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ONE

"What the hell is that guy's problem?"

You don't recognize the voice at first, but you do recognize the face of the cop who's still not done rolling his eyes when you and Spencer turn the corner of the hallway at the local precinct. He's the one who spent more time glaring at Spencer than he did actually working when you were all at the crime scene earlier, as if Spencer not shaking his hand was some kind of personal insult and Reid hadn't evaded everyone's handshakes.

His fellow uniform, whose back is to you, shrugs, completely oblivious to the first guy's panicked expression when he sees you approaching. "It's the BAU. You probably have to be just a little crazy to do that job. Maybe he's just crazier than the rest of them."

"It's not strictly speaking a requirement, but it definitely helps," you say brightly, stopping several feet away from them. "We talk to so many assholes everywhere we go, a little bit of craziness helps us power through."

Next to you, you can tell that Spencer has gone rigid; you're not sure if he stopped walking because you did or if he actually froze.

There's really no way to pretend it isn't obvious that the two street cops are talking about him. Especially with the way they glance awkwardly at him and scurry off down the hallway without even acknowledging your comment. Probably lucky that this didn't turn into a full-blown discussion, Hotch wouldn't be impressed if he heard you talked to the locals like that. He'd do his whole Disappointed Dad routine of not shouting but looking very disappointed as he told you he expected better.

You turn to look at Spencer, pulling a face that makes it clear exactly what you think of those guys, but Spencer shakes his head at you.

"I'm not crazy," he says. "Actually my Mysophobia is quite mild. I just don't trust other people to keep their hands clean, and neither should anyone else."

You don't say anything about the disinfectant wipes in his desk drawer back at Quantico, or the way his shoes are lined up neatly in his hallway at home. (The temptation to nudge one of his chucks out of alignment had been almost too great to resist, but you had honestly been worried he'd retaliate by doing something to your car and it'd smell of rotten eggs for six months. He'd do the calculations and decide that revenge was worth having to take a taxi to work until the metro was running again. Or he'd get a ride from Emily.)

"Fuck them," you say dismissively.

"I'd rather not." He pulls a face and it takes you a second to realize he's joking. When you snort with laughter, he smiles at you, looking just a little smug.

"No, that'd probably be even more unhygienic," you agree. He opens his mouth to speak and you hold up a hand to stop him. "Nope. You will not give me any stats on that, you will not ruin sex for me forever."

Spencer closes his mouth like a fish.

"Thank you," you say, nodding.

"Perhaps it'd be easier, though," he says, making no moves to start walking again.

"Never having sex again?" Is he about to give you some honest feedback on your dating life?

"No." He shakes his head, too caught up in his own train of thought to really notice what you asked. "If I just shook people's hands."

"I mean, maybe," you agree, because it probably would make some things simpler. Just, none of those things are important. "But don't make yourself do something you don't want to do because that guy's a douche canoe."

"I'm not," he insists, looking down at his hands.

"Give me your hand sanitizer," you say, reaching out, palm up.

"What?" He frowns at you but immediately digs into his pocket for the small bottle. He squeezes a blob of the cool gel into your cupped palm and you rub your hands together, carefully spreading it on both of them before the alcohol evaporates and it dries out. Spencer is still watching you as he pockets the hand sanitizer.

When you're done, you hold up both hands to him, showing off just how clean they are and he raises his eyebrows in what you assume is approval. So you reach out and take his hand, not to shake but to hold.

"What are you doing?" His hand is stiff but he doesn't pull away.

"Exposure therapy," you say, squeezing.

The muscles in his hand relax slightly, but you can feel his palm getting sweaty. His hand is warmer than you thought it'd be, his skin softer. Somehow you expected calluses and dry skin, but his hands are as soft as the rest of him.

He wraps his fingers around your hand, submitting himself to the project.

"Spencer?" you ask a few seconds later.

"Hmm?"

"Are you counting?"

He looks like he's going to deny it but then he smiles, slightly shamefaced. "Yes."

"One minute, okay?" you tell him.

"Okay," he agrees, nodding, looking both ways as if he's worried someone will see the two of you standing in the middle of a police station hallway at 1 in the morning holding hands.

Some fears are more rational than others, you think to yourself as Spencer mouths, "59, 60," and then quickly lets go of your hand and shoves his own in his pocket.

TWO

You're in Garcia's office, sitting behind her as she types away, making things appear and disappear on her many monitors. Next to you Spencer is leaning against the desk you're perched on, his hands at his sides.

You indicate his pocket with your index finger and he pulls a "what?" face. When you mime rubbing something into your hands he looks at Garcia and then at you before he slowly pulls the hand sanitizer from his pocket and squirts some of it into your hand.

Garcia doesn't notice at all, still typing away, and you reach for Spencer's hand. He lets you take it, but you can see his eyes going slightly wide with panic.

"There are still more than a thousand hits," she says, taking a break from typing and starting to turn around in her chair.

"Can you limit it to just women who were divorced in the last six months?" he asks quickly, moving your joined hands behind your back where hopefully Garcia won't be able to see them.

"I never knew that was your thing, Doctor Reid," she jokes, turning back to her screens. "But I can indeed."

"It's not my thing," Spencer argues, "but it looks like it might be the UnSub's."

"No, I think Penelope's onto something there," you joke. Next to you Spencer is tense, but you're pretty sure it's more to do with the fact that you've got a firm grip on his hand than the joking. So you keep talking as a way to distract him. You're doing him a solid, basically. "How long after the ink is dry on the divorce papers do you make your move, Spencer? Do you hang around outside Family Court, scouting for future girlfriends?"

Penelope lets a giggle slip out, clearly appreciating the absurdness of the joke. Spencer Reid scouting for girlfriends anywhere. You're honestly hilarious.

Spencer on the other hand doesn't even dignify your joke with an answer. You think he might let go of your hand, but no. It hasn't been 60 seconds yet and you're pretty sure he's counting.

"Catching them on the rebound," you go on, smirking. You're going to keep it up until he reacts. "Clever to get them at their most vulnerable."

"Are you projecting?" he asks, head tilted innocently as he looks at you. "It sounds like you've thought about this a lot."

Touché, Doc.

"Ooooh," Garcia hums, sounding impressed.

You squeeze his hand. He squeezes back and then lets go.

If nothing else, this project is going to give you a very good idea of just how long 60 seconds is.

THREE

The case was exhausting, both physically and mentally, and practically everyone is asleep in their seats, with the exception of Hotch who is reviewing paperwork in the seat behind you while JJ snores quietly across from him, her own file abandoned on the table between them.

Next to you Spencer is sleeping with a pillow against the window, forced to make do after Morgan beat him to the bench where he's sleeping soundly under a blanket.

You shift, trying to get comfortable, accidentally hitting Spencer with your elbow.

"Sorry," you whisper when he opens one eye to look at you.

"Why aren't you sleeping?" he asks, opening his other eye.

You shrug, because you don't really want to admit that he was right and you were wrong, you shouldn't have packed your jacket in your hold bag, and you shouldn't have turned down a blanket when Rossi offered you one, and now you're too cold to sleep while Rossi is curled up across the aisle from Hotch, warm and comfortable under the blanket you refused.

Spencer doesn't say anything, just shakes his head at you with a faint smile, and then rearranges his blanket until it's covering you both. You lean closer to him so he can wrap it all the way over you.

"Thanks," you mumble, leaning your head against his shoulder, relaxing in the delicious warmth of the pre-heated blanket.

"Mhmm," he says, pushing his pillow back in place and tilting his head against it once more. When he settles, his hand brushes yours, knuckles moving against your fingers, and you chase him, pushing your hand into his. You might as well make the most of this time and do another therapy session.

Not acknowledging what you're doing in any other way at all, he turns his wrist so he can wrap his hand around yours properly, both of your hands falling into your lap. When you squeeze, he squeezes back, and then you feel his shoulder relax as he settles.

You wait with your eyes closed for the minute to pass, but when the 60 seconds are up he doesn't let go, so you don't either. Maybe he's ready to go for two minutes. You're nodding off when you finally feel his hand move, but instead of pulling it back, he's intertwining his fingers with yours.

His breathing is slow and even, you're pretty sure he's sleeping. Somehow it feels wrong to still be holding his hand when he's not aware of it, like you're… overstepping some boundary, tricking him. You try to pull away your hand, loosening your grip on him so you can push his hand back in his own lap, but he tightens his grip. It's not exactly firm, but definitely determined.

You smile, closing your eyes and burrowing closer to him until you're comfortable.

You're woken up a few hours later by him gently nudging you with his shoulder and then saying dryly, "You drooled on me."

His fingers are still braided through yours under the blanket and you use your other hand to wipe your chin and then the knit of his cardigan. "Sorry."

When you look at him his face is so close you can't really interpret his expression, but you don't think he looks disgusted.

Also, he hasn't let go of your hand.

"We're landing," you say, looking out the window at the Quantico air strip coming into view.

"That's why I woke you up," he replies.

"Oh." You honestly thought it was to complain about the drooling.

His thumb brushes a soothing circle on the back of your hand, and then he carefully releases you, pulling his hand away just in time to be able to give the blanket to JJ so she can stow it away.

You smile at him, impressed, and he smiles back.

FOUR

The bar is crowded but Emily and JJ managed to secure a table big enough for the whole team. There's a constant shuffling of seats, people drifting to the dance floor and back again, going to buy rounds of drinks, using the restrooms; and somehow you end up nursing your second piña colada pressed into Spencer's side while he's discussing interrogation techniques with Hotch and you're trying to understand what Penelope is telling you about the changes she made to her computer setup in excruciating detail.

Spencer shifts, moving even closer to you when Morgan pushes onto the rounded bench on Hotch's other side, and his hand ends up trapped between your thighs somehow. You move closer to Garcia, giving him space to pull his hand free, trying to pretend you don't notice the way his hand strokes your leg when he removes it.

Because he's not stroking your leg, he's just… moving his hand.

You clear your throat and nod, because Penelope looks like that's the reaction she's expecting, and she grins. "You weren't listening, were you?"

Spencer's hand is resting on his thigh now, but you're sitting so close to him that his pinky finger is still brushing your leg every time one of you moves. You're maybe moving a lot, not particularly comfortable on the bench seat.

You grimace in apology, your own hand settling on your thigh, so close to his that you could probably just stretch out your pinky and touch his.

"Well if you don't want to talk about my computer you can just tell me all about the date you went on last week," Penelope says and you realize this was her plan all along. Sneaky bitch, oh how you love her.

Next to you Spencer shifts again, his whole body going rigid when his pinky touches yours. You can feel him turn to look at you and when your eyes meet, he's frowning. You can guess what's bothering him, of course. Your hands touching under the table and you haven't been anywhere near hand sanitizer for well over an hour. What you have been doing is touching all sorts of unclean things, like the bar and the bench and money, the ultimate culprit in the exchange of germs, or so you've been told once.

Well, good. Time for him to lose the training wheels, you decide, and take his hand in yours, smiling with what you hope looks like encouragement.

His frown deepens, like he's thinking through a complicated game of chess, or maybe trying to talk himself off a ledge, and then he curls his fingers around yours, turning back to Hotch, his focus clearly going back to the conversation he and Morgan are having.

"Oh, it was great," you tell Penelope, feeling a little spark of excitement at how well Spencer's doing with his whole desensitization. You're kind of a genius for coming up with this, you tell yourself, pleased little butterflies fluttering around your stomach while Spencer's thumb rubs against your hand. "Yeah, he told me after dinner that he forgot his credit card so I had to pay, then suggested we both go back to his place because then we could share the taxi I'd also be paying for."

Penelope snorts. "And did you?"

You scoff. "No! I gave him three bucks and told him to take the metro, then I took a taxi home. By myself."

She laughs, delighted and you launch into the whole sorry tale about this absolute turd of a man you had to spend nearly two hours sitting across from at a restaurant because you hadn't organized a fake emergency call.

Next to you, Spencer's back goes less rigid as he clearly gets used to holding another person's unsanitized hand in this uncontrolled environment.

You squeeze his fingers, trying to convey how impressed you are by his progress.

He squeezes back, moving in his seat so his arm isn't bent at an odd angle under the table, making sure you're sitting so close that your joined hands aren't noticeable to anyone else. Your hands are resting on your thigh, his long fingers brushing against your tights. Or, well, not so much 'brushing' as, sort of, kind of stroking your leg, maybe? Not deliberately, of course, you know that, it's just what happens when you're both forever being jostled around as other people move around you.

Penelope gets up to go to the bar and really, there's plenty of space on your other side now, you could move away from Spencer's side, but then you'd have to let go of his hand, so you stay where you are, reluctant to let go before he does. He's doing so well, you want to see just how long he's able to do this for.

The room isn't cold, but somehow you still have goosebumps.

"Sorry about your date," he says suddenly, head tilted towards you, voice so low that no-one else can hear him.

You turn to look at him. "Don't be. My friend Katie set me up, she has terrible taste in men. The only surprising thing about that date is that she didn't want him for herself."

"Still. It sounded like you had a pretty bad time."

You shrug, one arm moving against his. "It's fine. Not the end of the world. There will be other dates, and maybe they'll be less terrible."

Spencer frowns, then nods. "Yeah, definitely."

"Why do you look so unconvinced? You think I'm doomed to a life of terrible dates?"

"No." He's shaking his head, but that frown isn't going anywhere. "That's not it."

"Then what?"

Under the table, Spencer's grip on your hand tightens and he looks uncomfortable. You wonder if he managed to forget he was holding your hand and now he realized it and wants to let go.

"It's fine," you tell him, because it is. He's been holding your hand for almost half an hour, your shoulder is actually getting a little stiff by this point. "You did really well."

"What?"

You squeeze his hand, since you can't exactly blurt out 'you're doing a very good job holding my hand' in front of all your teammates. Who knows what they'd read into that?

Spencer blinks. "Oh. Right. Thanks."

When you let go of his hand, it takes a few seconds for his fingers to loosen their grip, but when he does, you catch him surreptitiously rubbing his hand against his knee, not quite like he's trying to wipe you off, but still. Kind of like that.

When he gets up to leave half an hour later, he looks kind of uncomfortable when he says goodnight to you, raising his arms, and for a mad second you think he's going to hug you, but then he adjusts his satchel and you realize it was just falling off his shoulder.

FIVE

One of your favorite things about Spencer is, although his head can get kind of deep in the work clouds, once the case is over, if there's time before the jet takes you back home, you can pretty much always tempt him to go book shopping with you.

Sometimes you don't even really have to tempt him, because he has that eidetic memory, and he remembers you once telling him how you spent an entire day in your favorite bookshop in the world when you were in high school and now here you are in Portland and JJ has dismissed you both since you weren't on the team that did any actual apprehending of anyone, so there's less paperwork for you to do.

Spencer glances at his watch and then at JJ and then he tilts his head towards the exit while looking at you. And half an hour later, you're in heaven.

Book heaven.

You get distracted in the used books section, browsing biographies, and lose track of Spencer. When you resurface in Poetry it's been almost an hour and you realize you should probably find him. If you make everyone wait for you at the jet, they're not going to look the other way when you sneak off ever again.

You go through the aisles, looking for him, fairly certain he's in the used books section as well. There's enough to look at here, he wouldn't have made it to the new books, soulless historyless paperbacks.

You're not sure how you know that he's close, you just do. He's in the next aisle, definitely, and you're trying to decide if you should sneak up on him or that'd be a mistake considering what you both spent the last four days doing.

But then you hear it: "We have the paperback version as well, if you prefer."

You don't actually have to look to know this woman is flirting with Spencer. Her voice is so loaded with it, it's amazing the fire alarms aren't going off.

"Oh, that's fine. I prefer hardbacks." Spencer is polite but friendly in a way that's definitely not a rejection and you give in to temptation and remove a few books from the shelf so you can peer into their aisle.

18th century philosophy. Because of course.

And of course that woman is pretty with her nose piercing and purple-tinted hair and t-shirt that's just a little tighter than it's probably supposed to be, but in the most flattering way. A t-shirt that says, very loudly, "I can get you all the books you want, anytime, just come to bed with me."

Not literally, that would have been super weird to put on a work uniform, but it's definitely what the shop logo stretched out across her chest is implying.

"Well, if you need anything, just let me know. I'm Frankie, by the way." You wonder if the fire alarms are silent but fire trucks are actually on their way.

"Oh. Thanks," Spencer says and you can see his cheeks going all splotchy and red like he's too warm.

You stand up on tiptoes, which changes your view, and you realize why he looks like he's boiling.

She's touching his hand.

How unprofessional!

For just a second you think you've turned into your grandmother, who also cares way too much how people in the service industry behave even if their behavior has zero impact on her, and you think you might ask to speak to the manager, but then Spencer shakes his head no to something this absolute trollop just said, and which you didn't hear because your ears were ringing with righteous indignation, and she releases him.

And you realize something. You try not to, but you can't help it.

Because you're relieved. You don't care that this woman talks to customers like she wants to lick honey off of them, just so long as those customers aren't Spencer.

And you'd feel bad that clearly your exposure therapy hasn't really worked yet, because he couldn't have looked less comfortable and you know he gets shy sometimes, and it seemed clear that he liked her, and maybe if you had done a better job preparing him for this he would have been okay with her touching him.

Maybe you should also feel bad about the fact that there's a little part of you that's delighted that he'll let you hold his hand and not that woman.

No, you should definitely feel bad about that. Except you don't want any woman holding his hand other than you.

Once the aspiring honey-licker is gone, you walk into Spencer's aisle, trying to look like you didn't know he was there. If he notices, he doesn't say anything, just holds up the book he definitely already read most of and tells you he's going to buy it.

"You wouldn't prefer the paperback?" you ask innocently. He doesn't know you know, after all.

He looks at you, then at the gap in the bookshelf you forgot to refill, then back at you. "No." He says it like it's simple and your whole world didn't just spin on its axis.

Oh.

Your stomach does a little flip as you try not to read anything into that completely innocuous answer. Then he starts walking towards the cash registers, moving the book to the hand that's further from you, the one closest to you hanging loosely at his side.

You take it, carefully wrapping your hand around his, and he does the same, his fingers curling themselves around you.

You pass the woman he didn't want touching him earlier, and you think he might let go of you, but instead he just smiles politely at her, his grip on you not changing at all.

She smiles back, and then she smiles at you, looking all friendly and maybe a little bit apologetic and not at all like she wants to claw your eyes out.

You hope you smile back, but you honestly aren't sure what your face is doing at all.

You just know you're holding Spencer's hand and you don't want to let go.

Terrifying.

ONE

This was your idea. Spencer has reminded himself of that fact 27 times on his way from his apartment to the cinema.

He had asked Emily to go to the Eisenstein festival with him, she had made up some transparent excuse like he wasn't a professional lie detector, and you had said, "I'll go with you, Spencer. It sounds like fun."

And his lie detector just short circuited right then and there.

There's no part of him that thinks you're going to enjoy sitting through any one of the three movies that are playing back to back today, but he didn't question it. He did rewind mentally to make sure you had heard enough of the conversation to understand what he had been suggesting, and yes. You were there the whole time, actually sitting next to Emily when he had first brought it up.

But if you only said it sounded like fun because you felt sorry for him that no-one wanted to go with him to his black and white, Soviet era movie marathon, then he was going to just pretend he didn't notice.

And then he'd sit next to you in that cinema for at least 278 minutes, depending on the versions they were screening which the poster had been frustratingly vague about. Plus commercials. All in all, he'd estimate at least five hours. Sitting next to you. In a dark cinema.

Spencer doesn't believe in prayers or wishing on shooting stars, but he would have done both yesterday if he thought it might have done anything to lower the risk of a case coming up and cancelling your plans together. But he didn't need to, because here he is.

You're already there when he arrives, standing under the awning outside looking at your phone, and for just a second he's worried there's a text from JJ and you're being called into work, but his own phone hasn't said anything at all, and when you look up and spot him you smile, not apologetically or with anything like regret (real or pretend), but like you're genuinely happy to see him.

"Perfect timing," you say when he stops in front of you.

Spencer is seven minutes early. He smiles.

"Katie has been texting me non-stop." You hold up your phone as if to show him, and it actually beeps and lights up as if you planned it.

"Your friend with terrible taste in men?" There could be other Katies, obviously, but he's pretty sure this is the only one you've mentioned knowing.

"Uhhuh. She found another gem. She started dating a guy who's—and I could not be more certain of this—involved in some Ponzi scheme. He's got a friend who's single and she's convinced we'd hit it off." You open the text and read it, rolling your eyes, and then you shove your phone at him.

'Come on just give him a chance. What do you have to lose?' Spencer hands the phone back to you. "Does she mean, other than your money?"

You snort. "Who cares about money, Spencer? What about my dignity?"

He smiles, blowing an amused huff of air out through his nose. "I suppose there's that as well," he agrees. How much dignity does he have left considering the fact that he's about to spend his Sunday with you watching movies he knows you won't enjoy, when he could have explained to you that you wouldn't enjoy them and why, but he chose not to, because he didn't want you to back out?

Considering the fact that you spending time with him out of pity doesn't stop him looking forward to it? Considering the fact that he spent the entire morning wondering if you're going to take his hand in the cinema and actually getting excited at the prospect of sitting in a dark cinema screen holding his colleague's hand because she thinks she's curing him of… caring about hygiene?

Spencer isn't sure how dignity is measured, but he is pretty sure he doesn't have a whole lot of it left to measure.

"We're getting popcorn, right?" you ask, walking ahead of him into the cinema.

Spencer had planned on getting a coffee, maybe some pretzels. It's barely 11AM. "Of course."

At the concession stand you start picking up bags of candy at what he assumes is random, but then you show him two bags of pretzels, holding them up in turn. There's a third option, but he's never eaten that one in the office and you haven't touched it. He shrugs because he's fine with either and you throw both on the counter. "And a large popcorn with butter and a diet coke and a coffee with more sugar than you think should be legal. Actually, once you hit that point, just add a little more."

The teenager behind the counter looks at you, wide-eyed and a little scared.

"Three sugars," Spencer corrects you and you smirk.

He shakes his head at you, nudging you away from the counter before you can do any more damage. Doing some quick calculations based on what you've picked up, he throws some money on the counter before you can get your purse open.

"I was going to pay," you say, eyebrows furrowed. "You got the tickets."

Spencer, who can see the remainder of his dignity escaping out the door as he goes through the rites of an actual date, just shrugs. "You're doing me a favor, coming with me. The least I can do is feed you."

You look up at him. "Oh. I figured we'd go out for food after?"

He looks at the mountain of snacks you picked up, the tub of popcorn in your arm, bigger than your head. There's no way he can look you in the eye right now, not when you basically said you want to go out for dinner. With him. "And what's this? Appetizers?"

"No." You hug the popcorn closer like he threatened to take them away from you. "But aren't these movies seven years long? I feel like Russian movies are going to be long."

"They're not that long." He holds the door open and you walk into the screen ahead of him. The room is about half full, with people mostly centered in the middle rows. The front and back rows are both empty.

You stop, turning to look at him. "Where do you want to sit?"

Normally he'd prefer the front row, for his eyesight, but he nods his head towards the back row instead. You look just a little surprised, but walk in ahead of him, settling in one of the seats in the middle of the row.

He deposits your appetizers on the little table attached to his seat and sits down next to you. And then he waits.

You spend the first half hour eating popcorn, offering the tub to him at regular intervals, and then you open the bag of twizzlers, slowly chewing your way through one of them as you squirm in your seat.

"Are you scared you'll fall asleep if you sit still for too long?" he leans in and whispers.

You jump, startled. "No. I'm just hoping I can find the right angle and then this will make sense to me."

"It won't," he whispers. "Sit still."

Then he very casually and not at all deliberately puts his lower arm on the armrest between your seats, his hand within easy reach. It has worked well in the past, after all, there is previous evidence that his method is sound. If he makes his hand available, maybe allows his fingers to touch yours, more often than not you will take his hand.

It's a pretty devious thing to do, he's aware of that, and he's not really sure when your supposed exposure therapy stopped being something he allowed you to do because you seemed so determined to help him, and instead changed into something he didn't really mind before finally becoming something he actually wants you to do.

He wants to hold your hand, he wants to touch you, and he does not want your friend Katie to set you up on any more dates. Because you're right: statistically, eventually one of them will be a nice guy, and you'll like him.

But he won't - and this is the real problem here - be Spencer.

The first movie ends and you still haven't made any moves to touch his hand. You haven't actually moved much at all, and for a while he thought you had fallen asleep, but no. You were staring at the screen, your nose scrunched up adorably as you tried to follow the narrative.

Maybe Spencer should have double-checked that there would be subtitles…

When the lights come on for the 15 minute break between screenings, you get out of your seat. "I've just gotta—" you trail off, pointing at the exit to the lobby and the other people making their way out.

"You forgot your purse," he says, grabbing it from your seat and holding it out to you after you've passed him.

You turn and stare at him. "What?"

"If you're going to sneak off." He's mostly joking. Mostly. He's also a little bit worried you do want to leave.

But then you smile, shaking your head at him like he's being silly, and he feels like maybe he was.

"We can do something else," he offers all the same. Maybe you don't want to get away from him, but you could still want to get away from Eisenstein.

You take a step back towards him, almost but not quite knocking your knee against his. "Spencer, we're not leaving. There are two movies left, I'm coming back."

"You just want me to feed you," he says. Mainly to remind himself that's something you said you expected to happen.

Dinner and a movie. Would it be possible for you to do anything more date-like? In a completely platonic way, of course. Two more movies left for you to platonically take his hand.

"Exactly," you say, and this time you do actually nudge him with your leg. Luckily you aren't looking at him, so you don't see the way he has to suck a pleased smile all the way into his mouth.

This time, he lets you walk away, and when you return nine minutes later, you're holding another coffee for him. "You take it black, right?" you joke, handing it to him.

He takes a sip and you ordered it just the way he likes it, which he knew you would. "Thanks."

When he puts the coffee back in the cup holder between your seats, he brushes against your arm, sitting on the edge of the armrest. Strictly speaking the thing isn't wide enough for two, it's very much a territory to negotiate over, but you're taking up less than half of it.

Spencer spends about ten minutes wringing his hands in his lap, trying to decipher the situation. You shift, twice, but your hand doesn't move. It's still there, half on, half off the armrest.

Like it's undecided, or like it's trying to run away and you aren't letting it, or like it wants to be there and you don't want it to.

How is he supposed to know what to do?

The answer is probably that he isn't supposed to do anything. This isn't a date, it only looks like one from a distance, and just because he can't focus on the movie because all he can think about is holding your hand, that doesn't mean you want him to. You haven't technically told him that his exposure therapy is over, but you haven't held his hand since Portland, two weeks ago.

Like maybe doing it in public was some kind of graduation ceremony and didn't make him want to stay in that bookshop forever, never mind catching the jet back to Quantico.

He shifts, sighing deeply, only realizing how loud it was when you turn to look at him. "Sorry."

"You okay?" you whisper, leaning a little closer to him.

He's not, not at all. He's spiraling just a little bit. "Yeah, of course."

You look at him carefully, like maybe you don't believe him, and he turns back to face the screen so he doesn't have to look you in the eye. Then he takes a deep breath and places his arm on the armrest, taking up most of the remaining space on it.

His pinky finger is maybe an eighth of an inch away from yours and he digs it into the velvet of the armrest to stop it from twitching and accidentally touching you, although he's not quite sure why.

Maybe because it feels too much like begging to be touched, suddenly, after not being touched at all for so long?

But then, while the score crescendos dramatically, he suddenly feels it: Your pinky finger feathering along his and then away. At first he thinks he imagined it, but then it happens again, and again. And this time, it actually settles against his.

When Spencer turns to look at you, you're staring intently at the screen, looking for all the world like you're completely engrossed in the movie.

He moves his pinky so it's covering yours.

You don't move. At all.

He moves his pinky a little more, until it's settling on your ring finger.

You still aren't moving.

He feels his heart rate increase, the way it might do ahead of a myocardial infarction, or possibly a panic attack. But there's no pain in his left arm, no cold sweats, no shortness of breath.

He swallows, then he places his hand over yours, covering it completely.

Your thumb twitches but you don't pull away, so Spencer decides he might as well go for broke and wrap his fingers around your hand.

That's it, he's done it. He's holding your hand.

And then you move, your hand shifting. He's about to release you, worried he overstepped, but all you do is turn your hand and intertwine your fingers with his, pulling his hand off the armrest and into your lap.

Spencer double-checks the signals his body is sending him, just to make completely sure this isn't a heart attack.

He turns to look at you, and he's pretty sure you're smiling, your eyes still on the screen. "Okay?" he asks.

You turn your head and now he's sure you're smiling. "Of course."

When the second movie ends, you don't get up. Your hand is still intertwined with his, resting in your lap, and Spencer hopes you'll never move.

"This, um, this exposure therapy has really worked well," you say and there's something in your voice that makes him look at you.

"I guess," he says, because he's not convinced it has, really. He's pretty sure he won't be shaking anyone's hand unless it's yours.

You lift up your joined hands to show him. "I mean, we've been holding hands for like an hour."

He blinks.

"It's nice." Your voice is soft and you aren't looking at him, so he lets himself smile at your words.

'Nice' doesn't really cover it at all. "Yeah."

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.”

The thing about Spencer was that he remembered everything. Most people found that impressive, however you found it comforting. You could mention something once and Spencer would remember it months later.

A favorite author.

A movie you loved as a kid.

A food allergy.

A random story from college.

It all stayed somewhere inside his mind. One afternoon you were searching your desk.

Spencer looked up from a file.

"What are you looking for?"

"My charger."

"It's in conference room B."

You blinked.

"What?"

"You left it there after the briefing."

"How do you know that?"

"You forgot it."

"As opposed to?"

"You forgetting it somewhere else."

You laughed, what made Spencer smile. The room collectively watched. Then looked away before either of you noticed.

A month later the team was flying home from a case. You fell asleep halfway through the flight. Nothing unusual.

The unusual part happened afterward, when the jet landed. You woke up covered with Spencer's suit jacket. Garcia nearly bit through her lip trying not to smile. Luke immediately looked toward Rossi. Rossi silently updated the betting pool.

You simply handed the jacket back.

"Thanks."

Spencer looked almost embarrassed.

"Of course."

Like covering you with his jacket was the most natural thing in the world. Which, to him, it was.

The problem wasn't that Spencer was subtle.

The problem was that he treated you differently in a hundred tiny ways, that only became obvious when people paid attention.

He always sat beside you during briefings, partnered with you when possible, saved you a seat on the jet, noticed when you were tired or stressed, or hungry, or upset.

The rest of the team noticed.

You didn't.

One afternoon Emily walked into the bullpen and stopped. Spencer was talking and you were laughing. Neither of you seemed aware that everyone else had stopped working. Your eyes blurry with tears, Spencer vividly gesticulating as he was telling you an old story about prank war he had with Derek, years ago.

Luke slowly slid into the chair beside Emily.

"How long do you think?"

Emily sighed.

"At this rate?"

"Yeah."

"Six months."

Luke nodded thoughtfully.

"Optimistic."

Across the room Garcia was already adding notes to the betting spreadsheet.

The funniest part was that Spencer thought he was hiding it.

Everyone knew. Everyone. Including suspects, witnesses, local police.

Once, during a case, a detective looked between you and Spencer and casually asked how long you'd been together.

You nearly choked. Spencer looked like he forgot how talking worked.

The detective immediately apologized.

The team spent three days making fun of him. Spencer never recovered.

The jealousy started by accident.

At least that's what Spencer told himself.

The team was interviewing witnesses at a local bar. You were speaking with one of them. A very attractive witness. A witness who was clearly more interested in you than helping with the case.

Spencer was trying not to stare.

He failed. Spectacularly.

The witness leaned closer, what made Spencer hate him immediately.

The witness said something and your smile vanished.

"Oh no," Luke muttered beside Spencer.

"What?"

"The poor idiot crossed a line."

Sure enough, you folded your arms.

"What exactly do you mean by that?"

The witness smirked. Spencer couldn't hear his response. Whatever it was, he didn't need to.

Your eyebrow lifted.

Three minutes later the witness looked like he'd lost an argument with a lawyer, a professor, and a disappointed mother all at once.

He practically fled.

You walked back toward the team.

"What happened?" JJ asked.

"He told me I'd be prettier if I smiled more."

Emily winced.

"Oof."

"He also suggested women usually aren't greatat this job."

Luke barked out a laugh.

"Well, he deserved whatever you said."

You shrugged.

"I simply informed him his confidence was unsupported by evidence. And that if he thinks me smiling more would help finding the killer, I'm glad his job is cleaning tables."

Rossi laughed into his coffee.

Spencer tried to hide his grin and failed. You caught it immediately.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You look pleased."

Spencer shrugged.

"I enjoy watching arrogant people get embarrassed."

Your smile widened and Spencer forgot how breathing worked.

The breaking point came another two months later. The team was flying home after a case. Everyone was exhausted. Luke was asleep with his head tilted back. Garcia was scrolling through her phone. Emily and JJ were discussing paperwork. Rossi had somehow fallen asleep the second the jet left the ground.

You sat across from Reid.

He sat with a book open in his lap. Supposedly reading. You knew he was reading because he always read.

What you didn't know was that he'd been staring at the same page for fifteen minutes. Because you were sitting directly across from him. And because he was trying very hard not to think about how good you looked. He was failing miserably at that.

You sighed and stretched.

"Can I ask you something?"

Spencer glanced up.

"Of course."

"Why don't you date?"

A few seats away, Emily immediately looked interested. Luke cracked one eye open.

Spencer tried to focus back on the book.

"That's a broad question."

"I mean, you're smart."

He turned a page. The wrong page.

"Kind."

Another page. Still not reading.

"Funny."

The book lowered slightly.

"And ridiculously attractive."

Reid nearly dropped it.

Across the aisle, Luke looked ready to choke.

You continued obliviously.

"Anyone would be happy to be with you."

Spencer stared at the page, not reading a single word. Then he said, almost casually:

"Well, you don't seem interested."

You blinked.

"What?"

The words came out before he could stop them. His eyes widened slightly. The entire jet suddenly felt very quiet.

You stared.

Spencer stared at his book, very intensely.

Like maybe if he focused hard enough he could disappear into it.

"What do you mean?"

He swallowed, slowly lowered the book and looked at you.

"I mean..." He hesitated.

For once, Spencer Reid seemed completely unsure of himself. Then he gave a tiny shrug.

"You don't seem interested in dating me."

The silence was immediate. Absolute.

Across the jet, Luke's eyes snapped fully open. Garcia looked up from her phone. Emily stopped pretending not to listen. JJ pressed her lips together. Rossi looked awake all of a sudden.

You simply stared. Because surely you hadn't heard that correctly.

Spencer realized exactly what he'd just admitted. A faint blush spread across his face.

"Oh."

He looked away.

"That wasn't how I intended to say that."

You were still staring. Because suddenly everything made sense.

The coffee.

The jacket.

The attention to detail.

The jealousy.

The way he always found you first.

"Oh my God."

Spencer let out a quiet laugh.

"Yeah."

"Oh my God."

"I know."

You pointed at him. Completely horrified.

"You're flirting with me?"

Luke physically buried his face in his hands. Garcia made a noise somewhere between a scream and a laugh.

Spencer finally smiled.

Warm.

Fond.

A little smug.

He tilted his head.

"For like... two months now, thank you for noticing."

"Two months?"

Emily snorted.

"Try six."

Spencer groaned.

"Emily."

"What? She deserve the truth.

You looked confused.

"You knew about it?" You looked at everyone, trying to figure out what exactly is happening.

"Technically Rossi had the betting pool."

"I financed the betting pool," Rossi corrected.

You looked back at Spencer, furrowed brows, thinking. Analysing.

"You really like me?"

Spencer's expression softened immediately. Like the answer was obvious.

"Considering I haven't stopped thinking about you for almost a year?"

Your heart completely stopped.

"A year?"

Spencer closed his eyes.

"Please stop repeating that."

"A year?"

Luke laughed so hard he nearly fell out of his seat.

Garcia was openly crying.

And Spencer looked like he wanted the jet door to open so he could jump out.

"Yea" he admitted quietly. You smiled, not taking his eyes off of him.

"That's good" you said eventually and that made him curiously look at you.

"Good?"

"Yea. Because I like you too. For quite some time" you admitted, smiling fully now.

"You do?"

"Yes. Thank you for noticing" you couldn't help but mock him, as you intertwined your fingers on the small table inbetween you.

Garcia already started planning your wedding. JJ and Emily exchanged looks, knowing smirks. Luke just silently handed Rossi fifty bucks, mutting something that sounded like "one week too soon".

Tired of his own mind beating him down, again and again. Maybe it's right. That voice that slithers around him. Gentle at first, always so gentle. Luring him in, allowing him respite.

It's only a matter of time before it starts to tighten its grip. Pull him closer. Squeeze the air from his lungs. Leave him gasping and screaming. Begging.

He'd give anything to make it go away. He's sick of the pain it brings. But it doesn't matter how far he runs or where he hides. It's all the same. Because he can't outrun himself. Can't outrun what he is. This darkness that festers in him. Like a sickness. Rotting him from the inside out. Infecting everyone around him.

He wants to be alone. But he is alone. That voice…It's his own. Thoughts and words picked up from other people — people who should have been kinder, better — but the voice is his. No matter what he does, he's destined to lose.

Soon they'll see. Wouldn't it be better if you left before they realise? You've been feeding them so many lies. They don't know you like I do. I see you for what you really are.

He tried to leave. He really did. But there's always an excuse to stay. A late night talk with Yelena, a training session with Ava, a silly inside joke that Alexei loves to make with him.

Always an excuse. He's so weak. He's going to hurt them. How long can he keep lying to himself? How long can he keep pretending that he isn't dangerous?

And then there's you. God, if he hurt you, he'd never forgive himself. The rest of them are like a family to him, but you…

He can't say what you are. If he lost that…

But you will. You always hurt the ones you love.

So he does what he knows best. He retreats. Locks himself away in the furthest room of the Watchtower, away from concerned questions and worried eyes.

If you really cared for any of them, you'd leave. Disappear. Let them forget all about you. But you're a coward. You always have been.

He just wants it to stop.

Bob's been disappearing more and more lately, and it's becoming hard to ignore. You try to give him his space - he's quieter than the others and needs more time to himself - but it's becoming too much, even for him.

The Watchtower is an enormous building, even for the amount of people who occupy it, and some of the rooms furthest from the common area are gathering dust from lack of use.

You're willing to bet that's where Bob's hidden himself away.

You leave under the pretence of wanting to spend some time alone in your room. Whether anyone believes you or not remains to be seen, but depending on Bob's current state, you know that he likely won't appreciate the entire team descending on him like a flock of mother hens. Even just one of you is probably pushing it. But you need to know if he's okay. Call it selfish, but you really miss his company.

You keep as quiet as possible as you make your way across the building. Bob's hearing is sensitive at the best of times, and you don't want to alert him to your presence too early. You can't let him run away before you've even found him.

When you reach the end of the hall, you expect to find the door locked, but you're grateful to find that it opens easily. The room is dark, which doesn't come as a surprise. It's easier for him to hide this way.

Slowly, you close the door behind you, conscious of making any sudden sounds. You close your eyes, letting the silence wash over you. This is the last room. He has to be in here.

There. A sniffle, from the far corner of the room.

"Bob?" you call in a hushed voice.

Muted shuffling against the wooden floorboards. A stifled whimper.

Your stomach drops. Is he hurt?

"Bob?" you call again, soft and low. "Can you make another sound for me? So I know where you are."

You hold yourself still, poised for any minute sound. The silence is unnerving.

"Go away." His voice is hoarse, as if he's been crying.

The room is fairly small and sparsely decorated, and with some concentration, you're able to make your way around the furniture without too much of an issue. Faint lines of evening light fall through the cracks in the curtains, dimly illuminating your way.

Another muffled sniffle, and you've found him. A hunched silhouette on the floor, huddled against the wall.

"Bob?" You carefully crouch down in front of him. Not so close that you might startle him. "Are you hurt?"

A shuffling sound. Shaking his head, perhaps. If he's hurt, you need an answer. You try again.

"No- No, you need to leave. I need you to leave," he begs. "Please."

You squint in the low light, and as your eyes adjust, you begin to make out the shape of him. His head's lowered, chin tucked behind his knees as he hugs them tight to his chest.

Like a frightened child.

"Bob, I'm worried about you," you say gently. "We all are. I know you need your space, and that's okay. But this isn't healthy, you're isolating yourself."

You stretch your hand out to him, to comfort him in some small way.

"I'm not going anywhere, okay? I'm going to stay right here with you, for as long as you need me to. Will you let me?"

He flinches as you touch his arm. His head snaps up suddenly, and in one swift movement, your back collides with the floor. The air's forced from you in one quick breath. Bob leans over you, heavy hands pressed to your shoulders. His eyes are wild. You've never seen him like this before. He's scaring you.

As quickly as that, he's gone. Retreats back into his corner liked an animal that's been spooked. He clutches tightly at his hair, whispered sorries tumbling from his trembling lips.

Carefully, so as not to startle him again, you pull yourself upright.

"Bob?" You keep your hands to yourself this time. "Bob."

Over and over, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

"Bob," you say again, firmly. Willing your voice to remain steady. "Listen to me. Please?"

His grip tightens. If you don't stop him, he's going to hurt himself.

"I know you didn't mean what just happened." Every word is chosen carefully. "You're scared. I know. But it's okay. I'm here with you."

His head shakes. You're not sure if he can even hear you.

"You- You have to leave," he mumbles. "Before he- Before I-"

There are parts of Bob that you still don't fully understand. Parts that he does his best to keep hidden. Everyone has secrets. But his can turn people into shadows with barely a thought.

The Void. All of Bob's pain - his rage, his sadness, his despair - brought to life by the Sentry serum. Sometimes it's it, sometimes he. But never I.

"You're not going to hurt me," you tell him. Fear still runs like a current through you, but you believe what you say. "I know you won't. Because you're strong."

A barely stifled sob slips from him, and you press on.

"You are. You're so strong. You don't want to hurt me, and you won't. And I won't leave you."

"But what if I do?" he whispers. "What if I hurt you? What if I lose control and- and-"

He shakes his head again.

"Please. Just- Just go."

Pushing through the thrumming anxiety, you reach for Bob's hands. He clutches harder at himself, reluctant to let go. So you stop trying, lightly running your thumbs back and forth across his skin instead.

"It's okay," you murmur, in an attempt to soothe him. "It's okay."

It takes some coaxing, but gradually, his grip loosens, and his hands slip from his hair. You gently guide them down so he doesn't hurt himself.

"If anything happened to you and it was my fault…"

He stops, swallowing another lump in his throat.

"I- I can't let that happen. You…You mean too much to me."

It's the first time he's ever said anything like this. Bob's always been more of a listener than a talker, and it can be hard to tell what he's really thinking. But this…

This feels like an admission. A confession.

Something you've been wanting to hear for a long time. What you've been desperately hoping for.

You take a breath, hoping that you can keep yourself together for a little while longer. For his sake.

"And you mean too much to me to let you fight through this alone," you tell him. "So let me help you. And it's not because I feel like I have to. It's because I want to."

You pause, giving your words the time to sink in. Hoping that Bob's letting them.

"I want to help you, Bob."

You want to keep talking, keep pushing, anything to make him give in and let you care for him. But you know that'll only scare him away. So you wait, sitting quietly in the dark with him for as long as he needs.

It's some time before Bob finally moves, and when he does, he all but collapses into your arms, clinging to you as if he's worried you'll disappear. He's heavy, and the angle is awkward and painful, but none of that matters right now. All you care about is that he's letting you in.

The light outside is gone completely by the time you and Bob leave. He trails after you in the dark, neither of you saying a word. He's exhausted after what he's been through, and you're not faring much better.

Bob's room is your first stop. Even if he knows the Watchtower as well as you - better, perhaps - you wouldn't feel right leaving him to find his way alone.

You're about to say goodnight when Bob reaches for you, a trembling hand clutching at your sleeve.

"I- I can't," is all he manages.

I can't be alone.

You place your hand over his, gentle and reassuring. "Can I stay with you tonight?" you ask softly.

You've learned from experience that wording what Bob wants as something you want makes it far easier to get a straight answer from him.

He quickly nods in reply. You give him a little squeeze, not letting go as you lead him into his room. He follows you readily without a word. You're already in your pajamas, and Bob doesn't even stop to undress - he just climbs right into bed with you.

Normally, he's hesitant around other people touching him, but he falls easily in your arms. Maybe he's too tired to care, or maybe you've finally proven yourself trustworthy enough. Either way, you're not about to question it.

"Promise you'll still be here in the morning?"

His voice is so small that you find yourself suddenly fighting the urge to cry.

"I promise," you murmur.

His hold on you tightens for a moment, before slowly, it begins to relax.

"Try and get some rest, okay? You're safe here. I'm not going anywhere."

It takes Bob a while before he settles - you can feel every minute twitch and warm sigh - but eventually, fatigue overwhelms him, and his breathing gradually starts to even out into quiet snores.

Your mind is still racing, and you let yourself breathe properly for what feels like the first time tonight - in slowly, out slowly. There's nothing to do right now except sleep. You rest your cheek against the top of Bob's head, trying not to think about soft his hair is.

Whatever's waiting for you can be dealt with in the morning. Right now, the only thing that matters is that Bob's safe. That's all you can ask for.

Taglist: @getaapologist @entoxicant @vigilanteenjoyer @inafieldoflilies @nomajdetective @pullmanstankeoghanbailey

Bob drops his bags to his feet and hugs you tight before he leaves. Tight and suffocating, the way he would if he was leaving for six months. You wonder how intense he would have made it if it had actually been six months.

It’s only a matter of a couple of weeks – it’s not much for what the mission involves, but for codependent, emotionally attached Bob, it feels like the most challenging thing he has ever had to do, and he’s more afraid of being away from you than he is for the actual mission, he’s pretty sure.

He leaves you one of his hoodies and promises he will do his best to find the time to call you.

The second day, he calls you at eleven in the evening. You stay on the phone for almost three hours, listening as he tells you about every single detail of the trip and about the so-called “classified” mission plans he’s not supposed to tell anyone about. He complains about how demanding and overbearing Valentina is for a good quarter of the call, and tells you how much he misses you already for half of it. 

You tell him how chaotic being in the Watchtower feels without his calming presence around, tell him how nothing changes the fact that John and Ava can't stop fighting.

You hear it in his voice when he starts to feel tired, too familiar with how softly honest he gets when the exhaustion starts to weigh on him. It takes him a few tries to explain what he means, repeating his words with a warm chuckle when he stumbles over them and makes a mess of the syllables. 

He doesn’t fight it when you advise him to hang up and get some sleep. 

His lucidity resurfaces when he remembers he forgot to ask you to water the few plants he has managed to keep alive, and to feed the fish he got after his psychiatrist told him having an animal to take care of could help him care for himself at the same time. Like two sides of the same coin – take back what you’ve been given, treat others the way you would like to be treated or something.

So you have a mission of your own, and you take it very seriously – you take pictures and research his plants to know how often you should water them, and you carefully read the instructions of the fish food to know how much is enough and how much is too much. It becomes a routine as the days pass, and you take a picture of the fish to send to Bob, snapping when it opens its mouth to eat the particles before they reach the bottom of the aquarium.

Bob usually texts back asking how you’re doing, and when he doesn’t have the time to, he responds with an assortment of emojis; a smiley face, a fish, a thumbs up and a heart. Which you’re sure, looking for the emojis just takes as long as a full conversation.

It feels weird not having him around the Watchtower, but as long as you’re kept busy, the days pass and don’t seem to drag, and if your schedules match, he’s just a video call away. It is at night that it particularly hurts, when you get in bed and he never joins you, when you wake up in the middle of the night and he’s not here to cling to. Instead, you hug and bury your face into his hoodie, or sleep in his bed when you happen to miss him too much.

On the tenth day, the fish food runs out. Only a few specks fall out of the holes, and the fish hurries and catches them in no time, swimming around afterward like he’s expecting more. “I hope there’s more somewhere or we’re both fucked, buddy” you mutter to the fish, letting the empty container rest beside the aquarium. If there is any logic behind this and Bob has backup food somewhere, it shouldn’t be far from the aquarium. 

You try the first drawer. It’s a mess. Tangled cords and cables, crumpled takeout menus, a pair of broken headphones, a bag of your favorite candies that he offers you when you’re feeling down. It makes you smile and your heart aches a little. 

There is loose change at the bottom of the drawer, buttons, and things you can’t even comprehend. But there’s nothing that resembles the fish food, so this drawer is out. 

The second drawer is more organized. Notebooks, the console controller he’s been meaning to try to fix for ages, a stack of papers that look like past prescriptions, painkillers, and a small, forest green velvet box tucked in the corner. The fish food still isn’t there and you’re about to close the drawer, until you freeze when your gaze rests over the corner of the drawer again when the information hits the right place in your brain. You know you shouldn’t or you will ruin something, you know what it is even before you reach for it, but your hand runs faster than your brain and you have to make sure, and you’re not sure you’re even truly processing the information. You stare at the box for a while as it rests in your hand. 

Unopened, neat and pretty, the velvet soft. 

And you know it should remain like this. 

You try reasoning yourself, try to come up with reasonable reasons why a box like this would be there except for the obvious reason, telling yourself not to open it, like it’s a forbidden artifact holding an ancient curse. But everything leads back to reality, and once you lift the lid, you know it was everything you expected – it couldn’t have ever been anything else and it was stupid to think otherwise in the first place. 

Bob bought a ring. 

You close the box just as soon as you open it, like it’s suddenly burning your hands, putting it back right where it was.

You forget to feed the fish.

Bucky has to shake you out of your thoughts during dinner that evening. When the rest of the team asks how Bob is doing, you respond briefly and don’t elaborate the way you usually would, too shaken by your discovery, standing somewhere between excitement and dread, turning it all around your head. You chew on your food while John’s voice drowns into your ears, only imagining Bob going to the jewelry store, dawned by the responsibility to take a decision on which ring to pick. Wondering how long it has been in this drawer, how he plans on doing it all. Hearing his voice in your head already, stumbling over the proposal because he’s talking too fast, face flushed red while he tries to explain how much he loves you. Wondering if you’re even ready for something this big.

You love him; of course you do, but you hadn’t even begun to think about this aspect of the relationship.

You stray away from contacting Bob too much the next day; you stick to texts only, because you know you will struggle pretending that there isn’t something gnawing at your brain if you hear his voice, or worse, if he sees your face.

You get a text while you’re out shopping for the fish food with Yelena, and when you see it pop up onto your screen with Bob’s name, you don’t bother opening it, immediately shoving your phone into your pocket with a small sigh. When you glance back at Yelena, you know by the look on her face that she knows something’s not right. 

“What’s wrong?” she asks, putting back the can of food she had been holding. 

You consider pushing it away, but you’re pretty sure you need friendly advice on this. “Do you think Bob is thinking about marriage?”

She makes a face like she had been expecting everything except this. “Wow. Like, eventually, or right now?”

You give her a light shrug and tear your gaze away from her, pretending to look through the different varieties of fish food though you’ve been knowing which to pick for a while already. “I don’t know”

She doesn’t follow right away, like she’s thinking about it.

“I mean, if you proposed to him, he would say yes right off the bat without even thinking about what it implies.” she declares, knowing how deep he’s in for you. She had been suffering from his heartache before he gathered the courage to confess his feelings for you, after all. “I’m not sure about the real thing. I mean, maybe not right now. Too much commitment for him, especially with what he has gone through and his life at the moment”

You nod. It aligns with your train of thought.

“But eventually, definitely” she affirms. “I’ve never seen someone so lovesick, it kinda disgusts me sometimes” she grins, only meaning to tease you. You grin back at her and give her a playful nudge of your elbow, shaking your head with a laugh when you pick up the fish food from the shelves.

When you’re in line for checkout, you open Bob’s texts.

I got those crispy fried stuff you like at lunch today 

I miss you

It makes you stupidly smile, and you send in your response before it’s your turn on paying. 

I miss you too, babe

Your conversation with Yelena somehow eases your worries for the next few days; it makes the apprehension of Bob coming back less daunting, and your excitement grows with each day that passes. 

He comes back on the fifteenth day – sooner than expected, by two days, because the mission got wrapped up sooner than planned, and he’s relieved; because he gets to go home, and because he knows he would have ended up hurting Valentina if he had to spend those extra days with her.

You figured he would talk a lot; about the trip, the mission in itself, the environment, his progress on using his powers. It’s usually when you want to kiss him most, when he’s proud of himself and when he goes on about something that excites him, but this time, he doesn’t bother with words when you close the door to his bedroom behind you. He kisses you, gentle and slow, like he’s savoring what he’s been deprived of for weeks, hands resting over your hips when he backs you up against the door and comes even closer. Your arms wrap around his neck, hand in his hair, and the snowball rolls and you end up under him in his bed while he kisses you like he wants to consume you whole, his hand trailing down your body until it slips under your clothes.

You kiss along his jawline when he lies back beside you when you’re done, his face prettily flushed, his breathing still uneven while he stares at the ceiling with that dazed, blissed out expression you love bringing on his face. 

“Missed that too, right?” you ask with a teasing grin, hand resting over his throat while you kiss his cheek a couple more times. 

His eyes close with contentment, an internal laugh running through him. “Oh yeah.”

Your fingers brush away the hair sticking to his face, and he smiles when he watches you, kissing you one last time before he reluctantly pulls himself upright, quickly rearranging the clothes he had barely shed, too eager earlier to bother taking them off.

You do the same before getting comfortable still lying on his bed, cheek resting over his pillow, listening as he tells you about his last day on the mission and about the trip back home while you watch as he starts unpacking his travelling bag – he knows if he leaves it in a corner of his room he will let it rot and won’t touch it for weeks, and he’s been working on this kind of stuff in therapy – facing problems instead of running away from them. 

It gets you thinking. About your own personal current problem. Bob still has no idea you know about the ring, and you feel like you’re lying to him by not letting him know.

Lying to the man who sleeps wrapped around you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear in the night. Lying to the man who loves so desperately and honestly that sometimes it scares you only because you don’t know how someone can feel something that deeply and handle it.

It feels unfair to hide it from him and to think about pretending to be shocked when the time eventually comes and he proposes; you know you will feel awful knowing you hid this from him.

You stop him before you get lost in his words and stop listening to him altogether. “I need to talk to you about something”

Bob perks up, his narrative already dropped. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?” he puts the shirt he’s holding back in the bag, walking back to the bed when he sees the look on your face, sitting in front of you. 

Your head shakes and you give him a small smile. “No, everything’s fine. It’s just– I ran out of fish food the other day” Bob’s head turns towards the tank like he’s expecting you to tell him the fish is dead. “He’s okay,” you grin, seeing the soft relief over his face when he looks back at you. “But it’s– I figured you’d have more somewhere and I looked through your stuff, and…” you trail off, but there’s no use beating around the bush. “I found the ring.”

His soft, worried frown turns into an expression you can’t quite decipher. Then, his mouth gapes just slightly, and you witness every stage of his thought process hit him in real time. Confusion, questioning, realization, horror. His mouth moves, no sound coming out as he searches for his words, unable to get anything intelligible out. 

“Oh my god,” he eventually whispers as he turns around and gets up from the bed again, a hand covering his face as he paces around processing the information, rubbing over his eyes. 

You get off the bed and join him, carefully resting a hand over his arm, trying to quiet his frantic desperation. “It’s okay, Bob.”

“It’s not even–” he gestures around aimlessly, his gaze everywhere but on you, still looking for his words. “Fuck”

He lets out a small, frustrated sigh. “It’s– I was manic when I bought it. I felt like I was doing so great, I was finally starting to have control over my powers and things were so good between us and– and I guess I got carried away, you know how it gets” he explains frantically, brow furrowed. The words settle and still between you, and suddenly, it all makes sense. 

“It doesn’t have to mean anything, I just… it’s crazy, I know” he huffs out humorlessly. “I mean, I’d want to marry you, I know it, but we haven’t been dating for that long and I don’t even know if you would wanna get married, and I don’t want to trap you into this or something, or pressure you into something you don’t want” he rants, a nervous laugh punctuating it, his eyes squeezing shut as he pinches the bridge of his nose like an ache has developed there suddenly. He doesn’t say anything for a few, the room getting awfully quiet suddenly, but you know there’s more, it’s obvious over his face, so you let it sit. 

“I don’t even know if I want to, really. Or if I’ll ever be in the right place to” he admits in a small chuckle, voice softer in confession. “It just went so great with my parents, so,” he scoffs, voice pained with sarcasm, his hands falling to his sides again. 

You take a hold of them, and for the first time since you dropped the bomb, Bob’s gaze meets yours, like your touch is steadying him. His eyes are filled with worry and apprehension of your reaction, explaining why he felt the need to justify himself this intensely. 

“It’s okay,” you nod. “We don’t have to think about this right now. We have all the time in the world to figure it out and to know what we want for sure.” his eyes set to where your hands are holding his, his gaze softening with vulnerability, and his hand squeezes around your fingers softly. “We can love each other the same even if we never get married. It’s… really, it’s just a formality” 

He nods, gaze still down. One of your hands slides away from his to brush beneath his chin and have him look back at you. “I love you and I’m happy with you either way, you know that, right?” his mouth pinches into a sheepish smile, and he nods, eventually reciprocating the grin over your face. 

A sense of relief washes over his face, and he brings you closer to hug you to his chest. “I love you too” he murmurs, the tension in his limbs easing a bit, the thumping of his ribcage still frenzied against your ear.

You sit together over the edge of his bed when you pull apart, grabbing his travelling bags to help him unpack. There’s a soft expression over his face, gratitude hitting him as he watches you move and neatly fold his clothes before you pass them over to him so he can sort them into piles to put away later. You both move in comfortable silence, until something hits Bob suddenly.

“Are you disappointed?”

You look back at him, a confused expression etched over your face. “Of what?”

He shrugs lightly, busying himself by digging through his toiletry bag. “You could have been expecting me to propose and now you’re disappointed that I can’t do it”

“Oh– no, Bob” you assure him immediately, hand resting above his. He gazes back at you, uncertainty masking his face again. “I don’t think it’s something I’d want right now. I’m not opposed to it eventually, but it’s not an absolute necessity either. Our happiness doesn’t have to depend on that, I’d love you the same whatever we decide to do”

Your words lodge themselves somewhere beneath the panic and self-consciousness and all the ugly little fears he carries in his brain, those about being difficult to love, even more on a long term aspect, and those about being abandoned.

You can see him trying to believe you, trying to let the reassurance sink in instead of immediately searching for hidden disappointment behind it.

“Yeah?” he asks quietly after a moment, like he needs to hear it again to be sure.

Your thumb strokes over the back of his hand. “Yeah.”

His gaze lingers on your face, studying you carefully, looking for any hint of hesitation or disappointment.

There’s none.

You kiss his cheek before you get up from the bed and take the pile of shirts to put it away in his closet, and he progressively visibly relaxes, more at ease now that this whole thing isn’t dawning on the both of you anymore.

“Hey, uh… do you like the ring at least?” Bob asks gingerly, though with less nervosity than if he had asked earlier, a faint grin over his face. “I had such a hard time making a decision. I mean, now that you know, we can get it changed if we ever decide to get married one day”

You break into a soft laugh and nod. There’s a gentle beaming smile over Bob’s face when your hand slides into his hair. “I love it. It’s really pretty. And very careful of what I like”

He nods, a sheepish, proud smile over his face. 

It’s his first time turning a rushed decision into something right, at least.

And now his fear of the future isn’t as clouded as it used to be.

—

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