#disco writes

When you think about it, 1337 gets hurt a lot. Not that he can really help himself. The Specter left him with nothing but his fists, his strength, and a grudge that would be his constant companion. The Specter hated the guest’s guts, and made sure to make that disgust and disdain as obvious as possible. It wasn't like anyone knew exactly why the Specter hated him, but then again, it didn’t really matter. It just did. Maybe it was what he stood for, maybe it was something more personal. But it was there, heavy, suffocating, like a constant shadow.

Despite it all, 1337 never let up. He kept that stupid motto, the one that he’d forced himself to believe in through all the pain: “Be strong. Always be strong.” It had been his shield, his armor against the world. But even the strongest shields have their cracks. He had his moments. Moments of doubt, where the weight of it all nearly crushed him. The torturous god—the one that left its mark all over his life—broke him more ways than none.

He didn’t like to talk about the nights. The nightmares. The endless dark that chased him, clawing at his mind. Night terrors, they called them. And they haunted him like a vengeful ghost. He never got any rest. Not really. His eyes were always heavy, always tired, from the exhaustion that no amount of sleep could cure. His dreams weren’t normal. No, they were worse. Deaths so brutal, so grotesque that they defied even the limits of PG-13. He watched the people he loved—his friends—fall. And each time it hurt just as badly. Each time it felt just as real.

And the dreams got worse. They always did. As time went on, they chipped away at him, piece by piece. He barely slept anymore, which made everything harder. His mind couldn’t keep up. His reactions were slower. His focus is duller. The world felt like it was closing in on him, a suffocating weight of blood and terror. But the worst part? The worst part was knowing that it wasn’t just the nightmares that made him feel that way.

There were the killers, too. The ones that stalked him, the ones who knew he was an obstacle. The ones who wanted him gone.

He didn’t know it yet, but this round, he was the main target. John Doe—the legend himself—had it out for him. It wasn’t enough for John to simply deal with Builderman; 1337 kept getting in the way. And for some reason, that was unforgivable. John’s obsession with wiping out Builderman was matched only by his need to destroy anyone who dared oppose him.

1337 had the gear, sure. He was armed, equipped. But against giant claws that could slice through steel, what was armor worth? The first strike hit his back—sharp, fast, and unforgiving. It wasn’t a clean cut. His muscles screamed in protest, his skin shredded, but he didn’t scream. He had learned to wear pain like a second skin. Every inch of it. His body was a patchwork of scars, a testament to everything he had endured, and to every enemy that had ever tried to break him.

He ran. He dodged. His mind was racing, calculating his next move, but nothing he did seemed to slow John down. Every punch, every kick—nothing. John didn’t flinch. Didn’t even seem stunned. In fact, he only got faster, more relentless. 1337 needed to get close, but that was like walking into a lion’s den. His usual tactics didn’t work here.

And then, when it seemed like there was no escape, when it seemed like the King of Corruption himself had him cornered, fate took an unexpected turn. A loud crack—then, out of nowhere, a sword. Shedletsky. The chicken man himself. Charging in like a whirlwind, slamming his blade into John Doe with the force of a freight train.

1337 didn’t have time to process it. He didn’t have time to ask why or how. All he knew was that for the first time in what felt like forever, he had an opening. A chance to run.

His heart pounded in his chest, adrenaline surging through his veins as he bolted away, faster than he ever thought possible. He rounded a corner, panting, his breath ragged and shallow. His legs burned, his chest ached, and his body screamed for rest. But there was no time for that. Not yet.

The ballpit. He made it that far—barely. His knees gave way and he collapsed, falling to the cold, hard floor. He didn’t even have the strength to pull himself up the stairs. His vision blurred as exhaustion overtook him, and all he could do was lie there, gasping for air.

The sounds of battle still echoed in the distance, but they felt so far away. For a moment, it was just him and the silence. His heavy breathing the only thing filling the air.

Then, the unmistakable sound of a medkit opening. 007n7. He was there.

The hacker didn’t waste time. He was efficient, already kneeling beside 1337, digging through the kit with practiced hands. Without a word, he gently rolled 1337 onto his stomach, carefully removing the guest’s army vest. The wounds were bad—deep, jagged cuts. His back was a mess. 7n7 winced at the sight of it, though he didn't let it show. The hacker was calm, methodical, despite the severity of the injuries.

“Sorry if this hurts,” 7n7 said softly, his voice surprisingly steady.

It was almost absurd, how much pain 1337 had endured, how much he had taken for others. And yet, now, when it was his turn to be the one needing help, he couldn’t help but feel… helpless. The protector. The tank. The one who took all the hits. Now he was the one lying there, vulnerable. Weak.

Of course they needed him. They always did. But for once, he wasn’t the one holding everything together. He was the one falling apart.

He forced himself to stay conscious, despite the pain. Despite the exhaustion that threatened to pull him under. He couldn’t let himself give up. Not now. Not when they needed him more than ever.

He clenched his fists, willing himself to stay awake as 7n7 worked, his fingers moving with the precision of someone who had seen this kind of injury before.

It felt nice having someone touch him so gently and with such care again. For a fleeting moment, it was like he was back home. Back where things made sense. Back with his wife, Daisy, and his daughter, Charlotte. The warmth of their embrace, the soft way Daisy would hold him after a long day, the laughter that filled the house when Charlotte ran around, full of energy and joy. Those memories were distant now, almost out of reach. But this—this small act of kindness—brought him closer to that feeling.

He hadn't realized how much he had missed being cared for, being looked after. The world had stripped that away from him piece by piece, until he became nothing but a soldier, always fighting, always protecting. It wasn’t just the physical pain that weighed him down—it was the emotional toll of having to be strong, of always being the one people leaned on, never the other way around.

And then there was 7n7. The hacker, quiet and distant, almost always lost in thought. He didn’t seem to have much joy in him—no smiles, no easy laughs. He carried an invisible weight, an air of sadness that clung to him. But 1337 had seen something different in his actions. In the way he talked about his son, the way his voice softened and his eyes lit up when he mentioned him. It wasn’t something that slipped past 1337. The way 7n7 spoke about his son with such raw love and adoration… It was a stark contrast to the cold, calculating person he usually was.

And the small things. Like when they found something—anything—that wasn’t pizza in this hellish world. The way 7n7’s face would light up at the smallest pleasures. It reminded him of those simple moments with Daisy. Of sitting at the kitchen table, sharing a meal, laughing about something silly, and feeling like everything was okay.

It made him feel… something. Something that he couldn’t quite put into words, but it was there. The warmth in his chest, the soft ache in his heart. It reminded him of his wife, Daisy. Of the love they shared, the life they had before everything turned upside down.

Oh, no. No, no, no. This can’t be happening. Not now.

He had felt that before, but now, it felt stronger. The way his heart beat a little faster whenever 7n7 was near. The way his thoughts kept drifting back to him, even as his body was weak and battered. It was the same feeling he had once felt around Daisy—the feeling that he was falling, but this time, it wasn’t her that was filling his thoughts. No. This can’t be right.

It didn’t make sense. They were in a world full of chaos, full of blood and violence. There were bigger things to worry about. But even so, his mind couldn’t help but return to it. He was in love again and it confused him, unsettled him. How could he feel this way, when all he wanted was to get back to the life he’d lost?

His thoughts were interrupted as a sharp twinge of pain shot through his torso. He hissed, flinching instinctively as the hacker pulled the bandages tight. The motion was quick, and it pulled at the raw wounds, making him grunt in discomfort. His vision blurred for a second, and he bit down on his lip, trying to stay still.

"S-Sorry! I-I will be more careful!" 7n7's voice cracked with panic. His hands froze, still hovering over the bandages as if he were afraid to move too much.

The apology felt genuine, and 1337 could hear the worry in his voice. It was strange, seeing someone like 7n7, who seemed so detached and distant, so concerned about him. He could feel the hacker’s hesitation, the uncertainty in every motion. It was strange to see someone care about him like this. He had grown so used to being the one others depended on, the one who always took the hits, always pushed through the pain. But now, here was someone trying to help him, trying to ease his suffering. And despite the pain, despite the emotional whirlwind inside him, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of gratitude.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, his voice raspy. He wasn’t sure if he was comforting 7n7 or himself. “Just… take it slow.” He tried to focus on the steady, rhythmic pulse of his own breathing, grounding himself against the pain.

7n7 nodded quietly, moving more cautiously this time, and as he worked, 1337 couldn’t help but notice how carefully the hacker touched him. Every motion was gentle, deliberate. It wasn’t like the rough, hurried care of someone trying to fix a problem quickly—it was something else entirely. It was the care of someone who was trying to make sure the other person didn’t suffer more than they had to. And it was that that made 1337’s chest tighten.

As 7n7 continued to patch him up, the silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable. It was… peaceful. Strange, considering the situation. But there was something about the quiet, the shared understanding between them. In that moment, it felt like there was no world beyond the two of them, no killers, no threats—just the two of them, existing in this small bubble of care.

And as 7n7 finished, smoothing the bandages down with a final, careful motion, 1337 realized something he hadn’t wanted to admit.

He wasn’t just grateful. He was starting to need this. Starting to need him.

But this couldn’t happen. Not here. Not now. He had to focus. There was so much at stake.

Yet as 7n7 finally pulled away, standing up and brushing his hands off, 1337 found himself wishing—just for a moment—that they could be somewhere else. Somewhere safe. Somewhere where the world wasn’t falling apart. Somewhere where they could just… be.

He didn’t know what he was going to do with all these feelings. But for now, he kept them buried. He couldn’t afford distractions. Not yet.

He’s back in his room..seeing that message. The message was a picture of him working on his music, taken right outside his window…like he was just doing…

He looked outside the window before quickly grabbing his phone and gear and scrambling to the corner of the room. The message was still displayed on his phone screen…he watched it and looked up…

It was too silent…it was overwhelming…

Sudden the glass of his window shattered and the figure of his mother landed in his room. Dom didn’t have time to do anything when she grabbed him by the throat with her claws.

“Well hi there Meggy~ I had to fight my way out of Banland to find you~”

Megaphone clawed at her arms, trying to get her to lets go…he couldn’t breathe.

“Oh..how heartbreaking…not happy to see your mother? I’m definitely happy to see you…I’m going to tear you limb from limb this time! Not just your wing and eye this time!”

Dom lifted his leg and kicked her in the stomach, causing her to fall back and hit the wall. He didn’t know he was that strong…he didn’t have time to process that and booked it.

He grabbed a knife off the kitchen counter and held it up towards his bedroom where his mother was. It was silent again…

Till he felt the hood of his hoodie being pulled. He was yanked out to the garden he made during his free time. He fell to the dirt, losing the knife. He scrambled up and tried to reach for it until his mother came into view.

All he could remember was fighting her off. Claws Vs Claws. The feeling of her tail stabbing near his eye…her claws trying to dig it out. How she tried to aim for his lungs to make this easier. He swears that the SFOTH heard his cries and somehow made the knife just in his reach to blindly grab and jab right into her gut…

He doesn’t remember much after that…

Dom wakes up with a jolt. He starts to freak out, unable to see. He scrambled to get the medical patch off and rips it off his eye. He tried to open his eye but it was hard and it made him panic more.

He curled up into the corner of the bed unsheathed his claws. Preparing himself if he needs to fight off anyone again…

Where was the pain to distract himself? Where was the duties he was given to keep him busy? Where was his siblings to keep him sane?….

Gone. All gone. He was no longer a deity. No longer a child of spawn. He had no duties given to him after that.

All his siblings left him to rot except for Firebrand, but he rarely sees him. He’s been missing for quite a while. He went to go see The Spawn and never returned afterwards.

After that Ghostwalker took away that curse he has nothing to distract himself from his thoughts. The horrors of his mind.

He had no one to find comfort in. At least no one in his world. He felt like a burden to those around himself and to the Darkheart and Firebrand that find him tolerable.

There he lay on the floor, mumbling out apologies like it was the only word in his dictionary. His talons dug into his arms. It hurt but that’s what he wanted.

He wanted out of his mind, trying to find a way to ground himself. He needed to be alive…right? There was nothing to live for. There was nothing left for him.

His temple was slowly cracking. Slowly falling apart from the ceiling to the floor. Even the animals took notice. They started going away.

He was alone….

Alone again…..

Then a hand was gently caressing his face. It felt cold….

He opened his eyes to see who was there and was stunned. It looked like…Icedagger but- It wasn’t. He was made of snow and ice and gently smiling at him.

---

You’ve lived in Virginia for a few years, but somehow you’ve never found it this breathtaking. You have no idea how you got roped into driving, given that Derek and Emily usually take the wheel, but you’re far from complaining. As you wind through the forest, the canopy of leaves casting a filter of sunshine over the ground, you’re left speechless. The trees part in favor of the dirt road, and you find yourself absorbed in the surplus of green and foliage as you drive.

“There’s over 15,000 acres of this. It’s the largest protected land preserve in the tri-state area.”

You turn your head to watch Spencer murmur, still absorbed in a book. For the first time, you notice that he’s wearing a polo shirt and a beanie that Penelope knit him for Christmas. The whole sight is so...un-Spencer like that you’re torn between finding it endearing and concerning. You gulp down everything you want to tell him, swallowing all of the unidentifiable feelings in your throat.

“I’m excited. I love camping. My dad used to take me here all the time.” He perks up at this, and closes his book. You nod, pursing your lips into a smile. You steal a quick glance at the backseat, where Penelope and Derek have fallen asleep.

“Can you keep a secret?”

You have Spencer’s attention now. He nods so vehemently you laugh, tearing your eyes away from his in favor of focusing on the road.

“I wanted to be a park ranger when I was younger.” You’re only a little embarrassed of this; the jump from environmentalist to federal agent is just laughable enough to warm your cheeks. Spencer’s eyes widen.

“Really? How did you—I mean, when did you decide to be a—actually, I take it back. Hugging trees is beneficial for your health, after all.” He smirks, and you reach out to punch him on the arm. He rubs the spot absently, a grin forming on his face as your blush deepens. You try to portray yourself to the team as someone who’s a little tougher than the little girl who cried when she found out that people litter in National Parks. With Spencer, it’s different. Still, you can’t bank on what he will or won’t tell Derek.

“If you tell anyone, I will kick your ass. Forget it.” You get the sense that you are not going to live this down. To your advantage, it’s Spencer who blushes this time, his cheeks warming a delicate pink.

“I can’t forget it, actually. I have an eidetic—ow!”

---

The campsite is glorious.

Or, as Penelope would put it, rustic. It’s the perfect happy medium between the forest and the lake nearby, with a trail leading to the beach just a few feet from the site. The trees filter out just enough sun so that it’s pleasantly warm out. There’s ample space for a few tents, and a bear locker. You’re seated at a picnic bench with the girls, unloading the food and cooking supplies as the boys attempt to put together tents. From what you can see and hear, it sounds like Derek is muscling his way through it, much to Spencer and Hotch’s chagrin.

“You’re glowing. What’s got you in such a good mood?” Emily nudges you in the side, a sly smile on her face as she screws the propane line into the campstove. You flush, and shrug your shoulders.

“I love camping. I’m just excited to be here with you guys.”

Penelope reaches across the table to hug you. She’s dressed perfectly for the occasion: you don’t think you’ve ever seen bedazzled hiking boots before, but there’s a first time for everything.

“You know, I’m surprised Spence came. He normally skips out on these kinds of things.” JJ looks back at you from the bear locker, where she’s stacking cans of soup and Hotch’s cooler. Her gaze lingers on you for a moment, but you look towards Spencer before she can say anything else. He’s managing to put up his tent surprisingly well; he’s only struggling with the final few posts as he stumbles around the uneven ground. You turn back to JJ, shrugging.

“I mean, I think he can appreciate the outdoors. He’s probably read Walden.”

Emily laughs, and you feel as though the conversation has finally let up. JJ has a point, but as soon as you had asked Spencer if he was coming, he had agreed. He doesn’t look particularly out of place, either. Over the course of the past hour, he’s somehow inherited a pair of sunglasses and a red flannel. You look away, pursing your lips.

“Okay, I think we’re done.” Derek calls, waving his arm to catch your attention. There are now five small tents, only a little crinkled and trampled over. Emily nods in approval, nudging one of them with the tip of her boot. It only shakes a little.

“Good job, guys. They look...structurally sound.” Hands on your hips, you bend to inspect the guys’ handiwork. Spencer winces as you tug on a tent’s zipper, and it whines in protest. You shrug, smiling as you straighten.

“We should check out the lake.” Derek gestures to the blue expanse of water in the distance, and Penelope squeals. You hear the sound of metal clinking together, and turn.

It’s Hotch, holding what you assume to be a fishing pole. While this should be very surprising, you can’t come up with anything funny to say. Emily makes a joke about the catch of the day, and Hotch doesn’t laugh.

“Are there canoes involved? I didn’t bring a suit.” JJ asks, arms crossed over her chest. You nod, pointing to the rental shack on the eastern side of the lake.

“You guys ready to get some sun?”

---

“You look cute in hiking boots, princess.” You should not find this as funny as you do. Maybe it’s the fact that Derek definitely had Penelope apply some sort of oil to his biceps while they were in a tent; there’s no way that he just naturally glistens like that. You squint up at him, shrugging your shoulders. While your outfit is a little unorthodox—you remembered to bring a bikini, but forgot water shoes—it’ll work just fine. Spencer enters your peripheral vision, wrinkling his nose in Derek’s direction. You resist the urge to smile at this.

“Spence.”

You get his attention, catching up to him in just a few steps. The beach is pretty, lacking in sand but perfectly cool and sunny. He’s wearing too-big sunglasses and, surprisingly, Bermuda shorts. You trudge along the rocky path, handing him a bottle of sunscreen.

“Come on, I need your help. Sunscreen me.”

He seems shocked, fiddling with the bottle. You turn your back to him, raising your arms as you walk backwards, waiting to hit him before you stop.

“Is sunscreen a verb?” His voice is a little hoarse, and you smirk.

“Would you prefer lotion? Massage?” You tease, and you can practically feel him tense up.

“N-no, I wouldn’t. Hold your hair up.”

You oblige, and it takes everything in you not to sigh as he rubs the cool sunscreen into your back. He has really, really big hands and nimble fingers. Biting your lip, you conjure a mental image of them. You feel a little silly for imagining his hands when he’s right there, but you don’t want him to stop touching you. He coats your skin, movements deft and purposeful. You turn, reaching for the bottle.

“Take off your glasses. Your turn.” You like being a little bossy; he flushes as you reach up to spread the lotion across his cheeks, dabbing gently. He exhales slowly, relaxing into your touch.

“Let’s go. You’re my canoe buddy.”

His mouth falls open in surprise, and an evil part of your brain wonders how it would feel to kiss it. The thought is gone before you can act on it, though, and you wave him towards the shore. He stands still, lingering by the campsite.

“I was going to read on the beach, actually—”

“Nope. Come on! I need a partner.”

—-

The lake is cool, and you make yourself busy by being a very unhelpful canoeing partner. Spencer is rowing surprisingly well, scooping water from below and propelling the boat forward. You, on the other hand, are focused on stretching out in the boat. The sun is deliciously warm on your skin, and the occasional splash of water is heaven to the touch.

“You know, there are two sets of oars. We’d get the most momentum if you rowed, too.”

“Okay, fine, I’ll row. I’m not any good at it, though. That’s why I needed a partner.” You pat him on the shoulder affectionately, reaching for the other oar. The motion tips the canoe forward a little, and panic flashes across Spencer’s face.

“Don’t do that again. I do not want to end up in this lake. Do you know how many bacteria are in most man made lakes? You don’t want to know.”

You are many things, but you are not a quitter. Testing the waters, you lean forward again as you row, a little out of sync with Spencer’s strokes.

“Please don’t capsize,”

Hotch calls out from the shore, and Spencer shoots you a look as if to say listen. You shrug, continuing to row and occasionally shifting your weight. The look on his face is worth it.

“You know how to swim, right?”

You ask, voice low and as inconspicuous as you can manage. This backfires—Spencer turns around to shake his head, unbalancing the boat. He lets go of his oar, tightening the strap on his life vest. You cling to the sides, laughing as you try to steady the canoe.

“Not funny. You know, boating related accidents are incredibly common.”

His voice drifts off as Derek and Emily’s boat passes by. Their sportsmanship is admirable; they’re working as a perfect unit, quickly propelling their canoe forward with quick rowing and a lot of effort.

Spencer is scolding you half-heartedly when you get caught in their wake. You couldn’t have steadied the boat if you tried; and before you can react the canoe is upside down and you’re cast into the cool blue.

“I’m going to contract a brain-eating amoeba.”

Spencer coughs, bobbing to the surface. You emerge a few moments later, laughing, and reach for him.

“Worth it. You have plenty of brains to be eaten, genius.”

You watch him try to contain his smile the entire way to the shore.

---

You’re drying off as the sun sets, splashes of pink and purple coating the sky. It’s incredible; over the lake you can see the entire expanse of fields and forest, laid out like a painting.

“You guys brought food, right?”

Emily calls out from the picnic bench. She’s toweling off, sunglasses in her hair as she jokes with Morgan. You nod, turning back to Spencer.

He’s thoroughly drenched. You feel a little guilty for tipping the boat over; he’s spent a decent amount of time wringing out his clothes, and as night falls a chill builds in the air. After pulling a jacket on, you toss him a towel.

“That was fun.”

Your eyes widen a little, genuine surprise lodging itself in your throat. He takes in the look on your face, smiling lightly.

“Better than reading on the beach?” You offer, but this is too good to be true.

“Marginally.”

You frown, suppressing a smirk as you catch the scent of propane drifting through the air. You both head in the direction of the camp stove, where Hotch is fiddling with the gas tank.

“That looks...unsafe.” Spencer mutters, brow furrowed.

Hotch shoots him a look, and you both back off in favor of finding Morgan and Garcia, who are attempting to start a bonfire.

You don’t expect this to happen.

Spencer is arguably your best friend. He’s been there for you through thick and thin. For better or for worse, you’ve had each other. This trip was supposed to be unifying, and a small part of you had even hoped that maybe, just maybe, it’d give you the bravery to say what you’ve been thinking for a while.

“I cannot believe you intentionally burn your marshmallows.”

Spencer is looking at you like you’ve committed a crime; you are very familiar with this expression, but being on the receiving end of it is new. Thankfully, you’re ready to defend your stance to near-death. A somewhat maniacal grin on your face, you stab another marshmallow onto a skewer and shove it directly into the fire.

“I’m with Pretty Boy on this one. That’s just cruel. It doesn’t even heat it all the way through.” You scowl in Derek’s direction, turning back to your now on-fire marshmallow. You pull it out of the flame, watching it sear as the group murmurs in distaste. It only took three hours to start a fire, and by that time Emily had managed to heat a can of soup on the campstove. Spirits were relatively high, all things considered.

You watch in wonder as the marshmallow curves, melting just how you like it. Before you can stop it, it falls straight down onto your leg.

“Shit. That’s like, on fire.”

You say, your voice rising in pitch and volume as it becomes increasingly clear that not only is the marshmallow very, very hot but it is not coming off. The group springs into unsure action, voices loud and panicked as you push away from both your chair and the fire. The physics of melting sugar be damned, Derek manages to scrape it off with his skewer, and you’re left with a very attractive hole in your pants and a patch of tender skin.

“How do you love camping?” JJ asks, eyes wide as she watches you brush yourself off. Stabbing another marshmallow onto your skewer, you shrug.

“It’s all part of the fun.”

This time, you don’t set your marshmallow on fire. You mimic Spencer, who is carefully rotating his marshmallow. There has to be a system for what he’s doing; he’s laser-focused on the fire, his entire face lit up by the flickering red and orange light. You lean in, and before long you fall into a rhythm of roasting a marshmallow to golden-brown perfection, then pressing it into a graham cracker. Emily is incredible at assembling s’mores, and by time the fire is just a few crackling embers everyone has a little chocolate smeared over their faces.

“I’m really glad we did this.” JJ’s voice is just above a whisper. She’s leaning against Emily, the two of them sharing a blanket as the fire slowly fades. Hotch nods sagely, a rare smile on his face.

“It’s nice. A break. Some fresh air. Trees.” You gesture to the forest around you, unable to contain a sheepish grin. When you look to your right, Spencer’s smiling too. Penelope squeezes your hand. As you watch the last log burn into ash, you wonder how you got so lucky.

---

Later, everyone is too tired to stargaze.

This fact wounds you deeply. Stargazing is your favorite part of camping; there is absolutely nothing that parallels the experience of driving away from the city and looking up into the constellations. To your dismay, everyone is in their tents by the time it’s dark enough to see the winks of light overhead.

You begrudgingly get ready for bed; stepping around the campsite, it’s clear to see that everyone has mostly turned in for the night. Derek and Penelope’s tent is dark. Emily, Hotch, and JJ are all snoring at varying volumes. Spencer’s light is on; you can see his shadow, leaning over to peer at a book. You brush your teeth, swatting bugs away as you stumble towards your tent.

You manage to spend thirty minutes in your tent before you lose your patience. This entire camping trip has been a dream; no work, no cell service, and the people you care about. You’ll be damned if you let it pass you by without checking absolutely everything off your list. You step, a little wobbly, towards the front of your tent. You tug the zipper open, trying to stay as quiet as possible.

On shaking legs, you tug your hiking boots on, the evening cold nipping at your ankles. Despite your attempts to lessen the noise, you watch Spencer’s shadow waver.

“Spence!” You stage-whisper, praying to every deity you can think of that he’s awake and the rest of the team isn’t. To your immediate relief, you watch him tug the zipper of his tent down and emerge, swatting at a few lingering mosquitoes. He looks a little cold; his cheeks are pink and he’s rubbing at his arms. The sight of him in a hoodie and flannel pajama pants is more endearing than you’d expect, and you exhale to clear your head.

“What’s going on?”

He rubs the sleep out of his eyes, and you point to the sky. He takes a cursory glance up, and you watch his jaw fall slack as he takes in the starry skies.

“Come on. We can see better from over there.”

You wave him towards the beach. You know exactly where you’re headed; while you’ve never camped in this specific spot, you know how to reach your favorite place to stargaze. Spencer looks at you with something between curiosity and admiration as you lead the way with a flashlight. The forest is still awake and responsive at this hour, crickets chirping and leaves rustling as you step through the greenery.

You find it quickly; the boardwalk is unmistakable. It’s a field, like the ones you’ve been surrounded by all day. Spencer identifies the leaves as rhubarb plants as you step onto the wooden pathway. While any field would work, this one is ideal; the sky opens up as far as the eye can see, the trees parting to admire the world above.

“Here.” You turn off your flashlight, allowing your eyes to adjust to the low, blue moonlight. Spencer follows you as you crouch, laying with your back to the boardwalk. This is what you came for.

“Oh my God.” Your face splits into a grin once you hear Spencer’s voice, low and gravelly against your ear. The sky above is endless; all you can see is the expanse of the stratosphere, stars bright and darkness vast over your heads. You tear up a little; you always do. It feels like the universe is leaning down to meet you in the middle, pressing its face to yours.

“Tell me what you see. I know that you know what we’re looking at.”

You scoot a little closer, trying to absorb a little of his warmth. Eyes still fixed on the sky, Spencer begins.

“There’s so little light pollution. I...I’ve never seen this many stars at once.” His eyes narrow a little, and you watch as he absorbs the world above him.

“That’s Orion.” He points to a collection of stars to your left, a few brighter than the others.

“Those three in a row, that’s his belt. You might be able to see his bow, too, to the right.

The brightest one is six hundred and forty light years away. Betelgeuse.” His voice has dropped to a whisper, and you follow his every word. You can see the warrior above you, the stars winking at you as Spencer describes them.

You fall quiet after a few minutes, and the only sound is that of your slow, synced breaths. You feel as though Spencer has peeled the sky open and revealed it to you; with him, you can see another world entirely.

“We’re looking into the past right now.”

You turn to look at him, a laugh ready to bubble past your lips. You look back up at the sky, where he’s pointed to the Big Dipper.

“That’s Dubhe. We’re seeing light from before we were born.”

You nod, a tear sliding down your cheek and cooling before it reaches your nose. There is so much you would like to tell him before you are both light, visible in this moment from somewhere far away.

As you stare up into the starscape, you gasp. There’s a shooting star, dragging across the Pleiades and heading towards the western skies.

“Make a wish,” You breathe. Before you lose your nerve, you reach out to Spencer, lacing your fingers together. Turning your head, you watch as he grins up at the sky. His features are softer when drenched in moonlight; the slope of his nose, the arch of his cheekbones, the line of his jaw all bathed in a dreamy quality.

After the shooting star winks out, trailing across the dark and blinking into nothing, the silence feels heavier.

“What did you wish for?”

You’re sure that he can hear your heartbeat. The steady thrum of your heart against your ribcage is a drum, urging you forward. You watch his brow knit in consideration, before his gaze finally meets yours. His eyes are more hazel than you’ve ever noticed, each fleck of gold striking you as a star.

“If I tell you, it won’t come true.”

His voice is soft, laced with something solemn beneath the surface. You nod, stealing a glance at the sky before you swallow your fear.

"I wished for you." You say quietly.

You don’t know who moves first, only that there’s a brief shuffle before you’re holding each other. He reaches to cradle your face in his hands, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, before finally reaching your lips. Your hands ghost over his jaw, trailing down his neck as he laces his fingers into your hair. You can’t quite breathe, nor think, only repeat a simple refrain over and over, a prayer passing over your lips and into the dark.

Spencer.

---

The sun rises lazily, pink and orange brushstrokes against a blue sky. You’re awake early—to put it lightly, Spencer’s tent is cramped—and it feels good to breathe in the morning air. The team is still asleep, a few yards away as you stretch and take in the cool dawn.

You think maybe, this is all a dream. You’re not sure how else this would exist, so perfectly and wholly true. The universe is a benevolent thing, after all. There is no other explanation for Spencer Reid, the man the world got right.

“You have pancake batter in your hair,” You say, a little mournfully but still laughing. Still layered in jackets and hats, you feel as though you’re being warmed from the inside out. Spencer’s eyes widen, and he reaches up with a batter-covered hand to feel his hair. You laugh again, a little too loudly this time, and he shushes you between chuckles.

The campstove is quiet, the gas running blue as Spencer flips a pancake over. You neglected to tell him that folding the pancake mix in slowly would prevent...explosions. If you had warned him, you wouldn’t have the chance to kiss the flour off of his face, smiling against his cheeks. With a mittened hand, you brush the powder off of his eyelashes.

“Chocolate chips, right?”

You smile, nodding. He remembers how you like your pancakes. Turning away from him, you rifle through a storage bin for something you packed.

“Are you looking for syrup? It’s over here.” He calls, his voice soft against the hushed sounds of morning. The birds have begun to chirp, calling to each other in alternating duets. You shake your head, and present him with a contraption.

His eyes light up, and he looks at you with something a little wild and entirely resembling devotion. You reveal with your other hand a bag of coffee grounds from the coffee shop near your house, grinning up at him.

“I can’t believe you brought me a French press.”

You grin, turning your face as your cheeks burn. Maybe you had hoped this would happen, in slightly different words. After you both tuck into your pancakes, leaning over a plate on the same side of a picnic bench, you watch the sunrise. A bundle of puffy jackets and intertwined hands, you press your back into Spencer’s embrace.