine. Don't blame me if you end up disappointed." she started, "My ex called last night."

Garcia gasped dramatically, "You mean, The ex ? With the little Trade mark at the end ?"

Her comment pulled a wry grin out of her friend, "Yes, Pen. She's the only ex you guys know about anyway."

JJ clicked her tongue, "Not true, girls nights taught us plenty"

The eye roll escaped Emily before she could stop it, "The only ex that everyone here knows about."

"Okay, hold up." Morgan waved a hand, "She called you ? I thought she went no contact after you…" the pause lasted a second, but she saw the way everyone recoiled from it, "–you know."

After a slow breath in, Emily nodded, "Yeah." she sighed, "And I don't think it changes anything." before the others could deny her claim, she added, "She was very drunk."

Silence followed, understanding landing softly, a lot softer then it had when she'd picked up the phone last night. She sighed softly, remembering the way her heart had pounded at the sight of your name lighting her phone up. Remembering the way it had stopped when she'd heard the slur in your words.

"She'd lost her friends in the club, and she drunk-called her ex. It's a classic move." she shrugged, faking a sort of non-chalance that didn't fit the way her chest ached, "She needed someone to pick up, so I did. I drove her home, got her to bed, and voilà."

JJ put a comforting hand to her shoulder, but the self-certified truffle dog of the team didn't seem quite content.

"And that's it ?" she raised a disbelieving brow, "I don't buy it."

Emily frowned, "Well she was drunk, Pen. What more could there have been ?"

Garcia swat her hand in the air, "I'm not saying anything happened, but I am being reminded of a certain saying stating that drunk words are sober thoughts… And you're not about to make me believe that you guys stayed silent the whole time !"

"Babygirl's right you know," Morgan crossed his arms over his chest, "so what, did you guys just talk nonsense ?"

Carding a hand through her raven hair, she closed her eyes, "No, just… nothing important."

"I doubt that," JJ hummed.

The memory of your words, of your request flashed through her mind like a dagger, and buried itself in her throat. When she spoke again, it was sharper than she'd intended.

"Look, I really don't want to talk about this right now, and I think I've made that pretty clear. Maybe you could all benefit from actually doing what you're paid to do instead of interrogating me."

For a moment, the office fell deathly silent. She couldn't even bring herself to look up at them, but she felt the way JJ tensed at her side.

"Sorry," Emily managed to whisper through the noose that had wrapped around her neck, eyes fixed onto the file under her fingers.

"It's alright," JJ murmured back before walking back to her office.

"You're ok, I shouldn't have pushed," Garcia breathed, still recovering from the conversation's brutal end.

Morgan lingered a moment after she departed, and Emily pursed her lips in apprehension.

"There might be something to work through there, Prentiss." he noted quietly, "You're not usually one to get upset over some teasing. Just sayin'."

He was back to his desk when Rossi casually walked by and plopped a coffee cup on her own, a silent comment on the outburst.

With a heavy sigh, Emily reached for the cup and took a sip, barely appreciating the warmth of the drink. Despite her colleagues' quick escape, she could still feel a pair of eyes on her, and without looking up, she had a feeling of whose. Still, she focused on her stack of files, on the blue light of the computer in front of her, on the click of her teeth against her worn nails, anything that wasn't the thought of you waking up alone, without any recollection of the night.

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

Of course, she was off by a long shot, because when you woke up to a cold bed, head throbbing with the pain of an evening a little too careless, every event of the night flashed before your eyes like a movie on fast-forward. The sticky warmth of the club, the smell of liquor on your hands, the buzzing of bass under your feet, the cold night, then Emily's voice over the phone, her hand on your back, the scent of her car, her eyes in the rear view mirror, her profile illuminated by every passing street light, her sweet words, her lips in your hair, her sigh when you pressed closer.

But mostly, you remembered the safety you felt.

Sitting up in bed gave you such brutal whiplash that you squeezed your eyes shut and groaned until it passed. The light filtering through the curtains felt nearly blinding as you blinked them open again, and the sound of your own pulse felt strangely nauseating. Once the room finally stilled, you allowed yourself to look around. On the other side of the bed, the sheets had been neatly pulled back over the mattress, and if you couldn't still smell the warm amber of Emily's perfume, you might have thought you'd imagined her presence entirely.

With a sigh, you reached blindly for the spot on your bedside table where you would usually set your phone, only to be met with a piece of paper instead. Your brows knitted together as you looked down onto the pink post-it note, pinned to the nightstand by a glass of water and a Tylenol pill.

A knot tightened in your abdomen as your eyes scanned the note, and you tried to ignore the nagging memory of the last note she'd left you. It had been less than a year, and still it felt like a lifetime ago. She hadn't even woken you up. You could vaguely recall the press of her lips to your forehead as she left, but you hadn't clung onto consciousness. How could you have known ? Had she ?

Crumpling the paper and tossing it somewhere away from sight, you picked the pill up and chugged it down with water. You decided that you needed a shower more urgently than you needed to give your friends confirmation that you were alive, so you dragged your feet over to the bathroom and started running the water. The face you caught sight of in the mirror made you wince, so you didn't look again.

Once the shower had run long enough to fog the glass over and redden your shoulders, you stepped out and threw on whatever you found first, before finally rummaging your purse for your phone. As expected, the moment your phone turned back on, you were met with a flood of worried notifications to which you resigned yourself to respond before an amber alert was issued on your behalf. While looking through your recent history, your finger paused over Emily's name.

Maybe a text was in order ? After all, you'd called her, wasted, after three whole months of no contact, and she'd gotten you home and taken care of you. But then again, you hadn't meant to break the silence you'd imposed between you, and perhaps limiting your interaction was for the best.

You turned the thought in your head until it became nauseating, though whether the nausea stemmed from the thought or the leftover alcohol in your system was rather unclear. Words swirled around as you tried to eat something, anything, and failed miserably. They smudged and bled into each other in a desperate attempt at conveying whatever it was that you were feeling

Thanking her for picking you up and getting you home safe was unavoidable. Despite your wishing you could just act like she didn't exist, you'd never been one to think of help as an inherent right of yours and not as a burden on everyone else. After all, you'd been the one to call her, — something that could have been avoided had you followed your best friend's advice and blocked her — you were the one who'd been in such a state that even walking a straight line would've proven to be amongst the most herculean of tasks. So of course, you owed her some form of apology and gratitude.

You were also mad at her, a state you'd been in since she'd come back from the dead, the raging anger only stoked by the fact that she'd taken it upon herself to tend to you, a responsibility she had no right to bear, not to mention a very clear attack on the boundary you'd set.

I never want to see or hear from you again. You were dead. Stay dead.

Dead people didn't answer the phone — you'd learnt that the hard way— dead people didn't pick you up when you were too drunk to get yourself home. Dead people didn't call you baby, or darling, or sweetheart. And dead people sure didn't kiss your hair or hold you until you slept. If they did, you wouldn't have spent months unable to move from your couch, having to be spoon-fed by JJ while your best friend made sure to keep your apartment from rotting.

The memory of those months spent grieving, wishing you could do something, anything, to soothe this burning ache eating away at your chest flooded your veins with a sharp sense of sorrow. There was no way to count the amount of times you'd wished she'd rise from the grave, the amount of times you'd prayed to an empty sky for anyone that would hear you to bring her back to you, to have her waiting outside your door, ready to announce that it was all some elaborate prank, some messed up tv show with hidden cameras and sadistic viewers. You'd known, deep down, that it would never happen. People didn't come back from the dead. Death was a one way gate, and no amount of begging would change that.

And yet, after spending the first day in months out of your apartment, when you'd opened your door to find her cooking your favorite food, no part of you had blessed the sky for answering you. You hadn't dropped to your knees, you hadn't sobbed and embraced her like you imagined she'd expected. You hadn't done any of those things, because none of this had been a miracle. Your prayers had been spoken to the void, and no one had heard you or indulged you to ease your suffering. Instead, you'd suddenly been slapped in the face by the reality in which Emily Prentiss, your girlfriend, the love of your life, the one you'd trusted with everything you had and ever would be, hadn't trusted you enough to spare you the debilitating grief of losing her.

Shoving aside the memory, you sank into the couch with a disgruntled sigh and held your phone up to eye level. Emily's contact stared back at you the same way it had while you were still together, the tender name untouched for lack of heart to change it. As you opened the chat, a chain of old texts filled the screen, making your stomach churn and your teeth clench. The texts were all yours, all nearly a year old, all addressed to your supposedly dead girlfriend.

You forced your eyes into compliance as you teared them from the words and onto the keyboard on the lower part of your screen. A deep breath shook your lungs as you realized with unease that you'd been holding it this whole time, and finally, your fingers found the cool surface of the phone.

You spent some time mulling over the wording, deleting and rewriting and softening the sharp edges of your fragile distance again and again until the words looking back at you lost all meaning, before settling on an acceptable alternative. The pad of your thumb reluctantly reached for the send button, and you stared at the bubble like it might jump out at you if you looked away.

She might not have been a ghost, but Emily Prentiss sure haunted you like one.

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

The buzzing of her phone made Emily whip her head around like a dog hearing the word treat. She reached for her phone and her heart did a strange sort of twirl in her chest as your name appeared on her screen. Momentarily forgetting about her previous outburst, she opened the notification and started reading your text, her sudden excitement quickly replaced by a burning strain behind her ribs.

"Hello Emily. I wanted to apologize for last night, and thank you for your help. I'm alright now, and won't bother you anymore. Please do not contact me again."

A shaky exhale escaped her lips as her shoulders sagged slowly. Of course. You had made it abundantly clear that you did not want anything to do with her anymore, and she'd been foolish to hope your drunken behavior had reflected any affection you held for her.

Slouching back into her chair, she brought her thumb to her lips, teeth instinctively nicking at the abused nail as she fought the urge to go against your request and text you back. Instead, her eyes found your older texts, the ones she'd read over and over until the thought of you blurred her vision.

"Garcia says I'll feel better when I shower. I'm scared it will erase you"

"There is a basket of your dirty clothes on the bed, I can't bring myself to clean them"

"Please come back"

"You didn't even take the lunch I made you that day. It's rotting in the fridge"

"Sergio keeps crying, I don't know what to do"

"The bed feels empty without you."

"I hate you for leaving me alone like this. You didn't even kiss me goodbye. I hate you"

"I miss you so much"

"I can't do this without you"

"I'm starting to forget the sound of your voice"

Each text twists the dagger deeper into her ribcage. She hadn't meant to hurt you. She hadn't had a choice. She was protecting you.

Her internal turmoil was interrupted by the feeling of eyes searing into the back of her head. She only knew two people with the ability to stare so intensely, and one of the two was on the phone in his office up the stairs, leaving only–

"Are you planning on staring at me until I catch fire Reid ?"

Spencer straightened in his chair as she turned to meet his eyes, and his cheeks flushed slightly at getting caught.

"Sorry," he immediately offered, though he didn't look away, "I just–" Emily could almost see the gears turning as he hesitated, "Nevermind."

She lifted a brow in a silent question, and that seemed to be all the encouragement he needed.

"Are you… Are you okay ? I've just never seen you snap like you just did, and then your phone buzzed and you looked like you'd been shot for a moment there–" before she could reply, he continued, "–I'm guessing it's her, and that you were right about her not having changed her mind about the whole– well, no-contact thing, and it's understandable– I mean I understand how she feels– but I was thinking, maybe if– well, obviously she's mad at you, and at JJ and Hotch, but maybe I could– Well she's still in contact with Garcia, and maybe we could talk to her– Garcia, Morgan and I." Spencer took a breath for what seemed like the first time since he'd opened his mouth, "If you wanted."

As much as she wanted to dismiss the idea entirely, her heart lurched at the idea, at the distant flicker of hope it brought.

"I don't know if that's such a good idea," she sighed, "She doesn't want anything to do with me, and I don't want to risk you guys losing her trust because you tried playing devil's advocate."

Spencer frowned, "I never said I'd defend your choice. I still think it was stupid not to include us in the plan, at the very least."

Emily's throat tightened at the words, but she couldn't help but question if maybe he was right.

"Right." she cleared her throat, "But– Well, what would you say ?"

He seemed to think about it for a moment, though knowing Spencer, the thinking probably consisted more of rewording a pre-existing thought rather than coming up with it entirely.

"Well… Maybe just… Give her the space to talk about it– about losing you and learning that–" he cut himself off, and Emily caught the way his jaw worked as he digested the unspoken words.

"Garcia went over a lot while you were gone, but she's refused any contact with the team since learning about the plan. Maybe being able to talk about it all with people who went through it too could help." he continued. The word treason crossed Prentiss's mind, and she could feel how much effort her friend was putting in to keep it at the back of his throat.

"Maybe," she said quietly, "maybe. But just– I'm afraid she'd think of it as some ploy for me to win her back. She's convinced everything I do has a hidden agenda now."

"Can you blame her ?" his word left his lips before his brain could catch up. Emily saw it in the pursing of his lips, in the sudden stillness of his fingers.

She shook her head as soon as he opened his mouth to apologize, "No, you're right. But if you do this, if you talk to her," she looked down at the red blooming just beneath the edge of her nail, "just don't do it for me."

Spencer watched her for a moment, and she could feel just how much he saw. For as long as she'd been in this team, she'd always had something to hide, something that kept her from being truly known. Now, she felt bare, and it was jarring.

"Okay," he breathed finally, "fine. But you also have to stop flogging yourself over this. We all know you did this because you thought it was the safest thing to do. And as much as I might disagree with the decision, I probably would've done the same in your shoes." Spencer held her gaze, "We all would have."

Mechanically, she nodded, forcing a small smile onto her lips as thanks. Just as Reid started turning back to his desk, she spoke again, a broken whisper.

"I'm really sorry."

He didn't look back at her, but the tension in his shoulder eased ever so slightly. His voice was soft as he replied.

"I know."

He must’ve come home in the middle of the night, careful not to wake you as he climbed into bed beside you. You could picture him, all heavy limbs weighed down with exhaustion and tie discarded on the sofa somewhere in the dark as he shuffled like a zombie into your shared room. It was never easy for him, coming home this late. The team usually stayed overnight wherever they were when a case ended deep in the night, opting to make it home for the morning instead. Whatever case they’d been working on must’ve been harrowing enough that they just wanted to get away as fast as possible.

You stretched as much as you could without stirring him, delighting in his sleepy grumble as he dreamily nuzzled further into you. From the way he had anchored himself to you, you could tell this was a much needed rest. You lay there for a while just listening to him, to the steady sound of his breathing and the occasional murmurs and mumbles that accompanied them, before you found yourself itching with the urge to see his face. Slowly, cautiously, you turned over in his grasp, cringing at every creak of the mattress and each rustle of sheets. Ah, there he is.

There was a graze on his cheek, red and raw and stinging- but he was alive. A cut curved over his lip, dark, dried blood making it look worse than it probably was but it made your chest tighten all the same. His hair fanned out over the pillow behind him, a little stringy like he’d been too drained to wash it. You made a note to do it for him when he was ready. Gently, you let your finger hover over the deep purple beneath his eyes, confirmation that this was probably the first decent sleep he’d gotten all week. Spencer’s cheekbones were always prominent. You always told him it made him look like a statue, carved and chiseled like he belonged in a museum. Yet now as the rising sunlight found them, the shadows beneath them looking darker and more hollow than usual- he looked frail.

You lay there for a while, just observing. It was something he often did to you after a bad case, too hyper vigilant to let himself rest. He needed the confirmation that you were okay, he needed to see the rise and fall of your chest to steady his own. It wasn’t often that it was the other way round.

“How long have you been watching me?” A low voice mumbled. It was thin and gravelly, like he’d been yelling until it broke.

“Hm?” You looked up from where you’d been staring at the split in his lip to find two half-lidded eyes squinting at you. “I haven’t been.”

Spencer let out a small huffed laugh. “That’s funny. I could’ve sworn I’ve been feeling your breath on my face for the past five minutes.”

“Nope. Must’ve dreamt it.” He began to smile but began wincing where his lip clearly stung. You kept your voice gentle as you swiped your thumb across it. “Are you okay?”

He groaned, like he deliberated answering and ultimately decided against it. Instead he lifted his arm from your waist, beckoning you closer against his chest. “Come here.”

You obliged, biting back your insistence and cuddling into him. He’d tell you when he was ready. For now, you allowed yourself to sink into him, feeling his arms wrap around you as you slung your legs over his. It’d been a long case. Too many nights of falling asleep in an empty bed, of not waking to the smell of coffee that always seemed to cling to him. Spencer’s knuckles began grazing up and down your spine, a hypnotic rhythm threatening to lull you back to sleep right there.

He let out a content sigh, mumbling to himself. “I think I’m going to stay home today.”

“What?” Your eyes shot open. In all the years you’d known him, he’d never ever taken a day off for himself. For his mother? Of course. For you? In a heartbeat. But you were convinced he would rather crawl into work straight from his deathbed than to simply exist at home with nothing important to do. Rolling off of him slightly, you propped yourself up so that your face hovered over his, narrowed eyes squinting down at him. “Who are you and what have you done with my boyfriend?”

He pouted, as if the sudden absence of you in his arms was physically breaking his heart. “I got my report done on the jet. I don’t have any paperwork that needs doing.” He reached out, desperately trying to guide you back to him and pouting even more when you stayed put. “I just really want to stay home today.”

“And do what?” You asked, leaning down and giving him a peck on the tip of his nose to appease the big, sad eyes he was giving you.

“Nothing.” He shrugged.

“Nothing?” Your eyebrows shot up, scandalised. “Pigs must be flying.”

Spencer chuckled, wincing as his split lip protested. “The idea of laying on the sofa in my pyjamas with you and catching up on Doctor Who is far more appealing to me than sitting at my desk for eight hours while everyone fails to pretend the past week didn’t happen. And for once, I have an opportunity to do the former.”

“The case was that bad?” You asked softly. You tried to soothe him, gently brushing back his sleep-tousled hair from his forehead, but his gaze dropped.

“Can you please just come here?” His voice was small as his big eyes found you again, his arm reaching for you once more and this time you let him pull you back into the warmth of his chest.

“So I’m not allowed to get up and make you breakfast?” You muffled into his shirt.

His arms wrapped even tighter around you. “I can make my own breakfast. And yours too while I’m up.”

You tried to lift your head up, but you found it pinned beneath his chin, breath fanning over the flushed skin of his neck. “What happened to doing nothing?”

“I am doing nothing.” He retorted, and though you couldn’t see his face you could tell his eyebrows had pinched. After so long, you could practically hear it in his voice, in the way his inflection rose ever so slightly. The perfect foundation for teasing him.

“Well,” you began, smiling against his neck, “‘doing nothing’ implies lying here motionless. Not getting up, not moving, not talking- definitely not making us both breakfast. Literally ‘doing nothing’. Unless of course you meant it figuratively- but that’s not what you said so…”

“Are you-“ Spencer let out a sharp laugh, his chest jostling beneath you. “Are you really arguing semantics with me right now so that I’ll let you make me breakfast?”

“Depends.” Finding your strength, you untangled yourself from his grasp just enough to hover your face over his again. “Is it working?”

“No.” He laughed again, a grin growing on his face much to the misfortune of his split lip. “But it was a very cute attempt.”

A tiny drop of blood emerged from the cut, making you cringe with concern as you lifted your thumb to it and swiped it away. As the sun continued to flood the room, the graze on his cheek seemed darker, angrier where it intruded his skin. Even the way he clung to you felt pained, desperation worsening his aching bones as he fastened you to him like he’d fall apart without you. Whatever happened must’ve haunted him. He was often a little over protective, a little obsessive over your safety. But it wasn’t often that he was afraid to let you out of his sight, especially in your own apartment.

“You want me to come with you?” Your hand drifted to his cheek, sweeping over the raw skin as gently as you could. “Make breakfast together?”

Beneath you, Spencer’s chest deflated like he was exhaling all the terror that had flooded his lungs over the past week. He took your hand from his cheek, bringing it to his lips and pressing a thankful kiss to your knuckles. “Please.”

“Alright.” You flashed him a smile, kissing his lips before pulling away with a teasing glimmer in your eyes. “You can do that thing where you hug me from behind like a koala and pretend to be helpful while I do all the work.”

“What?” He squeaked, following you as you hopped out of bed. “I do not do that.”

You turned the corner into the kitchen, laughing as he followed at your heel like a puppy. “You totally do. I bet you the last pancake in the stack that you do.”

“Deal.” He scoffed. “I can’t wait to eat that last pancake.”

He’d have to wait a little longer.

The case had been a public relations nightmare. The Unsub was leaving complex clues and evading being caught. With JJ speaking to a family, Hotch made Spencer talk to the press.

He had been previously rushing between the local police precinct and the nearest library to research the Unsub's references. Soft autumn breezes blew debris around the streets, and a stray leaf caught in his hair.

"Reid, wait." You caught him before we went back outside to be swarmed by cameras and microphones. With a hand, you smoothly reached and plucked the leaf from his hair. Spencer ducked away before the blush spreading on his face was visible.

Morgan walked by and teased something about him 'staying pretty for the cameras', but all Spencer could think about was you playing with his hair. As touch starved as he was, he would do anything for you to play with his hair.

ᝰ.ᐟ —————-

The second time made Spencer have to hide in the bathroom of a bar.

Just like every other time, the team went out for drinks after a hard case. Spencer sat with Emily and Morgan as they told stories, but he wasn't listening. Something about hearing them talk about past partners made the inside of Spencer's water glass look very interesting. That was, until you walked by.

With a drink in hand for Penelope, you walked behind him and ruffled his hair. He leaned his head into the touch, and played it off as him looking up when your hand pulled away. As you strolled back to your table, Spencer hoped it was dark enough that no one would see the pout and rising heat on his face.

He wasn't so lucky, however. Morgan kicked his shoe under the table, and grinned at him in a way that made him feel exposed. Spencer's chair scraped across the floor as he rushed to the bathroom. Cold water didn't do much to stop the tips of his ears from turning a shade of scarlet.

ᝰ.ᐟ —————-

The third time, Spencer was sure his brain short-circuited.

As always, he stood later into the night to finish up any paperwork Hotch or Rossi had left behind. You didn't usually stay late, but you also had some case files to finish putting together. You finished before him, and decided to say goodbye before you left.

Spencer looked up from the paperwork when he saw you standing in his peripheral vision. You brushed some of his hair out of his eyes before speaking about— well, Spencer didn't know, he focused back on the paperwork immediately, mumbling responses so you wouldn't see the flustered look on his face.

You patted him on the shoulder before slinging your bag over your shoulder. The both of you said your goodbyes, but Spencer didn't look back up until he heard the door close and he was sure you were gone. He sighed loudly, exhaling a breath he didn't know he was holding.

If you kept this up, these fleeting touches he craved so bad, he was sure he would explode.

ᝰ.ᐟ —————-

The last time was everything Spencer had dreamed of.

The very next morning, the team had been called to a case a few states away. On the jet, you and Spencer sat together. He stayed way later than he meant to doing paperwork, and he had barely been awake before the wheels of the jet went up. His eyes closed and he fell asleep almost immediately.

Spencer's head lolled onto your shoulder, and you smiled to yourself. The two of you stayed like that, until you brought your other hand into his hair and lightly scratched his scalp.

The second you started toying with his hair, he was awake. Spencer kept his eyes closed and pretended to still be asleep. He soaked up all of the attention you were willing to give him.