#spence

Spencer fucked up.

He's gripping the sink with both hands, water running down his face as he stares at himself in the mirror. The previous week has been hell, almost, and Spencer knows a thing or two about hell. It was the right thing to do, he thinks to himself, but he can't help the part of him that wonders if that's even true in the slightest. His mind flashes back to that fateful night.

"Spencer, what do you mean 'we can't do this anymore?'"

"Us. This!" he said, wildly gesturing to the space between you.

You stared at him, mouth parted like the words were there, ready to go, but stuck behind disbelief.

"Why?" you asked, quiet. Measured. Already bracing for an answer that would hurt. He hesitated. That was all the confirmation you needed— he didn’t want this either.

"I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep pretending this is okay.”

“What part of this isn’t okay? The part where we care about each other? Or the part where we’re actually happy for once?”

“You don’t get it—”

“No,” you cut in, sharper now. “No, I don’t get it. Please enlighten me.”

Spencer ran both hands through his hair like he was trying to yank the thoughts out by force. “People I care about get hurt. That's just how it goes. You’ve seen what we deal with. You know how dangerous it gets. I can’t— I won’t be the reason something happens to you.”

You blinked. “Spencer, we work the same job.”

“That’s not— it’s different.”

“How?” You're beyond exasperated at this point.

“Because I—" he broke off, breathing hard. “Because I really care about you.”

You laughed, humorless. “Bang-up job of showing it, then. Also, wh— you think I don't care? Spencer, what—”

“I’m sorry,” he said, almost a whisper. “I just… I can’t live with myself if something happens to you. I cannot do this knowing I am actively putting you at risk.”

“Look. I care about you too. You’re the smartest person I know, and I trust your judgment. But if you’re going to sit here and break us apart, then you better have a legitimate reason.” You stepped closer. “Because what you’re giving me right now? It’s bullshit, Spencer. YOu know that. And I’m not going to let you overthink your way into a breakup.”

He looked at you like he wanted so badly to believe you. Like you were the rope dangling over the cliff, and he didn’t trust himself to grab it.

“Yes, we deal with hell on a daily basis,” you continued, softer now, “but we also come home to each other. It's tedious, and awful, and exhausting, but we have each other, Spence. And I—”

You paused. Swallowed hard. Didn’t realize you’d said it until it was already out.

“I love you.”

Silence.

Something cracked in his expression. He looked at you like that was the one thing he wasn’t prepared for. The one thing that might’ve saved him— if he let it. So he did the only thing he knew how to do.

Destroy it.

“I don’t,” he said, voice flat.

You blinked. “Don’t what?”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t stutter. Just said it. Like ripping the pin from a grenade and waiting for it to blow.

“I don’t think I love you.”

It didn’t matter what he meant. It didn’t matter if he was lying through his teeth. Because the second you believed him, the second you stepped back and nodded— something broke. The damage was done.

Now he’s gripping the sink like it’s the only thing holding him upright, staring at a reflection that doesn’t look like him anymore.

“I am an idiot,” he mutters to no one. The mirror doesn’t disagree.

He sees you everywhere. On his couch in your pajamas, eating cereal straight from the box. He sees you on the jet, asleep on his shoulder, warm and close and real. He sees the last time you laughed at something he had said. How your head tipped back, how your nose scrunched. He sees your face the first time he kissed you, how your smile made him feel like he was bathing in sunlight.

He sees you and him tangled together in the back seat of his car, your eyes closed and head tilted back as his name falls out of your lips like a prayer. He sees your pile of clothes next to his on his bedroom floor, half forgotten in the haste of needing each other.

He sees you in the faint lipstick smudge still clinging to the collar of his favourite shirt. In the barely-there marks scattered along his neck and chest, fading now but not forgotten. His fingers brush over them without thinking, retracing each one like muscle memory, each a timestamp of a moment he’d give anything to relive. He wonders if you're thinking of him too.

He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes and laughs— bitter, breathless.

Yeah. Spencer fucked up big time.

You always thought that even if by some horrible twist of fate, your relationship with Spencer were to end, at the very least it would be amicable. You'd be able to work together, be friends, and still stand to be around each other. You were wrong.

Immediately after the fight last week, you were called to Detroit for a case. There was barely enough time to pack, let alone recover. So, you didn't say anything. Neither did he. To the team, or to each other. It’s easier that way, you thought. The team thinks everything is fine. Business as usual. You’re partnered up for interviews like always. Briefing side by side. Riding in the same car. Sharing a room.

But it's not all okay. It's not all fine, and you know that. He’s quieter than usual. You catch him zoning out in the middle of victim statements. His hands tremble when he thinks no one’s looking. He’s unravelling. And yet, every time you brush past him, he flinches like you’re the one that left.

He still looks at you the same sometimes. Like you’re his. Like you matter. Like nothing’s changed. And that, more than anything, is what hurts. You’re not angry. You’re wrecked. Because you can survive heartbreak. But what he did? That was reckless abandonment. You don’t show someone heaven and then blind them.

Neither of you has had a wink of sleep since then. Even familiar places feel foreign when you're not with each other. What makes it worse is that you're so used to being with and needing each other that it's second nature to you by now. There are absent-minded touches, kisses, lingering hands and eyes that none of you mention.

There’s a moment— small, forgettable to anyone else— when his fingers graze yours as he hands you a case file. It’s nothing. It’s everything. You both freeze. Just for a second. He doesn't look up. Doesn’t say a word. Just retracts his hand like it burned him.

And that’s how it’s been. Every second of this trip. A minefield of almosts. Close calls. Words left unsaid and looks held too long. Lying awake all night in the bed as far away from each other as possible. It's driving you insane. Damn Detroit's winter that makes you crave his warmth. And damn this forced proximity bullshit that the universe has punished you with.

You’re sharing a room, which is objectively a horrible idea, but it would’ve been suspicious to change it last minute. You'd mentally agreed not to bring it up now, so you had to soldier through. At least that’s the excuse you told yourself when you didn't protest. And so now, you’re both here, end of a long day, door shut behind you, silence thick enough to suffocate.

You're sitting on opposite ends of the bed like strangers in a waiting room. You hear him sigh behind you. A long, pained sound. And for the first time since the break, he says your name. It’s soft. Barely above a whisper. But it’s enough.

You turn, slowly. Not because you’re calm, but because you’re not sure what will come out if you speak too fast. He’s standing now, fidgeting like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Like he doesn’t know what to do with you. His shoulders rise with a breath he never quite finishes.

“I can’t sleep,” he says. “I haven’t. Since that night.”

You stare at him. “Okay.”

"Okay? That's it?"

"What do you want me to do, Spencer? Sing you a lullaby?"

"You know what, forget I said anything."

"Believe me, I'm trying," you say, your voice dripping with contempt. Spencer's face contorts like he's confused.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

“It means,” you say, finally standing too, “that you don’t get to say things like that and expect comfort. You don’t get to crack open this— this door like we’re still something and then slam it shut the second it scares you.”

He flinches.

“You think I’ve been sleeping?” you continue, voice shaking now. “You think I’ve been fine? Because I’ve been trying to be. I’ve been trying to hold it together. But it’s really fucking hard when the person I love tells me he doesn’t love me back and then acts like that never happened.”

He's trying to find the words, he really is, but he can't choose between the part of him that's mad at himself for being an idiot, and the part of him that's mad at you for believing him in the first place. He makes the wrong choice.

“You don't get to say that. You walked away. You believed me when I said I didn’t love you.”

Your laugh is sharp, disbelieving. “Oh, you major fucking hypocrite. I’m sorry— its my fault now? Was I supposed to not believe the man I loved when he looked me dead in the eyes and ripped my heart out?”

He throws his hands up. “I had to! You wouldn’t have walked away otherwise!”

“Yeah? And whose fucking fault is that?”

“Mine! Obviously mine!” he snaps, voice rising. “Is that what you want to hear? That I made a mistake? That I wake up every goddamn day hating myself for it?”

“Oh, poor you!” you shout back. “Waking up alone by choice. Because you couldn’t handle the idea of someone loving you. Spencer Reid— genius, coward, commitment phobe.”

He moves closer, eyes blazing. “Don’t twist this into me being scared of you. I was trying to keep you safe.”

You step forward to match him, nose to nose now. “Did I ask? Did I ask you to keep me safe, Spencer? You don’t get to protect me by abandoning me.”

“Oh, get over yourself—”

“Me? I need to get over myself? Jesus, you're so full of yourself. I can't even believe that I'm entertaining this right now."

"Nobody's making you stay. Door's right there."

"You know what, Spencer? Fuck you,” you snap.

“Fuck you.”

You let out a bitter laugh and shove his shoulder. “Bold words from someone who doesn’t even have the balls to tell their partner that he fucking hates them!”

“WHEN did I say that I hated you?” he roars, hands shaking now. “I never said that. I love you! Jesus Christ, of course I love you!”

You stare at him, heart pounding in your throat.

“Then do something about it, you moron.”

And he does.

He grabs your face like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth and kisses you so hard it knocks the air out of your lungs. It’s angry and desperate and messy, like trying to glue a shattered heart back together with nothing but skin and breath. Your hands fist into his shirt like you’re trying to tear it off or hold him closer, maybe both. Neither of you knows how to be gentle about it.

"You're an idiot," you mumble between kisses.

"Good, we're on the same page."

Your back hits the dresser with a dull thud, and neither of you flinch. His hands are everywhere— on your waist, your hips, sliding under the hem of your shirt like he can’t get close enough fast enough. His mouth moves from yours to your jaw, down your neck, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses that make your knees threaten betrayal.

He finds that spot just behind your ear, the one he knows drives you crazy, and lingers there like a punishment. No, like an apology. You gasp, hand tangling in the curls at the nape of his neck, tugging just hard enough to make him groan.

He is whispering apologies, begging for your forgiveness as he unravels you, his breath warm against your skin.

“Sorry’s not gonna cut it,” you whisper, voice already unsteady as you pull him back to your mouth. “You need to make it up to me.”

“I will,” he promises, between kisses that are more like confessions than contact. “I will. I swear to God, I will.”

And he did. Multiple times that night. For the first time in a long time, both of you slept. Not just passed out from exhaustion, but real, peaceful, uninterrupted sleep. The kind that only comes when the weight has finally lifted.

You woke up tangled in each other, your head tucked under his chin, his arm tight around your waist like he still didn’t quite believe you were there. He kissed your forehead before either of you said a word.

The case wrapped itself up faster than expected after that. Something about sleep and not repressing your feelings— radical concepts, really. You and Spencer cracked the final piece during the afternoon briefing, and the rest of the team rallied around the lead like clockwork. It felt good to feel like yourselves again. Felt even better not to pretend anymore.

You’re on the jet heading home, fingers loosely intertwined beneath a shared blanket when Emily strolls past and pauses in front of your seat. Her smirk is practiced. Lethal. Oh, this can't be good.

“I was in the room next to yours,” she says, casually. “I heard screaming. Was gonna knock, actually, see if everything was okay.”

Spencer tenses beside you.

Emily raises a brow. “But then the screaming turned into a, uh, different kind of screaming.”

“Oh my God,” you mutter, burying your face in your hands.

“Anyway,” she grins, completely unbothered. “Glad you two worked it out.”

She pats Spencer on the back as she leaves. You and Spencer look at each other, mortified and emotionally prepared to change your identities and leave the country. He leans in to whisper something.

"Worth it."

spencer pulled away from your feverish kisses, chuckling under uneven, rapid breaths.

“what?” you questioned him, his amusement contagious.

“it’s just… whenever i imagined the first time we were assigned to the same room, i expected to feel relief at not having to sneak around anymore. but really i’m even more aware of our coworkers in the next rooms over.”

your lips curl into a smirk as you bring your arms around his neck, staring up at him.

“i’m naked in your bed and you’re thinking about our coworkers?”

“i just,” he brings his hips back to yours, settling himself right when you need him, “i don’t like anyone else hearing your pretty noises. all for me,” he’s mumbling against your neck. “plus, we’d never hear the end of it from derek.”

you gasp out a laugh in response as his hands find your waist, squeezing their way down to your ass, the backs of your thighs, repositioning your hips slightly to meet his at the perfect angle. you groan together, and spencer is quickly smashing his mouth against yours to muffle the sound.

he’s everywhere, hands on your breasts, kissing the jut of your hip bones and pulling your panties to the side. as he tweaks a nipple between the fingers of his left hand, his right holds your leg up as his tongue dives between your folds. your back arches as your hand flies to cover your mouth. you know the routine.

he eats you out sloppily for a few minutes before surging back to your lips. without breaking the kiss, he’s reaching for the pillows above your head. immediately, you know what he wants. you flip onto your stomach, lift your hips in muscle memory. spencer settles one pillow under your hips, the other under your head. he pets your hair and leans down to peck your shoulder before shoving his boxers off. on nights when spencer is especially worked up, often still buzzing off the adrenaline of capturing a particularly difficult unsub, he wants you from behind. this way, your noises are muffled by the pillows, his against your neck, while he sinks onto you. faster and faster, until the bed begins to squeak and he has to change his pace.