#criminalminds

The day starts ordinary enough.

Spencer’s in his usual weekend rhythm—hair still mussed from sleep, sleeves pushed up, moving around the kitchen like it’s second nature. You watch from the couch as he empties the dishwasher, humming softly under his breath. He pauses to line the mugs neatly in the cabinet, then wipes his hands on a dish towel before reaching for the coffee pot.

It’s nothing flashy. Just him being… him. Thoughtful, careful, methodical.

And yet, every small thing he does sends a slow, molten warmth through your veins.

He glances over his shoulder to ask if you want sugar and you can’t even form a coherent answer. You nod, a little too quickly.

Later, he’s in the living room, glasses sliding down his nose as he fixes the leg on the wobbly bookshelf you’ve been complaining about. His hair keeps falling into his face, and he keeps huffing it away with a puff of air, muttering to himself like an old man. You should be helping. You’re not.

You’re watching the veins in his forearm flex every time he tightens a screw.

Then it’s the laundry—him methodically folding towels, matching socks like it’s a puzzle. Then it’s him remembering to water the plant on the windowsill.

And then, Christ, it’s the way he looks at you—his eyes soft and sweet and his voice so, so gentle when he tells you to go get ready.

“For what?” you ask.

He smiles. “I’m taking you out to dinner.”

He doesn’t phrase it like a question. He’s not asking permission.

And something about that makes your knees a little weak.

You take a quick shower, throw on a pretty sundress, do your makeup and hair, and when you’re about to step into your heels, he kneels down in front of you.

His fingers brush your ankle as he buckles the strap. Then he does the other foot.

It’s so simple. But it turns you on more than you can explain.

He stands and looks at you, brushes your hair behind your ear. “You okay?”

You can tell by the look on his face—gentle, knowing, a little amused—that he knows exactly where your mind has gone. But you just smile and say, “Yeah, I’m fine.”

He says, “Okay,” and the two of you walk out to his car.

Your hands are wrapped around his elbow like it’s 1942 and he’s taking you to the dance. He opens the door for you, and you freeze.

For a second, you're glad he can't hear your thoughts. The dirty ones. The ones where he bends you over the hood of his car and fucks you in broad daylight. But he’s just standing there, waiting for you to get in the car.

Then he raises a brow at you—a bold smirk on his lips and you wonder… maybe he can hear your thoughts.

“Let’s go back inside,” he says. And you nearly melt into the ground.

You’ve been living together for a couple of months now. And he’s finding out—little by little—how unbelievably, downright, unhinged horny you are. He leads you back upstairs. And as soon as the door falls closed behind you, you’re pinned against it, his soft lips on yours.

You can taste the toothpaste on his tongue.

You’re still in your heels and sundress, and he’s fully clothed, and he’s kissing you so hard you can’t catch your breath. His hands are in your hair, tugging, pulling, and your fingers are fumbling for his belt. You think how easy it would be to undo it, unbutton his pants, let them fall. You want them to pool around his ankles; you want him to kick them away and take you right here, up against the door.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispers. And even though his tone is loving and tender, he’s also a little rough. A little commanding.

You have to tell him. He won’t move until you do.

“I want you,” you breathe.

He shakes his head. “No. Tell me exactly what you want me to do.”

“I want you to fuck me,” you whisper. “I want you to bend me over the couch. I want you to pull my hair and make me come on your cock. I want it to hurt just a little bit.”

He nods. “Good girl.”

Then he spins you around, bends you over the arm of the couch, flips your dress up, and yanks your panties down to your knees.

And for a second it's embarrassing—the idea of him seeing you like that. It’s easier when it’s dark, when you can pretend he can’t really see you.

But it’s broad daylight and you know he can see everything. The way your thighs are shaking, the wet spot on your panties, the way your body is so, so ready for him.

“Spencer,” you whisper, trying to look over your shoulder at him. But he presses a hand to your back—keeps your face and chest pinned to the cushions.

“Don't move,” he tells you. “I’m going to take care of you.”

You feel his lips brush the back of your thigh.

He kisses a path from your knee to your ass. And when he reaches the soft flesh there, he sinks his teeth in.

“Ow,” you whine, even though it doesn’t really hurt.

He soothes the skin with his tongue, and you feel his hands on your thighs, spreading you wider for him. Then his tongue is on your pussy—licking a slow stripe up your center, and you nearly whimper.

“Shh,” he tells you.

And you don’t know why you have to be quiet. The two of you are alone in the apartment. But something about the command, about him shushing you, makes you bite your lip to stay quiet. You press your cheek into the couch cushions, muffling a moan.

“Good girl,” he praises. “You look so pretty like this.”

You can feel his tongue on your clit, lapping at your slick folds, dipping into your hole. He fucks you with it, pressing it inside you as he grips your ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh.

He hums against your pussy, and the vibrations make you shiver.

“God, you’re so wet. You’re making such a pretty mess, baby.”

His words send a shockwave through you. And you wonder if this is turning him on as much as it is turning you on. If it’s possible for him to be just as gone, just as crazy for you.

You hear the sound of his belt being undone, then his zipper coming down.

And then he’s pushing inside you, so slow, so careful—like you’re fragile.

You feel every inch of him stretching you, and you let out a gasp. He’s so hard. You can feel it in the way his cock twitches inside you. In the way he hisses when he bottoms out, and his fingers dig into your ass.

He pauses for a moment, lets you adjust, and then he’s pulling out, and thrusting back in—so hard you let out a cry.

“Does it hurt?” he whispers. “Tell me if it hurts.”

You shake your head, and he thrusts again.

It hurts just a little, but it feels good, too. Feels like you’re full. Like your body is being rearranged to fit him.

And you can’t help the way your walls clench around him.

He groans.

Even though he’s being dominant—even though he’s telling you what to do, fucking you from behind—he’s still so, so loving. He mutters soft compliments, tells you how good you feel, tells you he doesn’t deserve you.

And every time he’s all the way inside you, he sits there for a second—lets you clench around him, lets you feel every inch.

“You’re taking me so well,” he purrs, fingers tangling in your hair. He yanks, and you move with him, sitting up on your elbows. “Good girl.”

He reaches around to yank your dress down, freeing your tits. And his fingers are kneading, massaging, before he’s pinching and rolling your nipples between his fingers.

You let out a whimper.

“Tell me you want it,” he hisses. “Beg me to keep fucking you.”

“Please,” you cry, pressing back against him. “Please don’t stop.”

He keeps that deep, torturous pace—keeps toying with your nipples, pulling and rolling them between his fingers.

“What got you so horny for me, baby?”

And you have to tell him. You have to say the words out loud, even though they sound so dirty, so depraved.

“It was you helping me. Fixing the bookshelf. When you emptied the dishwasher. God, I wanted to drop to my knees and blow you right then.”

He moans and fucks into you—hard and fast.

You swear you feel him hit your fucking cervix. You let out a loud moan.

Then he pulls out, and you’re empty and cold and you whimper at the loss.

"Stand up."

You do, shaky legs and trembling thighs.

He sits down, looks up at you.

“Come here, ride me.”

He doesn’t have to ask twice.

You straddle him. Your knees sink into the soft cushions, and your hands find his shoulders. You raise up on your knees and position him at your center. And slowly—oh, so slowly—you sink down on him.

You can see his face now. The way he watches you like you’re a work of art. Like you’re something to be worshipped.

And it makes you feel powerful and sexy.

You raise up again, and slam back down. He lets out a hiss and bites his lip. So you do it again.

His hands are on your hips, helping you, guiding you. And it’s not long before the two of you find a rhythm. He thrusts up to meet you, and you fuck yourself on him—slow and deep. It’s so good. He’s so good.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers. His eyes haven’t left your face. He kisses your neck, your shoulder, the curve of your breast.

Then his lips find yours again.

And it’s sweet and gentle, the way he kisses you. The way his hands hold your face, his tongue licks at yours. He sucks on your bottom lip before he bites it. And it takes your breath away. It feels like a dream—the way he’s looking at you. Like you’re the only person in the world.

Like nothing else matters.

“I love you,” he breathes. “God, I love you so much.”

His voice is so soft, so sincere, you feel a lump form in your throat.

“I love you too,” you whisper back.

And he smiles—this little boyish grin that makes him look so young. Makes him look like the world isn’t weighing him down. And you press your forehead to his, feeling his breath on your lips, and then you’re riding him again.

“Touch yourself,” he tells you.

His voice is husky, and his eyes are on you—watching the way you bounce on his cock. You reach down between your legs, playing with your clit in slow circles as you fuck yourself on him. 

He grips your hair, pulling your head back gently so he can look at you.

“I’ll always give you what you want,” he tells you softly. “Anything you ask for.”

“I love you,” you moan again.

“I love you, too.”

You’re still touching yourself like he asked you to. Like you promised. And he notices.

“Good girl,” he moans, and starts fucking up into you—harder. Faster. “My girl.”

“Spencer,” you're breathless as you say his name. “I’m gonna come.”

He’s thrusting up, hitting that spot inside you that feels so fucking good. “You feel so good, baby. So warm and tight.” He bites your neck softly, sucks the skin into his mouth.

“Please,” you whine. “Spencer, I can’t.” Your hands are gripping his shoulders, your nails are biting into his skin, and you can feel your orgasm building. “Please let me come.”

He kisses your lips—soft and gentle.

“Of course you can come, baby,” he murmurs against your lips. “Come on my cock. I want to feel it.”

You let out a moan and do exactly that. You clench around him and see white. You’re gasping for air and shaking and whimpering.

He keeps fucking you through it—slow and gentle, and it feels so good you think you might come again.

“That’s it,” he coos. “You did so good, sweetheart. You made yourself come on my cock.”

And you nod, biting your lip, still feeling the aftershocks of your orgasm as he fucks you. He’s going harder now. You know he’s close. He whispers how good you feel. How beautiful you are. And then he’s coming—groaning softly as he fills you. You can feel him pulsing inside you and you clench around him. It makes him moan and bury his face in your neck. You can feel him smiling against your skin. And the two of you sit there for a moment—him still inside you, his arms wrapped around you, holding you tight.

“You’re so pretty,” he whispers, smoothing your hair down. He pulls back to look at you and you smile. He kisses you again—so lovingly, so tenderly you melt into him.

And then you’re lying on the couch together. He’s holding you in his lap, your head on his chest. You’re tracing the lines of his chest as he strokes your hair. It’s quiet—save for the sound of your breathing.

You could fall asleep like this. With your head on his chest and his fingers in your hair.

a really awfully good looking guy who had once blushed at your words when you rode the elevator with him and filled the silence by complimenting his thesis.

of course you knew who he was.

if he were to step a foot on in your department, you were pretty sure applause would echo off the walls. this guy had done more fore crime solving using linguistics than your entire team ever had, and his endless knowledge sort of terrified you.

and maybe since then, he'd started to use the east wing elevator abnormally often. and maybe you'd exchanged numbers. for the sole purpose of keeping eachother in the loop during important cases, of course.

and maybe you were tired today because you'd spent all night exchanging texts, and your brain was beginning to turn into mush from the hours of sleep it'd been denied in the previous weeks.

all because of the boy who stood on the other side of the room from you right now, with his arms crossed and brows knit together while he listened to something the unit chief was saying.

"the unsub we're looking for seems to be leaving hidden messages on the crime scenes," agent hotchner explains, not bothered in the least by the number of people hanging onto his every word.

then, he adds.

"the letters have been collected, and as of now they're our primary focus. we believe an in-depth analysis might help us with the profile."

all around the bullpen, the air was charged.

agents taking notes while the team just stood there, shoulders high and gazes unwavering, like a silent affirmation of their superiority.

you wouldn't have appreciated it, the condescendance lingering in the air, aiming to make you and your colleagues feel somewhat impressed.

not if it wasn't for spencer.

the boyish brunette who was leaning against a desk - his desk you presumed, based on the precise alignement of the books displayed - whose eyes on you could be felt from miles away.

prentiss spoke up next, arms crossed in authority.

"with this guy, danger is imminent. he's escalating, and that's why we called the IB. we need more experts on the case."

something the woman said didn't quite register in your mind, your attention focused on keeping your gaze away from spencer.

a blonde one you recognized as penelope led you to the conference room, and you simply followed like a stray puppy yearning to get his owner back.

no one needed to know.

not as the team gathered around the round table, specifically asking you to join the meeting in hopes of receiving your expertise. in the room of qualified profilers trained to spot miscalculated glances and fleeting touches, with eyes like lasers piercing through the illusion of lies, you had to pull yourself together.

spencer made it a difficult task.

“i was thinking i could quickly go through all the letters the unsub wrote to try to find a pattern. i'd just need access to the archive room to find old files, i've worked through a similar case before.”

quick words, evidently suggested like he’d invented the alphabet himself. you almost smiled when you remembered something he said two days ago, in that exact same nonchalant tone.

“studies prove key elements such as sharp angles, uneven pressure or stilted writing can reveal traits linked to psychopathy." he adds, apparently finding the watch around his wrist more interesting than you, sitting across from him.

hotch asserted himself once more.

"actually, the bureau wanted the input of a real language analyst for this task," he said, sharp jaw nodding in your direction. the focus in the room shifted on you as he said your name.

the smile you gave felt forced, pressured by the half a dozen pair of eyes on you. only one made your heart beat faster for all the wrong reasons, and they belonged to the one who knew you as more than a name on a badge, a piece of chess in the game.

"morgan, you'll help her with the profiling. everyone else, i need you on the field"

morgan ?

the man in question gave you a welcoming grin, and though you were hoping for someone else, you nodded in return. for some reason you swore you heard spencer swallow, adam's apple sticking out, and you felt your a slight pinch of something that almost tasted like disappointment.

you weren't a profiler.

you couldn't have known - and he was grateful for that - that the reason he kept his gaze down and hands to himself came from an irrational part of his brain he didn't know existed.

the one that was jealous.

so he gathered his files and abruptly got up, leaving you with morgan as the rest of the team headed back to work, without even looking back.

turns out the dark skinned man had more to himself than flirtarious smiles. you two worked side by side all morning and he helped you delve into the files.

and before you knew it, you'd managed to keep spencer in the back of your mind for hours.

at lunchtime, while snacking on a granola bar, you caught yourself rambling about the meaning of commas in the unsub's letters. your excitement was contagious.

"gee," derek laughed, cutting you off with a chuckle to remind you he couldn’t keep up.

"you're like a female version of reid or something."

you stopped chewing. looked up, alerted. attempted to wipe away some unwanted crumbs and dreamy grin that had appeared on your lips a little too naturally.

"i'll take that as a compliment."

"trust me, pretty girl" he said, giving you a reassuring wink that might've led you to think he knew more than he let on, "that's a compliment."

the door opened.

he stared. spencer.

files in his hands and mouth opened like he was about to say something but lost all ability to form proper words when he heard the exchange. you felt your hands tighten around the empty plastic wrapper.

morgan’s head turned towards you, then reid.

the tension was painfully obvious, he’d heard the last two sentences and that was already more than enough. a little too interested in the newbie to realise his friend was just being welcoming.

“i was just coming here to say we found a new body with another note displayed on the crime scene,” spencer spoke after what felt like ages. he still didn’t look at you.

“-but i guess you’ll do a great work without it, since you make such a great team.”

morgan whistled, attempting to ease the tension with yet another uneeded comment.

“woah, someone’s jealous.”

with a friendly pat on spencer’s very much tense arm, he left, leaving you and your male copycat in a very awkward situation.

suddenly, the conference room felt smaller.

the space, tight. tighter than the shirt sticking to your skin you suddenly felt trapped in. droplets of sweat clung to the back of your neck and you kept your chin down, eyes piercing through the documents laid out on the table.

he didn’t move, not until he cleared his throat and closed the door behind him. “i didn’t know your intention was to befriend the whole BAU," he snarked.

"i didn't know you had such a problem with me being in your life."

your sharpness made him flinch. daring words, toying with the feeling in his heart he was too much of a coward to properly name. nobody he'd ever met had acted this way towards him. with brutal honesty, confronting him with raw emotions he'd be tempted to conceal.

spencer's eyes were locked onto yours when you spoke. he looked vulnerable in this light, but the anger bubbling beneath his ribs didn't stop him from saying.

"i- that's not what i meant" he stuttered, looking both confused and indignated.

you'd pushed your chair out of the way to get up, almost reaching his height now. there was no escape from this conversation - and you'd very much rehearsed it in your mind anyway. now was time for the real deal.

"i think you did,"

of course, in your head, it wouldn't happen here, out of all places. feelings didn't match well with your work, and now in the conference room was far from the appropriate time.

"i think you're jealous" you affirmed with confidence, crosing your arms to prove your point, "jealous of the fact that i was assigned the task, and that derek had to supervise and not you."

gee, even hearing you call him by his first name made him boil.

"m’not jealous. i have three PhDs”

you laughed. indeed, even with academic degrees up his sleeves, he could still be very oblivious.

“not of the case, idiot.”

he knew what you meant.

and paused. swallowed again.

you bit your lip in waiting, almost facepalming yourself at the honesty of your words - you got that way when you were nervous. and you were really nervous now.

“i don’t think i’ve ever been jealous before.” he said, to himself more than you.

never had he encountered someone to be jealous of. he had the brains, the world seemed to like him. see something even he couldn’t sometimes. he was never jealous of the living because he spent most of his time in a world of his own.

and then he met you.

“there’s a first time for everything” you said with a reassuring smile, much softer now. time for trust, trusting someone and allowing them to see behind the illusion. for love, and letting someone in.

barely blinking, your mesmerising eyes are deeply focused on his now.

“i don’t think i liked it, though.”

“being jealous ?”

he nods, admitting. “you’re smart. and so good at what you do, i swear you made the room light up when you walked in.”

the distance between your bodies fades as he takes another step towards you. he nervously talks with his hands.

“and you could be a profiler !” he lets out, “i’ve never met anyone from another department who has enough talent to hypothetically join a higher rank and willingly refuses to even think about it.”

your lips part, a silent gasp.

“and it just hurts to see you here- here with everyone being so…”

the curious angle of your head makes him smile when you question. “so what ?”

“so perfect !”

it almost pains him to admit it. that the beauty you exude makes him ache, tugging at his sensitive heartstrings more often than he’d like to admit. when the elevator door close, or late at night while staring at his phone in hopes of engraving the pixels or your texts in his brain, he admires the closest to perfection the universe has ever created.

you.

"spencer," you let out in an amused giggle. "i'm not interested in your friends. or your job, for that matter."

he puffs some air into his cheeks, bashful. "i know. my brain just... likes to stop working when you're around, or something."

right, or something. with a playful nudge of the arm, you add.

"i am interested in you, though"

his eyes widen, pupils dilating. the little amount of oxygen left in the room is enough to make him slightly choke, which he covers by his hand. germ thing, sure.

"in me ?"

"yeah." someone has to say it, and you will if it means putting an end to the wrenching state of not knowing what you are. "-if you are, that is. unless i completely misunderstood the situation and you're actually jealous of my linguistics diploma-"

he calls your name, almost offended "i speak four languages !"

"i speak five. not that we're counting"

no bother mentionning you're also learning two. he's overwhelmingly close to you, and the smell of his cologne makes you melt little by little.

he utters quietly. "see ? perfect."

there's not exactly much he could do to make this conversation better. like, better than any debate you had over the phone, and yet he adds.

"i really am interested. and i'd like to see you sometimes... outside of work"

"and the elevator"

he laughs. a genuine sound you could get drunk on, and with a rush of adrenaline, reaches forwards to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

"just us. on a date. no work and no elevators involved, i promise"

jealousy looked good on him, earlier when he came in with clenched fists and a dark gaze. but nothing, no other expression could match the one he was wearing on his face. pools of hazel softened around the edges, spencer looked truly enamored.

and that ? that looked even better.

The sight of Hotch walking towards you on the tarmac is nothing short of a sight for sore eyes. You’d spent the last several months clinging to any form of communication from him whilst you wore his t-shirts to bed at night and sprayed his cologne on the pillows.

It was hard, harder than you’d thought it would be. Time spent away from one another wasn’t something uncommon considering Hotch’s line of work but this last stint in Pakistan was the longest the two of you have been apart.

So, there’s a justifiable reason why you immediately launch yourself towards him before he can even drop his bags. Your dress flows in the wind as you quite frankly tackle Aaron, your legs in the air as your arms wrap around his neck.

It’s then that you notice it. He’s grown a beard. Aaron had never held a particular preference for his own facial hair. He chose to keep himself clean shaven because he believed he made him look more professional but there were days where he’d be off work and too lazy to shave and there was nothing that had you drooling faster than Aaron with some stubble over his face.

He’d complained once that he looked like a lumberjack and wasn’t too amused to find you practically salivating over the sentiment. Safe to say, Hotch with facial hair was an uncommon occurrence in your house.

One you’re immensely fond of right now, you’re not sure you’d ever let him leave the house if he kept this beard up every day.

“Why hello there handsome,” you murmur, hand cupping one of his cheeks as you brush softly against his beard.

Hotch rolls his eyes, looking at you in fond amusement with his sunglasses pushed into his hair, “No ‘hello’ kiss for your boyfriend after not seeing him for a couple of months? You just wanna drool over my beard?” he spoke mockingly.

You bite your lip to hide your smile, eyes drifting from his beard to his face where he watches you with an adoring smile. You feel yourself become shy, not uncommon for you but simultaneously a sign that you and Aaron have been apart for a while.

Aaron’s eyes soften and he takes pity on you, slipping forward to meet you with a kiss. “O-oh.” You murmur, slipping into the kiss as a fuzzy feeling starts to creep through your brain, the only thoughts are that of Aaron’s muscular arms around you and the feeling of his beard tickling your face and neck slightly.

You whimper slightly as you draw back, eyes fluttering as you bring yourself out of the haze. Hotch’s expression is dark and predatory. He looks like he wants to devour you.

“W-we should uh—we should go home,” you stutter out, aware that you’re still on a very public tarmac and unwilling to give anyone more of a scene than you already have. Hotch seemingly decides it’s a good idea because without further ado, he places you back onto the floor, grabbing his bag with one hand and your hand with another as you both make your way inside.

˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

You’ve barely made it into the house before Aaron corners you. You’re dropping your keys onto the table when he comes up behind you and traps you between the counter and his body.

“Missed you sweet girl,” Aaron purrs softly, his voice tickling your ears as he pushes flush against you. The rough material of his tactical outfit brushes against your thighs and arms yet doesn’t hide the hard outline of his cock.

“A-Aaron” you mewl half-heartedly, pushing back into his erection. Your pussy clenches around nothing, slick starting to dampen your underwear. Your skin feels tight and buzzy, like you just can’t settle.

“That’s not my name baby,” Aaron coos, hand drifting down the front of your dress to cup your pussy over your clothes. A choked gasp escapes your mouth as you grind into his palm.

“What? I don’t—” you gasp, throwing your head back into Aaron’s chest as his fingers trace the covered folds of your pussy. Your legs slip further apart without warning.

“C’mon baby, you’re a smart girl—you know what I wanna hear.” Aaron murmurs, thumb now rubbing circles onto your clit, the fabric of your underwear brushing sweetly against your clit.

Your brain is floaty and quiet as you mewl as Aaron swirls his fingers on your clit. You feel so empty, you just want him to slip a finger inside of you—feel his cock stretching you out and filling you so completely.

“I—please-mm—please please need you—inside please” you beg, legs shaking as Aaron presses one of his fingers against the damp spot on your panty.

“Just gotta say the word sweetheart and I’ll give this tight little pussy what she wants.” Aaron croons mockingly, his tone is amused and slightly mean.

Tears prick your eyes in frustration as you feel your peak start to die down, the stimulation isn’t enough, you need more.

“Daddy” you cry desperately, mind mushy as you claw at Aaron’s biceps.

“Good girl,” Aaron groans and you feel his erection twitch against you. You moan sweetly, head rolling back to bite on Aaron’s bicep—leaving a soft indent in place as you continue to plead with him to stuff you full.

“Shh angel, Daddy’s here—Daddy’s gonna give you what you need.” His voice sounds as wrecked as you feel, eyes unfocused as you hear Aaron’s zipper drop down.

The heat of his erection burns through your skin, and you push back against him, “please-inside I-I need daddy please”

Aaron huffs a laugh behind you, lifting up your dress with one hand and tapping your hip to signal you to pull your underwear off. You do so immediately and the cool air brushing against your wet folds make you shiver.

“Oh honey,” Aaron coos condescendingly, “Your cunt’s practically dripping angel, you need Daddy that badly?”

You’re nodding as the sounds muffle around you, all you can hear is the sound of you repeating “yesyesyesyesyes” over and over.

Aaron uses his hand to drag his cock against your folds, covering it in your slick. The first touch of his cock against your hole has you gasping and whining as you head falls forward, “nng—Daddy please, put it in.” you plead.

Hotch’s arm wraps around your waist, dragging you back towards him as he lines up his cock. His tip barely breaches your hole before you’re gasping for air and squirming in his hold trying to thrust yourself back into him.

“Shh, shh baby-Daddy’s got you, settle down—don’t wanna hurt you.”

You slump in his hold and let him thrust forward achingly slow, you feel every inch drag across your insides as his cock fills you pussy.

“fuck fuck-” you mewl as his tip hits your cervix, your pussy leaks around him like a faucet adding to the slick glide of his cock as he thrusts in small intervals to get you used to his cock after being gone for so long.

“thaaat’s it baby—good girl.” He groans as he bottoms out as he tightens his arm around you, his forehead falls to your nape as he breathes in deeply, It’s been a while since he’s felt the soft, hot and tight fucking clench of your cunt around him and he’s gonna take a few seconds if he doesn’t wanna blow his load like a goddamn teenager.

He starts with slow thrusts into your velvet folds, the slick sounds of your wetness gushes around the both of you as your pussy drools around him. You’re a perfect fucked out mess, eyes half-lidded and mouth open as you make little punched out sounds every time Aaron thrusts forward.

“Fuck-you’re so tight-Daddy forgot how needy this little pussy can be, I’m not gonna last—ha, need you to cum soon” Aaron grunts, placing scattered kisses down your neck before biting softly into your shoulder.

You squeal as the pain mixes with the pleasure, aiding the dizzying headrush you already feel. Your hand sneaks from the table counter to your clit to swirl your fingers around the bundle of nerves.

The feeling is so intense with Aaron’s cock hitting your g-spot that you immediately feel your high approaching, clenching down tightly onto Aaron’s cock—forcing him to stutter in his thrusts as he muffles a pained groan into your shoulder.

“close—m’close, Daddy need-” your thoughts are a jumbled mess but Hotch seems to know exactly what you need, slapping your hand away from your clit as his own rough fingers replace your own.

His pace picks up, he thrusts deeper and harder into you which punches the air out of your lungs. You’re reduced to punching out all ‘uh uh uh’ sounds as Aaron practically rearranges your insides.

“Daddy’s gonna cum baby—gonna fill you up nice and full huh?” Aaron growls, eyes clenched tightly shut as he feels his balls draw up, the telltale sign he’s about to burst.

“Cum in me daddy-fill me—want you to breed me please.” You whine out, squirming at the force of Aaron’s thrusts as you feel his cock twitch inside you which makes you clench again harshly drawing out a punched out sound from Aaron.

“Gonna give you a baby honey-fuck you take me so good—Daddy’s gonna breed you.” He’s as good as gone, lost to his own personal damnation that’s the heaven between your thighs.

You unlock your phone, dial the general BAU line, and hold it to your ear with the back of your hand pressed to your forehead.

“Hey,” you croak into the voicemail box. “It’s Greenaway. I’m—” You cough so hard it short-circuits the sentence. “—dying, I think. I have the plague. Tell Hotch I’m not ditching work on purpose. Actually don’t tell him, I don’t care. I’m going back to sleep. Don’t call me unless someone’s dead.”

You hang up before you can overthink it. You’re not even sure what you just said.

You drop the phone somewhere in the blankets and cocoon yourself back into the twisted mess of sheets. You’re wearing only an old t-shirt — a faded Nirvana logo stretched across the chest, neckline loose and exposing one shoulder — with underwear and nothing else, which is standard sick-day protocol. If you’re going to suffer, you’re going to suffer without pants.

The heat in your body surges and dips like a tide. One second you’re freezing, the next you’re sweating again. You vaguely consider dragging yourself to the kitchen for water, or maybe finding something resembling medicine, but your bones feel like wet concrete.

So instead you close your eyes, and the world slides sideways.

—

You don’t know where you are.

The room doesn’t have walls. Or maybe it does, but they’re soft and golden and out of focus, like lamplight through gauze. You don’t remember how you got here, but none of that matters — not when there’s a body pressed over yours, warm and slow and careful.

He’s already inside you.

That much is clear. You’re full — blissfully, unbearably full — in the way that makes your eyes flutter shut and your throat catch on a moan you can’t quite voice. You arch into the sensation before you even think to name it.

There’s a hand on your hip, gentle but firm, calloused fingers curling like he’s anchoring himself with you. Another brushes up your ribcage and cups your jaw, tilting your face with reverence. His mouth lands on your neck. Your shoulder. Every kiss feels like possession.

You gasp.

His hips move in a steady, delicious rhythm. Deep. Dragging. Each thrust winds tighter around the point of tension buried low in your stomach, and you can feel everything — the stretch, the weight, the friction. The unbearable closeness of him. The way you clench around his cock when he pulls back just enough to make you chase it.

Your mind is moving through molasses, every thought slow and syrupy around the edges. The only thing you can process is the feeling. The sound of his breath. The warmth of his mouth trailing up to your ear.

“I’ve thought about this,” he whispers.

Your heart lurches at the voice. You know that voice. You’ve heard it in briefing rooms, across café tables, in hotel lobbies, on planes. But never like this. Not soaked in heat and hunger. Not vibrating against your throat like he’s memorizing your breathing patterns.

“I’ve thought about how you’d sound,” he murmurs, dragging his lips over your skin like he’s tracing every goosebump. “How you’d taste.”

Your fingers curl in his hair before you even realize they’re moving. It’s soft. Messy. And familiar, because you’ve ruffled it before.

You still haven’t opened your eyes, and you’re not sure you want to.

Because if you do, you’ll see it. You’ll see that it’s him — Spencer Reid, exactly how you’ve never seen him before.

This is ridiculous. You don’t think about him like this. You’ve spent months not thinking about him like this. But little by little — and much to your annoyance — he’s dismantled your armor without even trying. And when your hand touched his a few weeks ago and lingered for a moment too long, something shifted.

So you roll your hips up into him anyway. Your fingers dig in. And you let yourself drown.

“You always smell like cinnamon gum and coffee,” he says, breath hot against your cheek. “And like the record aisle in an old music store. And like your spicy floral perfume. Like something I want to memorize.”

His hips thrust deeper, and your back bows.

You moan — shameless, aching — and he swallows the sound with a kiss that feels nothing like the way you’ve been kissed before. It’s open-mouthed and wet and claiming, but all the while still achingly tender.

You gasp against his lips.

“You don’t ever have to pretend,” he whispers. “Not with me.”

His words slide under your skin, familiar and foreign all at once. He adjusts the angle, shifts his weight and— fuck. You wrap your legs around his waist without thinking, chasing that unbearable friction.

His hand slides up your body and holds you steady as he fucks into you harder, edged with something needier. He’s groaning now, breath ragged in your ear.

“Spencer,” you hear yourself moan. The weight of it slams into you, but you don’t wake.

His name is everywhere. It’s written into your pulse. Into the way your body breaks open for him. Into the way you’re trembling now, close, too close, the whole world narrowing to the ache between your legs and the velvet rasp of his voice.

“I notice things about you,” he breathes. “I know which coffee shop is your favorite. I know when you’re pretending not to be cold. I know how you press your nails into your palm when you’re trying to keep your composure.”

You bite your lip, breath shuddering. Your orgasm is right there — clawing up your spine, hot and overwhelming, threatening to rip you in half.

“I know you think no one sees you,” he says, thrusting once, twice — “but I do. I see all of you.”

You cry out. Nails digging into his shoulder. Hips trembling. Right on the edge, and then—

Knock, knock.

Your eyes slam open. Your body jolts.

And suddenly, you’re alone. Drenched in sweat, heart racing, muscles clenching around nothing. Your chest is still heaving like he was really here — like his hands are still on your body.

Knock, knock, knock.

You sit up in bed, disoriented and flushed, the dream still clinging to your skin. You press your palms to your face, breath shaking.

You don’t know who the hell is at your door. But you know exactly who you just came this close to coming in your sleep for.

Why the fuck would you dream of him like that? Spencer Reid, of all people — with his stupid facts and his twitchy hands and his painfully earnest everything. That is not how you think of him. That’s not what you want.

Or is it?

You groan, dragging your hand down your cheek. You feel like you’re made of wet paper towels and static electricity — shaky, overheated, slick with sweat in places you really don’t want to think about right now. You glance toward the clock. Somehow, it’s already evening. You’ve slept through most of the day. Maybe most of the week; it’s hard to tell.

Another fucking knock.

You roll out of bed with a grunt, legs wobbling. Your t-shirt clings to your damp back, and your panties are—

Nope. Not something you want to think about right now.

You spot the silk lounge shorts you peeled off the night before crumpled near your laundry basket and tug them on with trembling hands.

The knocking doesn’t stop.

“Hold ON,” you rasp, voice raw and barely there.

You nearly trip over your own feet as you stumble down the short hallway towards your door. You’re too disoriented to check the peephole. You just unlock it with clumsy fingers and swing it open.

The man of the hour, Spencer Reid, is standing in the hall holding a crumpled brown paper bag in one hand and a reusable grocery tote in the other. There’s a slightly panicked expression on his face, as if he half-expected you to answer the door with a loaded gun but is somehow more jarred by your current state instead.

“Hey,” he says.

You blink at him. “Am I hallucinating?”

His eyes dart over you — oversized t-shirt hanging off your bare shoulder, zero makeup, flushed skin, hair in a tangled, chaotic knot on top of your head. He visibly swallows.

“You look… comfortable.”

You squint. “Ouch?”

He ducks, stepping inside. “You know what I mean.”

You don’t even try to stop him. That’s how you know you’re sick — really sick. Any other day, you’d have slammed the door in his face after cursing him out just for finding out where you live.

“How the hell did you get my address?”

“I bribed Garcia to pull it from your file for me,” he says without shame. “Cake pop and a plushy for her office. She folded in under ten seconds.”

You groan and walk towards the couch, swaying slightly as the world tilts. “You woke me up,” you mutter, voice rough and thick with sleep. “From a dream.”

He winces. “Sorry,” he says earnestly. “What was it about?”

You freeze.

You should lie. Say something believable about falling, or flying, or your teeth falling out. Anything. But before you can scramble for a cover story, he’s already rambling.

“You know, dreams are often more about emotional state than content,” he says. “I don’t really believe in dream analysis or strict Freudian symbolism, but a lot of people interpret dreams as reflections of unresolved subconscious tension or desires. Wish fulfillment, repressed emotions, that kind of thing. And Jung wrote about—”

“Spencer,” you grumble into the couch cushions.

He pauses mid-sentence. Whether it’s from the interruption or the rare slip of his first name from your lips, you aren’t quite sure.

You blink. “I’m too sick for a lecture right now.”

“Right. Sorry,” he says again sheepishly, stepping further inside. “Occupational hazard,” he adds with a quirk of a smile.

He sets the bags down on your counter and begins unloading items with surgeon-level focus: two different kinds of soup, a sleeve of saltine crackers, an assortment of teabags, ginger ale, cherry cough drops, a small jar of Vicks, extra strength cold & flu medicine, and a pack of those fancy tissues with lotion in them that you secretly really like but would never spend the extra dollar on.

You watch from the couch, arms folded tightly across your stomach. “You do realize I’m contagious, don’t you Dr. Germaphobe?”

“I got my flu shot,” he replies with a shrug. “And I’ve been loading up on electrolytes and immunity-boosting supplements all season.”

You narrow your eyes. “That doesn’t make you invincible.”

“No,” he admits, meeting your gaze with a little half-smile. “I’ll be fine, though. I don’t want you worrying about that.”

That smile. Your heart lurches again — not like in the dream, but close enough to make you nauseous. Or maybe that’s just the fever.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you murmur quietly.

“Probably not,” he agrees, rummaging through your cabinets. “But here I am. Besides, I owe you.”

You drop your head back against the cushions and close your eyes. You can still feel the dream burning through your bloodstream, the weight of his body on your body, the rasp of his voice in your ear.

And now he’s here. In your apartment. Standing in your kitchen and looking like he stepped straight out of your subconscious, only realer. And worse, because he’s not touching you.

“I made your favorite tea,” he says, eventually placing a mug down on the table in front of you.

You crack one eye open. “You don’t know my favorite.”

He lifts one brow. “Orange blossom with honey. One ice cube so you don’t burn your tongue. Right?”

You stare at him.

“Right,” you mumble. “That’s… mildly disturbing.”

“I told you, I notice things.”

Those words sizzle with memories — both real and imagined.

He hands you the mug and your fingers brush his for a fraction of a second. Suddenly, the dream flashes in the back of your mind like lightning. Ignore, ignore, ignore.

You sip slowly, and after he brings you the soup and crackers, he sits beside you — not too close, not too far. You eat quietly, and he doesn’t talk. Just lets the low hum of a Cranberries record fill the room. You’re not sure when he put it on, or why he put it on, but it makes everything feel… softer.

Eventually, once your bowl is empty, he takes it without a word and rinses it in your sink. You watch, dazed, as he wipes down your cluttered coffee table, carefully scoops your wilted tissue pile into the trash, and folds the fuzzy blanket you’d kicked onto the floor during a hot flash. He doesn’t say a word about any of it — just does it, and you’re too weak to protest. Too bewildered to stop him. And maybe too grateful, also.

When he finishes tidying, he rummages in your purse (which normally you’d slap him for, but again… too weak) and pulls out a battered deck of playing cards. You blink at him.

“Go Fish?” he offers, holding them up like a peace treaty.

You snort, then cough. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not,” he says, already shuffling. “You’re not in any shape for something more mentally complex.”

You laugh, which turns into another cough, which turns into another laugh, cough, laugh. He smiles again — small, but real — as he deals the cards out between you.

It’s silly. Mindless. Totally ridiculous. You’re losing horribly because you keep zoning out and losing track of your cards mid-turn, and you think he’s trying to let you win anyway. You accuse him of cheating at least twice, and at one point, he slides a tissue toward you without breaking eye contact and says, “You need this.” You throw a pillow at him in embarrassed rage and immediately regret the exertion.

And somewhere in the middle of all of that, it stops feeling weird that he’s here. It just feels like Spencer.

Time blurs again. You’re not sure how long it’s been. Long enough that his tea’s gone cold and the sun’s long since disappeared beneath the horizon. Your sentences stopped making sense about three sneezes ago — you’d exhausted all of your remaining capacity for coherence on the card game.

He glances toward the darkened window and clears his throat.

“Do you need anything else?” he asks — quiet now, a little more hesitant. The question hovers, and it’s clear he’s about to stand up and the spell’s about to break.

You stare at him for a second. You could —should — say no and just let him go.

But your head is pounding, and your skin feels wrong, and your hair— your hair is a fucking nightmare.

And… you’re not quite ready for him to leave.

You blink once. Then again. And say, voice cracking, “Brush.”

He tilts his head. “What?”

You nod toward the bedroom weakly. “Hairbrush. Vanity drawer.”

His brow furrows. “You want me to—?”

You nod again, weaker this time. “Please. Hurts. Too tangled.”

There’s a long pause. You think maybe he’s going to say no, make an excuse to leave.

But instead, you zone back into reality when you hear the faint creak of your bedroom door opening. The sound of a drawer. A rustle.

Soft footsteps approach again and you feel the couch cushions dipping with his weight beside you once more. You turn so your back is facing him and let your shoulders slump.

When his fingers slide into your hair to take out the bun on top of your head, you shiver.

He works gently. Carefully. Letting your tresses fall loose, starting at the ends and slowly detangling. It’s the kind of physical tenderness you’re not used to — not from yourself, not from anyone, and most definitely not from him.

You pretend you’re too feverish to notice how good it feels. But the truth is, you notice. God, do you notice.

You lean back slightly into the touch without meaning to. Your arm brushes his leg next to you on the couch. And then — for just a second — his hand rests on the crook of your neck.

Right there.

Right where his mouth — his lips, his tongue, his teeth — had been in the dream.

Your whole body goes still. Your breath catches.

The touch is innocent. Innocuous. Nothing about it is deliberate.

But still, it makes something snap behind your ribs.

You pull away, standing so quickly it makes you dizzy. “I should go lie back down.”

He blinks up at you, brush still in hand. “Right. Of course.”

You don’t look at him — you can’t. You shuffle down the hall, crawl back into bed, and bury yourself in blankets that feel a little too hot now. You expect to hear the front door click shut any second.

But he doesn’t leave. And a few minutes later, you hear the soft creak of the armchair in your room.

You lift your head and see Spencer curled up in it, long legs folded awkwardly. Watching you. Guarding, maybe. Or just refusing to go.

“I won’t stay much longer,” he promises, half-apologetic. “Just… until you fall asleep.”

Your throat is thick. You’re too tired to protest. “Okay.”

You close your eyes.

And when you wake sometime in the middle of the night, your fever a few degrees lower and the dream faded just enough to dull the ache, you realize he’s still there.

Asleep. Slouched in the chair. Mouth slightly open. One hand twitching faintly, as if he’s dreaming too.

Something about the sight presses warm against your ribs and bubbles up in your chest. You make a failed attempt to push that feeling back down before you get up and grab a blanket from your closet, draping it gently over his body.

You don’t say a word, but you do watch him for a second longer than necessary.

Then you crawl back into bed and let yourself sleep.

—

You’re back at work the next morning.

You’re still pale, still a little unsteady, but the fever finally broke sometime around dawn, and that’s good enough.

Your Doc Martens echo against the floor in the quiet corridor as you push through the glass doors of the BAU. You nod at an agent you don’t know in the bullpen, ignore the slight burn behind your eyes, and keep your pace steady.

It’s only when you reach your desk that you falter.

There’s a coffee cup waiting there.

Not the usual office brew. This one’s from your favorite place — the overpriced café three blocks away. There’s a sleeve around the cup as always, with a doodle scrawled in ink across the cardboard: a fish with Xs for eyes and a crooked crown. A half-assed tribute to the Go Fish massacre of the night before.

A pair of initials are scribbled beneath it, as if you didn’t already know who’d left it there:

-S.R.

Your throat goes tight.

You glance across the bullpen and find him already watching you. Spencer looks away fast, like he hadn’t meant to be caught. Like he hadn’t just pulled your subconscious apart twelve hours ago and stitched it back together with soup and cherry cough drops. Like he hadn’t slept in a chair in your bedroom and disappeared silently before your alarm went off.

You pick up the cup and walk over before you can overthink it.

He pretends not to notice you approaching until you’re close enough for him to smell the faint trace of your shampoo.

You lean your hip against his desk as you hold up the coffee and tap the sleeve with your finger. “This some kind of warning? Sleep with one eye open, the Go Fish King rises again?”

His mouth twitches into a grin. “You’re the one who stole all my jacks.”

“Stole? Please. I don’t cheat at children’s card games.”

“You cheat at everything,” he says, bemused.

You don’t argue. You just look at him — really look — and for a second, the room tilts. Or maybe you do.

The echo of his imaginary mouth on your skin hums through your nerves like static. You see the flash of his hand on your neck. The dream crashing over you again in a strange, hot wave.

You clear your throat and take a long sip of coffee, trying to shake the memory.

“I needed this,” you say finally. “Thanks.”

His expression shifts, surprised to hear that word from your lips. “You’re welcome.”

You pause and let your gaze flick up to his — steady and too soft — then back to the cup in your hand.

“That whole Florence Nightingale act yesterday…” You hesitate, words sticking. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know. But I figured it was my turn, after the bandaid thing.”

You glance at him again. He’s watching you carefully, like he’s trying not to spook you.

“I’m glad you did,” you admit quietly.

Something flashes in his eyes — not surprise, not quite. More like relief and gratitude and something else that makes your stomach twist.

You look away before it can settle.

“But don’t go getting any ideas about me being some helpless damsel in distress,” you add, deflecting. “I had a 101 degree fever and wasn’t myself. I don’t even remember most of it—”

That’s a lie. You remember all of it.

“—so if I said or did anything weird, you legally can’t hold it against me.”

Then you turn, raise the coffee cup a little in a half-assed sarcastic cheers motion, and head back to your desk before he can respond.

You don’t look back.

But you can feel him watching you, just like in the dream. Only this time, you’re awake. This time, it’s real. And that might be the most disorienting part of all.

You settle in, fingers curling around the cup as you slip off the cardboard sleeve and slide it discreetly into your desk drawer.

The coffee is still hot, the dream is still lodged under your skin, and your body remembers his far too well.

It never happened. It wasn’t real. But you think about his voice, low and wrecked, whispering little things into your neck.

You think about the real parts, too. The way he ran your brush through your tangled hair. The way he stayed all night. The way he looked at you like you were something worth noticing. The way you can’t seem to scare him off.

And for a moment — just one — you wonder what it would feel like to stop pretending you don’t want him.

Wait. What?

Nope. Must be the fever talking again.

ᝰ.ᐟ

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JJ noticed that much early on—how you never seemed annoyed by Spencer’s ramblings, how you never cut him off or rolled your eyes the way some of them did when he rambled on for too long. You actually listened. You asked questions. You encouraged him.  

At the time, JJ thought you were just kind. She appreciated it, really. Spencer had been lonely since Morgan left, and he needed someone. She assumed that was all you were—someone filling a space, a way to keep him from retreating back inside himself the way he had after Maeve.  

She didn’t realize it was anything more.  

Not when Spencer began seeing more of you outside work.

Not when you were the first person he asked for after a case. 

Not even when he hugged you a little too tightly after a tough day.  

—

She convinced herself it was just a close friendship. 

And then prison happened.  

JJ had cried in response to the verdict, but you were broken.  

She found you in the hall after they carried Spencer away. You were propping yourself against the wall, eyes on the floor, hands trembling at your sides. When she called your name, you didn’t look up at first. 

"You okay?" JJ asked, echoing her question to Spencer from the night before.

You let out a short, humorless laugh. "No." “He didn’t deserve this,” you croaked, voice heavy with emotion.

“I know,” she said.  

“He—” You took a deep, shuddering breath. “He’s not going to be okay in there.”  

She stood beside you. "He’s strong. He’ll get through this."

You shook your head. "You don’t get it, JJ." Your voice cracked. "I can’t lose him."

JJ didn’t understand. Not then. She had always been protective of Spencer, but the way you said it was different. It wasn’t just concern—it was something deeper, something raw. And for the first time, she wondered just how much Spencer meant to you.

—

Then he got out.  

And the first person he hugged was you.

JJ had been right there, had reached for him instinctively, but before she could even take a step, Spencer had gone straight to you.  

He buried his face in your shoulder, arms wrapped tightly around you, like he needed to feel you to believe this was real. And you—God, the way you held him, whispering reassurances, grounding him—JJ had never seen anything like it.  

That should have been her first clue.  

But it wasn’t.  

Not until she told him she loved him.  

The moment the words escaped her lips, she saw the way his whole body froze. He didn’t look at her the way she had hoped, the way people do in movies when they realize they’ve been in love all along.  

He looked shocked.

And maybe—just maybe— a little disappointed. 

After they were rescued, after the chaos, after everything settled. He had gone straight to you. He didn’t come to her. Not to ask how she was doing. Not to talk about the confession. Not to do anything.

That, more than anything, sent a burning, ugly rage surging through her.  

Then, not long after, she saw him kiss you.

Before she could look away, his hands were on your face, and he was kissing you like he had been waiting his whole life to do it.  

JJ felt something crack inside her.  

It wasn’t just the kiss. It was the way he kissed you—the certainty, the desperation, like he couldn’t bear to go another second without showing you how he felt.  

She had never seen Spencer like that before.  

Not with Maeve.  

Not with anyone.  

—

So when Spencer finally came to find her, she was already bracing for a fight.  

"You shouldn’t have told me, it wasn’t fair" he told her the second he walked into the BAU’s empty break room, his voice strained with tension.  

JJ blinked, caught off guard by the directness. "What?”  

"You shouldn’t have told me you loved me," he said again, firmer this time. "It was selfish, JJ."  

She scoffed, crossing her arms. "Oh, so now it’s selfish to tell someone how you feel?"  

"Yes!" Spencer snapped, stepping closer, his eyes dark with something she couldn’t quite name. "Because I didn’t need to know that. You didn’t need to say it. What did you think was going to happen? That I’d just—what? Drop everything? That I’d throw myself at you?"  

JJ flinched. "Spence—"  

"You don’t get to do that," he cut her off, a sharp edge to his voice. "I’m not your backup plan, JJ."  

"That’s not what this is about!" she shot back, feeling the heat rise in her chest.  

"Then what is it about?" Spencer demanded. "Because as far as I can tell, you dropped this confession on me after years of nothing, when I finally found someone who makes me happy. And now—now what? I’m supposed to apologize? I’m supposed to feel guilty?"  

JJ exhaled sharply, her fingernails digging into her arms. "I didn’t know I was going to say it, Spencer. I didn’t plan for this, I didn’t—”. "I don’t know what I expected!” She yelled, tears of frustration stinging her eyes. "But I didn’t expect you to just—just disregard my feelings like this! I didn’t expect you to move on so fast!”  

"Fast?" Spencer laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Fast? JJ, I have spent years thinking I wasn’t good enough for anyone. I have spent years being alone, thinking no one could ever love me the way I wanted to be loved. And now, when I finally have someone who does, you think I should just—what? Erase that? Drop everything? Forget that you have a husband and a family? To wait for you?"

JJ swallowed hard, the words hitting her like a blow.  

"You never even gave me a chance to begin with," Spencer said, his voice soft, but still fierce. "And maybe, maybe there was a time where I would have jumped at this—where I would have given anything to hear you say you loved me." He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "But that time has passed, JJ. And you—you need to be happy for me. The way I’m happy for you and Will."  

JJ felt something in her snap.  

"You’re choosing her over me," she accused, her voice breaking.  

Spencer’s face twisted with something like disappointment. "JJ—"  

"You are!” she insisted. "I’ve known you longer than she has, Spencer! I’ve been there for you! I’ve seen you at your worst—"  

"And yet you never saw me at all."  

The words stopped her cold.  

"You may have known me longer," Spencer said, his voice quiet, more raw. "But you never really knew me. You never cared to understand me."  

JJ opened her mouth, but nothing came out.  

Because she knew, in that moment, that he was right.  

—

JJ didn’t go straight home after the argument.

She sat in her car for a while, gripping the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles turned white, Spencer’s words repeating over and over in her mind.

"You may have known me longer, but you never really knew me. You never cared to understand me."

She had never seen him that angry before.

JJ wasn’t even sure what she had been expecting when she confessed to him, but it wasn’t that. Not the sharp edge in his voice, the sheer finality in the way he spoke. Like whatever bridge that had once existed between them was now burned to ash.

Eventually, she made herself drive home, even though she didn’t feel ready to face her family.

But the moment she stepped inside, Henry sprinted into her arms, and Michael wasn’t far behind, chattering excitedly about something he had done that day.

JJ swallowed the lump in her throat and crouched down, hugging them both tightly.

Will was in the kitchen, finishing up dinner, glancing over his shoulder with that easy smile of his. "Hey, babe. I heard from Emily, Are you okay? Did you get checked out?"

JJ hesitated. Then she nodded. "Yeah, just feel like shit."

Will didn’t press. He just wiped his hands and walked over, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Go sit, I got everything."

She watched him as he moved through the kitchen, effortlessly balancing cooking and keeping an eye on the boys. He had always been like that—steady, reliable, taking care of things before she even needed to ask.

She had never doubted Will’s love for her. That he would always put her and their family first.

And she had always wanted that for Spencer, too. She wanted him to be happy, to find someone who would love him the way he deserved.

On the drive home she tried to convince herself that’s all this was. That she was just watching out for him. Making sure he didn’t get hurt again.

But now, standing in her warm, bustling home, with Will taking care of dinner and the boys playing at her feet, she felt something ugly crawl up her spine.

Because Spencer finally had a chance at happiness- happiness with someone else, someone that wasn’t her.

And she was jealous.

She thought about how Spencer had gone straight to you after his release. The way he held you. The way he kissed you. The way he chose you.

Did he take care of you the way Will took care of her?

When you had a bad day, did Spencer know exactly how to comfort you? Did he cook for you? Hold you? Brush your hair out of your face, without a second thought, the way Will did for her?

If she and Spencer had gotten together—if she had realized her feelings sooner—what would they be doing right now? Would Spencer be standing in the kitchen, making dinner, smiling at her like she was his whole world?

JJ clenched her fists.

She had no right to feel this way.

She had a family. A husband who loved her. She had made her choices, and she had never regretted them.

So why did it feel like she lost something?

Why was there an ache inside her she couldn’t quite name?

Maybe because, for the first time, she was coming to terms with the fact that she and Spencer were never going to happen.

And it was her fault.

—

JJ tried not to let it get to her.

She and Spencer had years of friendship between them. A bond that couldn’t be broken so easily.

One night—one argument—didn’t change that.

And yet, things between them hadn’t been the same since.

There was an awkwardness now, something heavy that settled between them in the quiet moments. It wasn’t that Spencer was avoiding her—if anything, he was trying. She could see it in the way he made an effort to talk to her, the way he still offered her those random tidbits of information he knew she’d find interesting, the way he searched for cracks in the wall she had built.

But JJ wasn’t sure if she wanted to let him back in.

Because every time she looked at him, she remembered the fight. His words, sharp and unforgiving. The way he had looked at her—not like a friend, not like someone he trusted, but like someone who had failed him.

She knew Spencer well enough to know he wasn’t trying to hurt her. But that didn’t change the fact that she still felt angry. 

At him.

At you.

You, who knew nothing of the past—who had no idea about her history with Spencer or the complicated web of feelings she had buried so long ago that she convinced herself they didn’t matter.

And yet, she couldn’t escape you.

You were everywhere.

Weeks had passed since that night. Since Spencer’s words cut deeper than she cared to admit.

The way Spencer gravitated toward you in the bullpen, how he always seemed to position himself near you, even when there was plenty of space elsewhere. The way he looked at you—soft and unguarded, as if you were something precious and rare.

She realized, with a strange sort of ache, that she had never seen him look at anyone like that before.

And it wasn’t just him.

You never seemed exasperated when Spencer launched into one of his long-winded rants, the kind that had even the most patient members of the team zoning out. Instead, you listened intently, nodding along, asking questions, actually absorbing the information.

JJ had spent years learning how to keep up with Spencer, but you? You made it look effortless.

Then there were the subtler things, the things that spoke volumes even in the silence.

Spencer had always been fidgety, his mind moving a mile a minute, his body following suit—bouncing his knee, tapping his fingers, shifting from foot to foot. But she noticed now that whenever his leg started bouncing under the table, all it took was the briefest touch from you—a gentle hand on his arm, a slight brush of your fingers—and he immediately stilled, his entire body relaxing.

JJ wasn’t sure if you even realized you did it.

But Spencer did.

And he let you.

He wasn’t a huge fan of pda, at least not in front of the team. But lately, it seemed like the distance between you two had disappeared. She wasn’t sure when it had happened, but he seemed to be doing little things—things she would have never imagined him doing with anyone else.

She noticed it now: the way his fingers casually brushed against yours when you passed him a file, the way he gave you a soft smile when you caught his eye, the way he kept looking at you like you were the only person in the room.

And the others had noticed, too.

Luke had raised an eyebrow when Spencer absentmindedly reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Emily had smirked when Spencer leaned down to whisper something in your ear and you laughed, nudging him with your elbow. Even Rossi had made a passing remark about how Spencer seemed different lately, more at ease.

But what struck JJ the most was the way you and Spencer seemed to exist in your own little world, oblivious to how obvious it all was.

It was frustrating, the way she kept catching herself looking for something—some proof that she still knew Spencer better than anyone else. That he wasn’t really different, that you weren’t the only one who saw him.

She wasn’t sure what she was looking for. Maybe she was just trying to remind herself that she still knew Spencer, that there was still some part of him that was hers—even if it wasn’t in the way she had once imagined, but in the way that came from years of friendship, of understanding each other in ways no one else did.

But it was getting harder to fool herself of that.

Because the way Spencer was with you… it was different.

JJ had spent years convincing herself that she and Spencer had a connection that no one else could touch. But now, she was starting to wonder if maybe, just maybe, she had been wrong.

And the worst part?

She wasn’t sure what to do about it.

—

The three of you were stationed at a table, going through case files late into the evening. JJ had barely said a word to Spencer that didn’t pertain to the case, and she knew he noticed.

“Do you want something to drink?” Spencer asked after a while, his voice tentative, another olive branch extended her way. “Coffee? Water?”

JJ glanced up at him, her expression unreadable. He was trying, she knew that. But it still didn’t sit right with her—the way he was acting like things were fine, like they could just slot back into place without addressing the damage that had been done.

Before she could answer, you spoke up.

“I’ll get it, Spence,” you said, shaking your head lightly as you stood. “I need to stretch my legs anyway. Both of you relax for once and stop thinking about the case, at least until I’m back.”

Spencer hesitated, but at the slight nudge of your hand against his arm, he gave in, slumping back into his chair.

JJ watched the exchange in silence.

It was so easy for you, the way you just knew what he needed before he even did.

The awkwardness was palpable, even as you walked back into the room, three cups in hand. The atmosphere between her and Spencer had been tense, but now, it was like everything had shifted.

You placed a cup of coffee in front of JJ, a cup of tea in front of yourself, and a cup of tea in front of Spencer, your movements careful, but sluggish from the lack of sleep.

“Two teas and a coffee,” you said lightly, your back to them as you made your way over to the board, eyes scanning the case notes.

JJ blinked, her gaze drifting from Spencer to you, then to Spencer again.

“You don’t drink coffee anymore?” she asked, trying to sound neutral.

Spencer shifted in his seat, his posture suddenly stiff. “Not really.”

JJ swallowed. “Since when?”

Spencer didn’t look at her immediately. Instead, his gaze was on you, the familiar soft smile that had been reserved for so few people now spreading across his face. His gaze lingered on you for a moment before he shrugged, a subtle but unmistakable affection in his posture.

“I don’t know. A while, I guess,” he answered simply, his voice low and easy.

JJ’s stomach twisted in a way she couldn’t quite explain. She’d seen it—the way Spencer looked at you, the way he sounded when he spoke to you. He was different now, and the realization hit JJ hard.

She hadn’t been paying attention. She hadn’t been listening, hadn’t truly seen what had been right in front of her.

And suddenly, it felt like the weight of her frustration—the anger that had been building for weeks—was slipping away. Maybe, just maybe, she had been looking at the situation all wrong.

JJ looked at Spencer for a long moment, realizing just how wrong she’d been. She had let her own bitterness and hurt cloud her judgment, had let the past define their friendship, when what really mattered was the present. And she wanted to fix that.

With a deep breath, she smiled at Spencer, the tension in her shoulders easing.

She stood up, walking over to where you were standing at the board. You looked up briefly as she approached, and JJ could see the soft warmth in your eyes.

“I was thinking about the timeline,” JJ began, standing beside you now, glancing at the board, eager to refocus on the task at hand.

You nodded. “Yeah, the key thing is we need to tie everything together—look for patterns in the victim’s movements.”

As JJ stood there, side by side with you, she knew now that Spencer was right. And as she watched you both—watched you understand him, steady him, love him—she realized something painful. There had never been a chance for her. Not really. Not since you walked into his life. Maybe, if you had never entered the picture, there would have been a future for her and Spencer. But that’s all he was to her now.

Her biggest what if.

And you?

Spencer had been so inexperienced when you first got together—hesitant, unsure. Just two partners before you, neither of them pushing him beyond what he knew. He was sweet, generous, and completely devoted to your pleasure, but he was stuck in his patterns. The same three positions, over and over. Missionary, him on top, or you on top—maybe a leg up if he was feeling particularly bold. It wasn’t bad. Far from it. His big, beautiful cock, thick and flushed at the tip, always left you satisfied. But satisfaction wasn’t enough anymore. You wanted something deeper. Something rougher. Something primal.

You kept thinking about last week—when Spencer had lost himself for just a second. The way his fingers wrapped around your throat as you came, his hips snapping into you harder than usual. The look in his eyes after, that flicker of something raw and untamed before he shoved it back down, had haunted you. Left you craving more.

And yet, here you were again, pinned beneath him in missionary, Spencer sweating above you, his breath ragged as he buried himself inside you with careful precision. His movements were deliberate, controlled—too controlled. You could feel the effort, the sheer determination to make you feel good, but somewhere in his need to perfect, to please, he was missing something vital. His strokes were measured and rhythmic, but they lacked the wild, desperate edge you ached for. His eyes were shut tight, damp curls sticking to his forehead, lost in his own head instead of here with you. You loved him—God, you did—but you needed more.

"Sp- Spencer," you gasped, hands trembling as they found his face, fingers pressing into the sharp angles of his jaw, guiding his gaze to yours. He nearly stopped, concern flashing in his dark, lust-blown eyes, but you shook your head quickly, tightening your grip just enough to keep him there.

"No, no, keep going," you urged, your voice a smooth plea, even as pleasure curled hot and tight in your belly, stealing your breath. Your thumb brushed over his bottom lip, feeling the heat of his breath, the slight tremble in his jaw as he obeyed. A soft, unbidden whimper slipped from him, the sound vibrating against your touch, sending a molten shiver straight through you.

His rhythm faltered, just slightly, when you spoke again. "Spencer, can we try something new?"

His brows furrowed, confusion flickering across his features as he leaned down to press his lips to your shoulder, his grip on your waist tightening like he was afraid to let go. He hesitated—that hesitation so inherently him, always second-guessing, always calculating.

But not tonight.

You didn’t give him the chance to overthink. In a swift movement, you rolled out from under him, flipping the balance of power in an instant. "Come on, genius," you teased, your smirk slow, dripping with something dangerously enticing. "You’re always reading. I know you’ve done your research."

His pupils blew wide, and for a moment, he hovered between intrigue and disbelief, his jaw tensing like he was fighting himself. Then, something shifted. Acceptance. Surrender. The sharp edge of arousal overtaking logic.

He swallowed hard, raking a hand through his hair before his fingers flexed at his sides. "You know," he started, voice lower, rougher, "research suggests this position promotes optimal G-spot stimulation and deeper penetration." A pause, his lips twitching like he was trying not to smirk. "And judging by your reaction, I’d hypothesize you already knew that."

You let out a breathy laugh, eyes fluttering as his hands found your hips, gripping, exploring. "You think too much, Doctor."

"I can’t help it," he admitted, his voice thinner now, like he was barely holding himself together. "It’s kind of my thing."

"Then let’s see if I can make you stop thinking for a while."

His breath hitched, eyes darkening as you crawled onto your hands and knees in front of him, arching your back just enough. Spencer swallowed hard, his eyes tracing the curve of your spine, the way your hips tilted up for him. He stared, visibly collecting himself, and then, in the way only he could, he gave a response that had your stomach tightening.

"Statistically speaking, rear-entry positions allow for deeper penetration and increased stimulation of the anterior vaginal wall, particularly the A-spot and the upper third of the clitoris," he murmured, his voice low, almost clinical, but edged with something rough. "They also offer better angles for prostate stimulation—not that that applies here, but still interesting."

You bit your lip, tilting your head to glance back at him, eyes dark with mischief. "Spencer," you purred, voice low and teasing, "I didn’t ask for a dissertation. Get behind me."

He exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe himself. But any hesitation he had was gone, burned away by the heat simmering between you. His hands found your hips, fingers pressing into your skin, firm and reverent, like he was grounding himself in the feel of you.

“God, you’re unreal,” he murmured, almost like he was speaking to himself, as he lined himself up. The air between you turned electric, thick with anticipation. For a few long, breathless seconds, there was nothing but the sound of both of you breathing, the weight of what was about to happen settling deep in your bones.

Then, finally, he pushed in—slow, deliberate, filling you inch by inch. His hands tightened on your hips as a ragged groan tore from his throat.

The stretch had you gasping, your fingers curling into the sheets as pleasure spiked sharp and hot through your veins. Behind you, Spencer let out a broken, needy sound that sent a shiver racing down your spine, pooling heat low in your belly.

“Jesus,” he muttered, his fingers flexing against your skin. “The angle really does make a difference.”

A breathless laugh slipped past your lips, dissolving into a moan when he gave an experimental thrust, adjusting his stance behind you. Whatever hesitation he had left melted away, replaced by something deeper, something raw. He found a rhythm—strong, precise, every snap of his hips hitting just right. It shouldn’t have surprised you—of course Spencer would be good at this, just like he was good at everything—but still, you couldn’t help the way your body responded to him, arching into every movement like you’d been waiting for this all along.

“You feel so good,” he groaned, his fingers skimming up your spine, sending a delicious shiver rippling through you. “I don’t know why we haven’t done this sooner.”

You couldn’t even answer, too lost in the sensation of him, the way he fit inside you like he was made for it. Instead, you pushed back to meet his thrusts, earning a sharp inhale from him, his grip on your hips tightening.

“Fuck,” he cursed under his breath, voice rough and desperate. “You like this, don’t you?”

A strangled moan was the only answer you could give, pleasure burning so hot it left you breathless. Your fingers curled tighter into the sheets, knuckles white, your entire body trembling with every deep, measured thrust he gave. He wasn’t holding back anymore—wasn’t hesitant. He had surrendered to the need coiling tight inside him, his usual restraint shattered by the slick heat of you wrapped around him.

“Yes,” you finally gasped, your voice breaking on the word.

That single syllable sent a shudder through him, a deep groan tearing from his chest. His fingers dug into your hips, pulling you back onto him harder, deeper, as if he wanted to lose himself completely in you. The drag of him inside you was unbearable in the best way, his pace relentless but still precise, like he was cataloging every reaction, every sharp inhale, every flutter of your walls around him—storing it all away in that brilliant mind of his, ready to use it against you later.

“I can feel you squeezing me,” he groaned, voice thick with awe and something almost reverent. “God, you’re so—” He cut himself off with a sharp exhale, his rhythm faltering for just a second before he caught himself, the slap of skin on skin filling the air.

You turned your head slightly, just enough to glimpse him—Spencer, his hair damp and curling at the edges, jaw clenched so tight he looked like he was fighting to hold on, his hands gripping you like he was terrified of letting go. His pupils were blown wide, his gaze locked on where your bodies met, completely transfixed.

“You feel so good,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper, like it was a confession. “Too good—I don’t… I don’t think I’m gonna last.”

His honesty sent another wave of arousal crashing through you, a desperate whimper slipping from your lips as your body clenched around him involuntarily. The reaction dragged a ragged sound from him, his hips snapping into you harder, his control slipping with every thrust.

“I want you to come first,” he managed, the words punctuated by sharp, deliberate movements that had your entire body winding tighter and tighter.

“You’re— you’re getting close,” you panted, the pleasure building too fast, too intense, your thighs shaking with the effort of holding yourself up.

Spencer’s hand slid from your hip, tracing up your spine before tangling into your hair, tugging just enough to make your breath hitch. The sudden shift, the subtle display of dominance, had your stomach coiling impossibly tighter.

“Then let me take you there,” he murmured, his free hand slipping between your thighs, fingers finding the swollen bundle of nerves already throbbing from the friction. His touch was precise, practiced, his fingers moving in slow, deliberate circles that had your entire body jolting with pleasure. “Let me feel you fall apart around me.”

It was too much. The fullness of him, the pressure, the heat of his body pressed against yours, the way he was whispering praise into your skin like you were something to be worshipped—it sent you spiraling over the edge in a dizzying, overwhelming rush. Your body clenched down around him as the orgasm crashed through you, your vision going completely white, your mouth opening in a silent, wrecked moan.

Spencer groaned, the feeling of you tightening around him pushing him to the brink. His movements grew erratic, his grip tightening as he buried himself deep, his breath stuttering in your ear.

“Fuck—” The word was half a sob, his body tensing behind you as he reached his own release, his hips jerking against you in a few final, desperate thrusts before he stilled, forehead pressing against your shoulder as he panted, utterly spent.

The heat of him filled you, thick and warm, spreading deep, making you shudder in the aftermath. The sensation was almost too much—his release inside you, each subtle twitch of him prolonging your own pleasure, making your walls flutter around him involuntarily. He let out a broken groan, his fingers pressing hard into your waist like he was trying to ground himself, trying to feel every second of it, unwilling to let the moment slip away too soon.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the ragged breathing between you, the weight of his body still pressed against yours, the aftershocks still rippling through both of you, making you keen softly when he shifted just slightly inside you.

Then, finally, Spencer let out a breathless laugh, pressing a lazy kiss to your shoulder blade. "So, I guess that was a successful experiment."

You snorted, shoving weakly at his shoulder, though he barely budged. His smirk was lazy, smug, just a little bit cocky. "What? You were the one who encouraged me to apply my research."

Rolling your eyes, you stretched out beneath him, still catching your breath. "Never thought I’d see the day Spencer Reid goes hard."

Garcia gasped like you'd stabbed her in the back, "I can't believe you'd choose a man over me," she bemoaned, a hand to her chest.

"Well, in any other circumstances I wouldn't," you slipped your coat on, grabbing your purse, "but I promised I'd tell him as soon as I was off of work. And the first date went so well, I don't want to disappoint him again."

The colorful woman resigned with a dramatic sigh, waving you off, "Fine, fine, go get your prince charming. But you better tell me everything. And I mean everything." her tone left no place for arguing, and you nodded dutifully.

"Yes my love," you kissed your friend's cheek, as Emily and JJ echoed Penelope's wish to hear about the date.

"I have to go get ready, see you all on Monday !" you chirped as you waved goodbye to your colleagues. Morgan winked at you, Rossi nodded, and your eyes lingered on the young genius at his desk.

Spencer didn't look up. In fact, it looked as if he was attempting to make himself invisible, to disappear completely. You assumed he'd curled into himself in the hopes of being forgotten by Garcia's enthusiasm, but something in your chest told you that wasn't quite right. Trying to ignore the feeling, you ruffled his hair as you walked past him.

"Have fun doc," you smiled, "and close that godforsaken file."

Spencer's cheeks flushed slightly, and he quickly closed the folder, clearing his throat.

"You too- have fun, I mean." he replied back quietly, eyes still fixed downward.

Stepping out of his office, Garcia pounced on Hotch, stating that he wouldn't get away from her by overworking himself. Morgan and JJ wished you luck on your date, and you bid all of them goodnight.

"Drinks on Rossi !" Garcia sang as you stepped into the elevator, earning her cheers from the team, and a mumbled "When did I agree to that ?" from the man in question.

At O'Keeffe's, the team settled into their usual booth, and Spencer slid into the furthest corner of it, preparing for a night loud music and louder voices, of his friends trying to get him to dance, of Hotch and Rossi trying to hold a conversation about some mundane thing. A night of little interest for the young doctor.

But as Penelope, JJ and Emily bee lined for the bar, he found himself thinking about the person missing from this little gathering. A date. You were on a date. And not just a date, but a second one, after a seemingly successful first that he hadn't heard about.

It wasn't strange that he hadn't known about it. After all, you rarely spoke of such things with him, and he with you, though that might've been more due to a lack of things to tell on his end. For some reason though, the thought of you, dressed to the nines and laughing at some clever story that wasn't his made his stomach churn. It was stupid, he'd never done or said anything to hint at his feelings toward you, let alone ask you out. The jealousy he felt, the regret, it was all from his own indecision and cowardice. Still, the knot in his chest tightened as the girls returned, handing everyone their drinks as Emily raised her glass, cheering to your date.

Reid barely even lifted his lemonade, lazily circling the straw around the rim of the glass.

"What's up pretty boy ?" Derek smirked, "Did you finally get bored of lemonade ?"

Spencer rolled his eyes, and Emily's shoulder bumped his, "Come on genius, cheer up, we got the guy ! now's the time to celebrate, not sulk," she teased.

"Well maybe I just celebrate more quietly than you all." he simply stated, taking a sip of his drink.

"Why not just let loose a little ? You know, one or two drinks wouldn't kill you," Derek suggested, "I know you're not a fan, but it really does help with the whole anxious tension you've got going."

"Yeah ! Maybe then you'd dance with me boy wonder !" Garcia seconded with a bright grin.

"Don't listen to them Reid. You don't have to drink to enjoy yourself." Hotch chimed in, his tone low and comforting, "It helps, but it's not required."

The young man sighed, looking up as Garcia and JJ shimmied their way through the crowd. He wasn't the biggest fan of the bitter tang of alcohol. In his opinion, any drink tasted better without it, and all it did was compromise your actions and your memory. But right now, it wasn't the most prevalent thought going through his mind. Right now, Spencer was desperate for anything to pull his mind free of the traitorous thoughts of you at that dinner table, of your eyes on someone that wasn't him, of your hands in someone else's, of your lips on someone else's.

Under the surprised look of his coworkers, Reid suddenly grabbed Morgan's beer, chugging it down with his eyes shut tight, as if the lack of visual stimuli might help with the bitterness of the drink.

"Woah, slow down there cowboy," his friend chuckled incredulously as Spencer coughed, Emily patting his back.

"What was that ?" she asked, half amused half concerned.

"Nothing. You're right," he mumbled as he squeezed out of the booth, turning to Morgan "I'll get you another one."

Tonight, he would drink. Maybe alcohol would dull the grief he felt. Maybe he'd finally accept to dance with his friends. Maybe for a moment, he'd manage to forget you.

The waiter had only just brought the main course, yet you already found yourself aching to ask for the bill.

It had started off so well. You'd gotten ready just in time, clad in one of your favorite outfits, one that toed the line between formal and casual perfectly. Your hair had been cooperating, which felt like a miracle, and you'd even managed to put on that fantastic perfume that JJ had gotten you for your birthday and that you hadn't yet found a good excuse to try.

He'd knocked only two minutes after the agreed upon time, which, in your book, was almost early. As soon as you'd opened the door, you'd been met with a bouquet of lilies, the flowers glowing in their bloom, and the attention warmed your heart so thoroughly that you decided against telling him that they would probably end up somewhere where you couldn't appreciate them in order to prevent your cat from the deadly snack.

The restaurant was dim in a way that made everything look charming, and he'd pulled a chair for you, smiling as you thanked him. The discussion had flown exactly like it should have now that the awkwardness of the first date was behind you, and you'd even found yourself laughing at some of his stories.

And yet somehow, there you were. Smile pinched like you were fighting against the impending roll of your eyes, the hold on your glass just loose enough to keep it from shattering in your hand.

After apologizing for the date's delay, the topic had strayed toward your respective dating history. You'd counted, and in the last thirty minutes, the man in front of you had called three of his exes crazy, had made two comments on "females", and one about how you were supposedly "different". In just half an hour, every green flag you'd encountered up until now turned the color of the half empty wine glass in your hand, and all that was left on your mind was frustration, as well as a nagging question.

How do I get out of this ?

As you ate your dinner, absentmindedly nodding along to your date's words – not that he seemed to notice, too entertained by the sound of his own voice – you reviewed your options. Staying until the end of dinner would mean declining his attempts at driving you back to your place, or worse, to his own. Declining would most likely mean confrontation, and considering the week and a half you'd just spent, you had neither the energy nor the patience to deal with this.

Now, you could fake a case, but considering that the team was at the bar right now, you doubted they'd be in any state to help with that. Of course, Hotch would probably be close to sober, but the idea of texting your Unit chief to ask him to save you from a disastrous date seemed ridiculous.

You were lost in reflection when your phone pinged once. Twice. Three times.

From the look on his face, your date was less than happy to be interrupted in his monologue. Trying your best to appear apologetic, you grabbed your phone as it kept pinging.

"Sorry– I should check this out, I'll be right back–"

Excusing yourself, you made it to the restaurant's restrooms before opening your phone.

9:34

Boy Genius : Hi

Boy Genius : Hows' si it gonig?

Boy Genius : how is it Gong ?*

Boy Genius : Going*

Boy Genius : Sorry

Boy Genius : goof ?

Boy Genius : Can't wrte srry

Boy Genius : Mrgans being mean

Boy Genius : Mss u

You chuckled to yourself at the texts.

9:37

You : I thought you didn't drink ?

Boy Genius : Hi

You : Hi Spencer

Boy Genius : S your date ovre?

Boy Genius : over*

Boy Genius : ?

You : Not exactly

After watching the dots appear as he wrote for a few minutes, you started to worry.

9:44

You : Are you okay ?

Instead of replying, Spencer called you.

"Hey, are you alright ?"

"Couldn't write– Damn phone–" his language makes you gasp teasingly.

"Reid !"

"Sorry– 's just annoying," he mumbled. You could hear the way his words slurred even through the muffled noise of the bar around him. In the distance, you could hear the familiar pitch of Garcia's voice, the hum of Morgan's, followed by bright laughter.

"You didn't answer my question Spence," you reminded, "are you ok ?"

On the other end of the line, the young doctor made a noise akin to that of a horse huffing through closed lips, "m'fine, I'm great, whatever," he replied, deepening your confusion.

"Uh-huh, sure honey," you grinned fondly, and he squeaked, though you couldn't tell if the sound was a reaction to your words or to his surroundings, "Come on, what's up ? Why are you drinking ? I've never seen you drink alcohol before."

"Not true. I tasted Rossi's wine last time," he countered, making you roll your eyes in response.

"Sure, but that wasn't drinking, that was tasting"

To this, you heard him mumble a slurred "tomay-to tomah-to" before Derek's loud voice cut through. He must have grabbed Spencer phone, because you could hear the doctor's protests, now pushed to the background.

"Why hello beautiful," the agent purred, "how's the date going ?"

Chuckling through a sigh, you checked the time, "Could be better. I was trying to find a reason to flee, and it looks like our resident genius just gave me one."

Rendered oblivious to your discomfort by his own alcohol consumption, he exclaimed, "Oh don't worry about pretty boy ! Go and enjoy your date !"

Were you worried about Reid ? Sure, in the way one would be worried about a friend in the hospital, knowing full well that they're in good hands, surrounded by qualified people. But your date didn't need to know that. For all he knew, one of your friends was in mortal danger and their safety was your immediate responsibility.

With that in mind, you wished your friends a good evening, ignoring Spencer's distant protests to you hanging up, and you walked back to the table. Combing some mess back into your carefully arranged hair, you joined him, now wearing a meticulously crafted frown, lips tugged down by concern. The act seemed to work, because as soon as you sat back down, his expression shifted.

"What's wrong ?"

"Oh, it's–" you sighed in feigned exasperation and looked down, "I'm so sorry, I'm going to have to leave early. I need to go take care of a friend."

Disappointment flooded his face, and you almost felt bad.

"Can't someone else ?" he suggested, but you tilted your head and shook it.

"No… All of our mutual friends are drunk, but he's gone past his limit, and I can't leave him like that," you sighed again, and decided to add something to really bury the date, "And he's my roommate, so–"

His frown suggested that your plan had been successful, "You never said anything about a roommate."

Pressing a hand over your mouth, you muttered, "Oh– Sorry, I wasn't planning on– Well I usually don't tell people, because– Well, they usually think it's weird." you fake a nervous laugh as you slip on your coat, "We should do a movie night next time, the three of us,"

"Oh– Uh, maybe," you'd won, "We'll talk about it over text, yeah ?"

"Sure !" you nodded, waving a waiter over and pulling out your wallet. When he offered to pay, you accepted without much of a fight, and in an instant, you were both out of the restaurant.

"Should I drive you ?" he didn't seem too convinced with his own offer, and relief bloomed in his eyes when you shook your head.

"I'll just take a cab. Thank you."

After a rather awkward farewell, you managed to escape. In the rear view mirror, the restaurant slowly shrank until it was nothing but a dot in the distance, and only then did you let out the breath you'd been holding onto. Diving a hand into your pocket, you fished out your phone and checked the time. Barely ten pm, you were headed home, and you regretted not having taken Garcia up on her invitation.

Though you supposed you still could.

Updating the cab driver on your destination, you adjusted your coat. Once in the bar, you'd feel outrageously overdressed, but that thought was quickly swallowed by the memory of Spencer's inebriated voice on the phone. Despite what you'd told yourself earlier, you did harbor some worry for your friend. You had no doubt that the team wouldn't let anything happen to him, and still something gnawed at you – why had he been drinking in the first place ?

When you'd first joined the team, you'd asked Emily if there had been a reason to his sobriety, and she'd been the one to bring up the hypothesis that he might've feared the addictive quality of alcohol. Only about a year later did he first tell you about his traumatic history with addiction itself, and upon hearing about it, his boundary made absolute sense in your mind.

Safe to say that your worry tonight, the one that festered with every second you spent in the narrow car, wasn't born from the alcohol consumption in itself, but from the thoughts that had led him to its decision. Had something happened ? He'd seemed off when you left the bullpen, but you hadn't thought much of it. Was something wrong ? Would he tell anyone about it ? Would he tell you ?

Drowning in the sudden onslaught of questions, you barely heard as the driver announced you'd arrived at the bar. After tipping him for the change in itinerary, you stepped out of the vehicle, heels clicking against the wet pavement as you made your way toward the bustling entrance.

Inside, a myriad of scents flooded your senses, lights and loud music sending shockwaves through your nervous system as you tried to scan the crowd.

A high pitched squeal told you you'd been spotted first, and Penelope strode your way with sparkling confidence.

"What are you doing here ? Oh my lord look at you !" she gushed, hands squeezing your shoulders affectionately as her eyes trailed up and down your figure, "You, my friend, are a vision."

Smiling helplessly at the praise, you shook your head, "Thank you darling, you're glowing."

Garcia gasped in delight and gave you a turn, her colorful skirt swirling under the neon lights, "You like it ? Oh we should totally go shopping sometime !" when you chuckled and nodded, she seemed to suddenly remember why she was only greeting you now.

"Wait, weren't you supposed to be on your date with Mr. Hunk-supreme ?"

A simple shake of your head, paired with lips pulled into a thin line, told her all that she needed to know.

"Bad-bad ?" she frowned sympathetically.

"I'll tell you about it tomorrow," you promised, "right now you should go have fun. Oh, but before you go, could you tell me where Spence is ?"

Hand clasped around yours, Garcia danced her way through the crowd, and like some sort of magical and highly sequined train, dropped you off at your station with a kiss on the cheek. The booth was a locker room for the team members that took turns on the dance floor. Its current guardians, who were surely replacing a long gone Aaron Hotchner and David Rossi, were packed into a corner, seemingly deep in conversation, though not deep enough to stop the young doctor from lighting up at the sight of you.

"Well hi there silly boy," you grinned as he beamed at you. Morgan raised his glass in your direction.

"Looks like your saving grace is here kid," he gave Spencer a brotherly pat on the back, "can I leave you two there ? Some ladies have been eyeing me for about half an hour and I've got an itch to scratch."

"Ew," you joked, "yes, Don Juan, go, I've got him."

Settling in his place, you took a moment to admire the sight in front of you. Spencer Reid, usually so delicately put together, was unrecognizable. His hair was messier than usual, strands forming thin curtains over his brown eyes, themselves lined by puffy flushed skin that had seemed to suggest he'd been crying. His cheeks were a blotchy pink shade, matching the tips of his ears and the length of his neck, down to the hint of collarbone peeking from where he'd clumsily pulled his tie loose. His lips were parted like he was about to speak, but his eyes were the ones doing the talking – they hadn't left you since you'd entered his field of vision, and you could feel some part of yourself melting at the adoration they displayed. Whether a result of his drunken state of a translation of true reverence, the end result remained the same, your own expression softening into fond concern.

"Hi," he whispered, and for a moment, you forgot all about your disastrous date, instead raising a hand to his cheek, brushing curls behind his ear.

"Hi Spencer," you smiled, "so, what's gotten into you ?"

He shrugged, his shoulders lifting and dropping unevenly, and leaned his head toward your hand, "Dunno"

Narrowing your eyes in feigned disbelief, you raised a brow, "Oh really ? You don't know why you suddenly decided to drink alcohol to the point of drunkenness when you haven't finished a glass or even ordered one since I met you ? Come on."

Another shrug, and you pulled your hand away, crossing your arms over your chest, "Do you think me a fool, Spencer Reid ?"

The immediate shake of his head could've had you cooing at him like you would a puppy, had your will been any weaker than it was.

"Then why are you blatantly lying to me ?"

Spencer leaned into the backrest of his seat, eyes finally leaving you and finding his own hands in his lap. Softening your tone, you leaned closer, "You can tell me if something's wrong. There's nothing you could say that could make me think any less of you. I'm just worried."

Tentatively, he glanced back up at you, before dropping his eyes again and giving you another uneven shrug. The sigh that left you was more akin to resignation than to annoyance, and your eyes scanned the crowd for a familiar face before turning back to him.

"Do you want to go home ?" you suggested quietly. Spencer gave a slight shake of his head, and you figured it had more to do with a hypothetical lack of company than with him having a great time in this very overwhelming environment. With that in mind, you worded your question differently, "Do you want to get out of here ? I can stay with you if you'd like."

His honeyed eyes found yours again, and you wished the men you dated had for you half of the devotion his drunken self seemed to hold. His chin lowered in a sheepish nod, and you left the booth to find one of your friends. Once the role of locker room guardians had been successfully delegated to JJ and Emily, leaving Garcia to dance with her personal playboy – who had apparently abandoned his conquest of the previous group of girls – you grabbed your purse and helped Spencer slip out of the booth. Waving your friends goodbye, you made your way toward the exit, a stumbling Dr. Reid a step behind.

The night air was a sweet relief compared to the packed atmosphere of the bar, and yet, Spencer recoiled as it hit him.

"Cold," he breathed through his teeth, wrapping his jacket tighter around his frame. His complaint seemed to amuse you as you hooked your arm through his.

"Come on pretty boy. Let's take a walk," you tugged him forward, and he followed with the gracelessness of a rag doll.

"A walk ?"

"Yes, a walk." you grinned, "You know, that thing where you put one foot in front of the other and move forward ?"

His scoff materialized into a small cloud at the corner of your vision, and you could almost hear the roll of his eyes, "I meant walk where ?"

With a shrug, you led him to a crosswalk, holding him back when he didn't stop.

"Being drunk doesn't suit your brain."

"That's not an answer," he mumbled, shoulder pressed against your own.

"Well I don't know Reid, do people always need to have a destination in mind when they walk ?"

"Most of the time yes, or else they'd get lost."

Now it was your turn to roll your eyes. How could this man still argue everything you said while simultaneously being unable to walk in a straight line ?

"Well then we're walking to your place." you decided as the cars stopped to let you pass.

"My place ?" Spencer's voice was weaker as he spoke, his tone akin to one of a whiny child.

"Do you have something against it ?" your brow arched as you glanced his way, eyes following the slight pout of his mouth, the downturn of his own gaze.

"No– I mean I don't– I just," he pushed his glasses further up his nose with the help of his right shoulder, visibly unwilling to pull his hands out of his pockets, "I don't want to– to…" a huff left his lips, "Never mind. It's stupid."

"Hey," you squeezed his arm, "what is it ? Is your place flooded or something ?"

His gaze was fixed on his shoes as he answered, words slurring more severely when he lowered his voice, "Just don't wan' be alone."

His mumbled sentence squeezed your heart as you looked up at him. For a moment, you just watched him. The way loose curls brushed across his brow, furrowed in stubborn reluctance. The flush that had spread up the back of his neck, settling at the tip of his nose and ears, whether from the cold or the beers. From here, he looked nothing like the careful genius you spent almost every day with. From here, he looked nothing like the professional profiler, the one whose eyes always swept across everything like every inch of a scene was a crucial element. From here, he looked like the young man you'd sometimes met, on quiet afternoons filled with paperwork, the one who performed magic tricks to make his friends smile, or rambled about the history of some topic you'd mentioned in passing, turning red anytime someone ruffled his hair.

From here, he looked like a young man you desperately wanted to ki–

The sudden pull of your arm reached your brain before his shriek did. Your feet fumbled for balance, inadvertently catching onto the protruding edge of a tile as you vainly attempted to prevent the fall. Spencer landed first, his backside landing in very conveniently placed bushes with a surprisingly loud crack. You followed suit, hands catching onto the metal fence his back was pressed against, stopping your face from hitting it full force from a few inches. Your knee was already burning up, but you found more useful to swat Spencer in the shoulder than to check for injury.

"Ow–" he yelped, sinking further into the bushes.

"You absolute–" you pushed against the railing to try to stand, only to fall back down, hand braced against his stomach, "–idiot–"

Spencer, uselessly attempting to pull his sleeve free of the branches, whined, "Don't press there– I'm gon' throw up–"

Just as his words reached you, so did the sheer absurdness of the situation, and you hid your face against the young doctor's woolen sleeve as a violent wave of laughter overtook you, shoulders hiccuping with the intensity of it. You felt the moment your amusement contaminated him through the vibrations of his chest, and the mental image of two idiots cackling while half buried into the bushes of someone's front yard only made the laughter burn brighter.

After a few minutes spent fighting for breath, you patted his arm, "Come on genius," while your free hand yanked your own coat free.

"Can't–" he looked up at you with those damned brown eyes, "'m stuck."

Rolling your eyes, you raised to your knees and grabbed the fence again, "Yes you can, come on," and with that, you got back on your feet, stepping away from the bushes before bending down to dust your knees off.

When your eyes met again, the look you found could've lit up the entire street. The brown of his irises was amber and gold from the streetlights, his hair mussed, curls framing his brow with a sweetness that your heart deemed unfair, thumping heavily against your ribs. He looked stupidly boyish in this position, settled awkwardly into the bushes, sleeves stuck to the branches, knees drawn up in a way that made it obvious that his skeleton hadn't been designed to fold this way. Still, he looked utterly entranced by whatever he saw when he looked up at you. You'd never been one for the spotlight, nor had you ever been firmly against it, but with his eyes on you, suddenly you understood both the dizzying thrill of it and the stage fright. Warmth bubbled deep within your chest and climbed its way up your throat, pushing past your lips in a nervous giggle as you glanced away, feigning interest in your scraped knee for a fleeting instant.

"Are you planning on sleeping there boy wonder ?" you look back at him, praying that your teasing tone paired with his inebriated perception can effectively disguise the distinct flutter in your stomach.

Any other day, Spencer would've looked away, red in the face as soon as he'd been caught staring. This wasn't any other day. This was the day his entire belief system had been reduced to dust particles around the halo that the light had created with your hair. This was the day Spencer Reid encountered the divine, and the scientist in him ached to gather as much information as he could before you vanished into thin air. With this in mind, he drank all of you in, his eyes greedily sweeping over everything that made you you, everything he'd always adored quietly, everything that wasn't his to keep.

"Spencer ?"

The thought dug its claws into his heart. Suddenly, he wished he was still at that table, a disgustingly bitter beer squeezed between his tense fingers. He'd never liked drinking, and yet in this moment, he felt dreadfully sober.

Your outfit was a carefully crafted one, as was the subtly elegant way your hair had been pulled back, leaving only a delicate strand, framing your artful features. What he wouldn't give to be the subject of such attentive preparation. What he wouldn't give to be the one you graced with your time.

The gentle brush of fingertips against his knuckles pulled him back to reality, only to nearly send him reeling at the mere sign of concern in your expression.

"Spence ?" your voice was quieter, softer, your own tone betraying you.

"Hm ?" he piped up, heat rising to his cheeks as your fingers slipped through his.

"Do you need help getting up ?"

He opened his mouth to answer, but every thought in his mind suddenly rushed to get out, cluttering his throat and rendering him utterly speechless. His lips clamped shut again as he gave up on speaking, instead nodding sheepishly.

Instantly, you sprang into action, the hand that wasn't holding his moving to steady him as you pulled him up. After stumbling like a newborn fawn for a moment, Spencer's feet finally found solid ground again, and you let out a small huff of breath.

"For someone so scrawny, you're surprisingly heavy," you noted, breathless amusement coloring your voice, "has anyone ever told you that ?"

"Hm," the doctor nodded, fingers still securely wrapped around yours, "Morgan. Repeatedly."

You laughed, and Spencer thought that if he could get drunk on the sound alone, he'd probably give up on sobriety altogether.

"So," you let go of his hand to dust off the back of his coat, and as his fingers pathetically tensed around thin air, he found himself already missing the contact, "you don't want to go back to your place, because you'll be on your own ?"

The sudden reminder of his impending loneliness had a melodramatic sigh escape from his lips, and he nodded slowly.

"Well, Dr.Professional-Kicked-Puppy," he tried rolling his eyes at the name, inconclusively. "I can't offer to stay at yours because I desperately need to change, but you can crash at mine if you want"

You turned your head to catch the way his eyes lit up, "Would you like that ?"

Spencer nodded quickly, before kicking his legs into action and catching up to you. After a few moments of walking side by side in silence, shoulders bumping with each of his stumbling steps, he gathered the necessary courage to utter a quiet "Thank you", to which you responded by slipping your arm through the crook of his elbow.

The chill night air, the quiet street, the soft hum of the city… Everything that should've contributed to soothing his usually relentless train of thought was only participating in his silent agony. If the young doctor was known for anything, it was surely for his inability to keep his mouth shut, especially at times when he needed to most. This was one of those times.

"So, how'd your date go ?" the words tumbled out before he could stop them, slightly blurred where alcohol lingered. As much as he'd wanted to convince himself he had sobered up, anyone with eyes and ears would've been able to tell that he very much had not. Despite this, he knew with unshakable certainty that he had absolutely no desire to hear you talk about the oh so wonderful guy whom you'd picked over Garcia's slightly threatening invitation to the bar twice now.

Still, he listened as you told him about the man, about the beautiful flowers he'd brought you, about his impeccable choice in restaurant, his fabulous storytelling… He listened, oblivious to the underlying disappointment in your words, to the lack of details in your own retelling, or even to the fact that his own jealousy and drunken mind had completely altered your tone and choice of words, making you sound, to his ears, like a besotted teenager.

By the time you reached the top of your stairs, Spencer's lungs and heart were ready to give out. You'd recounted all of the jokes your date had made – which was just three, but to his intoxicated mind, it might as well have been twenty – and he regretted ever asking. When you unlocked the door and pushed it open, kicking off your shoes with a relieved sigh, he considered fleeing. His thought process was interrupted as your voice pulled him back, making him lift his eyes to meet yours. The soft light of a lamp in the background framed your silhouette as you leaned your temple against the wooden door.

"Are you coming in ? I wouldn't recommend the doormat for sleeping."

The image of you earlier, eyes filled with concern, hair lit back by the streetlights flashed through his mind, and he was once again hit by the sheer adoration he felt for you. When his voice passed his lips, it sounded weaker than he'd expected it to.

"Do you like him ?"

Despite the backlighting casting shadows over your features, he caught the way your brows pinched together slightly. You shrugged.

"He's nice."

Spencer let out a sound that might've been an amused breath or a quiet sob.

"You went on two dates with him, and that's all you can say ?"

Your lips pursed for a moment, before relaxing into a thin smile, "Well, one and a half, since you called me in the middle of dinner."

The young doctor dragged his feet to your couch, plopping onto it and hiding his face into his hands.

"Oh god– Right–" he raked a tense hand through his messy hair, "I'm– so sorry. I just– I–"

It occurred to him, in the form of a distant echo of consciousness, that telling you that he'd called because he missed you and was sickeningly jealous of the man you were with was probably not the wisest thing to say. Thankfully, your soft laughter stopped him in his tracks.

"It's okay, doc." you settled next to him on the worn couch, far enough not to touch, but close enough that he could feel the heat radiating from your skin. Your coat had been shrugged off on a chair, and the sight of your bare shoulders made him feel like a parched Victorian man.

"You saved me, really," you huffed in amusement, settling back against the cushions. Bewilderment felt too light of a term to describe the utter confusion he was feeling.

"What– Saved you ? Was he– Were you in danger ? Oh my god why didn't you say so– We would've–"

You cut him off by flicking his forehead gently, "You would've what ? Stumbled your way over and threatened him by standing on your hind legs like a red panda ? As much as I adore you, boy genius, you're not exactly intimidating. Especially in comparison to a 6'2 man twice your width."

"I–" color rushed to his cheeks, "I can be," he mumbled, "And red pandas don't have any other way to defend themselves, as their claws are mostly used for climbing trees. They have to find other tactics. I don't, I have my brain and a gun."

"Not so sure about the brain part in your state," you hummed with a light smirk, "but in any case, I wasn't in danger. Well, unless you consider boredom and exasperation to be dangers."

"Actually," Spencer piped up, "though some studies show that boredom can lead to impulsive decision making, it's actually a necessary and very healthy way to rest the mind and to cultivate creativity–"

"Spencer"

"Sorry–"

You sighed and shook your head, an amused smile still lifting your cheeks, "Anyway. I wasn't in danger. And it went well, for the most part. But when he started referring to his exes as 'crazy', and going on about how 'women always choose to be with assholes instead of nice guys like him', I just started regretting turning Pen's offer down."

"Jesus," he huffed.

"Yeah." you chuckled, "So when you called, I was just… Relieved."

Spencer barely tried to conceal the smile that dug dimples into his cheeks.

"Glad to be of service."

You bumped his shoulder with your own, and he felt lightning at the spot of contact, "My knight in knitted sweaters" you mused.

The flush of his cheeks spread over his entire face, and he glanced down at his lap to catch his breath.

"That sounds ridiculous," he whispered.

"It sounds perfectly you."

After rummaging through your cabinets, you found some food to snack on and handed it to Spencer while announcing that you were just going to take a quick shower and change. While he grieved how beautiful you looked in your very put-together outfit, the idea of seeing you in lounge wear was making his skin buzz. Or maybe that was another side effect of his drinking. In any case, the idea that you'd cut your – albeit boring – date to come tend to him was making him dizzy again. He pushed a mouthful of biscuits past his lips and tried not to focus on the sound of water hitting the tiles.

Instead, he sank further into the couch and let his eyes close for just a second. You were always there when he did. When sleep tugged him closer, and memories and fiction melted together. Even now, in the darkness of his fogged up mind, you smiled at him, nodded along as he spoke, listened in the way only you did. The first time you'd called him by his first name, he'd froze up, and you'd worried about having crossed a line. You hadn't, of course, but there was no way to rationally explain the dizzying amount of oxytocin that had flooded his veins at the sound of your voice. So he just reassured you that it was okay, that you could call him however you preferred. You'd never used his last name again, only ever switching up with a playful "doc" or a gentle "Spence", both of which always made his knees threaten to buckle.

"Spencer ?"

He sometimes dreamt that you'd whisper his name to wake him up in the morning, fingers carding through his hair. Or that you'd smile through it at the sight of him. On lonelier nights, when he reluctantly allowed himself more depraved thoughts, he'd dream of you breathing his name out in a moan, only to wake up to an empty bed.

In his dreams, your voice heals his wounds. In his dreams, you say his name like there is a hidden meaning.

"Spence,"

He could smell your pomegranate scented shampoo, and he wondered if he could overdose of a smell. What a sweet end that would be.

"Sweetheart," you brushed a stray strand of hair behind his ear, and his lashes fluttered open, "hi," you smiled softly.

"Hm," he blinked drowsily, taking in your damp hair and oversized hoodie, "hi"

"You fell asleep," you were crouched in front of him, one hand on his knee and the other still brushing against the shell of his ear, "you'd be more comfortable in bed."

It took a few long seconds for your words to reach him, but when they did, he immediately shook his head, "I'm not taking your bed," he slurred quietly, "I can sleep here, it's fine,"

"Oh it wasn't a suggestion darling," you hummed, and fireworks erupted in his chest at the term of endearment. He tried to play it cool, which, considering the blotchy red on his cheeks, he was failing at miserably.

"But I dun' wanna bother you," he managed to mutter, "I don't want you to sleep on the couch,"

You chuckled and tilted your head to the side, "Well my bed is big enough for the both of us. If you're ok with that."

Spencer nodded before he could even fully comprehend what that entailed. Still, in his state, the panic and excitement he might've felt was considerably dulled by the promise of comfort.

"Alright then. Come on," you whispered as you helped him to his feet.

You led him to your bedroom, laughing breathlessly every time his weight shifted.

"I get why you don't drink now" you huffed, "you big baby,"

He whined in response, plopping down onto the bed and lazily pushing his shoes off with his feet, and complaining under his breath when he didn't manage to. With an exasperated sigh, you crouched down again and gently untied his shoe laces before pulling them off of his feet. His mismatched socks were next, and as you carefully folded them together, the young genius laid down over the covers with the grace of a wooden plank.

"At least get under the covers," you shook your head as he groaned and clumsily slipped under them.

You rounded the bed and settled beside him, laying on your side to face him. He mirrored you, curls spreading messily over the pillow.

For a moment, you stayed like this, looking at each other in the dim light. Then, barely loud enough for you to hear, a whisper cut through the silence.

"You looked like an angel" his voice was hushed, as if this thought wasn't meant for the outside world, "earlier. Well– still."

You were grateful for the low lighting as you felt your cheeks burn up.

"You're drunk," you whispered with a smile, "I think your perception is a little affected."

He shook his head, "I don't think so. I mean, yes, but– you are. I mean, you look– you always look–" he huffed in frustration.

"Thank you, Spence," you grinned, cutting his stuttered attempt short.

After another second, he spoke again.

"Are you disappointed ?"

His question pulled your brows together, "By what ?"

Spencer's teeth pulled at some loose skin on his lip, "The date. It was the second one, so surely the first one had gone well,"

You thought for a moment.

"Well… I guess so. But not exactly surprised, just… passively disappointed." you responded honestly, "Though I didn't expect too much anyway."

Now it was his turn to frown, "So… Why'd you go on a second date with him ? Let alone a first ?"

You shrugged, "Well, I wanted to give it a try. And… He asked."

"Is that all it takes ?" he whispered, not to offend, but with genuine curiosity. And something akin to hope, "To ask ?"

"It depends, but it's always a good start." you hummed, "If no one asked, no one would go on dates."

His frown deepened, "I guess that makes sense."

Again, silence settled over the both of you, and for a moment, you thought maybe Spencer had fallen asleep. Which made it all the more surprising when he murmured your name.

"Yeah ?"

"Would you ever… Go out ? With me ?"

His question gave you pause. Not because of hesitation, but because you remembered his intoxication. As much as hearing the question from his lips warmed your chest, you couldn't imagine what you would do if he didn't remember this conversation in the morning.

"Maybe you should ask me when you're sober, Spence."

"Would you say yes ?"

"Well, you'll have to find out I guess," you teased.

"Not fair," he argued quietly, and you chuckled.

"Well the world isn't fair. Deal with it."

Even in the dark, you could see the way his eyes rolled.

For a few minutes, he seemed to be debating something. He rolled over to his back, hands laced over his stomach, eyes fixed on the glowing stars you'd stuck to the ceiling when you'd moved here years ago. You waited, wanting to see if he'd let you in on whatever was going on in that genius head of his.

He opened and closed his mouth several times, trying to piece the words together without breaking. When he finally spoke, it was in the softest voice you'd ever heard from him.

"I felt horrible." he whispered, "When you talked about it. Back in the bullpen. When you turned Garcia down, and the girls started gushing about that… man that you'd been on a date with." you caught the hollow in his cheek, where he was biting into the flesh, "I couldn't– I felt sad, and– and angry– which is stupid because it's not your fault, and I've just– I've never felt that before. Not the anger, but the– the ache–" one of his hands pressed against his sternum, "It was like someone had punched me in the stomach, and I couldn't think about anything except the fact that you– that you were with some– some guy, and I couldn't stop picturing you laughing, and just– smiling at him, and when Emily talked about how date number two was usually when people kissed, and I just– I wanted to throw up–"

You waited to see if he was done with his train of thought before speaking.

"Well, I didn't kiss him," you'd intended for this to be some sort of humorous remark, but it only pulled a sigh of genuine relief from Spencer.

"So… You drank because you were jealous ?" you suggested. At first, he seemed about to protest, but then his features softened and he pursed his lips.

"I guess so." he fidgeted slightly, "But mostly, I was… Frustrated. A few years after I'd started at the BAU, I'd asked Elle why I couldn't get a date. She told me the only reason was that I didn't ever ask anyone out. And– I couldn't get that out of my head. What if you'd– what if you'd met someone you really liked, and I'd missed my only chance because I'd been too busy getting stuck in my own head ? What if–"

You took his hand in his before he could damage the skin around his nails any further, effectively interrupting his spiraling.

"You didn't miss out on anything. Just… Ask me again when you're sober. Even if it's while stumbling over your own words. Even if it's written down because you couldn't make yourself say it. I don't care. Just ask again." you whispered, "Trust me."

His fingers curled around yours, and he nodded slowly.

"Now," you reached out to turn off your lamp, "You should sleep, or you'll be even worse off in the morning."

He groaned in complaint, and you chuckled at the sound, "Hey, you chose to drink. You could've just called me, sober."

"Would've lacked the dramatic effect." he joked as his eyes closed.

"Whatever you say doc," you leaned closer and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek before drawing back and whispering, "Good night."

"Good night," he echoed through a tight throat.

As he drifted off, cheeks still burning, Spencer pulled your hand to his lips and returned your quick kiss. He didn't know if he'd have the courage to ask you out again as soon as he sobered up, but he knew that however long he took, you'd be right there, waiting.