boo

The pen stopped moving. Something in his chest dropped, slow and heavy, like the floor had shifted a few inches without warning.

"Yes. That's me. What happened." It wasn't a question so much as a demand dressed up as one.

"She's okay, I want to say that first. She had a seizure, she was brought in about forty minutes ago, she's stable and resting. She's a little confused, which is normal, and she's been asking for you."

The rest of the room went quiet somewhere far away from him. He knew about your epilepsy, had known since early on, had spent nights he never told you about reading everything he could find on it, seizure types and triggers and what a postictal state actually looked like from the outside, because knowing things was how he made sense of the world and this was no different. He'd told himself once, in that private clinical way he told himself most things, that knowing everything about it would mean he'd stay calm if it ever happened. He understood now, standing there with the phone against his ear, that he'd gotten that completely wrong. Every fact he'd ever memorized about it was just another way of picturing it happening to you, and now it wasn't a picture anymore.

He knew you had him listed as your emergency contact. You'd told him yourself, months ago, half joking about it over dinner. He'd never let himself think about what it would mean for that to actually get used, and certainly not this soon.

He didn't remember standing up. He remembered Hotch's hand landing on his shoulder a second later, remembered the way the whole room had gone quiet without him saying a word, because apparently his face had already told them everything.

"Go," Hotch said. "We've got this. JJ, drive him."

★・・・・・・★

The drive blurred into a strange kind of stillness, JJ's hands steady on the wheel and Spencer's knee bouncing the entire way, his brain refusing to sit in the fear and reaching for facts instead, because facts were something he could hold onto even when nothing else was. Postictal states typically last five to thirty minutes. Confusion, fatigue, headache. Amnesia around the event itself is common. He is not panicking. He is reciting.

He knew all of it. Had known it for months, in the abstract, careful way he knew most things he researched late at night when he couldn't sleep, and he'd been there for a handful of your seizures before too, small ones, over almost as soon as they started, never once past the two minute mark. He'd timed every single one on instinct, phone out before he'd even consciously decided to grab it, because that was the thing that mattered most, how long, always how long. None of those had ever needed more than him staying close and waiting it out with you. This was the first time it hadn't been something he could just sit through and time and know, statistically, it would be fine, and knowing the words for what was happening now did nothing to prepare him for walking into that hospital room and seeing it be more than what he'd learned to expect.

By the time he got to the hospital his shirt was wrinkled from sitting wrong on the car ride over and he didn't care. He gave your name at the desk, got directed down a hallway that smelled like antiseptic and vending machine coffee, and pushed open the door to your room like he'd been holding his breath the entire way there.

You were propped up in the bed, eyes half open, an IV taped into the back of your hand. There was a faint bruise starting to bloom along your jaw from where you must have hit something when you went down, and it made something in his chest twist so hard he had to breathe through it before he could speak.

"Hey," he said, quiet.

Your eyes found him slowly, like they were dragging through fog to get there. "Spencer?"

"Yeah. I'm here."

"Why are you here. Aren't you supposed to be." You stopped, frowning, like the end of the sentence had slipped out of reach. "Where were you supposed to be."

"It doesn't matter." He pulled the chair over to the side of the bed and sat down so he was closer to your height, not looming over you. "Do you know where you are?"

You looked around, slow, like you were seeing the room for the first time. "Hospital."

"Good. That's good." He kept his voice low and even, the same voice he used when he was trying to talk someone down from the edge of something, except this time there was no edge, just you, tired and blinking and trying to hold onto the thread of the conversation.

"I don't remember," you said, and your voice cracked a little on it, more scared than upset. "I don't remember what happened."

"That's normal. That's really normal, actually, your brain sort of hits pause during a seizure and it doesn't always save what happens right around it, it's not that you're forgetting, it's more that it never got written down in the first place." He reached out and took your hand, the one without the IV, careful. "You're not in trouble for not remembering. You didn't do anything wrong. The amnesia around the event is actually really common, it's not a reflection of—"

"Spencer." Your voice was tired, worn thin, but there was an edge under it. "I know. I know, okay. I've done this before. I've lived in this body my whole life, I know what a seizure is, I know what happens after, I don't need you to explain it to me like I've never had one."

He stopped, whatever fact had been lined up next dying somewhere behind his teeth.

"I don't want the science right now. I want you here." Your grip tightened around his hand, the only steady thing you had. "I know what's happening even when I can't remember it happening. That doesn't make me any less scared."

Something in his face shifted, the reciting instinct grinding to a halt all at once, like he'd only just heard himself. "Okay." Quieter now, stripped of the clinical edge he hadn't noticed he was using. "Okay. I'm here. Just me."

You squeezed his hand, weak but real. "I'm so tired."

"I know. That's normal too. Your brain basically just ran a marathon, all your neurons firing at once like that, it's physically exhausting, it's not in your head, it's not you being dramatic, your body actually worked really hard the last hour."

You let out a weak little laugh, barely more than a breath. "Spencer. I said no science."

"Right. Sorry." He almost smiled, caught.

"Tell me something else. Something that has nothing to do with any of this." You squeezed his hand. "I don't want to be the sick girl right now, I just want to be yours for a minute. So tell me something I don't know."

He thought about it for a second, actually thought about it, like he was sorting through a hundred facts to find the right one to hand you. "Okay. In 1896 there was a war between Britain and Zanzibar that lasted a grand total of thirty eight minutes, it's the shortest war ever recorded, the Sultan basically surrendered before the tea had gone cold."

"That's the one you picked."

"You said something you don't know. That's one of the more interesting ones I've got." His thumb moved slow over the back of your hand. "I could also tell you honey never spoils, archaeologists have found three thousand year old honey that's still edible, but I thought the war had more range."

"It did," you murmured, some of the strain easing out of your face for the first time since he'd walked in. "Keep going."

So he did, quiet and unhurried, one fact folding into the next, none of them about seizures or hospitals or anything either of you needed to brace against, just him giving you a few minutes of being nothing more than his, listening to the sound of his voice instead of the sound of your own heartbeat.

Some of the tension went out of your shoulders at that, like you'd been bracing for him to treat it like a bigger emergency than it needed to be right now, or worse, to treat you like you were breakable. He wasn't doing either. He was just there.

"I'm sorry you had to get that call," you murmured, eyes drifting half shut.

"You don't apologize for that. You did nothing wrong, your body's just still catching up with itself, that's all this is." He pressed a light kiss to your forehead, careful of the ache still sitting behind it. "I'm not going to pretend that wasn't scary to hear either. But you're okay. That's the important part."

He made a note, quiet and to himself, to call your neurologist's office in the morning, not because he thought anything was wrong, but because this one had run longer than the ones he was used to, and it was one more thing he could carry for you so you wouldn't have to hold onto it in the middle of being this tired.

A nurse came in not long after to go over discharge instructions, and Spencer listened to every word with the kind of focus he usually reserved for crime scenes, nodding, asking two follow-up questions the nurse looked mildly startled by, memorizing dosages and follow-up appointment windows so you wouldn't have to hold onto any of it yourself. He'd already asked, quiet and to the point, whether the seizure had lasted long enough to be a bigger concern, and the relief that crossed his face when the nurse said no, this one had resolved well within the window they'd want to worry about, was the first time all night his shoulders had actually dropped.

"You're allowed to just rest," he told you once the nurse left. "I've got the rest of it handled."

★・・・・・・★

The car ride home was quiet. You dozed against the window, and he kept glancing over every few seconds like he needed to keep checking that you were still breathing evenly, still there, still okay. He didn't turn on music. He didn't need it. He just wanted to hear you breathing.

Back at your place he got you settled on the couch under the blanket that lived on the back of it, propped you up with two pillows because lying flat still made your head throb, and went to the kitchen to make toast because it was the only thing he was fairly confident he couldn't ruin.

"You don't have to hover," you mumbled when he came back and set the plate down, even though you were visibly glad he was there.

"I'm not hovering. I'm sitting."

"You've checked on me four times in ten minutes."

"Five, actually, but I don't think you counted the one where I just looked at you from the kitchen." He sat down on the edge of the couch by your feet, careful not to jostle you. "I can go sit somewhere less visible if it would make you feel better."

"No," you said, too fast, and he almost smiled.

"Okay. Then I'll stay here."

You ate half a piece of toast and gave up, and he didn't push, just took the plate and set it aside and let you burrow back down into the blanket. The bruise along your jaw looked darker in the lamp light. He reached over, gentle, and brushed his thumb just beside it, not touching the sore spot itself.

"I was scared," he admitted, quiet, like it cost him something to say out loud. "On the way here. I don't know if I've ever been that scared."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't. You don't have anything to apologize for, none of this was something you did, it just happened, bodies just do this sometimes, it's not a reflection of anything you could have controlled." He paused. "I just wanted you to know. That I was scared. Not so you'd feel bad about it. Just so you'd know how much I."

He didn't finish it. He didn't need to.

You reached for his hand instead, and he let you pull him down until he was sitting properly beside you, your head finding his shoulder like it belonged there.

"Stay?" you asked, voice already going soft and slow with sleep pulling at you.

"I'm not going anywhere," he said, and meant it in the way he meant very few things, absolutely, without qualification, without any statistic to back it up because some things didn't need one. "Go to sleep. I'll be right here when you wake up."

You were out within a few minutes, your breathing slow and even against him, and he sat there in the quiet with the lamp turned low, one hand resting careful over yours, and let himself finally believe that you were okay.

He didn't move for a long time. He didn't want to.

first, a startled register of his environment and then, a confused glance at the very naked girl draped over his body. his arms come up, hovering, sputtering, and then politely putting his palms over your shoulders. nudging you to look up at him.

jesus christ, those eyes. 

“hi.”

so quiet. “hey, handsome.”

he lets out a long, contemplative sigh, thinking, thinking, thinking. when does this guy ever stop thinking? “we kissed,” he says it like a fact, but with questioning lilt that makes it sound otherwise. 

you prop an elbow on the bed, joint wedged into the space above his shoulder so you can see him better. the blanket keeping you decent slips a bit and spencer unconsciously tucks it more securely under your arm. you catalogue that for later. 

“we did a lot more than that. forgive me for being untoward but we fucked,” you clarify, innocent with your chin in the heel of your palm.

spencer groans, he groans! “don't be crude.”

“we're naked.”

“i know that,” he murmurs, disgruntled, leaning up to press a chaste kiss to your jaw and falling back into the pillow. you sport an amused little smile when you see the pout on his lips. 

you slept with spencer reid.

your coworker, your friend, the man you’d been terribly smitten with for who knows how long (7 months and 3 days.)

spencer reid who lingered by your side for hours last night, unassuming, unbothered, who smiled softly at your wine induced flush whenever he’d lean in to hear you better, who sat with you while you tipped your chin up at the sky to point out stars and asked him to name them, who pressed a sobering kiss to your lips in rossi's backyard after a clumsily delivered compliment.

you’re so pretty.

your response is a blur, forgotten, but you do remember how he drove you home with his hand idly playing with your fingers over the center console. how he tried but inevitably failed to be a gentleman as you led him up to your apartment, shared, hushed giggles echoing down the hallway and quite gracefully falling into bed leaving a very telling breadcrumb trail of clothes. 

and now, half a second of thought passes on whether you should ask him or surprise him. the latter wins and you dip down and kiss the corner of his mouth. you’re not evil, he deserves some warning before you really plant one on him. he wastes no time, bringing his lips to yours with those big hands cradling your face. 

his lips press against yours gingerly in a sweet, lingering kiss, followed by another and another. mouth slotted over yours, like perfect puzzle pieces, his tongue traces the seam of your lips and you grant him entrance, letting him gently lick into your mouth. you let out a small, needy sound at the warmth of his tongue against yours, melting into him. it makes him chuckle quietly.

“spence,” you gasp against his lips.

a subtle shudder makes its way down his spine at the desperation in your voice, the same need slowly fogging up his own brain, remnants of last night catching up. 

“i know, angel,” he cups your neck, what is happening?

“can i admit something?”

spencer smiles at you, boyish and stupid spread across his face, “please do.”

“you kiss nice, had i known you were this good of a kisser i would’ve done it ages ago,” you mumble, forcing words out to keep a sliver of your dignity.

he laughs again, a small pleased sound that makes you feel good. “you do too. you are wildly better than anything i have ever imagined–”

“you’ve imagined me?” you turn timid in a way that you hate but spencer kisses you and it melts away.

“of course i have. you’re wonderful.”

spencer pulls your leg over his and sits the two of you up, thighs bracketing his hips. the blanket falls unabashedly into the space between your bodies, pooled dangerously low over his lap. you thank whatever god there is for the enticing view of the scattering of light hair that trails beneath the covers.

you’re surprised with the ease in which spencer's hands drag down your sides, like he's done it a million times before. he pushes the pads of his thumbs into the area above your hipbone like he knows you’ll twitch when he does, and you do. damn his eidetic memory and damn his perfect mouth when he attaches his lips to your jaw, angling you as he lightly works the skin. he's careful enough not to leave a mark somewhere visible but it doesn't stop him from reminding himself he can do it elsewhere, somewhere more concealed.

“pretty girl,” he coos, kissing over your pulse point, below your ear, “lay back, please.” please. he murmurs against your skin, nodding behind you. he pecks your cheek, rather sweetly considering your state of undress and swiftly returns to your neck like he can’t believe he pulled away.

now wait.

you forget about your own hands through all of this, hanging limply over his right shoulder and heavy by your side. you thread your fingers into his hair and path something more devious for the other. spencer jolts when your fingertips graze over his cock, you’d think he’d expect it but he reacts like it's completely sudden. it scares you momentarily, were you too forward? but then he looks at you with something beggy and glazed over in his eyes and it motivates you to ease the shelter of the blanket fully off, baring him.

spencer pinks, tips of his ears to the top of his chest. you inch off his lap and sit in front of him. you watch the features in his face twist into realisation and cut him off before he can say something polite, "i wanna taste you, spence.”

you’ve stunned spencer reid. for the first time in his fucking life he doesn’t know what to say. so he pushes out a, “yeah? fuck, okay. yeah.” an embarrassing stutter of words but it's enough to reassure you. 

a firm finger pokes him square in the chest, not so hard that it hurts but enough to have him lean back against the headboard. he follows dutifully, letting the pillows take him, allowing him some semblance of solid ground beneath him. because he's convinced he might pass out at the sight of you settling between his outstretched legs, looking sinfully unaware of just how much you affect him.

although the effect itself becomes glaringly obvious when his cock twitches, two pairs of eyes darting down immediately. you can't tell if he's bigger than what you remember from last night, but you do know that you want him in your mouth immediately.

your head dips down, a slow hand curling around the base of his length, guiding it to your lips. the head, flushed and red, meets soft and plush, a light kiss against him. and spencer thinks he might die. your lips part, taking the tip into your mouth, tongue laving against his slit. your eyes flutter shut when a bead of precum settles over your tastebuds, slightly salty. you glide down, the weight of him in your mouth is deliriously good.

at some point between drawing back and swirling your tongue around his tip, spencer tangles his hands in your hair. fingertips soft over your scalp, he doesn't push, just holds you. your head bobs down again, forming a steady rhythm. your eyes start to water when he nudges at the back of your throat, breath faltering as the hair low on his stomach begins to tickle your nose. he immediately pulls you off with a gentle hand fixed to your jaw.

“you don’t have to do it all.” the concern in his eyes is sickening as he wipes off the saliva smeared to the corner of your mouth. you smile at him, a little sheepish, tilting into his palm. “i know.”

you press a kiss to his wrist and return to the task at hand, cock standing proud over his abdomen and possibly redder than when you left it. you lean down, letting a little dribble of spit fall from your lips to his length. decidedly, you wrap your fingers around him, letting the saliva act as a lubricant. you press a thumb to a vein running along the side of his cock, tracing it with every up and down of your hand. he lets out a shuddering exhale in response. 

you hope the look you give him is sultry at best, you don't know that his vision is starting to blur at the corners when your head dips down again. only to mouth at the tip this time, a sloppy makeout around the flushed head as your hand continues to work at the rest of him.

“god, angel. you’re so-” he cuts himself off with a moan when your wrist twists. “so good at that.”

you let the words get to your head, a burning heat that creeps up your neck. emboldened, you take more of him into your mouth, hollowing out your cheeks as you go. spencer can't help the way his hips buck up and you almost gag again. you pull off with a breathless giggle, wiping your mouth while spencer regards you with that same sickening concern, except now there's guilt in his comforting touch when he inspects your face. he doesn’t find this funny at all.

you hold his wrist as you laugh again and put on your most reassuring voice, "i'm okay.”

a skeptical purse of his lips. you gravitate forward, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “i promise,” you whisper, followed by a nip at his skin. it elicits a gasped sound from the depths of his chest.

he pulls you into a kiss, relishing in the ever so slight taste of him on your lips as he turns the two of you around, you let him lay you down this time. the moment feels kismet when his fingers trail lower. one hand keeping him propped up and the other parting your folds. you're unbelievably wet, the lingering effects of last night and spencer on your tongue leaving you as much.

“oh, spencer.” your hips rise to his touch when he dips a finger into your entrance and he's immediately determined to make you say his name like that again. the way you gush around him as his finger curls up allows him to add another one to the mix. you think he’s ruined you forever with how fast the peak builds, a heavy, honey-like pressure pushing down on your stomach as his fingers move, relentless between your thighs. you stop him before he can put his thumb to your clit with an urgent gasp, knowing that if you come now you won’t be able to keep going, “fuck me.” swallow, “please.”

spencer pulls his fingers out, kissing your chin when your head tips back at the emptiness. he can't help the tug at the corner of his lips, eyes possibly filled with too much affection when your thighs give a needy squeeze around his hips. “i got you,” he whispers, pulling you closer with two firm hands at your hips. 

he pushes in, and it's an easy fit, you’ve been ready for what feels like forever. but where he lacks in overwhelming thickness he makes up for in length so it truly just keeps going. your hands brace at his side when he finally bottoms out. “i swear you weren’t this big,” you huff against his shoulder, almost exasperated. 

spencer laughs, though it skirts the edge of something aching, “ha-ah, you’re boosting my ego, sweetheart.”

“good,” you hum, eyebrows pinching when he begins to move. your walls flutter around him, adjusting, you don’t know how you took it last night without his rearranging you from the inside out. “you’re so- feels so good, spence.”

he whines into your neck, the speed of his hips increasing with every subsequent clench around his cock, he doesn’t know if he can handle this much praise. lewd noises fill the room, moans and flush inducing wet squelches echoing off the walls and forming into something tangible between your bodies. it's not enough, something's missing, you need him even closer. 

“baby, wait. flip me over.”

baby.

he hesitates before turning your body under his. upon re-entering you, it all clicks into place. you melt in satisfaction, cheek smushed against the pillow with your mouth stupidly hanging open. he gives an experimental roll of his hips, slow and deliberate, hitting places you never deemed possible.

“there?” he asks when you simultaneously mumble an incoherent y-uhuh, there, he lays over you and starts fucking you into the sheets.

his chest molds perfectly to your back, head fitted somewhere between your shoulders with his lips attached to the nape of your neck. he murmurs things, things you can't possibly comprehend with how deep he is, you swear you could feel him in your throat. your hips push back, meeting his thrusts with every persistent plap. sweat blooms. a light sheen everywhere your skin touches him, you feel warm all over. you feel him all over. spencer. spencer. spencer. 

spencer snakes a hand under your body with an unwitting amount of familiarity when he starts rubbing circles into your clit

you feel it again, pulsing, a pleasant ringing in your ears that drowns everything out except his voice. “gonna cum for me again? huh, angel? just like last night?” quiet encouragement, awe, tinged with a bit of condescension, it sends sparks down your spine, setting off fireworks between your legs. 

your head tips over to his arm, where it's planted beside you on the pillow, to sink teeth into flesh. canines dig into muscle, and if you were any more coherent, you would’ve drawn blood. your scream muffles against him, legs twitching out and shaking under his body, spencer blankets you with a heavy grounding pressure as your orgasm crests. his lips press to your cheek when you look over your shoulder at him, eyebrows imploringly upturned, he follows right after you and he is beautiful. 

he slumps, heavy. but the good kind. you welcome the pressure and the closeness for a minute while your breathing evens out. in and out.

“i need to pee, reid."

“oh please, don't call me that when i'm still inside you.”

you laugh into the pillow, shoulders shaking while he pulls out. funny boy. you pull a shirt over your head and watch as spencer stumbles trying to put on his underwear. he trails behind you quietly as you walk into the attached bathroom and pretend to ignore the pout he tries to hide when you close the door. 

you feel a little stupid talking to him from the toilet but it makes it somewhat easier to ask him. “can we do this again?” your voice muffles through the wood. 

he squeaks something panicked, “i don’t know if i can–”

you push an amused smile into your knuckles, “not now, spencer. at some point, in the near future.”

“yeah?” he asks, sickeningly hopeful. “would you let me take you to dinner first? preferably not at rossi’s house?”

spencer hears the flush and then the door clicks open. you have your hands joined behind your back, he takes a step forward.

“i’d really like that.”

you’ve got an expression on your face that doesn’t warrant a confirmation, still, spencer asks. “yeah?” 

you lean forward and kiss him, a few seconds too long. “it’s a date.”

He shows up so much you've stopped being surprised.

So much that you start anticipating his presence.

So much that you feel a sense of relief when he walks into the faculty social space—administration's initiative from three years ago that was meant to address the burn out and stress by providing a vending machine and a ping pong table rather than doing something more palpable like raising wages—and finds you at one of the tables, sorting through small cardboard cutouts with Carrie.

"Your professor charming alert." Carrie sing-songs. She's been taking every single chance at playful teasing ever since you and Spencer 'officially' hard launched your 'relationship'. You can tell she's gloating; Carrie seemed to have the notion—a childish one, in your opinion—that your initial annoyance at Spencer was borne out of attraction.

Now she feels vindicated, and you can't set the record straight without ruining your arrangement with Spencer.

"Behave." you murmur, just as Spencer approaches. He's windswept and smiling, as if unburdened by his workload. You can only assume that teaching and academia is a welcome reprieve after his high-pressure job at the FBI. You welcome him with a smile, and it feels natural, "Hi Spencer."

"Afternoon, ladies." He pulls up a chair and sits next to you, knees brushing against yours under the table. His gaze sweeps over the spread of pictures on the table, and a crease forms between his brows in confusion. "What's all this?"

"A fun little activity for my graduate students." Carrie replies, "The hear me out cake. Well, no more cake and just hear me outs now."

"Oh, you mentioned this a few weeks ago!" Spencer looks pleased when it registers, beaming at Carrie, "You said it helps keep your students motivated after the midterms."

"Yep. Free cake, they get to gush about hot characters and engage with our readings in a low stakes, almost casual way. Win-win." Carrie says with flourish.

You lift a cutout of Mufasa from The Lion King. "Whoever put this on that cake is brave and deserves the highest marks."

Carrie laughs. "Oh, I love that student. She's so outspoken and funny."

Spencer's frown deepens at the picture. He reaches over, gently taking it from your hands. "I'm afraid I don't understand. I thought the purpose of this activity was to share which Shakespearean character you find attractive."

"The Lion King is a Hamlet adaptation." you say, ready to defend the student.

"Yes, but with lions." he deadpans.

"Arguably attractive ones."

Spencer blinks, and turns to Carrie for explanation.

"It's an ongoing trend online, it's meant to be for characters who are more… unconventional." Carrie explains, holding up a Simba picture this time, "Hence, prefacing the whole thing with hear me out."

Spencer looks equal parts intrigued and concerned.

"When it's more broadly applied, it isn't always animals," you add, giggling at the utter bewilderment at Spencer's face, "Sometimes it's characters people normally wouldn't find attractive… like Beetlejuice."

"Or horror figures, like Ghostface or Pennywise from IT."

Spencer's brows are furrowed differently now, less in confusion and more focused, the way they always get when he begins contemplating. He doesn't laugh or seem horrified, now that it's been more clearly explained.

"You're right, though," Carrie adds, "I did specify only Shakespearean characters for my class, only because I had to connect this activity to the course subject. But it's much more lenient when it's just being done between friends."

"Interesting. So it's almost a showcase of someone's deeper desires." he murmurs, eyes skating over the variety of Shakespearean characters on the table—some quite tame, like Timothée Chalamet as Henry V; others funnier, like Bill Murray as Polonius. "Participating in it means opening up about your attraction to what other people would consider taboo."

"Yeah. It's a great bonding activity." you nod, smiling at how earnestly he's taking the entire thing, processing it through a scholar's lens. Without mockery or judgment, simply with the desire to understand.

"I see." he nods, watching Carrie sort the characters together.

She's trying to see if there's a common character that everyone secretly pines over. Last year, there was an overwhelming amount of Falstaff entries; this year, it seems to be Simba/Hamlet. You're busy helping her, when suddenly:

"Who are yours?" Spencer asks, twisting in his seat so his body is angled towards you, open and curious.

Carrie bursts out laughing. "Oh god, she has some crazy ones."

"No, I don't." you grumble.

"Yeah, you do." Carrie turns to Spencer, lips stretched in a massive grin, "You're about to learn some very fascinating things about your girlfriend, professor."

Spencer returns her smile, and you're struck with the desire to conk their heads together. They'd deserve it, matching grins and all.

"No." you shake your head.

"Why not?"

"I don't want you to judge me."

"I won't!"

"Or psychoanalyze me."

"I…" he pauses, "I'll try not to."

Carrie laughs. You glare at both of them, betrayed.

"He'll find out sooner or later," Carrie says, shrugging innocently, as if that would absolve her of her betrayal, "Honestly, I'm surprised it hasn't come up yet, with the amount of time you guys seems to spend together."

The teasing implication is clear. You feel your face burn, annoyed that you can't even refute it. Fake relationship or not, you had been spending a lot of time with Spencer.

Beside you, he chuckles, looking sheepish and caught, ears turning rosy. "Guilty. And now that it's been thoroughly explained to me, I'm very curious."

You groan, burying your face in your hands. "I hate you both."

"Come on, I'll start." Carrie compromises with a giggle, "One of mine is Waluigi."

"From… from the Mario Brothers?" you can hear the amusement coloring Spencer's voice.

"Yep." Carrie says, proudly popping the 'p'. "Another one is Shrek. I love a grump. My husband's a grump. And quite rotund. He gives great hugs."

Spencer laughs, "Shrek is a very well developed character, I think I understand the appeal."

"Thank you!" Carrie's foot makes contact with yours under the table, a gentle prod. "See, he doesn't judge. Your turn."

You don't lift your head from your hands, muffling the sound of your voice when you answer. "Loki."

"The Norse trickster god?" Spencer clarifies.

"Sure, but specifically the Marvel version."

"Oh, you can do better than that, Tom Hiddleston is objectively very attractive. That defeats the purpose of a hear me out." Carrie protests, nudging your foot again, this time more insistently. This woman thrives when it's time to tease you, a fact that you normally enjoy and encourage—what's friendship without some healthy ribbing?—but right now it feels like a curse.

You groan, regretting ever divulging your list to her. There's no point in lying, when you've had this conversation a million times prior, and Carrie knows you have quite an… eclectic taste.

"Ugh, fine. The balrog."

Carrie snorts in satisfaction. Spencer shifts beside you, and you suddenly feel he's much too close for comfort. His thigh presses against yours, and you can feel his warmth despite the layers of clothing.

"From Lord of the Rings?" Spencer asks.

You lower your hands and slump in your seat, braving his reaction. Despite your indignation, your response comes out weak.

"Yes."

"The one that Gandalf fights in Moria?"

"Yes. Fiery demon with muscles and a whip, come on, I don't think I have to explain myself here." you huff, directing your sheepish gaze at the spread of pictures on the table. "And for the record, they end the fight in Zirakzigil, not Moria."

He chuckles, scratching his jaw as he considers. "But that's not even really a human."

"So? Carrie wants to fuck an ogre and her students want a lion."

Across the table, Carrie throws her head back and guffaws.

"So this goes beyond… physical compatibility."

"Yeah," Carrie manages through her laughter, "Sometimes, people want non sentient things too. Or full on monsters, like, I dunno, the Kraken."

"Or demons, like the balrog." Spencer turns to you.

Your fingers slide under your glasses and rub at your eyes. "You promised not to make fun."

"I'm not, I'm just realizing that I'm so far out of your type." Spencer says.

You stop what you're doing and risk a glance at him. A dimpled smile greets you, so impish and sweet you have no choice but to return it.

"You could get a whip." you mumble.

His smile turns devious. Devastating. Everything in your stomach turns molten, and, with nowhere to go, simply spreads inside out. You wouldn't be surprised if you've miraculously turned lobster red. You want the ground to swallow you whole.

You wish he'll keep looking at you like that, with that exact smile, welcome the utter void it creates in your normally overactive mind.

Thankfully, you're saved from responding when Carrie interrupts. She raps on the table, chuckling.

"Okay lovebirds, save the dirty talk for when I'm not here."

"I swear to god, Carrie." you kick her under the table, hard, which only elicits a laugh from her.

And, because her ability to tease apparently extends to your current 'boyfriend,' she turns to Spencer, shoulders still shaking. She manages to silence her laughter just enough to ask:

"Now that you know about it, Doctor Reid, who would be your hear me outs?"

You perk up, turning to him.

Who would be his hear me outs? What sort of character or creature would entice Spencer Reid that way? You try to predict one, but he seems like an anomaly. He's the kind of person whose choices could range from something relatively tame like Morticia Addams, to something utterly wild and out of left field.

Honestly, you half expect him to say Cthulhu.

"I don't think I can beat the balrog." he laughs, running a hand through his already messy curls.

"You don't have to beat it." you reassure him with a smile, though you do want to add you can try though.

"Yeah, sorry this is kind of on the spot. Just give us one off the top of your head." Carrie says. Both of you stare at him curiously, but he doesn't seem to mind the attention. He's deep in thought, fingers trailing over some of the cutouts on the table.

"I've always enjoyed reading about the Sphinx," he mutters finally, the crease between his brows deepening into a valley the more he concentrates, "Depending on which culture you read from, the symbolism will differ, but one thread seems to connect all of them—sphinxes are guardians. I think I quite like how it goes in Greek mythology, where she's ruthless and unbending. Takes a clever man to get through to her. Certain versions show her to give Oedipus the answer, hoping he'd fall in love with her, showing us that she yearns for something human too."

You blink, staring at him. At this point, it really shouldn't come as a surprise to you, how much thought he gives into everything. But it does. Especially when it's something as silly as this, an online trend that got explained to him five minutes ago, but he's answering with careful consideration.

It's touching. And, you have to admit, however begrudgingly, quite endearing.

"You both said the game encompasses anything, right?" he says, when he realizes the silence has stretched, glancing between you and Carrie. "Or did I do this wrong?"

"You did it perfectly." the words leave your lips too fast. You smile anyway, encouraging him.

Carrie nods, lips stretched in a smirk. "Yeah, I think that answer ties with the balrog, at the very least. God, you two are a match made in freak-heaven."

Spencer laughs, cheeks turning pink. "I think I'm just attracted to strong, feminine figures."

"Oh, sure. But that doesn't negate what I said." Carrie points out, winking at you.

This time, you don't bother kicking her under the table. Not when Spencer's smile is once again directed at you, victorious and sincere.

Thank you deeply for reading, please reblog if you enjoyed!

You pulled away first, started avoiding him hoping it would prevent further incidents and protect your precious peace of mind. It worked, for a time, until something else happened. Another slight. Another apology. Another pardon. 

Spencer forgot to refill the coffee pot. An honest mistake, you're sure, but you were tired. It had been a long day, long week, long month with the amount of cases you were juggling; always running from scene to scene, or battling your fear of flying thirty thousand feet in the air, or listening to him talk when you had already told him you had a headache. All you wanted was a coffee.

It wouldn't have stuck with you, if it hadn't been him who was responsible. You wouldn't have even blinked if Emily or JJ—or anyone else—had put their hand up to take the blame for the sad, empty coffee pot. But of course it was him.

It was always him.

So you misplaced the file he was working on ("Sorry, Spence. I know I left it around here somewhere…"); and he let you borrow a pen that exploded all over your blouse ("Crap— I'm sorry! It must have gotten too warm in my car."); and your desk chair broke so you took his instead of one of the spares ("My bad…but are you sure you've always sat there? No, I'm certain you usually sit somewhere else. The same spot for seven years now? Are you gaslighting me, Reid?"). 

It wasn't until Spencer physically knocked the mug out of your hands, spilling your coffee all over the carpet, that the team noticed something was up. So much for those acclaimed profiling skills.

And the worst part? Spencer offered to clean that carpet. No, he insisted on it, and he apologised at every chance he got, all wide eyes and worry lines, really leaning into his kicked puppy appeal, and that was the moment your quiet battle turned into an all-out war.

Snide comments were ping ponged across the bullpen, the conference room, the jet—anywhere that put you and Reid within earshot of each other turned into your own hostile work environment playpen. He called you so many variations of the word "bitch" you were convinced he had shoved a thesaurus up his ass (all without actually calling you a bitch; that was too far), and you responded by slipping the word "virgin" into every sentence for two full shifts; he made a daring remark about the "borderline inappropriate" cut of your shirt, and you stole a sweater from his go-bag and wore it the rest of the day to "protect his eyes"; you got yourself a boyfriend, and he got…weird.

Reid's always weird, in a Reid way; awkward, rambling, would-be-a-good-court-jester kind of weird. But this was different. He was different.

He stopped fighting. Raised his pitiful little white flag and just stopped. No big argument, no letter from HR, nothing.

You just thought he'd gotten bored of the back-and-forth, or maybe his New Year's resolution was to stop being a total bitch (you can call him a bitch; that's fine) and become a total bore instead. It wasn't something you thought anything of— and you wouldn't even be thinking about it now if things weren't…like this.

Three months ago, you broke up with your boyfriend. (No big deal; people break up all the time.)

The last time you had sex was three months ago. (Again, nothing crazy; you've abstained for far longer than that in the past.)

You're stuck in a car for twelve hours… (Average stakeout; nothing to write home about.)

…with Spencer Reid… (You've done it before; you can do it again.)

…and you're pretty sure you're ovulating. (Literally happens every month; you'd be more concerned if you weren't ovulating.)

All of these factors are insignificant on their own. Mundane things that happen to everyone, anywhere, any time; mundane things that have all happened to you at one point or another, and it really, really shouldn't be a big deal.

So why does it feel like you're dying?

Spencer's talking to you, he has been for some time now, and you can barely hear him over…whatever this is. And you certainly can't look at him, because then you'll—

Christ, have his hands always looked like that? Were those veins there when you got in the car? The definition? Have they always been that big?

Okay, arms and legs crossed, eyes forward, breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth…

…is he sweating? Can you smell is sweat right now? Is that really what he smells like?

Correction: breathe in through your mouth, and out through your mouth.

You're sweating, that's for sure. 

Fuck, it's hot in here.

"Are you listening to me?"

"Uh huh."

"You haven't been listening, have you?"

"Sure I have." You rub your eyes, trying to get to whatever thing has hijacked your mind. "You said this guy, uh…wasn't bitten by a spider? So how is he Spider-Man?"

"I…" His gaze burns a hole straight through your temple and into your brain, sears it from the inside out. "I said that ten minutes ago."

"Oh." Pull yourself together. "Run it back?"

"Run it back?"

"We have time, don't we?" You squint at the dashboard, carefully avoiding any hands or forearms or biceps or— "There's…six hours left of this…oh my God."

"Don't sound too thrilled," Spencer mutters. "Anyway, the reason he's Spider-Man is because he was trying to recreate the abilities of the original Spider-Man in other people—this is set in the future, remember? He actually wanted to discontinue his research after a human test subject died, but Tyler Stone—that's his boss—had other plans…"

Garcia once told you about this alternate universe trope in a lot of her "fandoms" where characters have this almost wolf-like biological hierarchy thing going on— or something like that, you weren't paying much attention. You remember her talking about how certain people experience "heats" like animals do, and you're sure this must be the real-life equivalent.

You've been sitting in a hot car for six hours, unable to sleep, with a coworker who is inexplicably getting more and more attractive with each torturous minute that passes, and he's talking about fucking Spider-Man. Not even regular Spider-Man, either; he's talking about Spider-Man from the fucking future. 

And that's not to say that Reid was unattractive before this nightmare began, Morgan doesn't call him "pretty boy" for no reason, but you weren't attracted to him. Okay, maybe a little, or…more than a little—but not to the extent that you are now.

Right now, you feel positively in-fucking-sane. 

"…and in order to get himself off of Rapture, he uses an older template of his unaltered genetic code to overwrite his current biology. However, his subordinate Delgato sabotages the machines and, instead of being restored to his old code, his genes are rewritten to contain fifty percent spider DNA—that's how he becomes Spider-Man."

A pause. Spencer doesn't pause unless he's awaiting a response.

"…uh huh."

The leather squeaks as Spencer leans over to scrutinise you. "What did I say?"

"That he, um—" You shrug as you clear your throat. "Someone fucked with the machine, and now his DNA is half spider."

Another pause. Longer.

What is he waiting for? You answered his question.

"Um. I just figured that all Spider-Men were bitten by—"

"Can you look at me?"

"Nope."

You weren't supposed to say that out loud.

"…nope? What— what do you mean nope?"

"We're supposed to keep an eye out for our unsub," you mutter.

"So you can't spare a glance?"

"Nope," you repeat, popping the "p" this time so it sounds more intentional.

Spencer sinks back into his seat, but his gaze doesn't leave you.

"Did I do something?"

You shake your head quickly. "No, you're…fine."

He's fine? Really?

"Look," he sighs, "I know we've never really…seen eye to eye. And I've been, um, distant—"

"Just keep talking about Spider-Man, Reid."

"—but I think, if there's ever going to be an opportunity to talk things out, then—"

"Please."

"—this is it."

He talks over you, unapologetic. Bulldozes your words with his own, and with a kind of resolution that leaves the air feeling even heavier. The heat inside of the car mixes with whatever poison gas he's just released, makes it impossible to breathe.

Does your sweat smell as strongly as his does? If so, you should invest in a better deodorant— and stop breathing through your nose.

"Can we open a window?" you ask stiffly.

"Nope."

"Reid, please—"

"Are you trying to say I smell bad?"

God, no.

"Yes," you snap, "and I'm sweating like a dog in…"

As your words trail off into obscurity, Spencer scoffs. "Fine, open your window. It isn't even that warm in here, I have the AC turned up all the way."

"AC my ass." 

The air that hits you as you roll your window down feels like heaven. You lean back in your seat, finally able to breathe, but then you hear that damn squeak.

Spencer's leaning over to adjust the passenger side fan. His hair tickles your nose, and when you freeze up, he cranes his neck to look at you, and he smiles.

"Hello."

"What are you doing."

"I'm fixing your—"

"I just said you stink, Reid."

"Stop breathing through your nose, then."

There's brain matter leaking out from your ears. Eyes locked in this subdued, almost dead stare. Homed on his lips. You're roadkill, flattened under his tyre, using the last of your strength to blink and twitch. Slow and laboured. Helpless.

When the hell did he start looking like this?

"…thank you, Doctor."

Your efforts to keep your voice steady prove futile. You sound as weak as you feel, breathless and—Christ—like sex. 

Close enough to kiss. You could lean in, that's all it would take. He'd taste like his coffee, strong and sweet, at first, with a bitterness that hits you just as you pull away, drags you back in for more. You hate his coffee, and yet…part of you…

"You're welcome, Agent."

Spencer pulls back, returning to his seat before you can do anything rash. The fan hits your face, but it does nothing to cool you down. 

Despite your best efforts, your gaze follows him. Sticks to him like a magnet, dumb and dead and desperate. He doesn't seem to notice how he's killed you.

He reaches for the steering wheel, holds it like he's going somewhere. Fingers flex against the plastic, tendons working. Veins. Just…veins.

He probably has a big dick.

And you're looking out of the window, putting yourself in time-out, because what? 

What is wrong with you? This is Spencer. Awkward, bumbling, pain-in-the-ass Spencer. You can't be thinking about him like this. It isn't right. It's…

That day, when you stole his sweater, he had only made that remark about your outfit because you had caught him staring first.

"There is actually, um, something I've been meaning to…talk to you about."

And you had only kept it on for as long as you did because it was comfortable. Because you liked how it smelled. How it reminded you of him.

…and he never even asked for it back. You could have kept it. He would have let you keep it.

Just how long as this been happening?

"I asked Hotch to pair us together on this."

His words hit like a bucket of ice, and you snap back to him, frowning. "What?"

"I wanted— I don't know," he sighs. "I needed a moment alone with you—"

"A moment?" you hiss, leaning forward. "We're here for twelve hours, Reid. We've— we've already been here for six, and you're only just saying this now? What took you so long to—"

He cuts you off, spitting out the name of your ex boyfriend like a curse—like it means anything.

You scoff, all irrational, hormonal thoughts forgotten. "What about him?"

"He's the reason I took so damn long, alright?" He's talking to the steering wheel; you're staring at him like he's lost his mind. "Because I…I had a plan, at the start of the year. I-I was going to ask you out, but—"

"Reid."

"You got this…stupid rock of a boyfriend, and— and I concluded that I was the idiot. I-I told myself that I had misread everything, and that you were never…interested in me, like that."

"Are you serious—"

"I'm not finished." Releasing the steering wheel, Spencer turns to you with this big, sarcastic smile. "The idiot here is you—"

You practically launch yourself across the seats, meeting his open, smug mouth with a kiss that leaves him floundering, grasping at the leather to keep himself steady so he doesn't fall and, more importantly, so he can kiss you back. He matches your hunger like it's second nature, like it's been simmering quietly within him for as long as it has been in you. Like he's spent months letting it eat him alive.

Everything is on fire. Your skin burns at the same temperature his does; tongues meet in a blaze amidst scorched lips and molten teeth. 

He pulls you over the centre console. Your knee hits the gearstick, and he mumbles an apology into your mouth, adjusts himself so you can straddle him with relative ease. 

Those large hands settle like anchors on your waist, pressing you down just enough for you to feel how his body responds to the kiss, to this position, to you. And it's enough to make you moan, because you were right: if the bulge in his slacks is anything to go by, Spencer Reid has a big dick. It's a wonder his ego isn't supersized, too.

It hardly registers that you're rocking your hips until he's whining on your tongue, trying to move in tandem in a way the car seat simply won't allow for. You reach around blindly, and the seat gives a rough, begrudging jerk before it reclines. 

"Okay…" Your chest heaves against his as you pull back just enough to let yourself breathe. "I concede…I'm an idiot…"

Spencer exhales a shaky, smile-ridden sigh as his hand finds your cheek. The curl of his lips reads as nothing but affectionate; pure, unfiltered fondness offset only by his words. 

"I forgive you."

You don't share in his smile. In fact, you swat his hand away like it's dirty.

"Bitch."

And then you're latching onto his neck, relishing the way he stutters on a gasp that, if you're hearing correctly, is laced with a curse. Faint, but discernible. 

God, the things you'd do to hear that again. 

When your teeth nip his sensitive skin, he whimpers, and you feel his cock twitch and strain against the fabric between you. 

Corrupting the golden boy, getting him to say all kinds of nasty things for you, and in a government-issue vehicle, too…now that sounds like an exciting way to spend your night. Far better than this stupid stakeout— the stupid stakeout that he requested you accompany him on.

Buttons hit the window as you pull his shirt open without care. He sputters, stammers, but you're kissing along his collarbone before he can choke out a single word, dragging your nails down his chest, and by that point all he can do is throw his head back and make his pretty little noises; you can worry about his shirt later.

As if on cue, Spencer's phone starts to ring. The hot car turns to ice, and in that split-second before the panic really kicks in, and he's just staring at you with those startled brown eyes, you swear to God he's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. 

He scrambles around for his phone, finds it in his pocket just under your thigh. He almost drops it as he brings it to his ear.

"Hel— hello? Hotch? You— p-pardon? He's— okay. Okay, we're…um— we're on our way…sir. Yes, sir. Okay."

His hand drops to his side, limp, and he exhales a sigh that shakes so much it rattles the both of you.

"Don't," you mumble, pressing your face to his neck.

"The, um, the unsub—"

"Oh my God."

"He was spotted by local PD a few blocks south. Hotch— Hotch and the team are on their way, but— but we're closer. We really need to, um…"

"Do you want my bra, or something?"

"You are such a— …she-devil."

"I'm just curious if you still remember like, the basics and stuff."

He looks affronted. "I've got an eidetic memory."

"I know, but your current field of expertise isn't exactly about electrical engineering, is it?"

"I hold a PhD. in engineering, I would still know more than a regular person."

"Okay then," you say, opening your phone for a photo. You hand it over to him, curiousity sparking your tone, "Can you explain what a cyberdeck is and how I'd go about building one?"

He pauses and stares at the photo of a cyberdeck on your phone. His mouth drops to an 'o' like he's about to spout his usual trail of facts, only to reconsider.

"A cyberdeck?" his face twists as if the word burns on his tongue, "Like the computers they use in cyberpunk games?"

"Uh huh. How would someone make one in real life? A functional one."

"I wasn't even aware it's something people made. Doesn't it seem counterintuitive, when there are laptops and phones that are programmed to do the same thing?"

"Yeah, but people make it for all sorts of reasons. To practice programming, have their own storage and avoid clouds."

"Why are people avoiding clouds?" he glances out the window, confused.

"Not literal clouds, Spencer, storage clouds. On the internet."

He frowns in distaste and hands your phone back to you.

You laugh. "Okay, Dr. Troglodyte, I get it you hate modern technology. But you did just say you're an engineering grad, so I'm wondering if you could help me build one. A cyberdeck, not a cloud. I already have some of the parts, you know, it's recommended—"

"I wouldn't know the first thing about it."

You look at him in disbelief. "But you just said—"

"I know, I know," he winces like it pains him to admit defeat, "Admittedly, my engineering skills might be… underutilized after decades of focusing of criminal psychology. Why do you want to build one, anyway?"

"For Melissa's wedding. A personalized gift, have it programmed to have pictures and music, maybe have well wishes they could read."

His face softens. "That's very sweet of you."

"Thanks." You laugh, looking at the rustic, cyberpunk mini-computer pictured on your phone. "It's a little impractical and I'm not even sure I could make one on time, so I did get them something from their registry. But giving a stand mixer to your best friend of over a decade doesn't really scream special, you know?"

Spencer nods, face now lined with focus. "You say you've gotten the parts?"

"Yeah. There are explanations and tutorials online, so I probably could figure it out," you shrug, noncommittally, "I just thought it'd be easier if an engineering grad takes a look."

Spencer rubs his temple with one hand, looking as though he's considering it. "I might be able to help, if you give me a few days to read up on it."

You blink. "Wait, really?"

"Yeah. No promises, though."

"Okay. I'd appreciate that."

You have absolutely expectations. Not from any skepticism on his abilities—you're certain he'd figure out the mechanics by tomorrow, if he gets a couple of hours free tonight—but because… well, why would he? Spencer doesn't owe you anything.

He might condense the information available so you would have easier instructions, but ultimately, you are convinced you'd have to figure out the cyberdeck yourself.

And you wouldn't hold it against him. Again, he owes you nothing.

Spencer knocks on your office door three days later, during a vacant lull in between classes—a surprise since he usually saves whatever he has to say until you're both seated at the cafe by the end of the work day.

You fling the door open to his suspiciously beaming face.

"Hi."

"Dr. Reid." you say, just to get a reaction.

He shakes his head, cheeks dimpling when his lips press into a thin line. "Spencer."

Just as you predicted.

You grin, letting him into your office and closing the door behind him for privacy. He sweeps his gaze around the small, sun drenched space, before turning back to you, beaming.

"I think I've got a solution to your cyberdeck problem."

You are very proud that your jaw doesn't drop in utter surprise. "You do?"

"But it, uh, might require someone else."

"Oh?"

He pulls something from his pocket—a sheet of paper, carefully tucked—and moves to stand next to you. An entire page of messy, scribbled notes unfold before your eyes and you push your glasses up, trying to get a clearer look.

"See, I broke it down to the bare necessities—parts, programming, and the actual construction. If you've got the parts ready, I could help you with the construction," he says, pointing at a rough sketch of what seems to be a circuit board, labeled with the basic parts required to run.

You're happy he's explaining this to you. His handwriting is undecipherable, which tells you he did this in one of his hyper-focused moments. Sharp scrawls that taper into nothingness, sentences missing words because his mind is moving too fast for his hand to keep up.

You do not dare comment on that. Not when spent time learning all of this, and offering to help all because you asked him to.

"Okay, but where does this 'someone else' come into this?"

"I have no clue how to do any of the programming part." he looks at you expectantly, as if he's waiting for you to reveal some secret computer programming knowledge.

"That makes two of us."

He chuckles. "That's fine. I know someone who does."

Ah. That's how this mystery person comes into play.

"And would they be willing to help with this?"

Spencer nods, though he looks a little nervous. "I think she would be."

She?

"This isn't an ex, is it?" you say, a little bit mortified. Partly from the thought of meeting his ex, and partly at the sharp sting that lances through your chest at the very idea of Spencer Reid having an ex.

Ridiculous. You aren't even his real girlfriend.

"What?" his voice squeaks, "No, no, it's a old friend of mine from the FBI."

The FBI? You feel your eyes bugging out of your head. "Oh my god? Why would an FBI agent help with something so… silly?"

Spencer shakes his head. "It's not silly, it's actually a rather interesting process. It's an application of the fundamentals of engineering, mixed with computer science. Besides, Penelope loves this sort of thing, it'd be like a fun assignment for her."

Penelope. What a pretty name. Penelope, wife of Odysseus, clever and endlessly faithful. Your mind fills with images of navy blazers and crisp folders, someone equally sharp as Spencer, and maybe more severe in her presentation.

"I could call her. We could probably meet with her, complete the thing over a weekend." he continues, handing the page of notes to you, "But if you don't want to do that, you can keep this, and we could do it, just the two of us."

Just the two of us. You shut down the part of your brain that wants to linger over the implications of that.

Spencer stands beside you, patiently waiting for your response.

"If… if we ask for her help, what will we say? You know, about… this," you gesture between the two of you vaguely.

This Penelope is neither part of faculty, nor is she invited to the wedding. There is no need to keep up the fake relationship around her, but telling her would also technically break one of the rules: no one can know about the arrangement.

"We'll just have to keep up the act," Spencer replies quickly, clearly having already thought this part through, "You've already posted something online, right? There's a huge chance Penelope will see that, if I so much as mention you."

Your heart is in your throat. Fooling the people at the university is one thing; your colleagues don't really know either of you, and they never pry in the name of professional courtesy. The wedding will be another test, but at least it's only for a weekend, and most of the people will, hopefully, be too preoccupied by the bride and groom to scrutinize your relationship with Spencer.

But pretending to be a couple in front of his friend? Someone from the FBI?

"You think we can fool an FBI agent?" you ask, voice weak from the mere thought of it.

Spencer winces, looking apologetic. "It's—yeah. Think of it as our ultimate test. If we can fool Penelope, then that wedding will be a breeze."

"Oh my god."

"We don't have to! Like I said, I'll help you with the cyberdeck by myself if you want, we'll figure out the coding stuff when we get there."

It's sweet, how earnest he is about this. He doesn't have to, but you're learning that Spencer likes helping, and it isn't a crime to accept it.

On top of that, this Penelope must be amazing, if she's anything like Spencer. No doubt she'd figure out how to make the cyberdeck work like an actual computer better than you ever could.

Besides, you've been pretending to be Spencer's girlfriend long enough for it to feel semi-normal, anyway. How hard can it be? It's just another audience. Like he said, Penelope could be the ultimate test of your acting skills.

And it would just be a really cool gift. Enough to earn back the brownie points you'd lost after declining to be part of Melissa's entourage, like she'd always wanted.

"No, we can… we can ask your friend for help. I think we'll be fine." you answer finally, resolutely.

Spencer nods. "I'll call her later.

A warm, sunny day is exponentially becoming rare, but the sun is beaming bright on you and Spencer that weekend. The air smells crisp, a perfect day to be outside.

However, you are standing side by side outside an apartment building, and waiting for Penelope Garcia to buzz you in. From your shoulders hangs a backpack full of the rudimentary parts and an old laptop, while you know Spencer has tools in his satchel—screwdrivers, electrical tape, and copper wiring.

It feels almost like high school. Coming over a friend's house to work on a project, minds full of ideas and hands clumsy with youth. Despite your nerves, you feel your lips curling into a smile.

The apartment entrance buzzes open. Spencer lets you go in first and you walk gingerly up the steps, nerves humming like a live wire. You've never met an FBI agent before. Well, besides Spencer, but you're sure he's an exception to most things so he really can't be your point of reference to anything.

Would she be nice? Serious? Would she look at you with quiet judgment, wonder why she's spending her time helping you make something so frivolous?

You gulp as Spencer knocks on a door, a kind, reassuring smile on his face.

What you don't expect, in all the time you spent worrying about today, is a perky blonde wearing a deep green sundress and a matching cardigan would be the one to greet you. Twin rose barrettes hold back her blonde curls, and at least three necklaces are wound around her neck.

A pair of orange glasses are perched on the bridge of her nose, and beneath them, twinkling brown eyes that widen when they land on you.

"Oh my gosh, you're even prettier in person!" she squeals, and before you can react, she's enveloped you in a tight, lily-scented hug. "Hi! I'm Penelope, you can just call me Pen, oh my gosh, Reid, why did you wait so long to introduce her?"

Beside you, Spencer laughs. "It's great to see you as always, Garcia."

Penelope pulls away and holds you at arms length, surveying your appearance. You've dressed more casually today, dark jeans and an even darker sweater in case building this cyberdeck gets messy, and you feel the urge to tell Penelope you aren't always so glum-looking.

"It's nice to meet you," you say instead, telling her your name even though you're certain she already knows.

"You too! Come in, you guys, this is so fun! I haven't seen Reid in a while." she pouts and throws a glare at Spencer, mock angry, "I thought you'd forgotten all about us."

"Of course not," he chuckles, "I've been busy, and I'm sure you have too."

"Thank you for squeezing this in, really." you say.

Penelope waves a perfectly manicured hand dismissively. "Please, I'd cancel everything if it meant meeting Spencer Reid's girlfriend."

The word is squealed, laced with genuine giddiness. To be honest, it seems like Penelope is incapable of hiding or faking her emotions. Everything is felt, and worn like another accessory.

You can't help but return her smile, even though the girlfriend title stings with guilt. You're lying to this sweet woman who's welcoming you into her home and doing you a favor.

"I appreciate it," you follow her deeper into her apartment. It is far nicer than yours, spacious and well lit, large enough to be divided into rooms. She leads the three of you into the kitchen, where she's set up a workspace on the large table.

"Nonsense! I'm more than happy to help. Programming can be so fun, but sadly all I do is use it to fight evil. Which is all well and good, obviously, but you're doing me a favor too, by letting me in on this." Penelope says, turning on one of the many laptops on the table. "Now, refreshments are on the counter, and I must ask you to keep them there. Liquids are banned on the dining table, I'm sure you both understand why."

She points to the kitchen counter, where an array of pastries are sitting pretty, right next to a large pitcher of iced tea. You feel yourself melting at her hospitality, feel the anxiety melting with dramatic gesture from Penelope.

You place your bag on one of the chairs, quickly taking out your own things. You've brought an old laptop, hoping to salvage it for parts, but you also managed to order a single board computer online, as well as an unused SD card, and an old tablet's LED screen.

Seeing them all arranged on Penelope's table fills your with a sense of excitement.

This cyberdeck might actually come out well.

"I'm guessing Spencer told you what I was hoping to make?" you say, watching her monitor turn on. Spencer has wandered to the other side of the room, surveying everything with an analytical eye.

"Yes, he said you wanted a cyberdeck that would specifically store and flash the pictures of the wedding on loop, is that right?"

You nod, "That's right. But I wanted it to be like a noir movie, you know? I was planning to house it in this."

You pull out last thing in your backpack, the one causing majority of the bulk—a vintage cigar box made of polished oak. "Is this practical, or would it overheat?"

"Don't worry about overheating, we can always attach a cooling system!" Penelope reassures you, "Anything else you want, besides the aesthetics?"

"Maybe store messages and play music? If that's possible."

"Honey, we're building a computer, anything is possible!" Penelope grins, taking the old laptop you'd brought, "Is this something we can use?"

"Yeah, I fucked up the screen about a year ago," you reply with a laugh, "I meant to give it away for parts, but never got around to it."

"Good thing you didn't." she says. She points at Spencer, "And you, my favorite genius, have to open it up so we can pick it apart for parts. Grab a screw driver and get to it."

Spencer seems unfazed by being bossed around. With a smile, he grabs the smallest available screwdriver, flipping over the laptop and dutifully studying the tiny screws.

Penelope sits by your side as Spencer works, taking the single board computer you've brought for this project and hooking it up to her own laptop.

"While he does that, let me walk you through the program I made for you." Penelope says, clicking around her screen until an application opens. It looks like an old timey, black and white movie, complete with the elaborate framing and fonts.

Your mouth drops. "You made this?"

"Uh huh." Penelope says cheerfully, like it's no big deal. She clicks on a 'start' button and pictures of cute baby animals flash onscreen, "Obviously, these are just placeholders. Once you insert your own SD card into the circuit, it'll be filled with pictures you chose."

She walks you through another function, clicking on a music icon. "We can either hook up a music app on here, or download clips individually and add them to the memory card."

"Oh, but I didn't bring a speaker." You say.

"That's fine! The old laptop probably has one, once Spencer gets it open, we'll connect it to this circuit and see if it works." Penelope reassures, going through the rest of the menu settings, showing you things like slideshow timing, button mapping, startup animations, and the codes you'll need to modify them through Python.

You try to pay attention.

You really, truly do.

Unfortunately, there's two things against you: you don't know the first thing about computer programming and Spencer is sitting directly across the table. Working on the laptop. Distractingly.

He's rolled his sleeves halfway to his elbows. Your eyes fall to the veins on his hands—familiar by now, after so much perfomative hand holding—and follow them up the newly exposed skin. Pale forearms which are, surprisingly, corded with lean muscle. Strands of hair are scattered across, turning golden when sunlight hits it. You take it all in greedily.

Everything Penelope's saying goes in one ear and leaves out the other as he disassembles the laptop, slim fingers carefully twisting the screws off. A small crease forms between his brows as the motherboard is exposed, a complicated, technological maze. He looks focused. Happy, eager to solve a puzzle despite his supposed disdain for tech.

You catch bits and pieces of Penelope's spiel.

"...and if we allocate more memory to the media partition—"

"Mhm," you nod.

"… I'll make it so this button barks when it's pressed."

"Okay."

Penelope stops talking.

You barely notice the silence that settles, eyes fixed upon Spencer as he gingerly unscrews the battery, and takes it from the laptop's shell. You watch as he leans down for a closer view, peeking at what remains of the circuitry, his free hand twiddling with the screwdriver in absentminded dexterity.

He looks… serene. Intense, but somehow relaxed.

It's a good look on him.

"...Sweetie."

You jump and turn to Penelope, wide eyed and nodding profusely. "Uh huh, that sounds great."

"I didn't say anything." she giggles, twinkling eyes darting between you and Spencer.

A laugh escapes, shaky and thin. "Right."

Her lips twist into a smirk, knowing and sly. She leans in and nudges your shoulder with hers. "Honey, I know you're dating, but if you keep looking at him like that, then I'm gonna start feeling like a third wheel."

"Looking at him like what?"

"Like you wanna jump across the table and straddle him!" she replies, hushed and giddy. Your face feels like it's been set on fire, but she goes on, "Listen, I'm not going to judge. In fact I'm happy the Mighty Professor's found someone."

"The Mighty Professor?" you repeat, because that feels like the most neutral part of everything she'd said. Everything else feels too loaded.

At the nickname, Spencer glances up. "Yeah?"

"I can't believe you actually answer to that."

His mouth parts, as if he's ready to defend himself, but only ends up chuckling sheepishly.

"She doesn't know about your nicknames?" Penelope gasps dramatically, "The Good Doctor? Boy Genius? Pretty Boy?"

"Pretty Boy, huh?" you grin at him, taking pleasure in the way pink blossoms over his dimpling cheeks.

"I didn't choose any of them." he protests, carefully disentangling what looks to be the laptop's sound system.

"I can't believe you never told her, though. They're so cute, half of those were given by Morgan." Penelope says. She reaches forward and takes the small speakers from him. With a decisive movement, she begins to fit it into the circuit for the cyberdeck.

"She has her own nickname for me," Spencer mumbles.

You resist the urge to hide beneath your palms when Penelope gasps, excited.

"You do? Tell me, what is it?"

"Dr. Four Eyes," you wince, gesturing at your own spectacles, "You know, for the irony."

Penelope looks delighted as she types more codes into her laptop. "That is adorable. You two are adorable."

"I think we did it." You whisper later that day, as Spencer drives you home. The cyberdeck, the gift you had thought too far fetched, sits balanced on top of your knees, complete with a rustic brass handle and gleaming hinges.

The three of you had spent a great portion of the day fitting the parts together and designing the shell—Penelope had made such quick work of the applications and programs that the handiwork became the most time consuming part. Now you have a functioning, personalized cyberdeck decorated in a way you know both Melissa and her fiance would love.

Spencer glances at you, smiling soft and warm. "The cyberdeck, or convincing Garcia?"

You chuckle, remembering the giddy looks Penelope kept throwing at the two of you. She seemed so certain, had even extended an invitation for you to hang out with her after today.

"Both, I guess."

"We did." he sounds proud, relaxed. Outside, the darkness is dotted with the lights from windows and streetlamps, converging into streaks as he drives.

"It was… easier than I expected." you admit, tracing the intricate brass handle to abate the restlessness. "Convincing her."

"Was it?"

"Yeah. I don't know, I thought we'd have to lay it on thick, you know. Throw in kisses or something."

He looks over with a crooked grin, the one that has your words twisting and tripping together before they can leave your mouth.

"You want me to kiss you in front of my friend?"

"No, that is not what I meant."

"I know."

"But we'll have to eventually." God, of all the moments, why would you say that now? When you're physically stuck in a space with him, unable to escape the weight of his eyes. You glance out the window, avoiding another one of his inevitable glances.

"Why not right now?" his voice sounds light, forcibly so.

"Stop teasing me." you huff, and his laughter fills the car, easing the tension. You take your glasses off and murmur, "Don't you feel bad? She's so sweet and we basically lied to her."

Spencer's laughter dies down, and the silence that follows is heavy. Not uncomfortable, per se, but thick with the knowledge of your shared deception. With the knowledge that this wouldn't be the last. That Penelope is just one of many.

But then:

"It's not all a lie." he murmurs.

You risk a glance at him. Through the haziness, he sits stiffly and refuses to meet your eye.

You spend the rest of the ride in contemplative silence, trying to piece together what he could possibly mean.

Thank you deeply for reading, please reblog if you enjoyed!

It's so endearingly predictable. Of course Melissa—who loves snow, fantasy and fairy tales, and anything tipped with silver frost—would choose a winter ballroom wedding. The colors on the invitation say dress in the colors of the northern lights, accompanied with a palette that's admittedly very pretty. Some of these colors would be flattering on you. It's workable.

Unfortunately, the dress code is black tie. Which poses a problem.

You have black tie gowns in your closet, but they don't quite fit the whimsical winter theme. Plain black silk with modest necklines, falling straight to the floor. Just pretty enough to suggest effort, but never eye catching, never particularly beautiful. Dresses that say I made an effort while simultaneously insisting please don't perceive me.

Perfect for faculty dinners.

Terrible for pretending to be a glamorous guest at a winter fairytale wedding.

Thus, shopping.

Now for your next issue: finding someone who'll come with you last minute.

In-store shopping has always triggered a very specific kind of anxiety—the tongue-tied, chest constricting, panic sweating kind. It's irrational—you know that—but knowing it's irrational has never stopped your pulse from racing every time a sales associate asks, Can I help you?

Normally, you'd simply order online and save yourself the stress. But you don't want to risk the delayed shipping, or the inaccurate sizing. Additionally, in case the whole thing is a bust, online returns take way too long.

Besides, you have friends. Surely, you'll find one willing to accompany you, right?

Right.

Before you know it, you've dialed a number. It takes a full ring before you realize it's Spencer's.

Fuck. You stare at the screen, wondering when the hell did Spencer Reid become your go-to contact. Your thumb hovers over the end-call button, debating whether you should salvage your dignity and hang up now.

He answers before you can make the decision.

"Hey, what's going on?" he sounds soft.

Your mind flashes back to when he was here, in your apartment—in your bed—armed with takeout and reassurance and warm hugs while you cried over your dissertation.

He'd used the exact same tone then. Low enough to soothe over the frayed edges of your nerves. Does he use that voice with anyone else, or is it unique when he's talking to you?

Why do you care? You don't.

Why is that important? It's not.

You push your glasses up your nose and reply, "Hey. Um." Oh wow. Brilliant. You are so eloquent.

"Is something wrong?"

Is it too late to say you've accidentally butt dialed his number? Perhaps not. However, in that split second, you decide that the truth is less mortifying than a lie so lame as butt dialing, so you blurt it out.

"Nothing's wrong. Just wondering if you're busy."

"I'm free after lunch."

Fuck. Why couldn't he make your life easier by saying he's busy? Why didn't you just call Carrie in the first place? Why was Spencer's number the first thing you dialed?

"Would you..." You squeeze your eyes shut. "Would you maybe come shopping with me?"

No answer. You power through, against your better judgement, the words spilling in one suspended breath. "I… I need to find a dress for Melissa's wedding and I hate going shopping by myself."

There's a pause, which you use to alternate between praying the ground swallows you whole, and hoping he says yes.

"Are you sure you want me to come?" his voice more animated now, colored with confusion, "I'm not exactly knowledgeable on women's fashions."

"I don't really need you there for your expertise, just the moral support."

He doesn't answer again. An image of him comes so sharply to your mind—brows furrowed, nose crinkled, lips lightly curling like he's fighting back a smile—it makes your lips twitch before you catch the action and school them into a neutral straight line.

"It's fine if you don't want to," you begin to say, voice lightly strangled. "It's a weird request."

"No, no. I don't think it's weird at all."

You can imagine him shaking his head. Cheeks dimpled and curls gilded by light. You feel it would take too much energy to expel the thought from, so you allow it to linger. It roots like some sacred memory, and you find you don't mind it too much.

"I'm just curious why you need 'moral support' when you're shopping?"

You laugh, mostly at yourself. "It's… okay, those ladies doing sales freak me out. I feel like they're always sizing me up or something, it's a whole thing and it's dumb because I know it's literally their job to anticipate if I need help, but I just feel weird going there alone."

He hums through the phone, sounding thoughtful. You push your glasses up your nose, just for something to do.

"You know," Spencer says after a moment, "there's evidence that people significantly overestimate how much strangers notice them."

"You think I don't know that? I told you, I know this is dumb. You can say no."

"Okay."

"Okay I'm being dumb, or okay you're saying no?"

"Okay, I'll come with you," for the first time this whole conversation, he finally sounds amused.

And for the first time since he picked up, your chest doesn't feel like there's a pile of bricks sitting on top of it, impeding your breaths.

"Really?" you don't bother hiding the relief from your voice.

"Really. I can pick you up around 1:30."

Pick you up around 1:30 sounds awfully close to being picked up for a date. Your brain unhelpfully goes back to the dates of your youth, what few ones you've been on, arm and arm with a man and smiling in excitement. Traitorously, your brain also replaces the faces of the men in these memories into a tall, dimpled professor.

No. You shut the thought down quick.

This is normal friend behavior. Carrie uses the same terms, except Carrie is Carrie, not a very attractive older colleague who you're also pretending to date.

Whatever. You're getting worked up over nothing.

This is Spencer doing you a favour because he's an extraordinarily kind person helping out a friend.

You thank him, managing to sound remarkably normal considering your internal monologue has descended into complete chaos.

The boutique is just as you predicted. Too bright, too many sales associates welcoming you with too wide smiles. The air is saturated with cloying jasmine and vanilla, and soft, instrumental music hums just loud enough to hide the buzz of conversation.

""Welcome!" one of the ladies chirps the moment you and Spencer step inside. "Are you shopping for a special occasion?"

Your shoulders tense automatically.

"We're just going to look around," you answer, trying to match her enthusiasm without sounding as uncomfortable as you feel.

Her smile doesn't falter. "Of course! Let me know if I can start a fitting room for you."

"I will. Thank you." You don't move until she's turned away. Once she does, you make a beeline for the least crowded rack, shoulders still tense. Spencer follows beside you, and without a word, rests his hand between your shoulder blades. You feel the warmth of it through your coat, quietly, steadily melting some of the tension.

When you glance over your shoulder, you notice the sales associate watching the two of you from across the boutique.

Before you can overthink it, Spencer shifts. Instead of walking beside you, he moves behind by half a step. You're confused for just a moment until you realize that, with him standing at that angle, the sales associate completely disappeares from your view.

Quite literally shielding you with his body.

He doesn't say anything. Doesn't drop his hand either. Just follows you like a patient shadow, while you browse through rows upon rows of blues and greens. You feel you chest tightening for reasons unrelated to the perky sales ladies.

It's silent, surprisingly comfortable, until he breaks it with one of his usual tangents.

"You know," he says, lifting a hanger to inspect the fabric, "the distinction between black tie and white tie has become significantly less rigid over the last century. Certain movements have called out the elitism of these dress codes, as well as the ridiculous standards set upon each gender."

"I thought you said you know nothing about women's fashion?" you glance at him with a grin.

"I did a little research after you called."

"Are you aware that little usually means a lot?"

He shrugs with an easy smile. "I had a couple of hours to kill. Fashion, history, and capitalism go hand in hand."

You laugh, moving to the next rack while he regales you with more of his findings. Before you know it, you've forgotten about the other people in the boutique. Spencer Reid has successfully monopolized your attention, and though you can't believe you're saying this, you're glad he did. You're glad you asked him to come. You're glad he said yes.

Twenty minutes later, your arms are draped with dresses and you're surveying another one, when he breaks his current information dump with a question.

"Wouldn't you be cold in some of these?" Spencer looks at you with concern.

Indeed, most of the gowns are strapless, or made with thin material.

"The ceremony's indoors, everything will be heated." you reply. It had said so in the invitation.

"But getting there?"

"I can wear a coat over it on the way, don't worry."

He accepts your logic, keeps quiet as you go from one rack to the next. It lasts all of two minutes before he's asking something again.

"Am I expected to wear these colors too?" he asks, watching you peruse through shades of green.

You glance over, brows furrowing. "What?"

"Should I rent a new suit in these colors?" he says, gesturing at the array of gowns in your arms.

"I mean, men's formal wear is so much more straightforward, I think you can get away with a standard black coat and tie." you answer, checking a price tag on one dress and wincing lightly. Back on the rack it goes.

"I suppose that's true," he follows you to a different rack, hands deep in his pockets. Spencer's dressed the most casual you've ever seen him, in a black sweater without a button down collar peeking underneath, and a heavy black jacket to combat the cold. It's a good look on him, not that you'd ever admit it out loud.

"And I'm assuming you already have those already."

"I do, but wouldn't it be nice to match a little? If we're attending together, do men's accessories usually coordinate with the gown? I've never been someone's wedding date before."

You whirl to face him.

He smiles. "If we're going as a couple, don't you think that'll more convincing?"

You blink, mouth agape.

"No one would consciously notice," he continues, like this is something he's thought about for a while, "but coordinated colours tend to reinforce the perception that two people arrived together," he tilts his head, "it increases credibility."

"I suppose that's true." you say finally.

"It'll also narrow down my options."

"Your options?" your brows are probably at your hairline now.

"For which tie to wear. I wouldn't want to clash with you."

"Right."

"So, if you think about it, it's actually a good thing I came. I'll know exactly what color you'll pick, and I can match you accordingly."

"You realize it'll be unbelievably corny?" you joke, because how else are you supposed to react to Spencer Reid offering to color coordinate with you for a stupid fake relationship?

"I daresay most people would encourage being corny at a wedding." Spencer replies, grinning wide and proud.

"That's fair," you nod, "Yeah that's—oh god, I hate that this makes sense."

He laughs. "I'm just doing my job as your boyfriend."

There are three final contenders in the dressing room, all of them within your budget and fitting Melissa's curated winter color scheme.

The first dress is nice enough, a solid choice if you don't find anything better.

The second is gorgeous, a total steal for its price point, but the fabricis nearly translucent you can't even show it to Spencer without worrying about flashing him, so it's eliminated from the running.

Which leaves the third.

Save the best for last, so the saying goes, and this one is definitely it. It's cut in a timeless silhouette made of a heavier fabric than the other two, which makes it perfect for the cooling temperatures. Despite its weight, it is soft, draping delicately over your body, and flowing like liquid with every movement.

The neckline dips lower than anything you'd normally wear, while the back falls open a few inches above your hips, held together by slender ribbons threaded through loops and criss-crossing over across your back.

It's elegant. Daring. So unlike the plain, very classic dresses in your closet.

Which is probably why you like it so much.

Unfortunately, you can't quite get a whole picture of how it looks on you because you've unravelled the lacing while trying to put it on. One long ribbon is hopelessly tangled around your forearm, while the rest resemble the world's most expensive ball of string. You would be a cat's dream plaything right now.

"Fuck," you hiss. You're unsure how you fucked it up so badly, and you're terrified you'd accidentally tear open a seam if you keep twisting around. "Fuck!"

"You okay? You've been in there six minutes and forty-nine seconds, that's three minutes and thirty-one seconds longer than normal." Spencer calls out.

You stop struggling long enough to frown, even though he can't see you.

"Why are you timing me down to the seconds?" you huff.

"It's an old habit," he replies. "Need any help?"

No. Yes, but are you really prepared for that?

"I could call one of the ladies and—"

"No," you croak. You do not want one of them coming in, no matter how nice or accommodating they are, "I think you'd be… sufficient."

"If you're sure."

"I'm sure… I'm just, uh, a little tangled up."

"Ah." he knocks on your door, as if to indicate he's ready and willing.

"Don't peek or be a creep, Spencer, I swear to god."

"Of course not!"

The front of the dress is held up only by an arm tightly pressed to your chest. It's not so bad. He'll catch maybe a hint of side boob, but you can live with that. You crack the door open and peek out.

His owlish eyes greet you, concerned and unblinking. The rest of the hallway is clear.

"All right, here." You open the door wider, and turn around, letting him see the twisted mess of silk across your back. "The ribbons are supposed to go into the slots along the sides, see?"

Spencer's quiet. You feel his gaze like an insistent weight, and suddenly the room lacks oxygen.

"Spencer, do you see where they're supposed to go?" you repeat, your free arm twisting to run over the material, trying to feel for where the loops are located. "I think I missed a slot here, so it's always uneven when I tighten it."

"Yes, I see." his voice is low, hoarse, and lands in a space so unfamiliar you can't even name it. His exhale is a lick of heat across the back of your neck and shoulders, fingertips ghosting over your skin as he tugs at the silk ties, slowly separating them one by one.

"Okay."

"You really did tangle the entire thing, it's kind of impressive." he chuckles.

You can only sheepishly laugh in return, eyes fixed upon the ground, and arms crossed protectively over your chest. Anything to distract you from his proximity.

He's close enough that his scent surrounds you, the warm spices and slight musk of old books now welcome and customary.

"How'd you get so tangled up like this anyway?" he asks, pushing some of your hair back over your shoulder. The continued contact of his fingertips makes you suppress a shudder. He's going back and fixing the mistake from the top, and you're wishing the knot in your stomach is as easy to unravel as these ribbons.

"Beats me," you say, laughing weakly.

"They go kind of like shoelaces." he answers in that same hoarse voice.

You exhale. "Mhm, but those are easier to fix."

The ribbons drag across your back as he tugs, slow and steady. He repeats the same motion to the other side, quiet in his focus. Rough knuckles brush on your skin every now and then. Accidental. Probably unavoidable.

You think you're two seconds away from combusting.

The worst part is, you're not entirely sure why.

Because nothing about this is should be riling you up. He's lacing you in, for heaven's sake, not out. A friend helping a friend.

But every brush of his fingers on your skin, accidental or otherwise, lingers far longer than it should.

The frightening thing is, part of you wants to welcome it. Wants to become familiar with his touch, wants to lean in and relish it.

Spencer is quiet, guiding the ribbons through every loop with sure fingers, steadily getting lower. He fumbles with the loop by your waist. You can't help but jump.

"Did I hurt you?"

How could he possibly, moving this delicately?

"No, I'm good."

"Ticklish, then?" he asks, amused.

"I'm—yeah." Sure. Ticklish, let's go with that.

"My bad. I'll be more careful."

"It's fine, really. I'm not porcelain."

"I know, but I'd rather be."

You squeeze your eyes shut and bite the insides of your cheek. The dress settles to your form as he works, the bodice now properly hugging your torso, snug enough that you can lower your arm without fear of the top collapsing.

"Do you think it's too much?" you ask, relaxing now that you're more covered. A quick glance at the mirror confirms your initial assessment—this is the dress. Far more sensual than what you're used to

Now that it's fitted to you properly, it might be your favorite out of everything you've tried. Snug at the top, hugging your curves just enough. But the low, exposed back is a little out of your comfort zone.

"The dress?"

"Yes." You feel one harsh tug as he tightens the last row, and something in you clenches and burns.

"I don't know."

Unbidden, your stomach sinks. But then, he adds,

"This isn't my area of expertise, remember?"

You laugh, shaking your head. "You don't need to be an expert to give an opinion, Spencer."

"For a wedding? No, it's not too much. It fits the dress code, doesn't it?"

"It does. I really like it but I'm—I don't know, it's not something I normally wear."

Spencer's head lifts finally, looking over your shoulder. Your eyes meet in the mirror, equally apprehensive.

"I think it suits you." he says, "Different can be good, right?"

"Right." You exhale, relieved.

"Do you feel comfortable in it?"

You pause, considering. Are you willing to spend an entire evening in this dress without being worried about wardrobe malfunctions? You shift, turn to one side, eyeing your reflection in the mirror. Oddly enough, even though it reveals a lot more than what you're accustomed to, the dress feels very secure.

"Yeah. I do. It's a pretty thick fabric, too." You consider for a moment, before adding, "I like it.

"Then that's what matters," he smiles, watching you move around the dressing room, feeling out the dress. He adds, in a rushed tone, "For what it's worth, I think you look beautiful."

The words make you pause. Even the haphazard speed couldn't mask the earnestness in his voice. You manage a smile, murmur a thanks, because he might not know it yet—hell, you don't want to admit it yourself—but it's worth a lot.

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You lift an index finger, poke at his jaw, and push him away gently. Lips thinned, brows furrowed, a play at being annoyed.

"Move."

"Aren't we supposed to act like a couple in public?" he asks, the dimple on his cheek appearing even as he fights back a smile. He catches your wrist and holds it hostage near his chest. You, for some unfathomable reason, don't pull away.

"Yeah, but there's practically no one else here." you say, nose wrinkling, "We don't need to lay it on thick—or at all, if I'm being honest."

He chuckles, but lets your hand go and inches away as you'd asked him. However, his attention is still on your laptop, large brow eyes squinting at the image on your screen. You inhale sharply, and gather your bearings just enough to close the currently open tab—a picture of you and Melissa at six or seven, with twin gap tooth smiles and matching ladybug costumes.

A picture he does not need to see that right now. Or ever, if you can help it.

It disappears from view, only to expose another tab, upon which a more recent photo is flashed. Blurry, neon lights in the background. You and Melissa, off centered and flipping off the camera, wearing tight dresses and sky high heels that you can remember pinched your toes and gave you blisters before the night was even over.

"Fuck!" you hiss, closing that window this time. Unfortunately, you've opened an exceptional amount of tabs in your search for older—and specifically embarrassing—pictures of you and Melissa, so another picture is blasted in HD right there on your screen.

This third one is the worst. Somehow, its composition is even messier than the previous one, even though this was taken in a hotel room. You and Melissa were on vacation with a couple other friends, and the photo captures the exact type of chaos that follows a vacation of four young women—a large bed, its fluffy sheets littered with make up products and mismatched bikinis.

One girl stands on the bed in denim cut offs and a tiny swimsuit top, proudly chugging vodka straight from a bottle. Melissa's kneeling in front of her, holding a large, silicone, very adult toy, and you poised right beside it, mouth wide open and your tongue sticking out.

You slam the laptop shut. Warmth blossoms at your cheeks and spreads everywhere.

Beside you, Spencer is failing to hide a laugh.

"I see you're too preoccupied going down memory lane." he says, sliding into the seat next to yours.

"Melissa's wedding organizers asked if I had any old pictures of Melissa—old, hidden ones, you know, the stuff that's not posted online," you explain, the humiliation hardening into defensiveness. Your voice is steely, even though your heart is pounding hard. He isn't meant to see those. "It's for a slideshow, the embarrassing ones are for her bridal shower and the childhood ones are for her wedding."

His smile softens in an instant, turning kind and gentle. "The ladybug one was really cute."

"The ladybug one I can live with, but Melissa might actually commit homicide if I send the other two."

"I don't think the party one was that bad. And the hotel—"

"Do not mention that, please. In fact, just forget about it." you groan, snatching your glasses off and rubbing the heels of your palms to your eyes. Rings of color explode in darkness, and your hands drop to your lap, glasses hanging between your fingers. Without them on, Spencer is a blurry image, which is good because you don't think you can look him in the eye after what he just witnessed.

"I'm just saying, they aren't that bad. Just proof you've had fun and lived, you know?" his voice is so warm you're worried your insides would turn gooey and coalesce into one messy stew.

"They're still embarrassing."

"I've had my share of embarrassing photos, trust me."

You squint at him. Sharp angles, beautiful eyes, a perfect sloped nose—all features that would photograph handsomely. "Somehow, I find that difficult to believe."

He chuckles and pulls out his phone. Humiliation evanesces into curiosity—he's one of the few people you know who, very prudently, keeps his phone in his pocket when he's with company, so this must be something big. You slide your glasses back on just as he tilts his screen to you.

For a moment, you just stare. Blink. Eyes darting at the image on his phone, to him, then back to his phone.

"Oh my god, is that you?"

It must have been from at least a decade ago. There he is, smooth faced and so thin he appears bug eyed, lips pulled in a thin line like he's unsure which muscles to use to smile. His hair is straight, lacquered down his head like an ocher helmet, so unlike the unruly mop of curls he wears now. Even in his youth, he's wearing a button down shirt tucked into a sweater vest, a detail you can't help but find endearing.

Some things never change.

You can't help it; you snort.

"Hey!" Spencer narrows his eyes in mock anger, "I didn't laugh at yours."

"Technically, I didn't laugh." you reply, grinning wide, "A snort isn't a laugh."

His response is an indignant exhale, and he pockets his phone again. You let a soft giggle slip out, resting an elbow on the table, palm cradling your chin.

"How old were you there?"

"Twenty–one."

"And already in sweater vests?"

Spencer laughs sheepishly. "I was surrounded by professors and academics my entire life, I suppose I modeled my wardrobe after them."

You could just imagine it: a younger Spencer, lankier, but equally brilliant. Losing the battle with his curly hair and taming it into a more socially acceptable hairstyle—because it's easier, or because he had no clue how to style the curls? You don't ask; being able to see the picture feels intimate enough.

A beat passes, silent and comfortable.

"Do you wanna see the pictures I've already chosen? Just the ones for the wedding though, the bridal shower ones are confidential." you offer, still smiling at him.

His face lights up. "If you don't mind."

"I don't; you're attending the wedding with me, so you'll see them anyway."

"Then I would be honored."

You boot your laptop back on, this time without the panic or the embarrassment. Spencer dutifully averts his gaze while you close the opened tabs of even more embarrassing snapshots.

Navigating through the folders quickly, you locate the compilation you've chosen for the wedding slideshow. Mostly from childhood and high school, special ones that only you and Melissa have copies of. Themed slumber parties with your precious childhood toys, more matching costumes throughout the years, your first few disastrous dabbles with make up stolen from your moms.

Spencer is quiet. Even from your peripheral, you can he that he's smiling as he watches and absorbs the photos flashing on the screen. Your childhood memories being shared in this quiet, nearly empty library.

Once you've shown him everything, you say, "Well, now you have potential material for blackmail."

He laughs. "I've no intention of ever blackmailing you."

"I will hold you to that."

Spencer clicks to the previous photo—you and Melissa as your favorite Disney princesses, knees bent in a childish approximation of a curtsy. "I like this one."

"You do?"

He nods. "You must have been really excited over something."

Surprise floods through you. You were. That was the day the two of you performed for a school talent show, and were awarded with the biggest available stars for singing a medley of princess songs.

"What? How did you know?" you ask.

"You smile with your entire face, but it's more noticeable when you're excited. Your eyes scrunch and nearly close." He points to your expression on the screen, where you're beaming so wide that your eyes are, indeed, almost closed, before glancing back at you. "You still do."

The room suddenly feels much warmer than it did a moment ago. He noticed?

"So you're saying I was always destined to have crow's feet." you joke, self consciously touching the skin by your eyes. "With the way I smile."

"You say that like it's a bad thing. I think it's beautiful," Spencer says gently, his hand closing over your wrist again. This time, when he tugs at your hand, he doesn't let go at all. Instead, he shifts and interlaces his fingers with yours, and you let him, even though there's hardly anyone in this library to catch such performance.

He goes on, like this is normal, launching into one of his typical Spencer tangents.

"It's really lovely to see someone with smiley eyes. There's a scientific explanation behind it, you know—a French scientist named Guillaume Duchenne identified it in the 19th century, naming facial muscles that get triggered when—"

But you aren't listening anymore. Too preoccupied with this new piece of knowledge—he knows your smile. You don't know what to make of it, or of the tenderness that forms in the pit of your stomach, trembling and delicate.

Your mind spins as Spencer continues to talk, explaining the functions of orbicularis oculi muscles, and you feel yourself smiling, feel your cheeks lifting so high that the corners of your eyes crinkle. You squeeze his hand carefully, trying to ground yourself through the action, and grateful for something you don't have a name for.

He returns the gesture in an instant, smiling as he talks now, and you can't help but notice he smiles the exact same way. Cheeks pushing up so high the skin around his eyes crinkle, owlish brown eyes narrowing—smiling. Smiley eyes, he said.

And he's right. They're beautiful.

Thank you deeply for reading, please reblog if you enjoyed! Also, happy birthday Lils @spencellelvrr enjoy your day my love!!!

Spencer’s phone rang while Morgan was stealing crackers from his desk.

“Those are mine,” Spencer said, answering the call.

Morgan opened another packet. “You weren’t eating them.”

“Hi,” Spencer said into the phone, turning away.

“You forgot your satchel,” you told him.

Spencer looked beneath his desk. It was empty. “I noticed.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I was about to.”

“You’ve been at work for three hours.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Clearly. I found your wallet inside it.”

His hand immediately went to his pocket.

Morgan snorted.

“I’ll bring it over,” you said.

“You don’t have to.”

“I’m already nearby, and apparently you can’t be trusted without supervision.”

“I’ve survived thirty-four years.”

“Debatable.”

Spencer smiled. “Drive carefully,” he said. “Love you.” He ended the call. Then froze.

Morgan slowly lowered the crackers.

JJ looked up from her desk.

Emily stopped halfway down the stairs.

Spencer stared at his phone.

“Did you just—” Morgan began.

The phone rang again. Spencer answered immediately. “Hi.”

“Did you just tell me you love me and hang up?”

“I didn’t hang up because I said it.”

“You said it and then the call ended.”

“Those events were related, but not intentional.”

“You panicked.”

“I did not panic.”

Morgan coughed loudly. Spencer turned his back on him.

“You panicked,” you repeated.

“I was surprised.”

“By your own feelings?”

“No. I’ve known for some time.”

His voice softened on the last sentence. The bullpen went quiet.

“How long?” you asked.

Spencer glanced around at the people pretending not to listen. “I’d rather discuss that when I don’t have an audience.”

“An audience?”

Morgan waved. Spencer glared at him.

“Unfortunately.”

You laughed.

He relaxed a little. “You still haven’t answered,” he said.

“Answered what?”

His eyebrows pulled together. “You know what.”

“I might need to hear it again.”

“You’re doing this deliberately.”

“Maybe.”

Spencer sighed, but he was smiling. “I love you.” This time, he said it slowly. Deliberately.

“I love you too,” you said.

His smile widened. “You do?”

“I was going to say it tonight.”

“I ruined your plan.”

“You improved it.”

Morgan grabbed Spencer’s shoulder and shook him once. “My man.”

Spencer pulled away. “Please stop.”

“I’ll be there soon,” you said.

“Okay.”

“And Spencer?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t lose anything else.”

He glanced at Morgan, who was eating his last packet of crackers.

“Too late.”

Twenty minutes later, you stepped out of the elevator carrying his satchel. The entire team looked at you. You stopped beside Spencer’s desk. “Why are they staring?”

“They heard me.”

“Not me?”

“No.”

“So they watched you panic alone?”

“I didn’t panic.”

Morgan laughed from across the bullpen at that.

You handed Spencer the bag.

He checked inside and found his wallet, two books and a paper bag. “What’s this?”

“Lunch.”

“I brought crackers.”

“Morgan ate them.” said JJ as she passed by.

Spencer looked at him.

Morgan raised the empty wrapper. “Congratulations again.”

Spencer opened the paper bag. Inside was a sandwich and a note.

He unfolded it.

I love you. Please try not to forget that too.

He smiled down at it.

“You’re keeping that, aren’t you?” you asked.

“Yes.”

“It’s written on a napkin.”

“That doesn’t make it less important.”

Your expression softened.

Spencer stood and stepped closer. “Can I kiss you?”

“You already told everyone you love me. You might as well.”

He kissed you gently.

Behind you, Garcia gasped.

You pulled away. “Was she here the entire time?”

“No,” Spencer said. “Morgan texted her.”

“Traitor,” you told Morgan.

“Worth it.”

Spencer took your hand. “Come have lunch with me.”

“Are you going to forget me here too?”

“No.”

“You sound confident.”

“I’ve known I loved you for forty-three days.”

You blinked. “You counted?”

“I remember the exact moment.”

“And you’re only telling me now?”

“I had a plan.”

You smiled. “How did that work out?”

Spencer glanced toward the team.

Morgan was grinning. Garcia looked close to tears, and JJ was already asking how long you had been together.

“Not as expected.”

You squeezed his hand. “I liked it anyway.”