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Spencer had never been much of an athletic person. In fact, he had never been an athletic person at all. He had flown through high school with a hatred for gym class and no need to join any of the sports teams.

So he was most certainly not thrilled at the idea of training of any sort. And Penelope, well… she wasn’t exactly a fan of her baby brother going off to the gym with some big, bad FBI guy that she didn’t know, one that she hadn’t even met.

Regardless, though, Spencer decided that he was just going to have to suck it up and deal with it and go about his life with pesky things like Saturday visits to the gym with some random FBI agent.

His hair was long enough that he had to tie it back. He didn’t mind having his hair tied back. It didn’t tickle his face that way. He donned a pair of shorts (women’s, alright? He was too narrow to fit men’s shorts) that he kept yanking down as they rode up his thighs. He threw on a t-shirt that had been sitting in the back of his closet since he got his first doctorate, a pair of socks and some tennis shoes and he was ready.

As he glanced at himself in the mirror, he realized how absolutely, positively, ridiculous it was that he looked, but there wasn’t really all that much that he could do about the matter. He yanked down his shirts for exactly the seventh time, put on his sweatshirt, and headed out the door to catch the subway.

He could feel the eyes on him in the subway. Not many, of course, but there was a little girl staring at him rather intently.

“Mommy, why is the man wearing those pink shorts? Aren’t those the kind that you wear?” It was the hushed sort of yelling that only came from children that were trying to whisper but they didn’t know how to be quiet.

“Suzie, we don’t stare at people. It’s rude.” The mother chastised.

The girl looked sheepish now and she made sure to look anywhere but at Spencer, her gaze mostly focusing down on her feet. 

After that, though, it wasn’t the eyes of the little girl on him anymore. Now it was the eyes of her mother. 

Funny how parents were.

He switched trains once, and walked the next three blocks to the spot that he was supposed to meet this guy. Or gal. Whoever.

He stood there awkwardly for a few minutes, feeling very out of place and probably looking pretty out of place too. 

Three minutes and fifty-seven seconds after the time that they were supposed to meet, a familiar face walked into the gym.

You have got to be fucking kidding me.

It was that FBI agent, the one that he had pickpocketed. The one that had liked to tease him.

Great.

“Hey, Princey!”

Jesus christ, he was going to die.

“That’s not my name.” He folded his arms over his chest and tried to look as stern as he could. Apparently, it didn’t really work because Derek didn’t say anything and instead ignored his comment.

“Alright, you ready?”

“Do I look ready?”

“See that attitude stuck around.” Derek looked at him like… well, Spencer didn’t know. There was something teasing in his eyes, but his face was serious. It was weird. Spencer didn’t know how far to read into it.

“So it did.” He folded his arms over his chest and tried for a look that was somewhat defiant. He was pretty sure that it didn’t work either, though.

“Anyways,” Derek’s face suddenly split into a cat like grin. “Ready to break a sweat, pretty boy?”

Pretty boy.

That was a new one.

“Not really. But I don’t really have a choice, do I?”

“Not at all.”

Needless to say, by the end of the session, Spencer wished that he had just bitten the bullet and gone to jail instead. Maybe he would have fared better there.

Probably not, actually, but this, this right here? True misery.

The session was supposed to be an hour. An hour.

By the first fifteen minutes, his chest was heaving, and he was already sweatier than he would ever like to be.

By the half hour mark, he wondered if he was going to die.

By the forty-five minute mark, he was almost entirely certain that he was going to die.

When finally, finally, an hour came around, he was about ready to pass out and collapse on the ground.

He plopped himself down and wondered why people worked out for the fun of it. This was not fun. This was miserable and terrible and awful and no good and he wished to never do it again. Unfortunately, next Saturday was still calling, though.

Derek offered him a water bottle and Spencer looked at it warily for a moment before grabbing it from him and taking a swig. 

“Guess you really don’t get to the gym much, eh, Princey?”

If looks could kill, Spencer was fairly certain that Derek would be dead right about then. “No. I don’t. Whatever could have tipped you off?”

Derek looked him up and down for a moment. “You don’t like me, do you, pretty boy?”

“Pardon?”

“I said you don’t like me, do you?”

To be honest, well… Derek was very much so like every asshole guy that had bullied him in high school. He was the big, strong jock type that threw around teasing names that would make fun of him for any shortcoming that he found, like a lack of athletic ability.

But Derek was also… he didn’t know. It was hard to explain.

“I don’t know.” He paused for a moment. “Maybe you should give me a reason to like you.”

Derek raised an eyebrow at him. “Is that a challenge, Princey?”

Spencer cringed. God, he hated that nickname with every fiber of his being. “Maybe it is.”

Derek seemed amused. “Well then. Challenge accepted.” He stuck out his hand to shake and Spencer just stared at it.

“That’s right. No shake. I am but a filthy man.”

“Everyone is filthy. You’re not particularly special.”

Derek snorted. “Alright, well, I’ll see you on Monday, Princey.”

“If you want me to like me, stop calling me that.”

“Alright. I’ll see you on Monday, then, Spencer.”