⋆˙⟡ Jas ⟡ ˙ ⋆

Now, his morbid depression is a thing of the past. Even if he ends up with his head in the toilet by the end of the night, at least he can say that his head was, at one point, resting in your lap. Granted, Spencer doesn't recall making a conscious decision to drape himself across the sofa like this, but he's not complaining in the slightest. Quite the contrary, in fact. Spencer is beyond content, unabashedly studying the features of your peaceful face. His vision is swimming a bit, but even with his impaired perception, he's confident that he's never seen anyone more perfect.

“Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?” he murmurs, voice barely carrying over the thrum of the music. For a moment, Spencer thinks his sentiment hasn't reached your ears, but then your full lips are tilting into an amused little smile.

Your eyes flick open, quickly finding his. His gaze is hazy, his blinking languid as he stares up at you. The dim lights sparkle in your wide pupils, reminding him of the night sky. Spencer thinks that the moment can't get more enjoyable than the pleasure of admiring your beauty, but then you coo, “Aren’t you cute.”

Spencer is far too hammered to note the mocking edge to your words. You're far less inebriated than he is, so you draw the (seemingly reasonable) conclusion that his words are fueled by the slew of alcoholic beverages currently flooding his bloodstream. You're wrong, your praise offered in jest, but it inspires his face to brighten nonetheless. His lips part in a lazy grin. “You think so?”

“Of course I do, silly," you affirm. Spencer's not really sure what's so "silly" about the words tumbling from his mouth, but your voice has that familiar, soft lilt to it as your lips form the word. You sound so pretty, he finds himself not really caring if you meant to insult him. Then, your slender fingers are brushing his flushed skin, sweeping an errant strand of hair away from his forehead. You smooth his hair away from his face before cupping the back of his head. Lost in the feel of your gentle touch, it takes his sluggish brain far too long to comprehend that you're trying to coax his head out of your lap.

Why are you pushing him away? Did he do something wrong?

Spencer flops beside you on the couch, dizzy from the sudden postural change. Only your shoulders are touching now that he's upright, and he's unable to prevent a pathetic pout from crossing his face. Immediately, he mourns the loss of physical contact between the two of you—a mere shoulder won't suffice.

Spencer shoots you a longing glance, incapable of masking his dissatisfaction. You quickly assuage his concerns by declaring, "I gotta go to the bathroom." Pleased that he hasn't done anything to upset you (and fantasizing about the prospect of resting his head in your lap again once you've returned), Spencer relaxes into the cushions. You softly pat his knee before rising from your seat, and in response to your touch, a wonderful warmth tingles beneath his skin. "I’ll be right back."

You haven't even taken a complete step toward the restroom before Spencer's stomach drops. “Wait!" he desperately exclaims. You look at him over your shoulder, brows furrowed in question. His voice borders on a whine as he pleads, "Don’t leave me here.”

You roll your eyes at his pathetic display, stating flatly, "Well, I’m not gonna take you in with me.”

Spencer blinks. “Why not?”

“I don’t need someone watching while I piss, Spence," you scoff, thoroughly entertained by his drunken curiosity. He sounds so genuinely surprised by your lack of invitation, as if the two of you regularly accompany one another to the bathroom. At your refusal, his gaze drops to the floor, and you can practically see the cogs in his mind trying their damn hardest to spin.

He looks up at you through his lashes, still frowning like a petulant child. Innocently, he swears, “I’ll turn around.”

Cursing his stubborn nature, you shake your head incredulously. Knowing that any further rebuttal is futile, you groan, “Fine.” With exaggerated annoyance, you snatch his hand out of his lap and tug him into a standing position. He sways, struggling to find his balance. Once you're certain that he won't tumble to the floor, you start weaving through the crowd, pulling Spencer along behind you.

Before long, the two of you have navigated the throng of partygoers and are entering the empty hallway. With the flashing lights and booming music behind him, Spencer's muddled senses become more aware of the feeling of your hand in his. Your hand is warm, and he hopes that his skin isn't too clammy or callused. He'd hate to disappoint you, even in a seemingly trivial way like this. He's almost tempted to ask, but you always tell him that he needs to worry less about what others think of him, so he resists that urge. Instead, he muses, “I like when you hold my hand.”

“That’s nice, dear," you reply absentmindedly, opening the bathroom door. Spencer's chest squeezes with affection at your response. He's no stranger to your pet names, yet they never fail to fluster him. He hums happily, wondering how he can coax another sweet sentiment from your lips.

As he steps into the cramped restroom, you lock the door behind him. Wasting no time, you grab his shoulders and guide him into the corner. He trips over his own feet as he turns to face the wall, smiling to himself when your grip tightens in an attempt to steady him. “You stand here," you command. "No peeking.”

“Okay," he nods, squeezing his eyes shut. It's not like he can see anything from this angle, anyway, but he figures you'll appreciate the effort.

“Good boy," you praise, squeezing his shoulders affectionately before striding to the toilet. It's fortunate that he's facing the corner; surely, you would tease him if you could see how splotchy his face has become as a result of your compliment.

The rustle of fabric is agonizingly loud in the otherwise silent room. Spencer is keenly aware of the fact that you're only inches away from him with your panties pulled down your legs, and he feels kind of perverted for sexualizing a fundamental bodily function, but it's not the function he's interested in, in his defense. He's so occupied with contemplating your undergarments that he doesn't even realize you've finished until the sink is running.

Spencer swallows thickly, awkwardly shuffling his feet as he turns around. You're utterly oblivious to his stiff posture, too busy drying your hands to psychoanalyze him. He shifts on his feet, preparing to exit the room once you've finished, but he freezes as your fingers dip into the neckline of your top.

Before he has time to question what he's witnessing, you've procured a thin tube of lip gloss. You're swiping the wand over your lips when you meet Spencer's stunned gaze in the mirror. You shrug nonchalantly. "No pockets," you say by way of explanation, smacking your lips together with a pop.

Spencer rubs an eye, nodding in acknowledgement of your reasoning. He hopes that the action looks as casual as you're acting, but he's sure that his amazement is likely written all over his face. He's never been such a… boy around you, but something about the past five minutes has reduced him to precisely that.

Satisfied, you cap your lip gloss and shove it back in your shirt. The sight of you reaching between your breasts was already erotic enough, but then you're adjusting your bra, fiddling with the underwire and ensuring that the cups lay exactly right. Spencer gapes at your reflection, eyes glued to your chest like a fucking pervert. He quickly snaps to attention when you face him, desperate to appear less… ogly.

“How are you feeling, my friend?” you ask, smiling brightly. Spencer forces his bleary eyes to meet yours, as tempted as he is to watch your shimmery pink lips open and close.

“G-good," Spencer stammers in response, coughing a bit in an attempt to clear his dry throat. Your eyes glint with fondness as you beam up at him. His eyes may be struggling to focus, but they still trace your delicate visage with rapt fascination. Suddenly, his self-doubt surrenders to overwhelming, alcohol-inspired bravery. Before he can bite his tongue, he blurts, “You’re so pretty.”

Your lips fold into a tight line, a sight that suggests you're suppressing a giggle. As always, your voice sounds melodic as you reply, “Thank you, Spence," but your words are laced with placation. Maybe he's misinterpreting something, but Spencer's distraught by the thought that you may not believe him.

“I think you’re the most beautiful person," he murmurs, speaking with as much conviction as can be conveyed through slurred syllables. He locks eyes with you, willing you to trust in the sentiment.

“Oh, stop it," you say instead, playfully rolling your eyes and lightly poking his shoulder.

“I’m serious," he complains, voice bordering on a whine.

He's trying to be romantic. Why are you being like this?

“You’re also plastered, hon," you answer sympathetically.

Oh. That's… fair enough.

“But—" Spencer attempts to argue, but then he realizes how lightheaded he feels, and then he starts worrying that he might pass out (or otherwise embarrass himself) in front of you, and then he forgets what he was going to say in the first place. Sheepishly, he admits, "The room is spinning a lil’.”

“Oh, Spence," you grimace. "Maybe we should take you home.”

“Okay," Spencer easily agrees, finding no reason to challenge you when he'd happily follow you wherever you go.

A bit later, you're carrying Spencer through his front door, encouraging his slumped form to inch forward.

“Home sweet home," you grunt, struggling to keep him upright. You have one arm supporting his waist, and the two of you are slowly shuffling toward his bedroom while he leans most of his body weight on your side.

“Mhm," he hums, too thrilled by your presence in his apartment to realize that his tall stature threatens to smush you with one misstep.

“Here, sit," you encourage, though the words have barely left your mouth before he's sprawling across his bed, the mattress bouncing beneath him. Certain that he lacks any sort of dexterity at the moment, you look at his Converse and mumble, "I’ll get those.” You're speaking more to yourself than him, of course; he's halfway to Dreamland already.

You plop down on his floor, guiding his hightops into your lap so you can untie the laces. Not entirely sober yourself, you fumble a bit with the knots before they come loose. Slipping his shoes off his feet, you deposit them in their rightful place in the closet, not wanting Spencer to trip over them in case he gets up in the middle of the night. At this point, he's breathing so deeply that you're almost positive he's asleep until he mumbles, “Thanks.”

“Please tell me you can handle the rest," you say half-jokingly, gesturing to his rumpled clothes. He squints at you through half-lidded eyes, watching as you cross the room to open his dresser.

“Mm, I can do it," he drawls, despite making no effort whatsoever to sit up.

“I’ll get you some water, then," you decide. After rummaging through a few drawers, you find some pajamas and toss them onto the bed. "Put these on.”

“Yes… ma’am," Spencer manages around a dramatic yawn. You snort, ignoring the affectionate pang in your chest.

It's nothing, you tell yourself. You just find him cute 'cause he's being a silly drunk.

Right.

You bustle around the kitchen, filling a glass of water before returning to his bedroom. You chuckle at the sight before you, but your laughter has the slightest hint of exasperation. Your eyebrows furrow as you ask, “What happened to your pants?”

Facedown on the mattress, Spencer grumbles, “Too hot.”

He may be your best friend, but he's a bit too modest to ever be seen in his boxers. Well, except for right now. He managed to change out of his party outfit, but evidently only got so far as tugging on a worn t-shirt before collapsing back onto his bed.

“Oh, you’re gonna be so embarrassed about this tomorrow," you muse. Poking him in the back, you offer, "Here, drink up.”

“Okay," Spencer obeys, slowly rolling over and somehow managing to sit up. He blinks sleepily, staring off into nothingness as he raises the cup to his lips.

“I’m gonna go crash on your couch in case you start hurling," you announce as he drains the glass and sets it on his nightstand. Ruffling his hair, you request, "Sleep on your side, yeah?”

Spencer's face contorts with confusion as he looks up at you. He looks certifiably adorable, with his tousled hair and big brown eyes. “But… I have a big bed.”

“You do indeed," you acknowledge. "Enjoy it.”

“You don’t want to sleep with me?” he says sadly. When you offer him a blank expression in return, he huffs. “Oh. Heh. It sounded like I meant intercourse.”

“Too sophisticated to say ‘sex’, huh?” you tease.

“No!" he retorts. With a dramatic shudder, he clarifies, "It just sounds so… dirty.”

“Uh-huh," you say flatly. Crossing your arms, you pointedly ask, "Why, exactly, are you trying to get me in your bed?”

“The couch is uncomfortable," he replies.

“Right," you hum.

“I just want you to sleep well," Spencer promises, injecting an exaggerated amount of sweetness into his statement. He lifts his eyebrows and shrugs, failing miserably to feign nonchalance.

“Thoughtful," you deadpan. "Total bullshit, but sweet.”

“Nuh-uh! I’m not lying," he insists, far too defensive to be believable.

“Yes, you are," you argue. "You know how I can tell?”

“How?” Spencer asks, crossing his arms defiantly.

You lean down. “‘Cause when you lie, your nose scrunches up the tiniest bit." You tap the tip of his nose. "Right here.”

He glares at you for a moment before relenting. With a hefty sigh, he confesses, “Fine. Maybe I think it would be nice.”

“To sleep together.”

“Yes!”

“You’re practically naked," you point out, gesturing to his bare legs.

Spencer's gaze falls to his boxers, seemingly losing himself in contemplation before he looks up and declares, “I can get completely naked if you want.”

“That was so totally the opposite of what I meant," you chide, reaching up to rub your temple.

“Oh," Spencer mumbles. Without another word, he crawls under the sheets, staring up at you like a child waiting to be tucked in. You stare back, motioning for him to turn on his side. He groans loudly, but obediently rolls over. You move his trash bin to the side of the bed before heading for the door, feeling his eyes on you the entire time. Before you hit the lights, you hesitate.

“Can I borrow pajamas?” you ask.

Spencer drops his head onto his pillow and, for a second, you think he might ignore you. Then, he sighs tiredly and croons, “If you sleep in my bed.”

“Insatiable," you complain. "You’re gonna cuddle me to death, aren’t you?”

His head pops up, his wide eyes finding yours across the room as he replies unconvincingly, “No…?”

You shoot another unimpressed expression in his direction before huffing, “Fine. I suppose I accept your conditions.” You figure that sharing a bed is innocent enough; besides, there's no chance you'll allow him to try anything more in his drunken state. If he wants to make a move, he'll have to man up and do it while he's sober.

With that in mind, you head to his ensuite bathroom to change. A few minutes later, you emerge with a fresh face and a ridiculously comfortable ensemble, his shirt and sweatpants swallowing you. Spencer's curled up, facing away from you. Once again, you think he's knocked out until he murmurs, “Beautiful.”

“You should be sleeping," you chastise, stomach flipping at his compliment.

“I was waiting for you," he replies with a sense of longing that suggests a deeper meaning.

“Well, here I am," you reply, flipping the light switch and sliding into bed beside him. You settle on the far end of the mattress, leaving a generous amount of space between the two of you. Your weight has barely hit the sheets before Spencer sighs.

“Come closer," he pleads quietly.

“Don’t tickle me," you warn, though you don't have any serious reservations about moving.

“Of course not," he promises, sounding absurdly serious. It's as if you've just asked him to keep a government secret.

Something about the quiet calm of Spencer's dark room makes you feel safe enough to shift closer. You're just sober enough to register the significance of this moment, to process that this seemingly innocuous decision holds the power to forever change the trajectory of your relationship.

Still, you shift closer.

You're laying on your back, Spencer's breath puffing against your cheek. It's too dark to see each other, but he's somehow sensed your movement. In one swift motion, he throws his arm over your chest, tucking himself against your side.

He nuzzles his head into the crook of your neck, and you can feel his throat vibrating as he slurs, “See, this isn’t so bad.”

“You’re squishing my boobs," you say flatly in response, not wanting to admit how delightful this arrangement truly feels.

“Sorry," Spencer immediately apologizes, muscles tensing as he prepares to reposition himself.

You find his forearm in the inky black, holding him in place. “No, don’t move.”

“But you said—”

“Don’t argue with me," you scold.

“Okay," Spencer acquiesces. He relaxes into your side once more, his weight pressing comfortably against you.

“Good boy.”

Your praise renders him speechless for a moment, but you can feel his lips tick into a soft smile against your shoulder. After several seconds, he interrupts the silence to declare, “This is even better than holding your hand.”

Your heart swells with adoration. You grin into the dark, in pleasant disbelief at how the night has unfolded. Instead of voicing an equally mushy sentiment, you tease, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you have a little crush on me, Spence.”

His breath catches in his throat, but instead of sputtering a retort like you expect, he exhales in a rush, whispering, “It’s not little.”

The bullpen was humming with chatter and the sounds of printers – nothing out of the ordinary. The morning sun has just risen past the windows, casting a golden filter over the room. Spencer loves this lighting. The way the case files glow metallic instead of just brown. The way the sunglow swirls in the pattern on the carpet under his feet. Sometimes, someone would even turn off the harsh fluorescent lights during this time, allowing him to properly bask in the shades of honey.

She and Spencer went to their favorite coffee shop before work, something they do at least three times a week. He’s just finished his last sip when he looks over at her and sees the way the sun refracts off her hair, painting golden streaks throughout it. She’s laughing with Penelope, and he can’t help but think that she looks like an angel.

His cheeks flush at the thought, and he averts his gaze from the side of her head. He shouldn’t think things like that. She’s his best friend. His best friend, who definitely doesn’t see him as anything more than a coworker she grabs coffee with and sometimes joins for movie nights.

Their moments together are the highlight of his week. The moment she leaves his apartment after a movie, a countdown begins in his head for the next Thursday night – hoping and praying she won’t be too busy to accompany him again. So, how could he tell her that he’s in love with her? It could ruin everything; he could completely lose her as a friend.

Spencer just can’t help himself from dreaming, though. She looks so beautiful all of the time, but especially in the golden morning light. Spencer loves this time of day, but he also hates it for how it illuminates his feelings for her. He tilts his head upward to take just one more glance at her, but freezes and jerks his gaze to the other direction when he meets her eyes. Great, now she knows you’re staring at her like a complete weirdo.

“Damn, Pretty Boy…” Derek approaches from behind him, and he jumps at the intrusion.

Turning around to look at him, he replies, “What?” 

Derek flicks his eyes up and nods his head in the direction of her, “You’ve got it bad.”

Spencer clears his throat and diverts his attention back to his desk, hoping to hide his increasingly darkening cheeks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Everyone knows what I’m talking about. It’s getting kinda sad to watch.”

“It’s not sad.” He quickly retorts, “It can’t be anything, because there is no thing.”

Derek chuckles and raises his eyebrows, but Spencer wouldn’t know about the latter since he’s still pretending to work on a case he’s already finished. “No thing? So you weren’t just staring at the side of her head for the past hour?”

“That’s an overexaggeration.” He insists.

“Oh, so you weren’t deep in thought, imagining your future tiny geniuses?” Penelope appears in front of Spencer’s desk, and he has no choice but to drop his head onto the wood.

Voice muffled, he declares, “No! I was not!”

“C’mon, Babygirl,” Spencer naively believes Derek is going to defend him, before he adds on, “You know he has to mentally plan their wedding first!” The larger man reaches out to ruffle his hair, but Spencer snaps his head back up just in time to dodge it.

“I am not mentally planning anything, there is no planning, there is no thing!” He can hear his own desperation in his voice, and he’s sure he sounds a little hysterical.

“Okay, if you’re so insistent that it’s completely nothing, I’ll just go tell her that you’ve been crushing on her for months. No harm done if it’s not real, right?” Derek shifts his feet to face her desk and makes a few slow steps toward her.

Spencer’s face falls, his blood runs cold, “You wouldn’t.”

Even Penelope tells him, “Alright, let's not do that…” and tries to stop his movement by tugging his arm.

Derek slips out of her hold with ease, “I’m helping him! I’ll be his Cupid.” He then winks at the two of them. 

He’s getting closer and closer to her desk, and Spencer’s heart is beating closer and closer to his throat. Spencer looks at Penelope with a wild look in his eyes, and she gives him her best empathetic look while shrugging, conveying I tried.

Spencer rises from his chair, warningly saying, “Derek, don’t.”

But Derek keeps going, calling her name as he approaches her desk. Spencer’s feet are frozen to the floor, and the terrified look he sends Penelope tugs at her heartstrings. But there’s nothing they can do; Derek has already started talking to the woman Spencer’s been pining over since he first saw her.

Without thinking or realizing it, Spencer’s fight-or-flight kicks in and chooses flight. He bolts between the desks and jumps directly onto Derek’s back, wrapping his arms around his neck.

“What the – Reid!” Derek exclaims.

“Spencer?” His best friend inquires.

“Spencer!” Penelope calls from across the bullpen.

“I said, please! Do not tell her!” Spencer squeaks.

“Kid, get off me!” Derek attempts to pry Spencer’s body off his own, but it’s difficult to do so with the lanky man wrapped around him like a baby koala. 

People are starting to stare. Anderson peeks up from his desk at the ruckus, Emily speed-walks out of the break room, and even Hotch is peering through his office blinds. 

Derek successfully loosens the grip around his neck, but doing so sends Spencer’s body falling straight to the floor.  

He first lands on his back, which knocks the wind out of him, then his head bounces off the floor like a ping-pong ball. His eyes squeeze closed, he reaches up to his head with both arms, and he shifts onto his side in a fetal position.

Derek squats next to his crumpled body, “Jesus Christ, Reid, are you okay?!” 

Spencer attempts to nod, but the sharp pain on the back of his skull prevents him from doing so. He’s dizzy and trying to recall what he knows about concussions. Unbeknownst to him, a large group of his coworkers has circled around him.

Penelope hovers over him, “Spencer! Oh my god!”

Then, an angelic voice swirls in his ears, “Spencer? What happened?”

“I hit my head.” He mumbles, eyes still squished shut.

Delicate fingers meet his cupped hands on the curve of his skull. He focuses on how nice they feel on his skin – warm and soft.

“Can I see?” The angelic voice asks. He thinks he’d do anything that voice asked of him, no matter if it was dangerous or nefarious. So, he eases his grip.

He winces as the delicate fingers brush over the sore spot on his head, whining softly. 

“Oh, thank God, he’s not bleeding,” Penelope exclaims.

“He probably needs some ice,” JJ suggests.

“I’ll go and get it for him.” The angelic voice announces. 

“Wait…” Spencer slowly opens his eyes and flinches at the brightness. He blinks repeatedly as he tries to make sense of his surroundings. He lays eyes on his best friend kneeling beside him; the sunrays backlight her body, painting a halo around her. She really is an angel, he thinks.

“Hey, honey. How’re you feeling?”

Oh my god, she called me honey.

“You look like an angel.” He murmurs while reaching toward her hair, making her cheeks feel warm. His hand lands firmly against her head, not forcefully, just in a way that showed his current struggle with depth perception.

She looks around at the audience that has surrounded them, debating how to tell them all to leave Spencer alone. Penelope notices her imploring gaze and starts shooing everyone away, “The genius is alive! Let’s give him some space!”

Noticing that his pupils are slightly dilated, she shifts her body to shield the sunrays from shining in his face. 

Spencer suddenly realizes that he’s lying on the dirty floor and tries to sit up rapidly.

“Woah, let me help you.” She wraps a hand around his elbow and guides him to a seated position.

The movement sends a searing pain through his skull, but he insists, “I’m fine.”

“You don’t seem fine, Spence…” She gently disagrees. “Please, let me help you get some ice.”

“Okay,” Spencer agrees, so she hooks an arm around his waist and slowly pulls him to his feet. His legs wobble for a moment, like Bambi on ice. 

Slowly, but surely, they make it to the break room, and she ushers him into a chair. He’s eerily quiet while she gets a makeshift ice pack for him – a plastic baggie full of ice with paper towels wrapped around it. She feels a little like a school nurse.

Sitting across from him, she gingerly hands him the bag and gestures that he place it on his crown. Spencer follows her instructions, maintaining an eerie silence. He’s pretty certain that he’s not concussed, but he almost wishes he was. Maybe then he wouldn’t have to face this conversation with her. 

“So… What was that all about?” She inquires, leaning her elbow onto the table beside them and resting her head in her palm. God, she’s so beautiful.

His eyebrows furrow in confusion, “Didn’t Derek tell you?”

She has a matching crease in between hers. “Tell me what?”

“He didn’t tell you that I…” He lowers his gaze to where their knees meet. His heart feels like it could pound right out of his chest.

“That you…? He was asking me about the case I was working on.”

“Oh.” He can feel the tips of his ears burning.

“Oh?”

“It’s nothing.”

She chuckles, “You tackled Derek in the middle of the bullpen for nothing?”

“I wouldn’t really describe it as a tackle…”

She lightly giggles, and it sounds like music to his ears. How is he supposed to tell her how he feels when doing so risks his opportunity to make her laugh like that again? This is the worst day ever.

“I did hear you say something about not telling me something.”

Shit.

“Um…”

“It’s okay, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.” She shrugs and stands to replace the paper towel on his ice pack. He mourns the loss of her warmth against her knee. “That was just… interesting to witness.”

With her no longer looking at him, he finds the confidence to attempt to tell her what just happened. He runs through a few different speeches in his head, debating how to even begin conveying the truth to her.

She’s returned to her seat across from him before he can settle on anything, leading him to blurt out, “I’m in love with you.”

She flinches at his sudden admission, taken aback by his bluntness. Her hand freezes with his ice mid-air, halfway to his head.

“What?” She breathes out.

He closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to watch her reject him. “Derek said he was going to tell you that – That I’m in love with you and have been for a while… He said he was going to play Cupid.” His voice gets smaller and shakier as he continues speaking.

“Ohhh,” she realizes. “So that’s why you jumped him?”

“I didn’t– Well, I guess I kind of did– …Yes?”

Spencer peeks one eye open to look at her. He sees her smiling?

“Please don’t laugh at me.” He whines, covering his face with his hands. He wants to disappear. He wants to start this whole day over.

“Hey,” She coos, setting the ice on the table and grabbing his wrists, swiping her thumbs over the bones. “I’m not laughing, I’m sorry.”

Her touches simultaneously bring him comfort and make his skin tingle. He’s frozen, scared that any sudden movements will cause her to let him go. He can barely breathe.

He reluctantly drops his hands from his face in favor of looking at her, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said it like that. I probably shouldn’t have said it at all. I embarrassed you, and I’m sorry. I just—Derek was going to—he was going to tell you, and I couldn’t let him and I panicked and I hit my head and now you’re here and I’ve ruined—” He’s panting and his throat hurts and his eyes are burning with unshed tears and he’s digging his nails into his palm.

“Spence…” She reaches forward to stop his attack on his skin.

He wants to twist his hand over to hold hers properly and never let go, but he refrains, figuring he’s made her feel uncomfortable enough today.

“It’s okay. I knew it was unlikely that you felt the same way.” His voice cracks, and he breaks eye contact with her midway through speaking. The grieving process for their friendship has already begun in his mind. No more coffee trips, no more movie nights, no more saving seats for each other on the jet, no more laughter or inside jokes. His entire body is in physical pain, and it has nothing to do with his fall.

“Can you look at me? Please?” She reaches with her other hand to hold both of his, and for the first time, he wishes that she wouldn’t. Or maybe he does, since this is probably the last time she’ll do it.

Her cheeks are flushed, “I’m not upset with you. And I’m not rejecting you. I just didn’t know, is all.”

His eyes widen with hope, and he blurts, “You’re not?!”

“I’m definitely not.”

“You’re definitely not?!” Spencer feels dizzy. 

“Spencer,” she laughs, and he could cry at the beautiful, intoxicating sound.

“Right, I should stop repeating everything you’re saying… But what are you saying?”

“I like you too.” She squeezes his hands. His breath catches in his throat. “I have for a while.” Is this a dream? “I thought you wouldn’t ever feel the same way.”

“That would’ve been the most illogical mistake of my entire life.”

She laughs again, and he really wants to kiss her. He seriously considers it until he remembers they’re still sitting in an FBI breakroom. 

“Can I take you on a date? Please?” His eyes are wide and so earnest.

“I would love that, Spencer.” She smiles.

This is the best day of his life.

“I wish I could kiss you right now. Is that too forward? That’s so brazen of me to say– I did hit my head–”

Her blush spreads down her cheeks, “Believe me, so do I… But unfortunately, it’s probably best if we don’t. I’m pretty sure Derek and Penelope are eavesdropping through the door.”

A small gasp and a high-pitched “Derek!” softly travels into the break room. Giving Spencer a knowing look, she then rolls her eyes.

She whispers to him, “I’m afraid we do have to give Derek credit for his Cupid skills now, though.”

Spencer groans, “I’d really rather not,” and she giggles.

“Uh-huh.” Morgan chuckles, swivelling toward JJ and Prentiss like a talk show host inviting audience participation. “Tell me I’m wrong. Between the two of us—genius boy and yours truly—who do you think gets lucky more often?”

But before anyone can answer, Reid clears his throat.

“That's an entirely misleading metric,” he says.

Morgan's grin widens. “Oh, is it?”

“Yes, actually.” Reid sets his pen down with a soft click, and the team recognizes the signs immediately: the slight straightening of his spine, the way his fingers begin to tap a staccato rhythm against the table, the subtle tilt of his head as he shifts into lecture mode. He's about to do the math out loud.

“First of all,” Reid begins, holding up a finger, “‘getting lucky’ is a subjective, self-reported measure, which introduces significant recall bias and social desirability bias. People overestimate. Significantly. By as much as forty percent in some studies.” Another finger goes up. “Secondly, you're comparing two data points—you and me—without controlling for variables like opportunity, environment, or personal standards. You have a tendency to equate quantity with quality, which is statistically unsound.”

Morgan groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Here we go.”

Reid ignores him entirely, already mid-stride into the argument. His voice picks up speed—not quite rambling, but close, the way it does when he's genuinely enjoying himself. “Let's say, hypothetically, you sleep with a different woman every week. Generous, but possible. However—” He holds up a finger, ticking off points like a professor during office hours. “—you've also mentioned, on multiple occasions, that you don't ‘mix work with play’ and that you need at least one night to decompress. That leaves Friday and Saturday as your only viable windows. So let's assume sexual encounters occur on Friday or Saturday night. That's roughly two opportunities per week—but even then, not every weekend yields a new partner. You have off weeks. You get sick. Sometimes,” he adds, with the faintest hint of smugness, “women say no.”

Morgan's smirk twitches. “Okay, first of all—”

Reid tilts his head, gaze going distant as he does the numbers behind his eyes. His fingers twitch like he's physically calculating in the air. You've seen him do this a hundred times—map a geographic profile, run a probability tree, recite the entire history of some obscure piece of trivia. 

“Accounting for statistical probability of rejection, scheduling conflicts, and the inherent inefficiencies of the modern casual dating landscape—which, by the way, is heavily skewed by algorithmic dating app fatigue—your actual frequency likely drops to one new partner every ten to fourteen days. Optimistically.”

JJ is already grinning, resting her chin on her hand like she's watching her favourite courtroom drama. “I feel like I should stop you both,” she says, “but I really want to hear where he's going with this.”

Prentiss leans back in her chair, arms crossed. “Oh, he's going somewhere. You can always tell when he does the head-tilt.”

Morgan points a finger at Reid, though his voice has lost its edge—there's genuine affection underneath the exasperation. “Alright, fine. Let's say I'm one every two weeks. What's your number, pretty boy? Hm? When's the last time you even—”

“That's not the point,” Reid interrupts, a little too quickly.

He presses on, gaining momentum now. His voice picks up that familiar, rapid-fire cadence—the one that makes unsubs' heads spin and makes the rest of the team feel like they're sitting in on a TED Talk they didn't buy tickets for. His fingers have resumed their tapping, faster now, keeping time with the race of his thoughts.

"Now, consider a person in a committed, cohabitating relationship. Let's establish a baseline: the average frequency of sexual activity for couples in the early stages of domestic partnership—say, the first two years—ranges from three to five times per week, depending on variables like work stress, health, and general compatibility. Let's take the conservative estimate: every other day."

Morgan opens his mouth—to argue, to deflect, you're not sure—but Reid holds up a finger without looking, and Morgan closes it again.

"Now," Reid continues, "multiply that over a four-week month. The partnered individual is engaging in sexual activity approximately twelve to sixteen times per month. The single person cycling through weekly encounters—assuming one new partner per week, which we've already established is an overestimate—is averaging four times per month."

Morgan crosses his arms, jaw tight. He's not offended—they all know him well enough to recognize the difference—but he's definitely recalibrating. "So you're saying—"

He delivers the final blow with clinical precision, but there's something softer lurking underneath. 

"And you're not even accounting for quality of experience, emotional investment, or—most importantly—long-term satisfaction metrics," Reid continues, his voice quieter now, less performative. "A single meaningful connection, maintained over time, statistically outperforms high-frequency, low-retention encounters in nearly every category of reported happiness. The Harvard Grant Study—one of the longest longitudinal studies on human development—found that the single strongest predictor of life satisfaction wasn't career success or financial security. It was the warmth and consistency of close relationships."

He pauses. Swallows. 

"So, really, the question isn't who ‘get’s lucky’ more." His voice drops, barely above a murmur now. Intimate, almost. Like he's forgotten anyone else is in the room. "It's who ‘get’s lucky’ enough."

For a beat, no one speaks.

Then Prentiss raises her coffee cup in a slow, deliberate toast. "I believe you just got murdered by math, Morgan."

The tension breaks—but not entirely. JJ snickers. Morgan rubs the back of his neck, shaking his head, but there's no heat in it. "Man, I just asked a simple question."

"You asked a misleading question," Reid corrects, but his voice has lost its sharpness. He's retreating back into himself, the way his shoulders curl inward slightly, the way his gaze drops to the case file again. Like he's said too much. 

Morgan blinks, his smirk frozen mid-spread. He holds up a hand like he's stopping traffic. "Hold on. Hold on." His eyes narrow, processing, replaying something in his head. "You're talking about you."

Reid's mouth opens, then closes. A faint flush creeps up his neck—not the blotchy, embarrassed red of someone caught in a lie, but something softer. Pinker. The colour of someone who hadn't meant to say as much as he just did. His hand drifts to the back of his neck, a self-soothing gesture he doesn't even realize he has.

Prentiss leans forward, delighted, her elbows on her desk like she's settling in for a season finale. "Reid. Are you telling us you're in a serious, every-other-day relationship?"

"That's… not what I said." He adjusts his satchel strap, suddenly very interested in the grain of his desk. His fingers find the edge of a case file and straighten it unnecessarily. Then straighten it again. The file doesn't need straightening. Everyone knows it. No one says anything. "I was speaking hypothetically. Broad statistical trends. Aggregate data."

"Uh-huh." Morgan plants both hands on his desk and pushes up slightly. His grin is slow, dangerous, and utterly delighted. "You just compared yourself to me. Which means you're the one having sex every other day. With a girlfriend." He drags the word out like he's tasting it for the first time. 

JJ crosses her arms, mock-offended, though her eyes are warm. "Spencer Reid, how long has this been going on?"

Reid swallows. Hard. His gaze flickers to the window—not looking for an escape route, but for a moment of stillness. A place to land. When he looks back at the team, they see something they don't often get from him: not deflection, not a lecture, not a rapid-fire recitation of unrelated facts to change the subject.

Genuine, quiet vulnerability.

"Several months," he admits, low enough that they have to lean in to hear.

The word lands like a stone in still water. Ripples spreading outward. Morgan's smirk softens at the edges. JJ's arms uncross. Prentiss sits back slightly, her teasing expression fading into something more careful. More respectful.

No one pushes. Not yet.

But they're all looking at him differently now. Like they're seeing a new version of Spencer Reid—one who exists outside the bullpen, outside the case files, outside the lonely apartment they'd all quietly assumed he went home to every night.

"Kid." Morgan shakes his head, and there's something different in his voice now—not teasing, not needling. Something almost admiring. "I take it back. Every single thing. Every joke, every 'maybe try a bar sometime,' every time I said you'd die alone surrounded by books." He squeezes Reid's shoulder, a brief, grounding pressure. "You've been holding out on us."

Reid ducks his head, but the smallest smile tugs at his lips—shy, yes, but unmistakably real. It's not his knowing smirk or his closed-off court testimony expression. It's something softer. Something private, accidentally spilled. Like he's been keeping a secret so long that the act of letting it see daylight feels physically strange—but not unwelcome.

"You asked about frequency," he says, lifting one shoulder in a half-shrug that's almost bashful. "I just answered the question."

"You really did," Prentiss says, grinning wide enough to crinkle her eyes. "In excruciating detail."

JJ tilts her head, studying him like a case file she's only just realized she misread completely. Her gaze is warm but probing—that particular JJ look that says I see you, and I'm not letting you off the hook that easily. "And for the record," she says, her voice gentle but pointed, "I'm going to need to meet this person. Several months and you never even mentioned her name? That's practically classified information. I'm officially offended."

Reid opens his mouth—maybe to deflect, maybe to recite something about privacy and healthy relationship boundaries, maybe to quote a study on the importance of keeping certain parts of one's life separate from one's workplace—but then he catches something over Morgan's shoulder.

His words die in his throat.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft, mechanical chime—the kind of sound so familiar it usually doesn't register anymore. But tonight, it cuts through the bullpen like a bell.

And there you are.

Standing by the elevator bank, keys looped loosely around your fingers, a worn file folder tucked under your arm. You've clearly just come up from the archives—there's a faint smudge of dust on your sleeve, pale grey against the fabric, and your hair is slightly askew from leaning over old case boxes, a few strands escaping to frame your face. The overhead light catches the curve of your jaw, the concentration in your brow.

You're not looking at them yet.

Your attention is still on the files in your hands—a thick stack, dog-eared and labeled in fading marker. You're flipping through them absently, lips moving just slightly as you read, your thumb holding your place in whatever document has captured your focus. 

Reid forgets how to breathe.

It's not dramatic—not in the way movies make it seem. There's no swelling music, no slow-motion montage. Just the sudden, startling realization that he has been holding himself together all evening, and now, seeing you, every carefully constructed wall is coming down.

You look tired.

He notices it first because he always notices it first—the slight droop of your shoulders, the way you're blinking a little too slowly at the pages in your hand. You've been in the archives for hours. Probably forgot to eat. Definitely forgot to drink water.

But you're also smiling. Just a little. A small, absent curve of your lips as you read whatever case file has captured your attention. It's the smile you get when you've found something good—a lead, a connection, a piece of the puzzle that was missing.

He loves that smile.

He loves the dust on your sleeve and the mess of your hair and the way you bite your lower lip when you're concentrating. He loves that you exist in the same building as him, the same world, the same moment.

He loves you.

And now everyone is about to know it.

Reid's flush, which had been fading to a manageable pink, returns with interest—creeping up his neck, flooding his cheeks, brushing the tips of his ears. But here's the thing that makes Morgan's eyebrows climb: Reid doesn't look away. He doesn't duck his head or pretend to read something.

Instead, that small, proud smile stays.

Grows, even.

Morgan is the first to put it together. Of course he is. He watches Reid's face change—watches the shyness give way to something steadier, something almost protective—and then he follows Reid's gaze across the bullpen.

His eyes land on you.

His smirk doesn't just return. It blooms.

"No," he breathes, barely above a whisper. Then, louder, disbelieving: "No."

Prentiss notices Morgan's reaction before she notices you. She glances at him, then at Reid, then follows the sightline like a guided missile. When she finds you—dust-smeared, distracted, muttering to yourself over a case file—her eyebrows climb.

She doesn't say anything. She just tilts her head, watching, cataloging, filing away every micro-expression on Reid's face for later analysis.

But her silence is louder than words.

The bullpen feels suspended. Held breath and half-finished sentences. Even the ancient coffee maker seems to have stopped hissing, as if it, too, is waiting.

Morgan turns back to Reid, slow and deliberate, like a man approaching a wild animal he's just realized is actually a house cat. His expression cycles through about six different emotions in the span of two seconds—confusion, disbelief, dawning recognition, and finally, something dangerously close to pride.

"You told us you were 'helping her with research.'" He makes air quotes, fingers curving with theatrical emphasis. "That's what you said. 'The archives are extensive, Morgan, and she's new, and it's purely professional, Morgan, stop reading into things, Morgan.'"

Reid's flush deepens—creeping up from his collar, brushing the tips of his ears, painting his cheekbones in soft, tell-tale pink—but he doesn't deny it. He doesn't deflect. He doesn't launch into a rapid-fire lecture about privacy or workplace relationships or the statistical unlikelihood of his personal life being anyone's business.

"I was helping with research," Reid says quietly. "That's how it started."

"And then?" Prentiss prompts, leaning forward like she's watching the season finale she didn't know she needed. Her coffee cup is still frozen in her hand, forgotten. She doesn't blink.

Reid's eyes don't leave yours.

The bullpen falls away. The desks, the case files, the amber glow of the lamps—all of it fades into background noise. There's only him. Only the way he's looking at you like you've rearranged his entire understanding of the universe.

"And then," he says, and his voice catches slightly—just a breath, just a fracture, but you hear it. You always hear it. "I realized I didn't want to stop."

You noticed the change in his behavior immediately, more than just the withdrawn, traumatized sort. It was like getting kidnapped and tortured made him dislike you. You-- the person who he used to laugh with and got to know a side he'd rarely, if ever, shown anyone else-- now made him jumpy, annoyed, disinterested. He rarely slept at night with you, choosing instead to do it in your waking hours between his time spent at the office.

It's like he became paranoid, which would be understandable, however he seemed more concerned about you being in a room alone than himself. When he chose to leave your side, it was fine, but when you went to the bathroom or attempted to go into his office for any reason, it's like it upset him. But again, he hadn't seemed to enjoy your company either.

He started snapping at you, a tone he's never taken with you before. It led to fights. Not just small disagreements, or the intellectual debate he so often gave-- real arguing after a deep sigh and a plea with him to think of what he was saying. He seemed to know everything, and now you knew that included how to cut you when he felt the need.

"I know you're going through a lot right now and you won't fucking talk about it-- doesn't mean you get to be hurtful." Your watering eyes begged him to stop, for openness the way he'd given into it before, to act like he still cared about you. At all. He'd just walk away with a scowl. Not even a mumbled apology that still sounds like he thinks he's right. Just dead air.

You had already had a shitty day, tight jaw and a headache growing behind your eyes, and you were hoping he could just sit and listen to you complain about how someone at work had all but outright called you stupid. Instead, he was sitting curled in the corner armchair and asked, "Were you doing something stupid?" You sent a glower back.

"Helpful, Reid." He used to hate when you called him that, too used to you using his first name which he rarely heard at work. This time, he didn't even seem to notice.

You started to hate going to bed, to have him tossing and turning next to you because he was clearly restless and overheating. You'd finally shut your eyes, ready to surrender to sleep, just to have it ruined by the feeling of your whole body suddenly shifting, as his weight lifted off of the other side of the bed.

He turned into a different person. You knew things were going to be difficult when he came back from that case, but you didn't know that he was. As much as you reminded him of the resources afforded to him as part of the bureau's risk mitigation, he'd roll his eyes and grumble about how they couldn't help, and how he didn't need it anyway. You begged him to see a third-party therapist, or speak with his primary physician about medication, or try any of the hundreds of relaxation techniques that he certainly already knew, but just wasn't using. He'd insist "I'm fine", through gritted teeth.

He still had a few softer moments. Brief, fleeting, a couple hours at most after coming back from work and taking a break in his office. He'd come back out to lay his head in your lap wherever you were sitting, making you believe for a few moments that he'd reached some sort of clarity. The delusion was always broken within enough time to let you know that was the exception. Because you can't even actually remember the last time he kissed you.

With a horrifically guilty heart, it started to feel like you stopped liking him, too. A creeping contrition every time he ignored you, shut you down, snapped. You wondered if the trauma made something click within him, made him realize he never really wanted you. Maybe you were convenient more than you were desirable. You cried on your commutes, and spent too long sitting in the parking lot of his apartment building before going in to see him again. You couldn't bare to leave him alone too long, even if he acted like he would prefer it much of the time.

It brought you more and more back to your own apartment, cold from how little time you spent there when he wasn't away. In the back of your mind you worried about what could happen to him all alone, freshly wounded, if he might hurt himself on accident, or worse. But your body relaxed. Back into the cushions of your sofa which had the sunken cushions that fit you perfectly, into your bed with the sheets that warmed you just the right amount. Not worrying about what he'd say next, how he'd act next time he came through the door, how he'd ignore you.

After a sleepless night back in his restless bed, you hung around after he'd already left for work. You sat frozen for a while, the almost intrusive thought of leaving nagging at your brain until you found yourself wandering the apartment for your stray belongings. A few socks that now lived in his drawer, some stray lipgloss that had taken residence in his bathroom, some books you had always only intended on finishing. You held a pile in your arms as tears streamed down to soak it all. You would've waited for him to come home, but you knew he wouldn't give you the time to explain, to appeal further. Instead, you left a voicemail, because of course he didn't pick up.

"Spencer, I hate- hate to do this to you, I hate that I have to do it now, but you don't seem like you even want me here anymore-- so, I don't have to be... I feel awful about everything that's happened to you, baby-" you catch the pet name easily slipping from your tongue, "but you just- you don't seem like you can do this anymore either, I don't know, maybe you just need time, maybe you're just hurting, but I-- it hurts me to be around you, you seem so angry at me all the time..." You sigh, "I hope someone can help you-- and if you decide that should be me, you have my number, you know where I live, just, don't hesitate, please, I love you."

When he got home he noticed it immediately. A definite absence. Empty surfaces that used to hold your odds and ends.

But of course, he never returned your call.

Unfortunately, being without him, while worrying, has also been freeing. You don't have to worry. You don't have to wonder what he's bringing home after every case that he just can't talk about. You don't have to worry whether he's coming home at all.

It hurts, how you feel almost better alone, knowing he's just a few miles away suffering from you could only guess what, certainly still refusing help if anyone's even offering it. But you don't feel foreign in a place that once felt like home, you're a native to your own apartment, everything is arranged just how you like it, pantry full of your favorites, fridge empty but ready to be filled only with the things you like. You forgot how much you liked your own home. Your own blankets, your own books, your own soaps in the shower. You don't have to feel nervous whenever you set something down that it'll be wrong in some way.

Some part of you always suspected it would happen. That you'd succumb to the inferiority he always made you feel without ever meaning to, or that he'd give in to the inferiority he feels just existing. Or that the relationship would simply fizzle out with all the travelling he did for work. All the stress from everything he has to see. But every time he made you laugh on purpose, and he'd smile, proud, you thought that part of you was so far beyond wrong. That it could really last. Because you couldn't imagine yourself wanting to laugh at anyone else. You definitely couldn't imagine needing to sleep with any other person-- he may have been shy and repressed, but when you pried it out, he was needy, and instantly memorized exactly what to do to make you melt.

But that was before. You'd had nightmares about it happening in the course of his job, of course you knew it was possible, but he'd also been through plenty throughout his life already. You didn't think it would break the sweet, quiet until he couldn't stop talking, always looking for approval, desperate to keep you, boy that used to make your heart swell. You hope that boy is still in there in spite of the cracks that formed.

On late, remorseful nights, you look at the pictures of him, all still in your phone. They're blurry, awkward, half covered for the most part. He never could get a good picture when he knew he was being photographed. His fluffy hair, his focused eyes while reading, his full-lipped smile. You find the stray threads of him still stuck in your apartment; a few books--a couple he'd brought to read, some he'd given to you--a cardigan, and of course there were all the gifts he'd given-- tokens of his affection, pleas for you to continue yours. He always used to research deep into anything you mentioned positively. They used to be a near constant, but the most recent present-- a discontinued toy from your childhood that you'd mentioned offhand once-- is from many months ago, now.

You plead with whatever power might be out there that he's okay, that your absence is all he needs to be his own brand of normal again. You hope you has someone to talk to, even if they're your replacement. Selfishly you wish he hasn't found someone to take all of your spots. That he isn't over someone else with their taste on his lips instead of yours. You pray that he knows how badly you didn't want this, to leave, to be alone, to abandon him in his grief. You hope he knows it was about survival for the both of you.

Slowly, you've grown into the return of solitude. You can go out, make new friends, flirt a little bit before letting guys down. You can sprawl over the whole mattress for a deep, rich slumber, though sometimes he still haunts your dreams. You laugh loudly and forget he exists for a blip in time. A fresh start.

You stumble down your hallway, home from karaoke night with your friends where you'd really let out all your pent up emotions in drunken song. But as you near your door, a shivering form grows in your blurry, spinning vision. You stop a few yards away.

"Hello?" The body's head swings up and around to face you-- Spencer. Tremoring, sweaty, eyes watering, sunken further than normal, brows curled at you to beg you to come closer. An ice cold adrenaline rush through your veins sobers you. "Are you okay?" You rush up to him. His eyes dart between you and your door, a lack of focus you've never seen in him.

"You said not to hesitate if I needed you, but I- I did." His head dips again in shame and regret. Though his pet name nearly comes out again after all this time, you edit to his actual name just before it can. Your hands cup his elbows, shaking like the rest of him. He yawns. "Can we- go inside? I wanna sit down."

Your own fingers tremble as you dig through your purse and scrape against the lock to open the door.

He rushes to sit on your couch, full of your familiar scent. He curls into the cushions and takes a deep breath. His nose is running down over his lip. He wipes it with an already messy sleeve.

"Spencer what the hell is going on?"

He unloads before you can even sit down beside him. Complete, brutal honesty that leaves you awash in a sea of guilt, pity, sorrow. His voice oscillates rapidly between his usual firm tone, and a weak whine that asks you to put him out of his misery. "I'm going through opioid withdrawals-- it really fucking hurts." The remnants of your heart crumble into dust in your chest. Your mind is overwhelmed with questions, thoughts, worry. "I just-- I felt like I needed to see you, like you'd make it better." You're overcome with the thought that he didn't stop wanting you, he'd just found something stronger to depend on.

"What can I do?" You sit and take his vibrating hands. He starts in immediately, of course he already knows it all, even if his teeth chatter as he speaks.

"I need water, and I'll have to eat at some point-- I'll probably throw it back up-- mostly I just- I need to be here, I have it at home... I- I want it so fucking bad." He winces as he imagines the flood through his veins. You start to recede, to go to the kitchen and get him water, but he continues. "I'm gonna be irritable, which I know is what drove you off in the first place, so-- I'm sorry, in advance, I don't mean to hurt you, I never wanted to." Every organ in you sinks into a pit.

You return with a glass of water, holding it up to his lip and pushing away his shaking hands as they reach for it.

"I- I had no idea, Spencer," you exhale your tension as you set the cup on the coffee table.

"I didn't let you," he huffs like he's just run a mile. He yawns again. "I still wish you didn't have to know, but-- I really need you, I miss you." While his hands still shiver, his shoulders are tightened to immobility. You run a warm palm down his arm, the tremors chase your touch. His skin is hot, pale, sticky in sweat and snot. The hairs on his arm have been standing on end since he sat down. "Can you- can you hold me? Please?" In a blink, you wrap around him, clutching hard enough to still him, to hold him together as he unravels in front of you. "You're-- you're gonna see a really awful, gross side of me."

"I'm glad to see you at all, baby," you easily let the nickname return, "I'm happy you finally came to me." His arms tangle around your waist, holding onto you like a life raft. He groans with every stomach cramp and sniffles trying to keep his running nose from staining your shirt. Against your back, he rubs at the ache in his wrists. You smooth down his frizzy hair, hand hitting the beads of sweat on his neck.

"It'll help to make me move, or to distract me in some way... There's also gonna be- gastrointestinal effects, I-- I'm sorry for that, too."

Your hand keeps petting at his hair as you whisper, over and over, "that's okay, you're okay." He shoves his messy, sweaty face into the bend of your neck. His fingers grip at your back. He groans in pain again. You keep cooing, "I'm here now, I'm here, whatever it takes." His legs shift constantly. "I love you, Spencer, I never stopped, you know that right?" He gives a muffled, twitching nod against you.

"I wanted to." Your arms tighten to still him again. A twitch in his diaphragm makes him gag. You question if he needs help heading to the bathroom. "There's nothing left to puke," he shudders back.

"You wanna go anyway? Drink some more water-- get a cold rag?" You push his soaked hair off of his forehead. He relents.

You run a wet washcloth over every inch of him that you can reach, having convinced him to strip of his sodden shirt. A glass of water sits beside you, and you have to consistently bat his shaking hand away from grabbing it. Instead, you pour it gently into his mouth, eyes focused on the task while his, weak and wide and jittery, are trained on you. At your other side sits a few of the packaged snacks you had easily grabbable in your quick sweep of the pantry. You pick up the washcloth again. After swiping at his clammy cheek, you lean in to press a kiss to it. His shoulders sink.

"Did-- did I tell you I still- love you?" He mutters.

"Not since you got back from that case," you admit quietly, not wanting to let your discontent with the fact show too much.

"I do," he pouts, "a lot." You hum and keep wiping at every collecting drop of sweat. "And that's not just me being delusional in pain and- and craving right now, I really do!" His tone gets almost mad, but it's clearly not at you now. His dilated pupils find yours.

"That's good to hear." If the circumstances of hearing it didn't involve sitting in front of the toilet wiping him down like afterbirth off a newborn, your stomach would be fluttering. He leans into you, head finding your shoulder while his fingers find yours in a quivering touch.

"I'm sorry," he whines. You pet his hair again and settle your head on top of his.

After what felt like an eternity, he lays curled on the cool tiled floor, head in your lap, teetering on the edge of dozing off in spite of the tremor left in his body.

"It hurts," he whispers weakly.

"How long is it supposed to last?" Your fingers still comb through his hair.

"The worst of it should subside in a few days, but some of it will last weeks." He draws his trembling knees closer to his chest. "...And that's if I don't use again."

"Can you... get rid of it? Get it out of your apartment somehow?"

"Since I didn't exactly acquire it... legally, the take-back options recommended for prescription drugs aren't exactly viable, but I can just- flush it down the sink." The words make him groan with another cramp.

"I'll do it," you state firmly. He nods rapidly against your leg. "You can't go through this again." He moans again.

"I already have... Withdrawal symptoms can start within 12 hours of a last dose, so whenever I ran out, or tried not to use it... I've felt it before." You wilt.

"But you only came to me tonight?"

"I really, really want to quit, every other time I tried not to use, I was the only one to stop myself-- I hate feeling like this, I hate needing to get high- I hated losing you." More tears soak your clothes. "And I just really wanted to see you again, more than I wanted you to not see me like this."

You sit in silence, stillness, save for his shuddering breaths and shivering body. You stare at the blank wall behind the toilet. You would offer to take him to bed, to tuck him in, but you know he'll refuse, too tired and weak to get up, certain that he'll need to come back at many points during the night.

"Spencer?" He stirs again, sleepless but trying for rest. "I'm gonna go get you a blanket, if you want?" He pouts, but nods, and sits up again with your assistance.

You grab a thin, soft sheet, nothing too warm, and a couple pillows from off of your bed. When you return to the bathroom, you rearrange the water and the snacks, to lay out his nest. You unfold the blanket over him. He takes a handful of the sheet to hold over his nose, still savoring in the distraction of your scent. When you sit back down, he shoves a pillow away in favor of settling back into your lap. You sit in silent contemplation. You wish you could've known. You pray this will pass with as little pain as possible. You hope it'll at least be as brief as it can.

You half-expect your stomach to drop in anticipation at his announcement. Clearly, this is bad news, yet you find yourself strangely nonplussed. Silently, you rise from your chair and follow him across the bullpen. When you reach his office, he lets you enter first, shutting the door and gesturing for you to sit down. You obediently sink into the chair placed before his desk, and he moves around the desk to sit opposite you.

Clasping his hands on the desk, he asks, “Do you have any idea what I need to discuss with you?” 

“No,” you reply simply. You mimic his tone, keeping your voice level. He assesses you with an unreadable expression before reaching into his drawer and procuring a case file. He drops it on the tabletop with an unceremonious smack.

“I’ve been reviewing your statement from the Rothschild case,” he says, jutting his chin toward the pristine, crisp papers contained in the manila folder. 

“Okay,” you respond plainly. Hotch hesitates, almost like he expects you to offer more than a simple monosyllabic answer. Accepting that you’ve finished your thought, he opens the file and starts reading your statement.

“‘The suspect was apprehended holding a gun,’” Hotch recites. Completing the sentence, he looks at you over the edge of the paper. His eyebrows raise ever so slightly in silent question.

“Yes,” you affirm with a slow blink, waiting expectantly for Hotch to clue you in as to what’s upset him. 

“You don’t see anything wrong with that?” he prompts.

“That’s what happened,” you say, mild annoyance flaring your tone. You rein in your exasperation, remembering that you’re sitting in front of your boss, but you’re tempted to snap and ask what he wants you to say. 

“It’s lacking critical information,” Hotch observes, seeming careful to maintain that air of confidence—of calm. “Rothschild threatened Morgan with that pistol—he threatened you. Your entire account of his arrest is similarly… impoverished.”

Hotch returns the printed statement to its position within the case file, busying himself with straightening the papers before closing the folder. 

“Impoverished?” you ask flatly. It’s not like you don’t know what the word means; it’s more so that you’re failing to comprehend why Hotch is insulting the quality of your work. 

“You go on to mention turning him over to the local police, but nowhere in your statement do you mention reading him his Miranda rights,” Hotch notes, meeting your eyes with a stern look. He continues, “Now, I’ve already spoken to Morgan, and it’s clear that the issue lies not within your conduct at the scene, but rather in the execution of your report.”

A pause. It takes you a slow second to process what he’s insinuating, but you ask anyway. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that this—” He taps the manila folder with his index finger. “—is unprofessional. It’s sloppy, and that’s not like you.”

Sloppy. That descriptor should suffice to humiliate you, especially when it’s coming directly from your boss’s mouth. Perhaps, under different circumstances, his analysis would have tears burning in your eyes. Under these circumstances, however, you remain indifferent.

“So it’s a little… lackluster,” you concede, looking down at the file as if you can stare straight through to your statement. You shrug. You actually shrug, like your Unit Chief hasn’t just deeply criticized your work. “I can rewrite it.”

“Will you rewrite these, too?” Hotch inquires coolly, as he bends down behind his desk and procures a thick stack of files. He drops them onto his desk with a hefty thump, awaiting your reaction. When you continue to appear unimpressed, a slight tinge of irritation seeps into his voice. He’s having trouble getting through to you, and he’s growing exasperated, despite his best efforts to remain calm. “These are all your reports from the past month. Every paper that you have independently written and submitted. They’re all the same.”

You blink at the pile of folders. You open your mouth to offer a sassy retort, to question why he hasn’t said a word about your work ethic until now, but it seems he’s read your mind. He says, “Perhaps it was naive of me not to address this sooner, to assume that you would turn things around on your own, but your performance has been slipping. I’m not just referring to your paperwork, either.” The professional facade slips, and for the briefest moment, you glimpse the paternal figure beneath his aloof mask. His brow knits in concern as he murmurs, “You haven’t been acting like yourself.”

“I’m sorry, what is that supposed to mean?” you snap, glaring at him. Maybe you’re proving his point; after all, you wouldn’t usually respond to someone’s worry with a defensive retort. In the back of your mind, you wonder if his concern is genuine or if it’s some sort of twisted manipulation tactic. 

“You’ve been withdrawn,” Hotch states. “Irritable. Spacey.”

“Spacey,” you repeat. 

“Not totally here,” Hotch explains, though you hadn’t really been searching for clarification. With a minuscule tilt of his head, he asks, “Have you been sleeping okay?”

“Fine,” you lie without a second thought. Now you’re lying to Hotch? You’ve always been honest, no matter how embarrassing the truth. It’s really starting to seem like he may have a point about you acting differently, but for some reason, you’re insulted by the implication. 

“Really?” Hotch asks, unconvinced. “Because according to Reid—”

Your eyes snap to his, anger flaring in your gaze. “He put you up to this? Seriously?” You had been irritated by this conversation up until this point, but now you’re seeing red. How long has Spencer been going behind your back, feeding your boss information? How long have you trusted him to keep your relationship separate from work, without knowing that he’s conspiring against you? You shake your head incredulously. “I’m, what, under some kind of investigation ‘cause he doesn’t have the guts to tell me to my face that he thinks I’m, like, an insomniac?”

“So you haven’t been sleeping fine,” Hotch says pointedly. No, you haven’t. Some nights, you’re up at all hours, feeling endlessly restless. Other nights, you sleep deeply, overcome by vivid nightmares from which you can’t seem to wake yourself. Neither of those tidbits seems like something you should tell Hotch right now. It would only be more fuel for whatever point he’s trying to make, whatever case he’s building against you. 

“If you want me to rewrite that whole stack, I’ll do it,” you deflect. 

“It’s not about the paperwork,” Hotch argues with a level tone. “It’s about your well-being. No, I was not ‘put up’ to anything. I approached Reid regarding my concerns, and—”

“Are you kidding me?” you interrupt, raising your voice in disbelief. “You think something’s wrong and you go to him?” You practically spit the last word. You’ve always been so affectionate when you speak about your boyfriend, but right now, you feel like you need to punch something because, apparently, he’s not to be trusted. Neither is Hotch. You’re not sure who is, come to think of it. Maybe they all just think you’re off the rails. You should probably just keep to yourself until this all blows over. Attempting to soothe yourself with a deep breath, you sigh, “He’s not my keeper. You should’ve talked directly to me.”

“I’ve ordered a psych eval,” Hotch announces, undeterred by your sudden shift in mood. “You’ll—”

“Why?” you cut him off, voice shaking with the overwhelming feeling of betrayal. This entire conversation has felt like a slap to the face, and you’re emotionally drained. You’d love to go home and take a long nap right about now, but that probably wouldn’t bode well for proving that you’re totally fine. 

“Because your behavior is unacceptable,” Hotch declares. His words are sharp, meant to scold, but that concern still lingers just beneath the surface. “You’ve always been an exceptional member of this team, but recently, you’ve been slacking off in the office and being reckless in the field. You’re becoming a danger not only to yourself, but to the entire BAU and everyone with whom we interact.”

“I feel like you’re hiding something,” you blurt. The more he speaks, the more you’re convinced that the entire team has been talking about you in secret, that they’ve all known that this meeting was coming. The thought threatens to send you into a panicked spiral, but you huff a sigh and plead quietly, “Will you just… tell me, honestly? What’s the evaluation for?”

“I shouldn’t speculate,” Hotch replies. The set of his jaw suggests that he’s holding something back when he manages to say, “We’ll let the doctors determine that.”

“Hotch,” you beg, anger ebbing in exchange for a wave of anxiety. There shouldn’t be anything to worry about; if you’re right, the psych eval will be fruitless, and you’ll be back at your desk in no time. But if you’re wrong… “Please.”

Hotch gazes at you for no more than a second or two before he forces himself to look away. It seems that he’ll relent if he meets your eyes for even a moment longer, so instead, he talks to his desk. “Until you’re seen by a professional, you’re considered to be on leave. Stop by their office. We’ll get this sorted out.”

Even with your supposed personality change, you know a dismissal when you hear one. You rise from your chair, muttering an “unbelievable” under your breath as you stomp out the door. 

Almost as soon as Hotch’s door clicks shut behind you, your boyfriend is walking beside you, hustling to keep up with your agitated pace. 

“What’d he say?” he asks, sounding more like a doting parent than an equal. 

“Like you don’t already know,” you scoff. You have half a mind to let him have it in front of the bullpen, but you don’t want the team to gossip about you any more than they already have. You let your feet carry you to the vacant hallway by the break room before whirling to face Spencer and snapping, “When were you gonna tell me the two of you were talking behind my back?”

He has the sense to look hurt by your irritation, his doe eyes widening as he says, “Baby, I—”

“Don’t ‘baby’ me,” you quickly retort, shooting him a withering glare. “I just got put on leave because you spun some story about me needing a psych eval! Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I didn’t…” Spencer trails off, using that same, careful tone that Hotch had just used. Like you’re a wild animal they’re trying not to scare off, or a small child who might not understand what they’re trying to say. “You haven’t been acting like yourself. I’m worried.”

“So you undermine me and cry about it to my boss? Our boss?” you question, refusing to rein in the anger leaching into your voice.

Spencer sighs. “He asked me—”

“What did you tell him?” you interrupt, crossing your arms across your chest. In all your time with Spencer, you’ve never felt so hurt by him. You’ve had arguments, sure, but they were all vastly unimportant compared to the current situation. They’d hurt your feelings, but never made you so furious. 

“What?” Spencer balks, though you’re sure he’s heard you. 

“What did you tell him?” you repeat. “Say it to my face, I wanna know.”

Spencer scrubs a hand down his face in a blatantly hesitant gesture. With another deep sigh, he murmurs, “I don’t want to upset you.”

“I am upset!” you exclaim exasperatedly, staring at him like he’s stupid. Eventually, you accept that insulting his intelligence won’t get you what you want, so you try a kinder approach. Your brows arc into a sad expression as you beg, “Seriously, Spence, just tell me.”

Spencer looks down at the floor, as if he’s hoping it might swallow him whole before he has to answer you. He scuffs the toe of his Converse on the linoleum before looking back at you from under his lashes. Before he even speaks, his guilty expression tells you all you need to know. “He asked if I had noticed any changes in your behavior. I said you’ve been… different,” he offers, clearly avoiding the urge to label your behavior as Hotch had. Spencer chooses the most diplomatic term—different. Not irritable or spacey, though you don’t suppose he’s implying that you’ve changed for the better. Sure enough, he presses on, “You seem kind of… sad? A-and you stay up all night sometimes, but other times, it’s like trying to wake the dead. You’ve been quiet, and—”

“I’m not depressed, if that’s what you’re thinking,” you angrily interrupt before he can list more symptoms of a major depressive episode. If he asks if you’ve gained weight over the past month, you might smack him. 

“No. I know,” he says quietly, dropping his focus back to his shoes. 

“So what, then?” you prompt, refusing to give him an out. 

Spencer attempts to meet your eyes, but whatever confession’s stuck in his throat makes it difficult to look at you. His eyes dart around, anxiously seeking something to ground him. Normally, that something would be a someone; more specifically, you.

“I… I think you might be showing signs of…” he trails off for a brutally long time before finishing, “psychosis.”

You don’t know whether to laugh sardonically or cry as the final word escapes his mouth. Instead, you gape at him, scoffing weakly, searching his forlorn expression for any semblance of humor. “Are you kidding?”

“No,” Spencer mutters, finally looking at you again. His eyes are swimming with guilt, and he’s clearly struggling to keep his voice steady as he explains, “Between your mood, and the sleep…” As his argument gains momentum, he more pointedly says, “Just now, you weren’t talking to us. It’s like you weren’t even there.”

“That’s a little dramatic,” you reply. God forbid you need a quiet minute to yourself. You nearly point out how the lights are giving you a headache, but you know that Spencer will only see your rational explanation as an excuse. 

“You know, my mother—” he starts.

“I’m not schizophrenic,” you interrupt. Spencer angles his head, brow scrunching in a sympathetic expression. He’s looking at you like you’re pitiful, like he feels sorry for you. It makes your skin crawl, as if dozens of tiny bugs are trailing across your bare arms.

“There’s this thing called anosognosia—” he offers. At this, you finally release the eye-roll you’ve been fighting so hard to contain. 

“I have a PhD in clinical psychology, Spencer,” you remind him. “Don’t insult me by suggesting that I don’t even know the term for somehow having a mental illness that’s impairing my own awareness of said illness.”

Spencer winces, either from your tone or from regret that he had just attempted to mansplain psychology to you. Perhaps a combination of the two. He hesitantly reaches for you, gently gripping your shoulder. His hand is shaking. “Baby, please,” he whispers. His touch sends an unexpected jolt through you, an irritating sensation that makes you want to step away. However, you’re acutely aware that everyone is analyzing your every move, and that doing so would only further convince everyone that you’re acting strangely. So, you let him try to comfort you, despite the near-deafening buzz in your mind, your body, your very bones. “Just get evaluated. We’ll go from there.”

He gives your shoulder what you imagine is supposed to be an encouraging squeeze, but it feels more condescending than anything. You huff. “Yeah, I will, just to end this stupid fucking argument.” Remembering that Hotch has dismissed you from the team for the time being, you say by way of farewell, “Anyway, like I said. I just got put on leave, so I’ll get out of your hair.”

“Let me know how the evaluation goes?” Spencer asks, his hand lingering on your upper arm before dropping back to his side. 

“Mhm,” you hum noncommittally. Before you can lash out anymore, you turn on your heels, striding toward the exit.

“I love you,” Spencer calls from behind you, his tone edged with desperation. He’s willing you to understand why he’s done what he has, but you can’t bring yourself to empathize with him. 

“You too,” you answer. It’s a lame reply, and even in your haze of anger, you know it. Still, it’s better than the cold shoulder you considered giving him. 

He better have one hell of an apology prepared for after your evaluation. 

He plays your voicemail over and over again, like he could replace the drugs with the soothing sound of your voice, even when you’re breaking his heart.

“Hey, Spencer. I, um, okay, I really wanted to do this face to face, but I guess you’re all busy, so… I guess I’ll have to do it like this. I… I can’t keep seeing you anymore, not while you’re… well… in recovery, I suppose. It-it’s not that I don’t want to help you, because I do, I just… Well, I like you. A lot. And I… I guess, I’m scared that you only want me around because I saved your life and transference and all that stuff. And maybe I have my own transference thing going on so… I dunno, I think maybe we just need to take some space and time to figure out our feelings away from what happened in Georgia. That’s… that’s it, I guess. Bye.”

The first time he’d heard it, he’d known it was coming. You had become more hesitant about your coffee dates, worried about crossing lines by doing anything other than that. How you caught yourself every time you laughed a little too much at something he said, how you withdrew when a simple touch became too serious.

The second time he listened to it, he could only be angry at himself — angry for getting attached, angry for being so weak, angry for letting himself fall in love with you when he knew there was nothing to show for it. When he knew you deserved better than some addict who latched onto the first caregiver that presented themselves. He loved you, he was sure of that much, and you were just doing your job.

The third time he listened to it, he realised that he couldn’t keep doing this. He couldn’t keep pining like a boy who’d had his first crush. He couldn’t keep letting a voice over the phone become the highlight of his day. He couldn’t keep replaying your voice and finding a new little thing to memorise, a little bit of a laugh at the end that indicated a smile or the way you called him Spencer that seemed to soften your usual professional tone. He knew he had to let it go.

“I couldn’t imagine having nothing left of someone but their voicemail,” JJ had said once, as they packed up evidence after a case, holding their unsub’s phone in it’s evidence baggie. “I’d keep listening to it over and over again.”

“Yeah,” Spencer had replied, his voice cracking a little, trying not to think of you. Wrapped up in your scarf, hands cupping your coffee. At the time, he’d half-wished you’d forgotten it, just so he could loop his own around your neck.

He wondered once, when he couldn’t sleep one night, replaying your conversations, craving again for the first time since he’d stayed sober for a month at a stretch, that if he used, enough to call an ambulance, maybe you’d show up at the hospital. Maybe he’d hear the voice that haunted him for months before he found you, the same words. Hold on for me. We’re gonna take good care of you.

Except he doesn’t need an ambulance. Just your number. He feels sick doing it, gut-wrenching nausea as he calls you, wondering if you were even available. You could’ve been on shift, could’ve been assigned out of D.C.

“Spencer?” you asked, your voice groggy, like he’d woken you up.

“Hey, sorry,” he murmured, almost a whisper. “I, um, I couldn’t sleep, and I keep… I keep craving it, and I don’t- I’m scared, will you please… Please just help me.”

A beat passed, but it might as well have been a millenia by the time you replied. “Okay, just sit tight. I’ll be there in a few, okay? Is there something you can do to distract yourself till then?” He can hear you shuffling over the line as he thinks about it.

“Can we keep talking?” he asked softly, looking out the window, phone pressed to his ear.

“Okay, about what?” you asked.

“Well, um…” Spencer closed his eyes, rocking slightly in place. “There’s multiple theories about uh, neuroadaptation to opioid use,” he said, settling into factoids. “There’s one, opponent theory, that proposes, um, that the euphoria from the drugs is opposed by a counteracting process, and eventually, that process masks the intial high.”

“Right,” you said, mostly to show you were still listening as you settled behind the wheel of your car, your emergency first aid bag in the passenger seat, just in case.

“And then another says, um, that repeated use induces neural adaptation which sensitizes the dopamine systems with hyperreactivity to anything that cues the drug use — like a trigger — and a pathological degree of incentive salience — do you know what that is?” he asked.

“Um, no, don’t think I’ve heard of it,” you said, focused on driving.

“It’s um, the motivational process of wanting something, like food, money, and drugs. And this theory, the incentive sensitisation theory, says it manifests as disporpotionate motivation to pursue the drug.”

“Okay,” you replied, “so the brain adapts the dopamine system to excessively react to a trigger for the drug, and.. increases motivation to pursue it… to a pathological degree.”

“Yeah, exactly,” Spencer said, letting out a quiet sigh. “You know, I-I get why we can’t… why you think we shouldn’t… be in a relationship, and that’s fair, but… This is why I can’t stop thinking about you, because… you get me. Everyone else… their eyes would’ve glazed over by now.”

“Well, I actually went to med school, so… I’m kind of familiar enough with the language,” you said and he hummed, leaning back against the headboard.

“You’re amazing,” he murmured. “And I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be sorry,” you replied automatically.

“But I am,” he whined quietly. “We haven’t spoken in months and I call you like this, in the middle of the night—”

“I wanted you to,” you interrupted again and he froze, waiting for you to explain. “It… It didn’t really matter if you called me because you got clean and you were ready for a relationship, or because you were struggling. I mean, obviously, I’d rather you were clean and ready, but… either way, I wanted to hear from you.”

“I didn’t think… after the voicemail, that you… you wanted anything to do with me,” he whispered, hugging his knees.

“That’s not true,” you insisted. “I just… I didn’t want to give you the wrong idea, which is why I said we should stop seeing each other. Because it was clear that…” He heard you sigh. “I don’t want to talk about it like this. With me staring at a traffic light and you on the phone.”

“Right,” he murmured. “Did you know traffic lights are called robots in South Africa?”

“I did not know that.”

“Yeah, there was a while, in the 1920s, in England, where it was considered fashionable to call traffic lights ‘robots’, because of a science fiction play by a Czech writer, Karel Čapek, which travelled to South Africa. It actually introduced the word ‘robot’ where previously they would have been called automatons or androids, and in Czech, the word robota means forced labour of the kind that serfs would perform.”

“So, the word ‘robot’ is Czech,” you replied. “I guess that makes sense, I never thought about it’s etymology.”

“There’s also something really cool about traffic lights in the Maritime provinces, where each light is shaped differently for people who might be colourblind. Red would be square, yellow would be a diamond, and green would be a circle.”

“That’s very thoughtful,” you said absently.

“It is, it’s good planning,” Spencer replied, his voice quietening. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m— I ramble when I can’t think of anything to say…”

“I don’t mind,” you replied, switching lanes into a less crowded one, and as he keeps talking, you finally find a place to park outside his apartment building. “Alright, I’m on my way up.”

It takes a few minutes - one to run up the steps, another to catch your breath so you’re not entirely embarrassed by your lack of athleticism in front of him (though, who is Spencer to talk about that?), and a third to knock on his door, waiting for him to open up.

The door creaked open with uncertainty, Spencer’s gaunt face looking at you through the crack in the darkness, and you tilted your face with kindness, like greeting a skittish animal. “Hi,” you murmured.

“Hi,” he rasped back, without any of the semi-confidence he’d had on the phone. The chain unlatched, door creaking further open, Spencer almost hiding behind it to let you inside. You moved inside with a little more purpose, turning on a lampshade with the green metal covers he has everywhere, the door closing with a click.

“I need to know if it’s in the house,” you said with a quiet, apologetic tone, as if it was some kind of sin to ask, and he shook his head, hands trembling until you take them in yours, guiding him to sit down on his own couch.

“I just want everything to go quiet,” he murmured, sagging into your shoulder like an overgrown puppy. “Please, will you just stay?”

But the cravings warp reality the way it warps his veins. It feeds the obsessive thoughts that seek to break him down brick by brick, driving him to temptation. It’s strange the way the brain works, chewing at the edges of his sanity, creating the perfect storm that takes him back to the needle. Needles that you’ve thrown away, vials that have been flushed down the toilet.

Spencer pressed his palms against his eyes, digging the heels in. He hasn’t slept well since the last night you came over, letting his body curl around yours, an awkward tangle of limbs, his frame dwarfing yours, the heavenly feeling of having you in his arms overpowering any lingering guilt for crossing your boundaries. But he’s hurtling in your orbit, your gravity pulling him closer and closer in an elliptical while you’re trying to stay parallel.

You’re not wrong, goes the sneer in his brain. Why would anyone want part of his mess? And the longer his phone stays silent, the worse it gets. Emily’s gently chided him twice for the relentless bounce of his knee, Derek’s sniped about switching to decaf, his caseload isn’t getting any smaller, and all he can think about is you.

Your gentle concerned gaze. The lilt in your voice when you find something funny. The purse of your lips before you ask a question. The intermittent hums to show you’re listening to him.

God, he wishes he was normal. He wishes he could be everything you deserved. He sees heaven in your eyes, gates he doesn’t deserve to walk through. He sees it every time you hesitate to do anything that might make this anything more than it is. He sees the fear, the fear of this being dependency, of some psychological complex, some attachment to a rescuer. He knows that fear, and it’s the only thing that holds him back from pushing you too far.

He knows what it’s like to fall for someone in your care, someone who’s safety is your responsibility. He still has the magazine rolled up in his desk, an FBI agent and America’s sweetheart. He gets the fear of being a fantasy, of being loved as an idea instead of a person. It’s unspoken but he worries sometimes that you’re right. He worries that he loves you like a parched man loves water — what happens when he doesn’t need you as much anymore?

It was easier to cut off from Lila, once she was out of danger, he could tell that he was just a fantasy for her. But with this monster in his chest, the indefinite nature of addiction, the spiral that gets grows narrow and wider like a radio wave, will he ever reach a state where he can differentiate? Will you ever be able to decide if this is true feeling or a desperate distraction? Will there be a day when you don’t call him back?

It never ends, this overthinking, the spiral he keeps falling through, not until your voice cuts through the receiver, sweet but tired. And even then, guilt eats away at him for disturbing you, just not as much as the relief of you still caring. “Hi,” you murmured. “Sorry, I couldn’t get back to you sooner. Everything alright?”

“It is now,” Spencer replied quietly, hidden away in the hallway outside the bullpen. “Just needed to hear your voice.”

“You’re sweet,” you murmured. He can see you so clearly in his head, leaning on his counter, a cup of coffee in a warm ceramic mug wrapped in your hands.

“I’m bothering you,” he said, sighing, his eyes closing as you deny it.

“No, are you kidding?” you asked him. “There’s nothing I’d rather do than talk to you.”

‘Then why does it take you forever to call me back?’, snipes the voice in the back of his head. “You’re at work, I know it’s inconvenient,” he said, his voice low. “Please don’t lie to me.”

“Spencer, I’m not lying,” you murmured. “I love talking to you. And… okay, sometimes, it’s not the best time, but I always get back to you, don’t I?”

‘Yeah, but for how long?’, that voice sniped again. “Sure,” he mumbled, scuffing the back of his shoe. He looked ridiculous, curled inwards, listening to you sigh. He was exhausting, he knew it, testing your patience like string cheese.

“Honey, I’m doing everything I can to be here for you, please believe that.”

“It’s not enough,” he muttered. “God, I wish it was enough, but it just…” His foot started tapping again. “I keep getting lost in my head, and you just… I just need you to bring me out of my head, and I know you can’t do it all the time, but I don’t know how to get through this without you!”

A beat passes and he can hear scuffling from your end. “I can’t be the only person you lean on, Spencer.”

“I don’t have anyone else!” he cried into the speaker, his voice cracking. “Please, I just…” He was trying so hard not to cry, to not be this pathetic, this fucking needy, and he broke out through the emergency exit to sit on the stairs, alone with you on the phone, gulping breaths. “There’s no-one else,” he breathed out.

“Then it won’t ever be enough, honey, because one person isn’t enough. You need a network, and if you kept going to the NA meetings—”

“No, I’m…” He took a deep breath. “I’m not like them. Not enough, I don’t connect with any of them.”

“You have to try, Spencer. For your own sake, you have to be brave enough to reach out to them. One person. It can’t just be me. Promise me.”

“I can’t—”

“Promise me, Spencer. Next time you get lost in your head, you call someone from NA first.”

He swallowed, his tongue feeling thick. “Fine.”

“I have to go, the raid’s over,” you told him and Spencer nodded before remembering you can’t see him.

“Sure. Stay safe.”

“I will.” The call clicked, but he kept the phone pressed to his ear anyway, waiting for the phantom of your voice to come back to him.

"Spence," you greeted, eyes widening, a smile spreading across your features. "I...I didn't hear you come in." Your eyes swept over him - grey stripe button up, brown suit with a matching tie. 

Spencer straightened up, a hand fiddling with the strap of his bag that was slung over his shoulder, "Yeah- uh, sorry I- I didn't mean to just...stand here and watch you, but uh, you looked really pretty sitting there," he explained, offering a sheepish smile.

"No- no it's okay," Your voice came out breathless, and he could tell you were trying to hold back your giddiness. 

His hands slide into his pockets, and for another few moments he just stands there with a small, shy smile. "You're wearing my cardigan." He pointed out with a nod. He didn't mind, not in the slightest. He already knew about your habit of stealing his cardigans, and the idea of it still made something flutter in his stomach. 

"I am," You affirmed. 

Spencer moved further into the room, placing his bag atop the chest of drawers opposite the bed. "It looks better on you, anyways." he complimented. 

He starting taking off his shoes. You watched, nimble fingers working at the shoe laces; revealing his odd sock selection of the day - one black with pumpkins, the other brownish-red with orange leaves. "What did you get up to besides stealing my clothes?" he asked when he straightened back up. 

"I made cookies for you," You beamed, gesturing. 

His gaze flicked to where you were pointing - where a plate of heart-shaped cookies sat on the bed side table. Chocolate chip, his favourite. 

His face melts into a smile, "Oh, angel. You're too good for me," He murmured, stepping forward to intertwine your hands. 

"I might've already had a few, though." You admitted.

"My sweet tooth girl couldn't help herself?" he teased.

"I was taste-testing," You insisted. 

"Sure you were." 

He gently took the book - Death on the Nile by Agatha Christie - from your lap with one hand, and the bookmark with the other. He marked your page and before placed it on the bedside table. "Good book?" 

You nodded, though your mind was far from the book - or anything else for that matter - as you watched him in front of you.

Spencer's hands cupped the back of your knees, and you let him guide your legs to hang over the side of the bed, your body now facing him.

"Can I kiss you?" he whispered, his thumb now gently running over your cheek. Your warm, flushed cheek. 

He was always gentle like this, but especially so when he'd just gotten back from a case. He adored you on a regular day, but maybe it was the guilt of leaving you for a few days at a time with little to no notice that made him want to worship you even more when he got back - you deserved it. 

You leaned forward, "I think you know the answer, Spence."

He bit his lip, "I think I do. But thinking isn't knowing. You could've changed your mind since we last saw each other." 

"I hardly think that's possible." 

"Hardly possible is still possible." 

"But very unlikely."

Spencer huffed, attempting to hide the smile on his face, "C'mon, please? Tell me I can kiss you." 

"Of course you can." Your reply came almost immediately. 

He didn't need to be told twice - Spencer's head tilted down to meet you, lips pressing gently against your own. Lingering, soft. He pulled away only a fraction, noses brushing together. "Thank you," He breathed. 

You looked up at him, half-lidded, smiling, "Love you." 

"Love you too." 

He kneeled in front of you, pressing a kiss to both knees before resting his chin in your lap. 

"I missed you," he whispered.

"I missed you too." You tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear with your free hand, and that's when you saw it - the slight weariness behind his loving gaze, the dark circles his eyes much more prominent. Your hand stilled.

"Did you sleep?" You asked, keeping your voice even.  

"I tried to sleep on the plane. Too excited to see you." 

"Did you sleep at all while you were away?" 

He shrugged, but didn't answer. 

"Spencer," you pressed, poking his shoulder.

"I did sleep. Just not to my usual standards." He admitted, eyes darting over your face, like he was already analysing your reaction. "But- but you know, there's several factors that could explain it. Have you heard of the first night phenomenon? Statistics show that people experience poorer and less sleep when spending the first night in a new environment, because our brains are wired to remain vigilant to potential threats opposed to the comfortability of sleeping in a place you're used to. This, paired with the general consensus that FBI agents are fair more likely to  suffer from sleep-related conditions means-," 

"-Means you still need to sleep." You cut off gently. 

His face morphed into a wince, "I know, I know...I'll sleep tonight?" He offered tentatively.

"Yes, you will. And no more paperwork until tomorrow, either. You just got back from a case, you need to rest for a least one night." 

"We could cuddle and eat the cookies instead?" He suggested.

Your face lit up eagerly, "Absolutely." 

Spencer stood up - not before pressing a kiss to your stomach over your shirt - allowing you to lay down and get comfortable. You opened your arms for him, "Come here, honeybun."

Spencer visibly relaxes at the pet name, shoulders slumping as he all but collapses against you, head laying to rest against your chest. You loved this - the way his tall figure enveloped you, protected you. That despite the time apart; his hands still found your hips, your hands still found the hair at the nape of his neck without a second thought, like two puzzle pieces fitting together perfectly. 

You let the quietness settle, before reaching over to the plate of cookies, grabbing one for you and one for Spencer. 

"Oh, these are delicious," He hummed as he took a bite. "compliments to the chef." His free hand gave your hip an affirming squeeze.

Your cheeks turned pink, "I'm glad you like them." 

"'Course I do, you made them." he mumbled around a mouthful before swallowing.

"Did you know cookies originated from 7th century Persia? But chocolate chip cookies were first made by Ruth Graves Wakefield in 1938. She was from Whitman Massachusetts, and she owned the Toll House Inn. That's what they were originally named after, actually - the Toll House Chocolate Crunch Cookie. And, in 1997 the chocolate chip cookie was named the official cookie of the state of Massachusetts..." 

You were only half paying attention- not that you didn't like listening when he went on one of his tangents, but you loved the sound of his voice even more. The sound of it was soothing, made you feel at peace. Like the only thing that really mattered in the moment was him. 

"You know," you started, voice soft as your eyes fixed on the cookie in hand "This kind of reminds me of my own heart." 

His head tilted to the side, "That would be anatomically incorrect," he commented.

Your elbow nudged his side, "I'm trying to be sappy here." 

He pouted, "Okay, okay, sorry. Do continue with your sappiness." 

"As I was saying...you know, the chocolate chips make the dough all melty and gooey. And then, there's my own heart, which you make all melty and gooey." You explained.

It was Spencer's turn to become flustered, offering you a dimpled smile. "Well, I'm honored to be that one that makes your heart gooey." He murmured as he pressed a kiss to your cheek.

"They're going to see–" "Let them,"

He let out a shaky breath, letting his shoulders drop down to his lanky frame. "It's not that bad, I've gotten worse." The graphic imaginations flashed through your head, which you pushed away.

Crimson stained down your hand, a gasp escaping your lips as it came from the cut (which was far too small for stitches) on his cheekbone.

You scrambled for something, anything, to clean him up yourself. A cotton ball caught your eye and a bottle of sterile alcohol. You soaked the cotton, the sharp scent hitting your senses.

"Okay it might sting a bit," You warned him as you lifted the cotton to his face. Spencer winced, fingers digging into his own slacks. "Do you know why it burns?" You asked him, drawing his attention purposefully.

"Alcohol stings on wounds because it activates VR1 receptors," He paused. "Nerve receptors that detect heat and pain," You nodded along; while someone could take Spencer's "dumbing down" during conversations as an insult, you thought it was sweet. "at a much lower temperature than normal, tricking your brain into feeling a burning sensation. Specifically, ethanol lowers the activation threshold of these receptors by almost 10°C, often triggering them at normal body temperature."

By the time Spencer had finished explaining, you were done cleaning his wound. "Thank you," He gave you a shy smile.

"You're welcome, Spence." You pushed yourself off of the back of the ambulance, holding out your hand Spencer, which he took in a heartbeat (germs really didn't apply with you).

"I like it when you call me that," It slipped out of his lips faster than he could process what he was saying. "What? Spence?" You teased.

"Better than 'Reid,'" He recalled your previous act. "Everyone calls you that," You fired back, hands clasped together, walking by his side towards the rest of the team.

"Not you," and he was right, you had never called him Reid. Spencer, Spence, and even baby, but not Reid.

"I guess so," You dropped his hand and greeted your team, as he went back to just 'Spencer.'