#gubler

it’s november 28th, thursday—thanksgiving day. since you and spencer got together, thanksgiving dinner has been at your parents' house, since his mom lives all the way in vegas and his dad... well, he's a deadbeat. plus, your parents' place is closer to where you live, so it works out.

your family immediately embraced spencer. they adored him, especially how he treated you and how clearly smitten he was with you. he quickly became a part of your family, spending almost every holiday with you all. once you and spencer turned 26, you decided to get married, and two years later, you welcomed your son, arthur, in early october.

your family had been out of town when arthur was born, and then you fell ill the week after. the following week, your family fell ill too. it wasn’t until thanksgiving that they were finally able to come meet arthur. while you were overjoyed, spencer was on edge.

he’s always been cautious about germs, but now that you have a baby, he’s even more vigilant. he’s terrified of arthur getting sick, especially since it's more dangerous at his age and the thought of it is just terrifying for him.

your illness and the precautions taken by your family made spencer even more vigilant. it reached a point where you couldn’t even approach your own son without spencer insisting you use hand sanitizer or sending you off to wash your hands before entering the room. it made you wonder how he’d react to the possibility of your family visiting for thanksgiving. if he was this cautious with you, how would he handle your family?

"where's the hand sanitizer?" spencer asked, glancing at the nightstand beside arthur's crib. you sighed and ran a hand through your hair.

"i knew i forgot something!" you muttered, frustration dripping from your voice. you stood up from the rocking chair in the corner of arthur’s room and walked over to spencer, placing your hands on your hips, your face flushed with guilt.

"i’m so sorry, love. i meant to grab it last night when i went grocery shopping, but i must have forgotten. i'm really sorry."

spencer frowned but immediately wrapped his arms around you, holding you close for a moment. he pulled back slightly, cupping your face gently. "hey... it's okay," he said, rubbing your cheeks with his thumbs. "i should’ve gone to the store myself. you're already doing so much with dinner, arthur, and everything else. i'm sorry, love. i'll go get it right now."

you gave him a small, reassuring smile and murmured, "okay."

just as spencer was about to leave the house to buy more hand sanitizer, the doorbell rang. you absentmindedly ran your fingers through your hair while spencer struggled to put his shoes on, trying to hurry before you could stop him. you reached him just as he was about to step into the garage.

"just say a quick hello," you sighed. He turned to face you, concern on his face.

"but love-" he started, but you cut him off.

"spencer, you can go after we greet them," you insisted. he lowered his head in defeat and stepped back into the mudroom to take off his shoes. you straightened up and dusted off your clothes before heading toward the entryway. spencer followed and opened the door.

standing there were your parents, your two sisters, your older sister’s husband and daughters, and behind them, spencer’s mother. your mother squealed as soon as she saw you and pushed her way past your sisters.

"where is he?!" she exclaimed, stepping inside and looking around.

"good to see you too, mom," you chuckled, crossing your arms. the rest of the family followed in, and spencer came over to place a hand on your lower back. once everyone was inside and the door was shut, he leaned in and whispered in your ear, "now can i go?"

you pulled back slightly and shook your head. "just a quick hello," you replied softly. he sighed, shoulders slumping, and walked into the family room.

"he’s upstairs taking a nap, mom," you say, walking over to where she’s standing and wrapping your arms around her. she immediately returns the gesture, holding you close. "we’ll bring him down when he wakes up," you add, before pulling away and greeting everyone with a tight hug and a cheerful, "how are you?!"

"so, what’s for dinner?" your dad asks as he settles on the couch.

"i decided to keep it traditional and make tamales," you reply casually, but your mom’s face immediately falls.

"you didn’t tell me you were making tamales! why didn’t you tell me? i could’ve helped! did you make the sauce yourself—?" she starts rambling, but you cut her off with a laugh.

"mom, after watching you make them for most of my life, i think i’ve got it figured out," you chuckle, and she shakes her head in mock disapproval.

spencer clears his throat, then speaks up. "um, do we want to eat now, or should we wait...?"

"i think we should all get comfy first, and then we can start dinner!" you suggest with a smile.

dinner flies by in what feels like no time at all, though it actually lasts about an hour and a half. spencer grows increasingly agitated, repeatedly asking if he can go buy hand sanitizer, but you just respond each time with, "not yet." eventually, he forgets about it.

once dinner wraps up, everyone heads upstairs to the tv room. your mom is the first to ask about seeing arthur. you nod, and she steps in, spencer following right behind you.

arthur’s nursery is cozy, with a wooden crib nestled against a wall adorned with thrifted paintings. a knitted blanket you made while pregnant with him is draped over the crib, and a curtain dotted with little stars hangs next to it. a rocking chair sits beside the crib, and when you enter, you see arthur is just waking up.

you walk over and gently scoop him up, supporting him with one hand on his back and the other under his bum. you bounce him softly for a few moments until he calms down, then your mom holds out her arms. you pass him to her, and she cradles him carefully, cooing at him and rocking him gently.

then spencer has a sudden realization. his eyes widen as he notices your mom didn’t use hand sanitizer—or wash her hands—before picking up arthur. his stomach drops at the thought, and he taps you on the arm. you turn from the loving look your mom gives your son to find spencer’s worried face, and your expression shifts from content to concerned.

"spence, what’s wrong? are you okay?" you ask, reaching up to touch his arm, the fabric of his button-up shirt between your fingers.

"your mom didn’t use hand sanitizer..." he mumbles, his voice full of worry. your face softens, and you give him a reassuring smile.

"spence—"

"...and she didn’t wash her hands either," he continues, his voice trembling slightly.

you sigh, cupping his face gently. "love, i’m sure he’ll be fine."

"no, he won’t! you don’t understand how much bacteria and disease humans carry, and if he gets sick, it could be really bad—" spencer starts to spiral, but you squeeze his cheeks, halting his words.

"did you ever check under our bathroom sink for hand sanitizer?" you ask softly.

"no... was i supposed to?" he looks down at you with those wide, pleading eyes. You shrug.

"i’ll go check." you pull away from him, and he steps out of the nursery and into the bathroom to check the cabinets under the sink. after a moment, you hear a frustrated groan, and spencer reappears holding a small bottle of pumpkin spice hand sanitizer from bath & body works, the size of arthur’s tiny hand.

"seriously?" he mutters, annoyed by the size and knowing it’s probably not going to be very effective. but after a brief pause, he sighs and decides it’s better than nothing.

from that point on, every time someone even looks at arthur, spencer insists they use the tiny hand sanitizer, and by the end of the night, it’s completely gone.

authors note | this is so half assed im sorry 😭 anyways i'm done with all my after school stuff (for now) so i should be back to posting twice a week but i'm still not fully motivated enough to write full fics so we'll see how it goes :]

credits | @saradika

word count | 1.3k

You watched as Hotch moved his mouth and Morgan moved his back. You heard the words, you knew what they meant, but they didn't make any sense. Hell, you could hardly focus on the words; they just went in one ear and out the other. You knew you should've gone home hours ago, but what difference did it make? Either you'd lay awake in bed, listening to Audrey and whichever boyfriend was over tonight, or you could be awake and do your job. One of those seemed a lot more appealing than the other.

"Yoohoo," Morgan sang, tapping his fingers on your desk. "Are you in there?"

"Mm," you hummed, sitting up as straight as you could. Your back creaked in protest. "What's up?"

"I asked for a refresher on your theory," he said, slightly amused by your demeanor. "You said something earlier about the unsub maybe being in the medical field."

"Right." What had you been thinking again? "Um... I think they could be a doctor or nurse of whatever because all-- all the victims had, uh, prescription bottles with them, and... yeah."

"That wasn't it," Spencer interjected from his spot against the wall. "You thought they worked in a pharmacy because all the victims had prescription bottles with them, but the doctors' names were all different. You said it was similar to the Tylenol murders in the eighties."

"Yeah," you muttered, giving in and relaxing your back. "That."

"Hey, you good?" Morgan asked, raising an eyebrow. "You don't look so hot."

"I'm okay; just tired," you affirmed. "I'll make another cup of coffee when I get up next."

"You've had four cups already today," Spencer pointed out, pushing off the wall and gathering around your desk with the other two.

"Who are you, the caffeine police?" You looked up at Spencer briefly, intending to give him a playful smile, but the best you could give was a wobbly one before you had to look back down. The lights hurt.

"Reid, the rest of us are no better," Hotch said. "I think Rossi's also had four."

"Well, Rossi drinks decaf. The rest of us like to be awake. And if we consider that the machine makes twelve ounces per use, plus any amount of creamer-- let's say two ounces-- that's fourteen ounces of coffee per brew. So, fifty-six ounces of coffee. In those fifty-six ounces, there's about six-hundred and sixty-five milligrams of caffeine, which--"

"Okay, okay." You held up your hands in surrender. "No need to shame me. I'll have a glass of water."

"What you should do is lay down," Spencer advised. "All that caffeine, plus the fact that you've been awake for three days--"

"You freak me out."

"You should be freaked out!" He exclaimed, looking to Morgan and Hotch for backup. "You-- most people start hallucinating by this point, and that caffeine can increase your risk of anxiety, heart palpitations, and in serious situations, it can impact vision."

"I can see just fine, thank you."

"Hotch-- Hotch, help me out here." Spencer gestured down at you with an open hand, as if your boss couldn't see you. "She needs to take a nap."

"I trust your judgement," Hotch agreed. "I mean, it's hard not to. Go home, Y/N. Just come back tomorrow. I don't want to see you before 10:00, though. Sleep in a little."

"Hotch--"

"That's an order." Hotch looked down at you with firm, almost cold eyes, even though there wasn't a warmer shade of brown on the planet. He didn't play the 'order' card often, and he'd never played it with you. "Go rest."

"Fine," you grumbled, rising. "I don't suppose you want to hand me my keys, since you're blocking my purse?"

"I don't. Reid, make sure she gets home."

You and Morgan disputed this instantly, voices overlapping. "He doesn't need to drive!" You insisted. "I can do it!"

"And even if she can't, Reid is a terrible driver," Morgan argued. "You're better off sending JJ or Garcia. They're safe drivers. And-- and Garcia would make sure she gets fed, too."

"Reid can handle that just fine," Hotch asserted. "Besides, Garcia's digging on Darien Corque's doctor right now. JJ tried to call him, but he just cursed her out and hung up."

"That's weird. Most doctors would want to hear if their patient dies. But that's beside the point." Morgan pointed an accusing finger at Reid. "He's the worst driver here."

"Then be glad you're not in the car. Reid, go get your bag."

"Yes, sir."

"Hotch, this isn't necessary--"

"I disagree. I'll see you tomorrow." The stocky man turned his back, walking away towards Garcia's office without so much as a "sleep well" or "kiss my ass." You could see it in his gait; he was just as wiped as you.

"Ready to go?" Spencer asked in a thick voice. It always sounded like he was speaking from the base of his throat to you, except for when he got all worked up and high-pitched. Then, he sounded six.

"Unfortunately."

~~~~~~~~

The moment Spencer took his slow ass turn down your street, you wanted to cry. Cars lined the street and packed the driveway, and every light in the house looked like it was on. How had you forgotten? Audrey had warned you that she was having a party this week; why didn't you remember? You always remembered, because she all but demanded you make yourself scarce, and it made you a little sad. Maybe it was because you actually had something to do this time.

"No, no, no..." You whined, wiping a clammy hand down the side of your face. "I forgot..."

"What's all that?" Spencer asked, slowing to a stop in front of the driveway.

"My roommate. I forgot she was having a party this week."

"Oh. Well, if you wanted to go in and socialize a little before bed, I'm sure--"

"No, no. Audrey doesn't want me around during her parties. Even if I wanted to, she'd kick me out before I could make it to the kitchen."

"That's ridiculous. Where do you sleep when she has her parties?"

"Usually the Holiday Inn, if they have a vacancy. That means I don't have to cook breakfast."

"I don't feel right leaving you at a hotel tonight," he admitted. "Why don't-- why don't you come to my apartment? I have a guest bed. It's not the most comfortable thing in the world, but it's better than questionable housekeeping and microwaved eggs."

"Reid--"

"I mean it," he interjected gently. "I'm not leaving you there if you can't sleep here."

You pinched the bridge of your nose and let out a hefty sigh. "Am I allowed to leave a little money for gas? Because you're the complete opposite way."

"I suppose, if it will let me get you to bed." He shook his head, quickly realizing how that sounded. "I mean--"

"Relax, I get it," you soothed. "Let's just go before somebody else decides to show up and park in the way."

~~~~~~~~

"In here," Spencer ushered quietly, opening up a door for you. "It's mostly storage, but you can access the bed just fine."

The room was the most Spencer Reid thing you'd ever seen. Olive walls, a matching pine bookshelf and desk pushed neatly into the corner, and a neatly arranged stack of cardboard boxes, all labeled with "MOM" in big brick letters. The incandescent lights were a welcome change from the LEDs that haunted your every waking moment. You made a beeline for the bed in the far corner, its dark grey sheets pulled taut over the mattress.

"If you get cold, there's a quilt under the bed," Spencer said, walking over to the bookshelf. "And if all that caffeine is keeping you up, I've got a couple books in here that might help. Mostly classics, like 'Canterbury Tales' and 'Catcher in the Rye,' but there's a couple-- oh."

He looked down at your curled up form on top of the sheets. You hadn't even bothered to take your shoes off. Under any other circumstance, he would have moaned and griped, but not now. Not when you'd been awake for three days and taken in almost two hundred percent of the max dose of caffeine. If anybody needed to sleep unbothered, it was you.

Spencer dropped to his knees and felt under the bed for the quilt. His mom had made it for him, right before he left Las Vegas, and he didn't love the idea of sharing something so intimate, even though he offered. But, again, look at you. You needed it. He draped the quilt over you, ensuring it laid evenly across you, then headed back for the door. He flipped the switch and shut the door, silently cursing Hotch for not giving him the night off, too.

"Doesn't he know I haven't slept, either?" He muttered, grabbing a quick glass of water. "None of us have."

He set the empty glass over some prongs in the dishwasher. The clock on the stove read 11:53. Way past his bedtime.

"Maybe the extreme coffee isn't such a bad idea."