Request Open “cause Life Imitates Art”

That was the sole thing on your mind ever since the team was called to investigate a series of murders in the outskirts of New York City. The victims, all fathers of pre-pubescent daughters, were all found having bled out to death after suffering single, contact shots to the abdomen. The team had been called in once the local authorities noticed the similarities between the three (as of right then and there) victims, one of which was the main reason you seemed to have lost all sense of self-preservation this time around. The reason why you had no problem defying Hotch’s orders — which, more or less, were that no one shall try to take this unsub down themselves because he won’t hesitate to kill whoever tries to get in his way as well as his target.

That reason was the unsub killed the men in question in front of their daughters, who were found tied-up next to their fathers, crying and devastated as they watched the scene unfold until it was too late to save them.

Your hands had gripped the steering wheel the moment you heard Spencer and Hotch’s voices over the phone, after Spencer had finally triangulated the area where the unsub must have taken his fourth potential victim and his daughter, Peter and Sally Newark, and after Garcia managed to pinpoint his mobile’s signal to an abandoned storage facility less than 15 miles where you were currently at.

You’d barely managed to keep up with the exact details about the unsub after he was identified — John Tracy. 45 years old. He’d watched his own father die at the age of seven, was in and out of orphanages until he was sixteen. His wife, Mary, had abandoned him just three months ago along with their twin daughters. There was your stressor. The only thing you’d managed to hear was Hotch letting you know you were the closest one to him, at which point your only response was to hit the gas pedal and let him know you’re on your way. Of course, then came his onslaught of warnings, stern but caring in that definitive way for his character, urging you to wait for either Rossi and Blake or Derek and JJ before you took matters into your hands. You weren’t willing to fight him, he knew that, just like he knew it’d take at least 10 minutes for either pair of your co-workers to get there. You were also not able to be reasoned with, he knew that even better, especially when car horns started fizzling out the sharp sound of your name through the call. From him, from Penelope, from Spencer.

That is the last thing you hear as you park the car and fasten your vest and weapon, Spencer’s pleading with you, twice, desperate, followed by him letting you know that he’s also on his way. 

Still, it doesn’t faze you. The precinct is almost as far a drive away as the others were and you simply had no time to lose. 

Still, you hope that you’d made it in time. 

You have. But that doesn’t mean you were fast enough to help both Peter and Sally, to free them from their restraints, before John grabbed you from behind, knife to your throat and gun aimed at Peter.

Holding you back, blade pressed against your throat, all that you can make out from the faint white light of an old lightbulb hanging from the deteriorating ceiling is Sally struggling in her chair, her screaming at you to help her father muffled by the duct tape covering her mouth.

“You don’t have to do this, John.” 

Weak as your attempt to reason with him is, even if it led to failure as Hotch had deduced, you still try. Because that’s who you are and because there is too much at stake. Because you can’t imagine being able to live with yourself if you fail another little girl who’d have to watch her father bleed to death, unable to help him, traumatised for a lifetime, carrying a wound that simply wouldn’t ever close. 

And it wasn’t just John who knew that better than anyone.

His laugh is bitter where it hits your ear, “Really, agent? Is that the best you’ve got?” With each word he spit, you feel your breath catch. “What makes you think I’m not going to do this? Do you really think you and your little team have got me figured out that well?”

“I know we have. Which is why I know there’s almost nothing stopping you from doing this.” You gulp, feeling the edge of the knife right under your chin, “Not even the fact there’s no escaping from here for you anymore.”

“And you think there is for you?”

A beat passes where tears prickle at your eyes as you gaze between Peter and Sally. You take a deep breath, hard as it is, determined, your resolve unwavering, “I don’t care if there isn’t. If that’s what it takes… Just as long as this ends here and now.”

It’s not bravery in the slightest, neither is it simple defeat. The term for it, if there is one, is a sacrifice you’re willing to make. Or perhaps, collateral damage that’s essential to bettering the world. Surely some cases are worth that, you know that probably everyone on the team would agree, they would have their own example of one or more, and well, in your eight years in this job, you guess you’ve actually found the one. You’d already decided you were willing to take this hit, just as long as John Tracy never got to hurt another innocent family ever again. If your sacrifice is what it took for it to happen, you’d decided it’s how it will be.

It’s that which makes him furious, to the point where if there’s a chance you’d somehow be able to grab your gun from where he’d tossed it on the ground and fight him off, it’s not possible anymore. Not when he brings his other hand, the one holding the gun that’s aimed at Peter, close enough so that you can see he has perfect aim at his stomach. 

“You’re not exactly pleading your case well enough, sweetheart.” You hear the cocking sound of the gun, as much as you see him doing it, and freeze. He momentarily rejoices when he feels your weakness in how your knees buckle and the yelp you’re trying to hold back. Threatens with a heavy breath, “If you think I’m bluffing, I suggest you think again while you can.”

And maybe you would have if a harsh, earsplitting sound didn’t come from somewhere near the entrance you’d used, allowing you the opportunity to take the gun he’s holding and throw it as far away as possible in the split second he jolts at the sudden intrusion. With the knife no longer pressing against your throat, you throw your head back, hitting his face hard enough your vision goes black the moment your knees hit the ground. Still, you try to crawl towards your gun, half-blind and dizzy as you were, your ears ringing from Peter and Sally’s muffled crying and screaming, as well as John’s groaned curses.

You almost make it but he catches up to you, kicking you once in your back, before turning you around by the strap of your FBI vest, and hitting you with the barrel of his gun right on the side of your face. You can feel blood starting to drip from the corner of your lip and your temple, yet you don’t budge, crawling back to sit in front of Peter, covering his frame even if the gun is now aimed at you.

“You stupid fucking bitch, you’re not making it out of here alive—“

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence, because there comes Spencer from your right, as he yells for John to drop his weapon. He doesn’t wait to see if he will, not when he sees how he doesn’t flinch but instead smirks as he looks between you both, not when he hears the rest of the team running inside, prompting him to shoot him before he could make any kind of movement.

It’s only then you sigh in relief, but it just turns into a gasp once you realise there’s a painful, burning sting somewhere under your left rib. You’ve barely managed to see what has caused it, have only just made out that your blouse’s been ripped, and that your palm’s now stained with bright, hot blood.

“Oh, fuck.” 

That goddamn bastard had managed to inflict what seemed and felt like a rather nasty cut right under your ribcage, wide enough that it also slightly extended to your lower back.

You’re just about to press against your side once again, oblivious to the commotion around you, but not to the sight of Spencer now kneeling before you, his hand beating yours to apply pressure on your wound.

“You’re okay, just hold still, the medics are on their way—“

“It’s fine, Spencer, it’s just a scratch.” Still, your voice wavers, and you go back to feeling light-headed, because even if you’re right, goddamn, does it hurt. “Go help Peter and Sally, I’ll be alright.”

Spencer doesn’t falter. He stays there, looking between your eyes and your stomach, inspecting  your body as thoroughly as he can in the semi-darkness of the storage unit. His eyes are wide and pained, his bottom lip quivering when you shake as you try to sit up better. Terrified, that’s what he is. You hear it in how he says your name, feel it in how his hands tremble against your side. Your blood doesn’t only stain your hands but his, too.

“Peter and Sally are both safe, Blake and Rossi are seeing to that. Now, will you please stop moving so we can make sure you will be, too?” His voice raises just the tiniest bit, like it always does when he’s exasperated, and if you were completely healthy and unharmed, you might as well have apologised for being the cause of it. It happened often enough. You can’t focus on much else as he starts vocally assessing your state, “It doesn’t seem like your ribcage has been punctured, but the amount of blood…” He pauses, then continues, “it’s possible there’s been significant penetration to your abdominal wall, though, hopefully there’s not been any damage beyond the tearing of a blood vessel—“

You’re glad Derek cuts him off before you feel too sick, hand on his shoulder as he lets him know the medics are two minutes away. Unperturbed, he only reacts when you start muttering through gritted teeth that you’re fine at Derek as well, but that’s only because you start trembling again, and he rushes to take off his coat and drape it over your shoulders with Derek’s help. 

Spencer had only been partially right in his inspection, despite how bad you thought you’d been bleeding. Therefore you’re just left to deal with a (thankfully) shallow abdominal wound, which is now stitched up and bandaged, just like the cut on your temple. However, you’re not spared the concussion that came after how hard you’d hit the unsub’s face with your head, which only meant you’d have to stay the night at the hospital.

Your co-workers don’t exactly have a problem with being stranded this close to New York City for another night. At least it doesn’t seem like they do when they visit you in your foggy, almost catatonic state to wish you well and leave you to rest. Derek, with his comment about yet another battle wound you’ll have to carry, as he brought the flowers Garcia made him and JJ give you from all of them. Rossi who had to leave a kiss on your forehead and tell you to take care of yourself, kiddo in that characteristic way of his, before Alex got to give you that pointed, narrow-eyed stare of and the sweet, pressed-together smile she always did when you went and acted all like yourself. Even Hotch, who’d looked at you with all the admonishment of an all-too concerned father before he’d left. Needless to say, you’re not to return to Quantico for at least a week starting tomorrow.

You drift in and out of a peaceless slumber, more uncomfortable because of the overstimulation of such a sterile environment, of the beeping sounds of your heart monitor and how tightly the only sleep shirt you had in your go bag fits you and the smell of bleach that’s barely drowned out by the fresh bouquet of white peonies from the team and the separate one consisting only of yellow lilies you knew was Spencer’s doing, rather than the still persistent ache from your injuries.

It’s during an attempt to cover yourself up better with your blankets that you feel the weight of something being draped over your exhausted body. Your eyes open slowly, and that’s when you realise that is also Spencer’s doing and it’s his coat he’s once again using to ensure you’re warm enough. When you tremble ever so slightly, it’s not because you feel cold, but because he’s thumbing at your shoulder and pushing your hair over it kindly, looking at you all soft and tender as he urges you back to sleep.

“Please don’t tell me you’ve been here the whole time.” It’s exactly what he’s done. You’re able to tell from his red eyes and the hints of the two-day stubble across his jawline, uncharacteristically untouched, as well as the fact he’s still in his black and red cardigans and blue shirt from earlier. 

“I can think of no other place I’d rather be, if I’m honest with you.” 

If you were more like yourself, like Alex had said, you would’ve rolled your eyes and groaned against your much too heavy pillow at how ridiculous he sounded. Even that feels like a chore when your throat’s all scratchy, and your side is fierily painful, though.

Unsurprisingly, Spencer rushes to take care of that, noticing without you needing to say anything, like he always does.

“Here, you need to hydrate yourself.” 

You comply, biting at the edge of your straw as you hug the water bottle he offers you closer. 

“I know how much you hate hospitals.” 

“You’re not particularly fond of them yourself.” The corners of his lips twitch just the tiniest bit when you try to put the bottle away, eyes already heavy with sleep again. He does it for you without waiting for you to ask. Knowing you wouldn’t. “Maybe next time you can try sparing us both the experience.”

He thinks you’ve already fallen asleep when he sits down, having pulled his chair as close as he could to your bedside. 

You surprise him, because of course you do, voice almost as low as a whisper, “Mhm, I don’t know if there’s anything I can do about that.”

“Not rushing inside any more abandoned buildings without waiting for back up when the unsub’s armed and holding people hostage would be a good start, I’d say.”

You know he’s not scolding you. Well, maybe not in the typical sense. It’s just that he knows you’re not going to apologise for what you did, just like he knows you’re simply always going to be a force to be reckoned with, especially when the case hits a little too close to home for you. You’re courageous to a fault, whether you’re willing to admit it or not. He loves you for it — and for so much more, the list is endless. Still, his voice is frayed with such evident longing that you’d somehow lean to tame your innate need to defend and protect, if only for your own safety.

“I can’t make any promises, lovey.” 

Your eyes meet and the way he’s looking at you as if he doesn’t really expect you to, as if he’s willing to take everything you’ll ever offer, makes your insides feel like they’re on fire. Goodness, he’s much too kind and you’ve never known anything like it. He’s left an imprint on your soul, on your mind, on your body, and you’re not sure there can be any more ignoring it. You’ve known that for a long time, had struggled to do so since the beginning, you’re certain. But it’s been even more impossible since that night. That’s not changed — because he hasn’t changed. In the cold, white, comfortless lighting, even here and now, with his fringe falling in front of his amber eyes and his inability to stop digging his blunt fingernails inside his palms, fidgeting nervously like he doesn’t know what to do, he’s the warmest thing you’ve ever known. The only truly beautiful thing you’ve ever known. Maybe that’s the reason you extend your free arm, the one that’s not been abused by bruises and needles, and reach out to him. Maybe that’s why he’s quick to take his hand in yours, keep you from exposing yourself to an environment so entirely unlike you even more. You’re too alive for this place. Too steadfast, too tender, too wonderful.

“It’s just a scratch.”

Not entirely true. Even if it was, it doesn’t make seeing you in this state less awful. 

“I know.” He mutters, staring at his thumb as it kneads half-formed circles back and forth over your knuckles.

You tighten your grip, silently asking him to look at you again. When he does, the gentlest smile appears on your lips. Just as you reassure him, “I’m still right here.” You know he knows that. He knows you know it doesn’t make what happened any less scary. Scratch or not, your blood had stained his hands, and he’d been paralysed the entire time he’d spent washing it away while you slept. “I mean, I doubt the concussed version of me is as charming and irresistible as the one you’re normally used to, but I’m still right here… If you’ll have me, that is.” You mumble the last part, half-bold, half-sleepy. 

Spencer doesn’t miss it.He thinks that he’d have you forever, every version of him and in infinite universes, if only you’d let him, if only you loved him just like he loved you. He’s only partially glad you drift off right as he quietly responds, honest and unreserved, “Always.” 

You arrive home as the sun was ready to set the day after, Spencer carrying both of your bags, already unlocking your front door and gesturing for you to get inside. He’d been adamant about taking you back to your apartment, leaving you no room for any arguments. 

And judging by the fact you can barely crouch or even try to lean down and remove your shoes, he was right to. “What are you—Let me do that before you tear your stitches open.” He exclaims, not thinking twice before he crouches down in front of you, making sure to also take your socks off after you’ve successfully removed your shoes. You’re all frowny as you mouth a barely intelligible apology, clearly very frustrated with yourself. “Here, let’s… How about you go change while I make you something to eat and then you can go to bed?”

You almost miss his offer, too focused on his gentle caressing of your bicep as he keeps you steady. “I’m not really hungry.”

“You had your last proper meal before your hospitalisation. An empty stomach will only make you feel fainter and cause you nausea and irritability, not to mention you won’t be able to sleep.”

Damn him and his always being right.

“How about we compromise? I’ll only make you something light, maybe some egg sandwiches, the protein will do you good, but only if you promise to fulfil your end of the deal.”

And so you make your way to your bathroom, feeling all fuzzy because of Spencer’s insistence to take care of you. Because even after that night, he’s not changed, and he hasn’t pulled away, and however much you’ve been torturing yourself over what any of it meant, you’re desperately clinging to any semblance of normalcy, of the both of you preserving what you are and what you have.

The thing is, though, he was right about the nausea and the faintness, which is not only intensified by your poor dietary choices these two days, but also the fact you’ve tried to care for your wound yourself. 

That’s why you have to grip the bathroom sink at the sight of it, at the ugliness you are now forever marked with. However noble the reason of it was, despite the fact you’d still make the same choice, it’s a sight that unsettles you and destroys you at the same time. You’re not vain, it’s not that. What you are is a person bound together by good intentions and knowledge of things you ultimately never wished to know. A heart that carries so much love, inhabiting a body which has seen too much darkness, has lived through it and survived it, but in truth never carried it with as much dignity as you wish it did.

And maybe, just maybe, you wouldn’t feel that way about this or any ugliness, maybe you wouldn’t shy away from it if Spencer hadn’t seen it all. If he wasn’t going to keep seeing it all.

It’s why you flinch at the startling sound of a knock on the half ajar bathroom door, why you almost stumble over your own feet, vision almost blackening just at the thought he’d see you (partially) undressed. Again.

“I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to startle you,” He rushes to apologise from behind the door, not moving to enter or even peek inside the bathroom, “The food’s ready, I just wanted to make sure you’re alright because you didn’t respond when I—“

You cut him off before he can continue, voice fragile and small, “I don’t—I tried to fix my bandages before taking a bath but I started feeling dizzy and now I can’t…”

“Is it okay if I come in?”

It breaks you how he seeks for your consent even if you’re on the verge of fainting. It also breaks you to think you’ll have to face him in a state of undress, the memories of the last time that happened still hauntingly alive in your mind. And yet, your answer comes in a simple, almost broken, “Please.”

He frowns when he fails to switch the light on, the splashes of early dusk setting outside threatening to encircle you in darkness soon.

“I didn’t get to change the lightbulbs in here. Forgot to buy new ones.”

He nods, walking to you carefully. “You need to keep your shirt lifted…” He trails off, swallowing hard, barely able to speak loudly enough at the sight of your exposed skin. It takes him a moment to return to his clinical self like he needs to, inspecting your cut and making sure the stitches haven’t been undone. He’s ready to dab the new gauze pad over the wound when he catches your gaze, noticing your squeamishness. “It’s okay, you don’t have to look. Just stay still, yeah?”

That’s what you do, but God, is it hard to now that his fingers are deftly moving against your skin, warmth against coldness, and you inhale sharply. 

He does the same, because he feels you lean into him almost reflexively and because he’s memorised the feeling of your skin so thoroughly that touching you is a magnetic force he can’t resist. It’s why he dissociates, picturing the last time he was caressing your sides like that, holding the small of your back, a different kind of yearning behind the touch.

“All—All done, but uhm, are you sure you’re feeling okay enough to wash yourself up? The doctor said you could wait a day or two before you bathe yourself.”

You grimace at the thought. There’s just too much dried blood still staining your skin to be able to ignore it for days. The mere scent of hospital all over you makes you queasy. “I’ll be careful. I’ll just wash my hair and use a washcloth so I don’t have to completely soak myself in the water.”

Spencer nods, keen to let you do as you please despite his worries. He certainly understands how uncomfortable you would feel otherwise. It’s when he goes to leave, having discarded the used bandages that he hears you grumble under your breath as you try to undress, he knows you realise he’s right about you maybe sitting this out. 

What he doesn’t know is where he finds the courage to say what he does next. 

“Do you want me to help you?”

You freeze, turning to look at him at the same time he glances back at you. Thankfully, you’re still fully clothed. As of now.

“You mean…” Shivers run down your spine as you look between him and the water slowly filling the bathtub. It’s clear by his flustered demeanour the only thing he has in mind is to take care of you. That doesn’t make the prospect of him helping you take a bath and wash your hair, of such sacred intimacy, any less unnerving. “Would you be okay with that?”

He’s looking at you in the eyes when he says back, “Only if you are as well.”

You thank him, voice small but grateful, as you turn around and start undressing. He offers you his full discretion while you get ready to slip inside the tub, the water reaching up to your hips, a safe distance from your newly bandaged wound. 

Spencer still has his back towards you when a flickering orange light fills the bathroom, your heart swelling inside your chest, you swear, when you realise he’s lighting candles up around your bathroom. The comforting atmosphere only makes you even more emotional, reminds you why it’s always been and it’ll always be Spencer. 

“You can turn around now, Spencer.”

And he does, and he feels his breath catch when he sees you bathed under the warm tint of the candlelight. You’re sitting inside the tub, engulfed in a fuzzy, bubble-made cloud of silky vanilla aroma, knees pressed to your chest and hair falling down your shoulders, and he wishes he’d be met with this sight (a healthier, safe version of you) for the rest of his life.

You can barely make out his steady footsteps as he approaches you, your heart pounding inside your ears, eyes tightly shut. You don’t know if it’s all out of nervousness or shame or the simple fact that Spencer’s the only person who has ever treated your vulnerable self as worthy of affection, to be handled with care, to be loved—But that can’t be. It just can’t be. Whatever happened, it can’t be.

Yet the feeling of his fingertips brushing against your spine, hands already working over your bruised, aching skin with your sponge is enough to make tears prickle behind your eyes. His voice is airy and whispery when he reminds you to relax, lean further into his touch, which you do, however much it burns, in the hope that you will be cleansed. 

You’re not the rotten version of a wounded girl whose eloquence and pride, her need to be sacrificed for any reason that matters, has worn her thin anymore. Not by the time he’s finished his work. By the time even the smaller nicks and bruises and older scars on your back and arms have been touched and tended to as if they’re holy scripture, detailing the very essence of your soul. By the time the hot water stops filling with the dark excess of blood from your haloed grazes, your hair no longer a tangled mess as he brushes through it with meticulous precision.

Is this what being loved by Spencer Reid feels like? What you get in return for opening up to him, giving him all that you are, submitting to being seen? Admitting that you’ve been hurt and that you’ll always hurt as a result of that as long as you live? Does such truth resemble holiness?

Spencer ponders the same, although there’s no way for you to know it. He’d be more than willing to drench you in such loving whisperings, that’s for sure. But if his hands are trembling the way they do right now, translating all the love and need they carry for you, he can’t imagine how his voice would shake in such professions. 

He resorts to telling you about the lavender oil he applies to your (thankfully) much smaller, yet no less important, grazes and scraps. How it helps the healing process and how it aids your nervous system in unwinding when you’ve carried a much too heavy burden. Maybe it’s right then and there that Spencer also decides you’re no longer simply just a girl, an assortment of flesh and bones, of heart and soul he’ll never know the likes of ever again. Or maybe he’s always known it like he’s always known so many things. But the truth of the matter remains that under the candlelight, adorned with scars you’re proud and weary of at the same time, murmuring soft responses like they’re the words of the cherubim, you’re an angel in exile from the heavens. The messenger of the transcendent in front of a profane recipient. You’ve battled and fallen, but you did so with grace and veracity, willing to show him all that this life is worth. 

This is what we’re made for, Spencer. Isn’t it awful, isn’t it beautiful? Won’t you follow me until the end? Won’t you be here, with me, in every way that matters? Won’t you love me like I love you? 

If God exists, if what he experienced back in that barn more than seven years ago to this day, after he drowned from his own sickness and before he returned to life, he hopes He knows that he’s touched you, that he’s met you, that he’s loved you with the sanctity that you deserve. That he’ll continue to do so for as long as you let him. Every time he’s ever come close to you, especially that night when no space existed between you and he was as close to finding true peace as he had ever been, he’s done it with the awe and the reverence that you deserve. Because what he feels for you has shaped him into who he is. Because you’ve pierced through him, settled in the very depths of his soul, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. He’d devour it all, everything that you’re willing to give him, because you’re an oasis of sacredness he’d recognise as indubitable. 

He shifts on his knees, ignoring the dull ache persisting in the one that has still not quite recovered, as he guides your head back ever so gently to comb your hair. He treats you as the offering you are, leads until you follow and follows until you lead, unwavering in his persistence to make you understand this isn’t trouble and you’re not unworthy of more than just survival.

“You’ve hurt your knee.”

You speak now, not quietly. Not anymore. 

He smiles softly, not looking down at you until he’s finished rinsing your hair. “Don’t worry about it,” He stands, leaving the washcloth you’ll need by your side. “It was worth it.”

You still haven’t moved when he reaches the door, looking back at you one final time before he exits, just like Orpheus did with Eurydice. 

Any hurt is worth it if it’s you and I. 

He stays with you even after you finish the sandwiches he’s made you, after dusk has fully settled, after you look at him long enough to ask him to without using words. You turn to lay on your good side, having changed into a pair of oversized, light blue striped pyjamas, clean and comfortable, and he’s already facing you. 

He’s close. Too close. Not like he’s been before, like the last time he’d been here, but close enough that you smell the cinnamon on his breath from the coffee he’d drunk on the jet ride home and the signature detergent still lingering on his clothes. 

A sole candle still burns behind the half-open door to your en-suite, prohibiting darkness from swallowing the room whole. You wouldn’t mind if it did. Maybe then you’d be able to ignore Spencer’s expressionless features as he glances down where your scar hides behind soft, cotton fabric.

“It’s going to leave an ugly scar, isn’t it?”

He startles, focusing back at you. He can’t lie to you and say it won’t. Your gaze and your voice carry such heavy vulnerability, it’s impossible for him not to know what you’re probably thinking. He wants to tell you there’s no part of you he’ll flinch seeing, no part of you he wouldn’t kiss with his lips or his touch as it heals.

“What happened to it’s just a scratch?” He teases, thinking it might be better that way. He’s good at humouring you, after all. You’ve told him so.

“Still a bad one.”

He watches you watching your hands where they’re almost touching between you for a moment. “I say this having more experience than you when it comes to scars acquired in the line of duty, it’ll heal before you know it.”

“Will you have stopped being mad at me by then?”

“I’m not mad at you.”

When you narrow your eyes up at him, he has to hold back a sigh. There’s no use lying to you but he’s not doing that, not really. He hadn’t been mad. Scared, yes. Terrified, even. And maybe those go hand in hand most of the time, but he knows you have a thing for exactness, and he hadn’t been mad at you. Mad at the world and the unsub and this job for threatening to take what he loves most? That, he had been. Frustrated, mad, upset — however you name it, he had been. But he won’t plague you with that kind of talk when you’re on a crusade to push him away.

“I couldn’t have waited.”

“I know.” 

He does because he remembers all too well how you’d been that time at the hotel when you’d told him how your dad had died and how that loss would haunt you for the rest of your life. 

“I just—All I could think about was if I’d waited, then Sally could have to live without her dad, like Alice and Wendy have to, and I couldn’t—I just couldn’t…”

It’s then his hand finally touches yours, exactly like he had done in the hospital, thumb caressing your knuckles. “But that didn’t happen. It’s because of you that she won’t have to.” He squeezes your hand. “You saved them both.”

“But not all of them. If we’d done better… If I’d done better—“

“Don’t go there, please, just don’t…” He begs, the words barely a whisper as he closes in on you, “You did everything you could, we all did. And we don’t have to forget, you don’t have to forget what happened to Alice and Wendy, but you have to forgive yourself for it.“

Your eyes meet his once more and he is able to see more than you are willing to admit. You’re inches apart, pulses meeting where your hands rest together, broken and wounded as you both have been in different ways, all you’ve ever known leading you here.

He’s not the only one who can see, who can feel more than what is being said. 

It’s then that you grieve the words that are stuck inside your throat, that have been doing so ever since you met him. You grieve your pride and the safety of the embrace of the girl who’s always managed to stay one step from being too close, and thus, has protected herself from a leap that can prove deadly.

Looking at how Spencer’s looking at you now, you decide to once again do what is worth it, surrender to the leap of faith, because Spencer deserves it — and so you kiss him.

It’s nothing more than a soft meeting of lips followed by a slight opening of your mouths, but he kisses back after that momentary surprise, catching you completely. He gorges on that fact, the fact your heart’s pounding in your throat, the fact blood is rushing through your veins, that you’re alive and safe and he’s holding you like this. 

He wishes he could do it forever. He wishes to bleed whenever you bleed.

When you pull away, breathless and light-headed, you have to cling to him by holding his tie, fidgeting with the edge of it almost unconsciously.

He’s ready to apologise, overthinking too much that he may have overstepped, that it wasn’t right for him not to immediately pull away, to not give in.

You stop him before he can. Voice almost pleading as you look between his eyes and murmur, “Will you stay?”

The dying light of the candle in your bathroom burns out after flickering once, twice, thrice, bathing you in the soft glow that, once again, solidifies what he already knows. 

And so he pulls you close against him, careful and gentle, lips brushing against your forehead as the room goes dark around you. 

And it doesn’t matter. 

Not when he’s helped you feel less wounded. 

Not when you’re safe and breathing and alive and all of that is something he can feel.

Not when you’re still glowing.

“I’m right here, I’m staying, I’m not going anywhere.” He promises, again and again, “I’ve got you, angel. I’ve got you. Always.”

And he’s once again not lying.

Because he couldn’t. Because there’s nothing to lie about. Because for the first time in his life, he questions what science has taught him about God and heaven and angels, and it’s all because of you.

“I’m home, baby,” Matt called as he put down his bag. When he turned around you were wrapping your arms around him and kissing him lovingly, your tongue sliding into his mouth. You pulled away only when your need for air demanded it, taking in a deep breath. Matt chuckled against your lips.

“I missed you,” you purred.

“I can tell,” Matt said with a smile.

“Never leave me for that long again,” you practically whined.

“Come with me next time,” Matt suggested. You let out a dry laugh.

“Miss three weeks of work and still have a job? You’re funny, Murdock,” you said as you tangled your fingers in the hair at the nape of Matt’s neck. His hands slid around your waist so that they rested on your lower back, his fingertips just barely brushing the swell of your ass. The two of you began slowly swaying to the Aretha Franklin record you had playing.

Matt’s head was tilting a bit as he took in every detail of your presence. He could smell your shampoo still lingering from a shower you must’ve taken that morning. Your heart was beating a bit faster than usual, he assumed from the excitement of his arrival. Then he realized that you were wearing his Columbia sweatshirt. His heart ached as he thought about what it would be like to really see you in his clothes. He had almost lost track of the conversation, but his words came out before he could think better of it.

“Then quit,” Matt said as he leaned in, brushing his nose against yours. He surprised himself, but when he heard the thought out loud he knew that he meant it. “I can take care of you.” His heart stopped for a moment as he thought of what it would be like to have you as his wife and nothing more. Completely and totally taken care of, with nothing to worry about at all. You chuckled.

“We aren’t even married,” you pointed out.

“Not yet,” Matt said assuredly. You raised an eyebrow, a smile dancing across your lips.

“All you have to do is ask,” you said, your voice as sweet as syrup. Matt’s heart warmed. He raised a hand to your cheek, running his fingertips along your soft skin and pushing a few loose pieces of hair out of your eyes.

“Not tonight, sweetheart. You deserve a proper proposal,” he said. You smiled.

“I think you already know the answer anyway,” you said. The corner of Matt’s lips tipped upward and he gave you a quick peck.

“But we’ve got to do something about that job of yours…” Matt said. His tone sounded more serious than teasing and you couldn’t tell if he meant what he was saying.

“Are you serious, Matty? You want me to quit?” You asked.

“I want to take care of you,” Matt said. “And if you let me take care of you, we could be together a lot more.”

“You’re serious about this?” You questioned again, needing to be sure. Matt nodded.

“Business has been good lately. I’m making enough for both of us,” Matt said. You were considering his offer when you had a sudden thought.

“What about when we have kids?” You asked. Matt beamed excitedly.

“Are we having kids?” He asked. You blushed.

“I don’t—I mean—I just thought…” You stuttered. You took a pause. “Do you want to?” You asked. Matt gave you a sweet smile.

“Yes, sweetheart. I want to have kids with you,” Matt assured you. He gave your hips a gentle squeeze. “I want to give you a family.”

“Well, I’ll need a job for us to be able to take care of them,” you said.

“No, you don’t.” You raised an eyebrow.

“Matt, if you’re making so much money then why are we still living in this neon lit atrocity of an apartment?” You asked. Matt chuckled.

“I thought you liked it here,” he said. You rolled your eyes.

“I do, but there’s a reason the rent’s so cheap,” you replied.

“I have something worked out. You don’t have to worry that pretty little head, baby,” Matt said.

“What are you talking about?” You asked. Matt paused for a moment, nervous about telling you what he’d done.

“I bought us a townhouse in Astoria,” Matt admitted.

“You bought a house?!” You exclaimed in question. Matt nodded.

“It’s got three bedrooms, we’ll have plenty of room for kids. There’s a fireplace in the living room and a basement that I was gonna renovate so you could have your own space,” he said. You looked at him in awe, taking a moment to process everything he was saying. Matt started getting nervous that you weren’t responding. “If you don’t like it—”

“Can we go see it?” You asked. Matt’s heart lifted. He had been worried that you might be upset for making such a big move without asking you, but he had also wanted to surprise you. He was quite the fan of grand romantic gestures when it came to you. He’d never met anyone like you. He wanted to give you everything and he’d been working harder at his day job to make that dream a reality.

“Not today, the current family’s still living there,” he explained. “In two weeks.” You took a moment and realized just how much Matt loved you, how serious he was about you.

“You bought a house for us,” you said in amazement, your voice just barely a whisper. Matt smiled softly.

“For you, sweetheart. Everything I do is for you,” he whispered back. You leaned up and kissed him tenderly, running your fingers down his chest.

“I love you, Matty. So goddamn much,” you said.

“Language,” he chided. You chuckled. You reached up to rest your arms on his shoulders, linking your fingers together at the nape of his neck.

“Matthew Murdock,” you murmured to yourself. “My good catholic boy. How did I ever get so lucky?”

“I’m the lucky one,” Matt said. You scoffed.

“Yeah, the one who bought the house is the lucky one,” you said. Matt chuckled.

“I was hoping to get lucky tonight too,” he said with a smirk.

“You don’t want your dinner?” You asked.