margot

As the phone rang, part of you hoped he wouldn’t answer. When he asked you about it the next time you saw him, you’d wave it off as a butt dial and he’d be none the wiser.

“Hello,” he said through the phone, leaving your plans quashed.

This was awkward, you had been on four dates with the guy over the span of two months, and now you were calling him in the middle of the night. “This isn’t a booty call,” You blurted, cringing inwardly and banging your head back on the passenger door of your car.

Spencer laughed lightly, “I didn’t think it was, what’s going on?”

“I didn’t wake you up, did I?” You asked, his job had a lot of long hours, and you didn’t want to bother him if he was catching up on sleep. If he was even home, “Wait, where are you?”

There was a rustling on his end of the call, “No, I wasn’t asleep, I’m at work. We just got off of a case.”

You let out a sigh of relief, at least you weren’t being a total nuisance. “Sorry, I don’t mean to bother you. I just… my tire blew out on the highway and my jack broke and no one else is answering their phone,” you told him, verging on rambling.

“You’re kind of cutting out, where are you?” He asked, he sounded concerned, and if there was a moment where you weren’t sure you still had feelings for him, it was fleeting.

Looking to either side of you for a mile marker, you stood up, looking at the ground so you didn’t step on any metal, “I don’t really know. There aren’t any signs, I’m somewhere on 28, I think?”

Spencer cleared his throat, “Do you have your location on your phone?”

“Yeah, but I don’t think I have enough service to check it,” you said, all you could see were trees.

You could hear him talking to someone, holding the receiver away from his mouth, “That’s fine, I’ll have someone look, just stay on the phone.”

It would seem that dating someone in the FBI does have its perks, “Oh, cool.” You overheard Spencer explaining your situation to someone, hearing the other person in the room say something about Reid’s girlfriend and you couldn’t help but smile. The two of you were very unofficially official.

“Hey, I’ll be there in half an hour,” An elevator dinged in the background. “Is that alright?”

You hummed, leaning your hip against the front of your car. “I mean, I’m not planning on going anywhere.”

Another ding of the elevator, “Will you do me a favor?”

In exchange for this? You’d do just about anything within the realm of legality, “Name it.”

“Get in your car and lock the doors,” he responded. “Turn your hazards on because right now you’re a sitting duck. If someone doesn’t see your car, they could hit you.”

As a favor, he was asking you to make sure you’re safe, “Okay, I’m getting in now, should I leave the car running?”

You heard the sound of a car lock disengaging through the phone, “As long as the cooling system on your car is in good shape, it shouldn’t be a problem to leave it running while you wait. Just remember what I told you about the hazards.”

Nodding despite the fact that he can’t see you, you got in the car, turning the key in the ignition before pushing the button for your hazard lights, “Okay, I’m in the car.”

“I can’t drive and be on the phone at the same time, but I’ll be there soon. Don’t unlock the doors for anyone except for me,” he told you, and you thanked him for his help before hanging up and settling yourself in your driver’s seat.

You pulled the hoodie you kept stashed in your car over your head, your school mascot—a panther—proudly displayed in the front, and made sure your car doors were locked. If you said you weren’t a little unnerved, you’d be lying to yourself.

Spencer had a worrisome job; it was something you were aware of before he ever asked you on that first date. It became alarmingly obvious to you when he revealed that he’d been shot a few months prior, which was an appropriate second-date conversation with an FBI agent. It made sense to you that he’d be concerned about you, in your idle car, on the side of the road, but you wondered if there was a case that he was thinking of. Someone with a flat tire who had met an untimely demise.

Shuddering, you turned up the heat in your car, flipping through radio stations until someone knocked on your window. You jumped at the noise, hitting your head against the roof of the car before looking outside to see Spencer. Sighing in relief, you unlocked your car door, and he opened it for you, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. Is your head alright?”

You peered up at him, casually leaning over your car door. “You cut your hair,” you observed. You’d seen him just last week, where his hair still touched his shoulders, and now it was considerably shorter.

Self-consciously, he reached up a hand and thumbed one of the tendrils, “Yeah, it just got too long—and heavy.”

Resisting the urge to ruffle his hair, your head bobbed, “I like it. Did you do it yourself?”

“You can tell?” He asked, following you around the back of your car to your busted tire. Spencer sets his tire jack down before looking back at you, putting his hands on his hips.

Grinning at him, you shrugged, “I teach kindergarten, I’m basically a professional at noticing DIY haircuts.”

On a towel that you had previously set out, the two of you sat along the side of your car, and you tried to ignore the fact that Spencer still had his weapon holstered. It made sense, he’d come straight from work, but you wondered if there was a reason he didn’t leave it in his car. “Where’s your lug wrench?”

“I can change it myself,” you insisted, “I just needed a different car jack.” You gestured to the pieces of yours that were now all over the side of the road.

Alarm flashed on Spencer’s face, “Nothing fell on you, right?”

You shook your head, “No, just a cut from the metal.”

Holding out your hand, you let Spencer take a look at the cut on your palm. “When was your last tetanus shot?”

Blinking rapidly, you frowned at him, “Uh, when I was in college?”

“That might need stitches,” he responded, letting you take your hand back. “I’ll change your tire, I don’t want you using that hand for anything,” he informed you, pushing the hydraulic jack beneath your car.

Butterflies swarmed in your stomach as you watched him take your old tire off, muttering under his breath about how your old jack was practically an artifact, seeing how it literally fell apart under pressure. “How was your case?” You asked softly, fully aware that you were likely opening a can of worms by asking about work.

Spencer’s movements faltered slightly at your question, “It’s closed. We were in Boise,” he answered tactfully, leaving out any case details and cluing you into the fact that he didn’t want to talk about it. “What are you doing out here?”

You sighed, leaning back on your hands and watching him work, “I had a meeting with the other schools in our conference. It’s annual, and this year they happened to pick the school furthest away from mine.”

“Well, I suppose it worked out well that your tire blew out so close to me, then,” Spencer said, swapping out the busted tire for the donut and looking over at you. There was something nervous in his eyes, and you didn’t know if it was related to work or you.

Humming, you tried to watch the tire rather than just watching him, “Is there something bothering you?”

He was tightening the lug nuts on the spare tire, “Are you driving home after this?”

You furrowed your brows, “Yeah, where else could I be going?”

“It’s almost a two-hour drive to your place from here,” he reminded you, his tone laced with concern. “You won’t get home until almost one in the morning,” the displeasure in his voice was plain, but you don’t have anywhere else to go. “Plus, you really shouldn’t travel that far on a spare tire, they’re not made to travel far distances.”

Crossing your arms in front of your stomach, you let your shoulders slump forward, “So, what do you suggest I do? Get a hotel?”

Spencer mumbled something inaudibly, trying to finish tightening the bolts on the tire before sighing, “You can stay with me,” he blushes, a swipe of pink across his cheeks.

Your lips parted in surprise, “Uh, I don’t… I’m not…” you faltered. Utterly failing to come up with a good enough reason to tell him no, “I don’t want you to feel inclined. This isn’t what I was looking for when I called you for help.”

He let the car down, staying quiet while the two of you cleaned up, and Spencer swatted your hand away when you tried to pick things up. “So, you can come back to my place tonight. My work-issued first-aid kit has your name all over it,” he told you, eyes flickering down to the cut on your hand.

“Okay,” you breathed, unable to conjure a reason to refuse his hospitality.

He was grinning at you, hair just barely brushing his eyebrows, “So tomorrow, maybe we can get coffee and drop your car off to get a new tire?”

You smiled back at him, “That sounds great, date number five.”

“You know where you’re going, right?”

“Yeah,” you’d been to his place once to pick him up, “Hey, Spence?”

He turned around, fishing his car keys from his pocket. He looked ready to respond to you, but you pressed your lips to his before he had a chance to speak.

You kissed him softly, whispering against his mouth, “Thank you for coming.”

He chuckled lightly, gently resting a hand on your waist, “Thank you for calling.” 

"Okay. I'll see you soon."

The line disconnects, and you stare blankly at the mess you've accumulated in the past nine hours in front of you. 

And you mean to clean it up. Really, you do. You heed his warning and make a plan to pack it all away and be ready for when he's home with dinner. You didn't need to study any more, you were smarter than you gave yourself credit for—words from Spencer himself running on repeat in your mind. 

Then... you don't. You remain firmly planted on the floor of the living room, continuing to write down notes on your whiteboard, drowning in your work. 

Foolishly, Spencer believed you. He genuinely thought he would come home to you waiting for him, watching something on TV or scrolling on your phone. He really doesn't know why he's surprised to find you still in the same position you were probably in when he called you. 

"You said you weren't going to be studying when I got home," he says, and you jump, clearly too engrossed in what you were reading to have even heard him come in. 

It's only once his words break you out of your haze do you look up, the smell of food he'd picked up wafting through the air, and you can hear the sound of his keys jangling as they drop into the trinket tray next to the front door. 

"I'm not studying," you mumble in response, dragging your eyes back over to the textbook in your lap.

"No?" he tilts his head, humour coating his voice as he drops his bag on the seat at his desk, and the food onto the kitchen counter. "Then what's this?"

"Light... reading..." you trail off, halfheartedly. 

"Uh-huh," he say, disbelieving. He finds a seat on the couch behind you, reaching over your shoulders and thieving the textbook from your lap. "Your idea of a good time is... Davidson's Principles and Practice of Medicine?"

"Yep. Love it. Davidson's the best," you huff, tilting your head back and reaching your arms up to get the book back from him. He holds it higher, out of your reach. "Spencer."

He replies with your name, mockingly, eyebrows rising. "C'mon, up. I've got dinner."

"I'm nearly finished. I just have, like, six more chapters to get through. Then I'm all yours. Promise."

"You've been studying since I left the house this morning," he shakes his head, "you can stop for the night."

"And when I fail these exams, your name will be in my cause of death when they do my autopsy." 

"That's dramatic," he scoffs, dropping the textbook to the small coffee table beside the couch, before his hands hook under your arms, and lift you up. You protest by going limp, but he's always been stronger than you, and so he effectively lifts you up onto his lap, facing him. "You're exhausted."

"Einstein slept for three hours a year."

"That's a myth," he deadpans, "Einstein slept for ten hours a night. Every night. I bet he also ate all three meals."

"Then Einstein's a loser and I'm gonna be better than him," you huff. 

"Not by burning yourself out, you're not." 

"I hate when you be a good boyfriend," you grumble.

"Sorry. I'll try and limit my good behaviour," he tilts his head to the side. "Honey, the world isn't going to collapse if you stop studying tonight."

"Oh my God, it might. And then you'll eat your words, and I'll have the last laugh, and you'll die in the apocalypse knowing this could've all been prevented if you'd just let me keep studying."

He stares blankly at you. You crack a small smile, trying to let him know you're kidding (about the apocalypse, you really do want to keep studying). 

He's quiet for a few moments more, and you anxiously stare at him, for it's all you could really do. He's got you locked in place, arms looped around your waist with a tight enough grip that you're sure he'd strengthen if you even attempted your escape. 

"Okay," he sighs, and for a second, you think he's about to let you get back to studying. Then, he stands, and you have to cling your arms to his shoulders to stop yourself from falling off. 

"Okay... what?" you ask him, nervously, staring at his unreadable expression the entire short walk to your bedroom. 

"You're not relaxing with verbal comfort," he answers, simply, and your stomach flips as he lays you down on the bed. 

"Now is really not the time to be trying to have sex with me, Spencer. I've got a thousand things to do, and—oh." 

He cuts you off with his lips on yours, and just like he knew you would, you melt. 

You suppose taking a small break wouldn't hurt. 

"The food's gonna get cold," you mumble to him as his lips descend down your neck. 

"Good thing we own a microwave," he answers.

"Dammit. I should've used that," you grumble. He laughs. 

Lifting your shirt up above your chest, he drops down to kiss along your navel, holding your hips in place as you begin to squirm.

You're impatient, itching to get back to your mountains of readings and powerpoints, so he takes his time. He doesn't ever stray from a patch of your skin until protesting whines start spilling past your lips, and your hands thread through his hair to tug him someplace new. 

Finally—finally, his fingers hook under the waistband of your pants, and he pulls them down, before letting his fingertips trail back up your legs, stopping just short of the edge of your underwear. Instead, he places them on your waist, massaging the muscles as he returns his lips to yours. You groan, irritated, in response. 

"You're taking too long," you huff. 

"That's not the point of this," he replies.

"The point of this is to help me relax. And orgasms help make you relax. Can't relax if you can't even get me to orgasm."

"I'm sure I can," he says with frustrating certainty. "You just need to slow down."

"Slowed down I am. Feeling very slowed down. Very relaxed. Very ready for this promised orgasm."

He nips your jaw. "Cut it out."

You go quiet after that, though your mind fixates on all the ways you'll be able to get him back as he slowly eases the tension from your body with calculated movements. 

All conspiring plans come to a halt when he pulls your underwear down. Instead, replaced with anticipation as he brushes a finger through your folds, making you sigh, contentedly. 

"There she is," he coos, slowly pushing a finger in, watching your tense body language dissolve in an instant. "See how good it feels when you wait?"

"Mmhm," you hum, distantly, head lolling to one side, watching him with lazy interest. 

"It's been too long, hasn't it, honey?" he murmurs, and you silently nod as he pulls his finger out, spreading your own arousal around your clit, then pushing it right back in, working his way up to a steady pace. "I know. You've been so busy, working so hard."

You squirm, attempting to close your legs around him when he adds a second finger, the stretch burning just right. 

He doesn't allow you to, using his other hand to hold your legs open, watching your face intently. You let out a broken moan, fluttering your eyes shut, and you can feel the smile on his face when he leans down to pepper kisses along your thighs. 

"We can't wait this long again, okay, baby?" he murmurs, the skin vibrating with his words. "You're barely taking my fingers. How am I supposed to actually fuck you?" When your breath catches, he reassures you with gentle words of, "Don't worry, we won't tonight. You've gotta get back to your studying, don't you?"

"Mm-mm," you shake your head, thoughts clouded by the fact that he was now using his other hand to stimulate your clit. 

"No?" he asks, "you don't need to study anymore?"

Distantly, you're sure this is exactly what he wanted. Presently, you don't really care. 

There's tension building in your stomach, and he's crooked his finger to the perfect angle, that whatever responsibilities weighing you down seem inconsequential compared to the dire need for him to make you come. 

The knot in your stomach melts away as you whine, hands that had once dropped from his head now finding their way back to the strands of his hair, using them to ground yourself as your orgasm rolls down your spine. 

"Spencer," you gasp when he doesn't stop, hips jerking up off the mattress, met by his firm hand pushing them right back down. "Mm-mm. I ca—an't."

"Yeah, you can," he replies, gently. "You're doing so well for me. Just one more, yeah? You can come one more time?"

"'s too much," you whimper, "please."

"I know, I know," he nods his head. "But you're already clenching around me, baby. Just a little longer."

You cry out as your second orgasm bleeds through you, stars spotting your vision. He slows his pace down, all up until you're still beneath him, at which he drags his fingers out and reaches back up to gently peck your lips. 

You reach for him when he steps off of the bed, mewling quietly as he gets out of reach. 

"Come back," you pout, staring at him as he disappears into the bathroom, the sound of the sink tap turning on following his silence. 

"Just washing my hands, sorry, honey," he says once he's returned, helping you pull your clothes back onto your body. "Okay to have dinner now?"