★ Zay ★

PAIRING: stalker!reid x fem!reader

WARNINGS: DDDNE, stalking, obsessive behaviour, nonconsensual filming/photography, home invasions, manipulative relationship, smut, dubcon due to lack of informed consent, multi pov (additional warnings/tags in indv. parts)

⋆. ୭ SERIES MASTERLIST

EVERY BREATH YOU TAKE you work; he watches, blending into the crowd of caffeine addicts at your favourite coffee shop, where everyone seems to know you except him. but when you approach him, everything changes; suddenly, spencer reid is pulled from the peripheral of your life to the centre of the stage, and it's a hell of a long way down. (coming soon)

The Doctor.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

It always starts the same way.

The cold steel of his firearm against his palm as he walks through a stone corridor. He knows there’s someone there, hiding in the darkness as he pushes deeper into the maze of tunnels. He catches little glimpses of them with his flashlight, an ankle, the flutter of a skirt, fingernails scratching the walls. 

He never sees a face. 

By the time he hears the footsteps behind him it’s always too late, something strikes him against the back of his skull

When he opens his eyes again he finds himself restrained, his wrists are bound in his lap with rope and he’s propped up against a wooden column. The only light in the room is a singular candle at his feet, the wax has almost burned down completely, the dying flame flickers wildly in a hopeless attempt to stay alive.  

He knows exactly what comes next, and it makes his spine straighten as a bead of sweat runs down his temple. 

It isn’t the first time he’s had this dream, but it doesn’t make it any less harrowing. 

The figure that emerges from the darkness is made of blinding light, a creature that could only be described as an angel.

With its pure white eyes and jagged, feathery wings, and blinding halo atop its head. He can’t understand a word it says but he knows that whatever it is, is cruel and vicious, because of the actions that follow. 

The angel's hands are jagged and cracked, with claws that reach forward, and for a moment he’s met with kindness. The razor sharp nails drag a line across his jaw, so gently he hardly feels it.

Then that very same claw buries itself in his chest, and all he can hear is the sound of flesh and muscle tearing as the angel rips through arteries and blood vessels to get to its prize. It pulls, hard, until he feels hollow. 

He had a cat as a child, it was his mothers. Whenever it killed something in the woods it would bring it into the house to proudly present to him. It terrified him but his mother had told him it was a good thing, it meant that the cat felt safe in their home, and that it loved him. 

It certainly didn’t feel like love to him.

Before the angel leaves it shows him his own still beating heart, and he’s reminded of his childhood pet. The angel plants a kiss on his forehead and as it leaves the flapping of its winds extinguishes what remains of the candle's flame. Leaving him in complete darkness. 

He always wakes with a blistering headache, and a ringing in his ears. Shooting up in bed he clutches his chest, as if he might find a hole there where his heart used to be. 

The alarm clock on the motel nightstand tells him it’s only four in the morning. The rest of the team won’t be up for at least three hours. 

They had flown into Louisiana last night, after landing around midnight they’d been instructed to rest up for what was sure to be a busy day. 

There’s no way he’ll be able to fall asleep again. 

Instead he finds himself at the small desk by the door, staring at the closed case file. The contents of which are worse than anything he’s ever dreamed up. A pile of pamphlets that look to be about twenty years old are propped up on the desk, covered in a thin layer of dust. 

Welcome to sunny Willow Creek, Louisiana! 

There’s a photo of a smiling family on a boat under the text. 

He throws the pile of pamphlets into the empty desk drawer before he opens the case file. Sighing as he stares at the wall of text in the dim lamp light. 

38 year old Noah Harper was found murdered in his family home. His wife and young daughter had spent Saturday night at her mother’s nursing home in another nearby town after Mrs. Harper's mother had an episode and required their assistance. Mrs. Harper and her daughter went straight to church the next morning upon their return to Willow Creek, they found him when they returned home from church on Sunday, September 4th, at approximately 11:30 a.m. Abigail Harper fled the home with her daughter in tow, Mrs. Harper sat out on the lawn sobbing, and a neighbor called the police, waiting with her until law enforcement arrived. Noah Harper had stayed home from church with a hangover, a common occurrence, as confirmed by multiple sources. A neighbor who was on their way to church saw Mr. Harper fetching the mail at 6:30 a.m. Meaning he died between 6:30 a.m. and 11:30 a.m.

Mr. Harper's official cause of death was blood loss.

The photos in the file indicate a lot more than blood loss. 

The problem with relying on these small town police is that they don’t care enough to properly document the scene. Which means all they get to go off of is two grainy photographs and a vague description. 

Mr. Harper's official time of death was 9:30 a.m. but who knows how accurate that is, it would have been while everyone in town was at church. Plenty of witnesses and a small town where everyone attends the Sunday service. It shouldn’t be too hard to narrow down their suspects. 

The file says that Mr. Harper was bound to his bed, and conscious for the torture that eventually lead to his death. His body was covered in bruises and welts, like he had been beaten with a belt, which is nothing compared to everything else that was done to him. 

Noah Harper's genitals had been removed, and he was forced to consume them. 

He eventually died from the blood loss that followed.

The two photos attached to the file are exactly what he expected. Grainy and blurry, but it’s clear he’s looking at a corpse. Mr. Harper was a large man, it was likely very difficult to subdue him. His body is covered in deep purple splotches and the room is a mess. Whoever did this wasn’t careful or precise. They were angry. 

Blood can be seen pooling on the mattress, spilling over the sides, and splattered onto the surrounding walls. 

The local police department saw all of this and still didn’t contact anyone federal.

They don’t want them there. That much is obvious. 

The locals would have been happy to leave the case unsolved for the rest of time but the county got involved because of the severity and now no one's happy they're there. 

The county also got involved because this was the second body in three months. 

He has a second file, even more sparse than Noah Harpers. 

Jared Kettler, owner of the local morgue, was found in one of his coffins on the display floor. The file says that his genitals were also mutilated but there’s no further information on what exactly happened, but it does say that his face had been mutilated beyond recognition. They wouldn’t have even been able to identify the corpse if it hadn’t been for a very distinct arm tattoo. 

The single photo attached to the file is somehow worse than the last two. 

It’s cropped awkwardly so it’s hardly even half a photo. The lid of the coffin has seemingly been cropped out of the image and the image is so shaky he can’t discern anything beyond the splatter of red that he assumes was once Mr. Kettlers face. 

He always knows when they’re going to be on a case for a long time, there’s usually a sense of dread in his belly, and right now there definitely is. 

The morning is a whirlwind. 

Once the team is awake and assembled they all walk down to the end of the road where the station is, only a three minute walk away. 

They’re greeted by the chief, Joel Barker, an older man with a salt and pepper beard, he’s seemingly the only person in town that’s happy they’re there. 

“We’re just so overwhelmed, I haven’t dealt with anything like this in my forty something years on the force.” 

J.J. and Hotch thankfully do most of the talking, when they step into the building because his mouth immediately goes dry. It’s as though every one of them has a target on their back. 

Every face but the chief has a scorned look or a scowl upon it. 

Because they shouldn’t be here, the FBI’s involvement would imply that they are insufficient at their job. 

Even if they clearly are, no one wants to feel that way. 

The station is a mess, fifteen or so officers in total, a surprising amount considering the towns size and location but Joel reads his thoughts and announces that they’re the only police department for four towns. Desks are littered with unfinished paperwork and there’s a distinct burnt coffee smell floating through the air. 

“I know it probably isn’t what you’re used to but it’s what we can spare.” Joel says as he holds open the door. 

To call it a conference room would be an insult to conference rooms. There’s a square folding table with four chairs around it. Hotch thanks the chief as he sits down. Emily, Rossi and J.J. take the remaining seats as Spencer and Derek opt to stand against the wall. 

No other officers join them as Joel closes the door behind himself. They likely don’t want to join them, they don’t care, in their eyes this case is far beyond their stations scope. They deal with traffic stops and domestic disputes, torture and murder is something they’ve never had to deal with before. 

He isn’t being judgemental either, he looked over their stations records on jet, they haven’t had a murder in over twenty five years and it was a clean cut case of robbery gone wrong. 

They’ve never even considered that something like this could happen in their town.

But it has.

And someone has to deal with it. 

“What do you have so far?” Hotch speaks directly to Joel as J.J. sets up what little documentation they’ve put together on the table.

“You’ve seen everything we have.”

“That’s it?”

“We’ve got individual files on each case, what else are we supposed to have?”

“These case files might as well be empty.” Spencer can’t help himself as he flips open the Kettler file, throwing the photo down onto the center of the table. “What are we even supposed to do with this?” 

“What’s wrong with the picture?"

“You can’t see anything, half of the photo is missing, and I have no idea what’s wrong with him. Whoever wrote the case notes says that his face and genitals were mutilated but there’s no other details. If you’re going to do a halfassed job of documenting the scene at least take a clear photo.” He leans forward, hands gripping the edge of the table now.

“Unfortunately we’re a small force, we don’t have the budget you’re probably used to.” There’s that defensiveness Spencer’s grown painfully used to. He hears it every time he knows he’s overstepped, it doesn’t stop him from continuing on. 

“You don’t have a camera? If you’re telling me that your fifteen person police force doesn’t have a camera for documenting evidence then I will go out and buy you one.” Maybe it’s the exhaustion from the restless sleep or the irritation from the lack of proper documentation but he snaps, he can immediately tell by the faces of his teammates that he’s over stepped. 

“Down boy.” Emily mutters under her breath as his shoulders tense. 

“You’ll have to excuse Dr. Reid, he seems to be forgetting that we’re your guests. Why don’t you go get yourself some coffee, Reid.” There’s no room for argument in Hotch’s tone, unless he wants to be chewed out in front of Officer Barker. 

He doesn’t speak as he squeezes past Morgan to leave the room, his head throbbing. 

What is going on with him? 

He decides to blame it on the lack of sleep, not that it’s an excuse for being rude but he’s gotta have a reason for lashing out like that. 

He leans against a wall, on the edge of things, drinking a stale coffee that’s more sugar packet than coffee. Only a few minutes pass before the team is leaving the room, Joel Barker doesn’t look at him as he heads towards what you assume is his office. 

“You wanna tell me what that was about?” Hotch speaks to him in a hushed voice, stern but quiet enough that he doesn’t have to be embarrassed someone might overhear as the rest of the team disperses. 

“I think I’m just tired.” He mumbles, taking a long sip of his coffee. 

“Pull it together, we’ve got a long day ahead of us. You’re going with Morgan to speak with Mr. Harper's widow, I expect you to have better manners than you just did.” 

“Yes sir.” 

“Most of the town has no service so communication might be an issue, we’ll meet back here around five, sound good?”

“Yes sir.” He repeats himself, moving past Hotch and out the doors, desperate to get some air, like it might make him feel less like he’s suffocating. 

He tugs on his shirt collar as Derek drives down the gravel roads. The houses are so spread out here, ponds and dense patches of trees separating the homes. It’s a good twenty minute drive from the station to get to the Harpers house, they have two neighbors to their left, other than that it’s just more swamp and trees. 

“Are you feeling okay?” Derek breaks the silence in the car as he puts it into park.

“Yeah, I’m just… tired.” Spencer doesn’t sound convincing and Derek doesn’t look convinced. “I just- I don’t know. I had a bad feeling about this case when we landed last night and I still don’t feel good about anything else. Something’s just… wrong.” 

“It happens to all of us, cases with this level of violence always hit hard.”

“That’s probably all it is.”

“Do you want me to do the talking in there?”

“No, I’ve got it, you do a sweep of the house, I’ll talk to Mrs. Harper.”

“As long as you’re sure.”

“I’m good.”

Derek nods as they both get out of the car. 

The next door neighbors watch from their porches, two women in high necked dresses, one of them wears a wide brimmed hat as they stare shamelessly. 

Spencer knocks when they reach the house they’ve been told is Harpers. A woman who looks to be in her early thirties with wiry copper hair pulled into a bun answers the door, giving them both a skeptical look.

“Can I help you?”

He reaches into his pocket on instinct, Morgan does the same as they flash their badges. 

“Good morning, Mrs. Harper, we’re with the behavioral analysis unit of the FBI. We were hoping you could answer a few questions for us so we can get a clearer picture of what happened to your husband.” Spencer shoves his badge back into his pocket as he tilts his head at the woman, with a sigh she opens the door fully. She’s dressed like the neighbors, in a lacy turtlenecked dress. 

“Come in.” Her voice is hoarse as she motions for them to enter. 

Morgan does laps around the room as Spencer sits down on the sofa across from Mrs. Harper and her daughter, who climbs into her lap at the sight of the agents. 

Abigail Harper tells him the same story he read in the files. 

Saturday evening she received a call from the nursing home that her mother was having a particularly bad episode. Mrs. Harper took her daughter two towns over and stayed the night with her mother. She left a little after five in the morning and went straight to church, after the hour and half drive she arrived at the pastor's house, next door to the church, along with a few other members of the congregation, to tend to the preacher who was allegedly ill. Her husband sent her a text around that time that said he was too hungover to attend the service. After the service she stayed to have coffee and chat with the other churchgoers, she took her daughter out to enjoy an early lunch at the town's only diner, and they returned home around 11:30 a.m.

She sent her daughter to go change out of her church clothes and she went to the bedroom she shared with her husband to check on Noah. After she found him she grabbed her daughter and ran out of the house, 

She doesn’t shed a single tear as she tells her story. 

She doesn’t show any of the tell tale signs of lying, she just seems so detached. Like she’s telling someone else's story. 

“Father Matthews had come down with something fierce, so Jude had stepped in to do the service.” She runs her fingers through her daughter's hair, clearly a coping mechanism. 

“And Jude is…?” He feels like he’s going in circles, all this is accomplishing is building a longer list of people they need to talk to just to hear the same story again. 

“The youth pastor, I remember it clearly. He brought the children up to speak, it was cute.” 

“Just to clarify, the entire town was in attendance at the service, except for Levi Matthews?” That seems like a pretty important detail considering Mr. Harper was killed during the service. 

He knows immediately that it’s the wrong thing to say. 

Her face drops, eyes squinting as she looks him up and down, holding her daughter a little closer. A reminder that he’s a stranger in her home, making implications about the leader of their congregation. 

“Well I can’t be sure of who was there and who wasn’t exactly but I can assure you, Father Matthews had nothing to do with the tragedy that befell my husband."

“I didn’t mean to make any accusations ma’am, I’m just trying to check all the boxes I have to, it’s standard procedure.” That pain in his head is starting to blossom once more, his knuckles go white as he grips the pen against his palm, trying to keep his composure. 

“Well don’t involve the father in this mess, he was home with a fever, we stopped in to check on him before we went home and he was sick as a dog.” It’s always the one person no one suspects. 

“Mhmm.” He’s already drawing circles around the name. 

Levi Matthews

“Are there any other witnesses who can attest to Mr. Matthew's whereabouts that morning?” 

“Yes, halfway through the service Angel went out and checked on Father Matthews.” She exaggerates the title. 

Great, another name to remember.

“And who is Angel?” The pain in his head makes his voice come out a little strained, Derek clearly takes notice as he straightens up a bit. 

“The organist at our church.”

“Where would we find her on a Saturday?”

“She’ll be at church tonight, Father Matthews will be there as well as a few others, they usually spend Saturday evenings preparing for Sunday's service.”

“Thank you Mrs. Harper, do you mind if we take a look in the bedroom?” He’d like to be done here, the house feels too hot and too small. 

“If you’d like, it’s already been scrubbed clean, I’m not sure you’ll find much.” She stands, setting her daughter down and ushering her towards her own room. 

“We’d just like to get a feel for the environment, even if it’s been cleaned. Every little thing helps in cases like these.” Morgan speaks up and she smiles at him, nodding before leading them both to the end of the hall.

The Harper’s bedroom stinks of death. 

The cleaning crew didn’t exactly do a thorough job. The white sheets remain stained a dark red down the center, splatters of blood on the surrounding carpet look as though someone simply vacuumed over them. It’s obvious where the blood stains were on the wall because they’ve hardly been cleaned off. 

They do a sweep of the room as Mrs. Harper watches from the doorway.

“They said they were taking samples of everything, I’m sure you can ask the officers down at the station.” She pipes in as Derek runs a gloved hand across the stained wallpaper. 

He knows for a fact that they did nothing with those samples, if they even took them. 

There’s a large spot on the wall that catches his eye. It looks like it’s been cleaned like the other spots but there’s no dark stain. Just yellowing wallpaper. 

It’s actually the only portion of the wall that doesn’t have blood splattered on it, like it was intentionally preserved. 

“What was here?” He turns to look at Mrs. Harper as Derek types something into his phone. 

“I assumed it was blood, it was dark when I found him, the curtains were drawn. You’d have to ask the police, they cleaned everything.” She chews on her nails as she continues to watch from the entryway. 

It wasn’t blood. In every other spot that’s been cleaned there’s a nasty dark spot left behind on the aging wallpaper. This spot is different, it was clearly scrubbed clean but there’s nothing lingering. He drags a gloved finger against the wall, lower and lower until he’s crouched over a little pile of white dust that’s worked its way into the floor boards. 

Chalk dust. 

“I’ve got a couple of stops I think we should make before we head back to the station. I'd like to speak with whoever cleaned the scene.” He doesn’t mention the chalk to Derek, it could be nothing, her child might have accidentally tracked it into the house weeks ago for all he knows. 

Morgan nods, lost in his own thoughts as he eyes the still stained sheets on the bed. 

“If you think of anything that might be of help to us please don’t hesitate to call the station. Thank you for your time Mrs. Harper.” Morgan shakes her hand when he speaks, Spencer doesn’t bother, he can tell she doesn’t like him. 

The rest of their day is mostly driving. 

It’s an hour and a half to the nursing home to confirm Mrs. Harper's story. There’s camera footage of her entering the building Saturday evening with her daughter, and footage of them both leaving early Sunday morning. After another hour and a half drive back to Willow Creek they stop in at the diner and speak with a few of the customers as well as the owner.

The owner confirms that they came in with the post-church crowd and he has the credit card statement to prove it. One of the women sitting in a booth near the door overhears them speaking and chimes in that she saw Abigail at the pastor's house that morning, she’s happy to give them a list of other people who would have seen her as well. 

By the time they're done the sun is setting and all they’ve done is establish Abigail Harper's innocence, a conclusion Spencer came to five seconds after he read over the case file. 

They have just enough time to stop into the church before they head back to the station. 

A group of crows disperses as they pull into the lot, one stays on a nearby fence post, watching them. It’s little head tilted to the side as it stares. 

It’s peaceful outside the church, the lights are clearly on inside, they can see it shining out through the windows. But it’s quiet, save for the faint sound of music and the buzzing of bugs. 

He knows who they’re looking for the second they push open the large wooden doors. There’s only one woman in the room, and you’re preoccupied with the melancholy tune you play softly on the organ. Eerie and slow, not the type of thing you’d expect to hear in a church.

A group of men chats near the altar, laughing together like you aren’t even there. No one seems to notice their arrival over the sounds of the music bounding off the walls. Neither one of them approaches, instead they watch the group, studying them as they laugh at a joke Spencer doesn’t catch. 

“They seem to be in good spirits.” Derek mumbles but Spencer can’t seem to tear his eyes off of the organ.

Your muscles tense, like you can sense them. And then the music stops. Right in the middle of a song, it’s an uncomfortable abrupt silence that follows. The men continue their laughter as if this is a common occurrence but your attention is on the two agents as you turn to face them. 

You aren’t dressed like every other woman he’s seen. You don’t wear a long dress or skirt, and you actually look like you belong in this century.

“Have you ever seen a church organist who looks like that?” Morgan whispers, low enough that only Spencer can hear him.

He’s never seen anyone who looks like you. 

Someone so pretty yet so… odd. 

Out of place in the world. 

Mesmerizing and unsettling, you don’t spare a glance towards Derek, you’re completely focused on him. Your hair is down, framing your face, and what a face it is. The makeup you’ve chosen to wear is dark, smudged black and maroon eyeshadow surrounding your eyes, your eyelashes are clumped together with a thick layer of mascara, and your lips are accentuated with a bright red lipstick. 

There is something wrong with your eyes. 

They don’t fit with the rest of your face, it almost makes his head hurt just to look at you because something is so terribly off. 

“You go talk to her, I’ll speak with the father.” He doesn’t get a chance to protest as Morgan steps forward loudly, making their presence known to the group now. Derek knows how to talk to pastors and the like, he grew up with people like that, Spencer has no idea how he’s supposed to talk to you, especially when looking in your eyes makes his heart skip a beat. 

It’s just like any other job.

He reminds himself that as he approaches, you tilt your head to the side as he does, it reminds him of the crows he saw outside. 

“Hello, I’m Dr. Reid with the FBI, we’re here investigating the murder of Noah Harper and Jared Kettler, I’d like to ask you a few questions.” He manages to pull himself together as he approaches. 

Typically when he questions someone they find any excuse to look away, to stare out a window or at the floor. Not you, you never take your eyes off of his.

“Thank goodness you’re here, everyone's been terribly frightened.” You keep your voice low as you slide over on the piano's bench, once you’ve made space for him you pat the empty spot beside you.   

He shouldn’t. He doesn’t want to sit that close to you, he’s been in your presence for a matter of minutes and you make him feel terribly uneasy. But his body moves before his brain as he sits down beside you, he takes a moment to stare at the piano keys as you continue to stare at him. When he turns towards you he’s forced to meet your unyielding gaze. 

He wants to reach forward and rub your makeup off with his thumb, just to see if your face starts to make sense without it.

“Are you Angel?” When he asks it, you laugh, a pretty peal of laughter that rings throughout the room. 

And you give him your name. 

Another part of you that doesn’t make sense, a name that sounds wrong in your mouth as you say it but you claim it as your own. 

It doesn’t suit you.

“Angels a nickname. But you can call me whatever you’d like.” 

Your name only makes his headache worse, a sharp pain behind his eyes. He’ll have to check his bag when they get back to the motel for the migraine medication he hasn’t used in months. 

“How long have you lived in Willow Creek?” You finally free him of your gaze as your eyes flit down to the keys, your fingers begin to play another slow song, quieter this time, he doesn’t recognize the tune. And even if he did, he isn’t sure he’d be able to make the connection with his focus on your hands, practiced fingers dancing across the keys. Your nails are a red that matches your lips, long and filed to a sharp point. Sitting this close to you he can hear the soft clicks of your nails against the ivory keys. 

“I’ve lived here my whole life.” You whisper, it almost seems intentional, whispered speech with the piano playing, no one will hear a word she says but him. 

“How long have you been with the church?” He isn’t sure what to do with his hands so he sets them in his lap. His entire body tenses up when you reach across him to reach the higher keys.

“A few years now.”

“You don’t dress like someone who works in a church.” The words slip out past his lips before he can stop them, thank god you smile.

There’s something seriously wrong with him, he can’t be acting like this on the job. 

“I don’t, but it isn’t Sunday, so I’m not technically working, I’m just practicing.” That would certainly explain the low cut black shirt and jeans. 

“Mhmm.” He makes a conscious effort to not look you over, his focus is pulled elsewhere when you brush a lock of hair behind your ear and he’s hit with a wave of your perfume. A warm, woodsy, spiced smell that only serves to make his head spin further. “We’re just trying to piece together everything that happened last week, we were told that Levi Matthews had fallen ill, and you can vouch for his location at the time of Noah Harper's death.” 

Your brows immediately push together, a frown forming. 

“I certainly hope Father Matthews isn’t a suspect in your case.” There it is, that small town hostility, everyone protecting everyone else. Making his job ten times harder. 

“We have no suspects right now, we just want to know what was going on that morning.”

“I was playing the Sunday service as I usually do, Father Matthews came down with a little stomach bug the night prior. He was in an awful state, Pastor Jude led the sermon that day. About halfway through the service he brought the children up to read passages from the bible, I took a moment to go check on Lev- Father Matthews.” You stumble over your words as you spin your story for him. Your words might be rushed and strangely paced but your music never suffers. The song you play carries on without so much as a single missed note. “He was on the bathroom floor, vomiting. I helped him back to bed and brought him a glass of water before returning to the service.”

“And how long were you with him?”

Your eyes narrow further.

“Maybe five minutes.” There’s an edge to your voice and he knows exactly what it implies. Five minutes is not enough time to run across town and murder someone. “People were in and out of Father Matthews home all day, Abby Harper was over there early before the service to bring him food.”

“These are all standard questions, we aren’t trying to make accusations we’re simply trying to-”

“Father Matthews is everything to this town, he’s as precious as God to most of them, people around here won’t take kindly to those kinds of accusations.” You speak with less hostility now, it almost sounds like a genuine warning. You smell like citrus, cinnamon, and the earth all at the same time as you scoot closer to him, the sides of your legs are touching now. It’s an overwhelming scent that he can’t focus on long enough to name.

“Are you one of those people?” It’s like he has no control of himself, he leans in, fighting the urge to inhale more of your perfume. He wants you to say no, that this man he doesn’t even know means nothing to you.

“In my opinion there is no man as precious as God.” You smile to yourself, like you’ve remembered something funny. “Do you play any instruments?” 

“I do, I play the piano.” He shouldn’t be entertaining any sort of conversation that isn’t about the case but he doesn’t want to say no to you, not when he’s still trying to figure out what kind of perfume you’re wearing. 

“What drew you to the piano?” 

“We had a case, I met a young boy who played.” 

You stop playing, the room is plunged into an uncomfortable silence for a moment before the preacher and Morgan continue their conversation. 

Spencer opens his mouth to speak but you grab his hands out of his lap, with your palms up and his down you inspect his hands. He stares down at you as he does, unable to look away from your face, your eyelashes are so long he can’t help but wonder if they’re fake. 

His spine straightens when you rub your thumb against his fingers.

“You have good hands for it.” Is all you have to say before you go back to playing your somber tune as if nothing had happened. “When was the last time you were in a church, Dr. Reid.” 

“Excuse me?”

“You seem uncomfortable.”

Of course he’s uncomfortable. How many people have hurt him over the years under the guise that they were told to do so by God. God isn’t exactly his biggest fan. And none of that even scratches the surface of how you’re making him feel.

“We find ourselves in churches often when we’re working cases, you’d be surprised to see how many people use God as an excuse to hurt others.” He tries to keep his tone steady but he can hear his voice starting to tremble as his fingernails dig into his palm.

“I don’t think I’d be surprised at all. I think far too many people pervert the lord's words to excuse their cruel behavior.” You continue to play your mystery song, twisting the notes to something darker as you speak. “It must be exhausting to see people take something as pure as God and use it to justify the terrible things they’ve done. Isn’t that just awful, I simply can’t stand it.” He doesn’t speak as you finish your song, turning to face him when you’ve finished. “Don’t let those people convince you that God isn’t kind, that he doesn't love you, Dr. Reid. Because he does.” You put a hand on his arm, it makes his breath hitch.

The way you speak is intoxicating, he can’t stop himself from leaning closer, unprofessionally close. He’s staring down at you in the now silent room until Morgan clears his throat behind you both.

He stands too quickly, bumping his knees against the piano as he stands, a sharp juxtaposition to how you float up and off the bench. 

“Let us know if you think of anything that might help with the case, we appreciate you taking the time to speak with us.” He speaks too fast, he feels like he hardly got any information out of you.

“Anytime, Dr. Reid.” 

He jumps a bit when the back door swings open, only to see a toddler with a mess of dark curly hair running in, flying past everyone until she’s to you. You kneel on the stone floor as you pull her into your arms, she can’t be more than three years old. 

“Where is your grandmother, sweet girl?” You speak in a lovey, hushed tone, holding her almost possessively as the little one whispers into your ear. You laugh, whispering something back. He can’t hear what you say but it makes the little girl smile. 

Your cheeks are pressed against one another as you face him and he’s left with more questions than he started with when they entered the church. Questions that he shouldn’t have because they have nothing to do with the case, regardless, he’s almost certain she isn’t yours, your features are too different. 

“Can you say hello, Hazel? This is Dr. Spencer, he’s here to save us.” You continue to speak in that gooey tone, it isn’t the same soft one you used with him. 

Hazel doesn’t speak but she waves to him before you set her down. 

“Run along to your father now.” You ruffle her hair as she toddles her way across the room into Levi Matthews arms and a wave of nausea crashes over him. He should have asked different questions, he should have established your relationships with other members of the town. 

He should have asked if you were married.

It doesn’t matter if you're married.

You’re a random witness to an insignificant detail, you live in the middle of nowhere, you are simply one in the thousands of people he has spoken to over the course of his career. 

What is going on with him?

He needs to get the fuck out of this town. 

“Goodbye, angel.” He should be calling you by your actual name but something about it makes him feel queasy, he settles on the nickname, even if it earns him a strange look from Morgan. 

“Goodbye, Dr. Reid.” Your smile is too much teeth, he has to look away, turning and moving so fast that Morgan practically runs to keep up with him. 

“Crazy to see someone like that out here.” Derek speaks first when they’re outside, as they make their way down the church steps. 

“Someone like what?” Someone so offputting? 

“Hot. She’s ridiculously hot, man.”

Sure, you’re hot, but Spencer would use other words to describe you. Beautiful, angelic, nauseating, bewildering, maddening. 

“Everyone out here dresses like they're from a different time, it’s a little jarring to see someone in modern clothes.” 

“I got a bad feeling from her.” Spencer whispers as he gets into the passenger seat. 

“Bad like, she might have killed two people, bad?”

“I don’t know, she couldn’t have killed Noah Harper, she was at church that morning, the whole town would have seen her there. We need to find someone who wasn’t at the service. Mr. Harper died between 7:00 a.m. and 10:00 a.m. I just can’t figure out how they did that level of damage in such a short period of time.”

“Let's head back to the station and see what everyone else has found.” With the key turned in the ignition, the engine roars to life and they’re heading down the road. 

He stares out the window, going through your conversation with him in his brain, you didn’t express any of the usual signs of lying, not that he’d asked you anything you’d have a reason to lie about. You couldn’t have been more relaxed. 

He thinks of Hazel. 

She didn’t look like you, and she didn’t look like Levi Matthews. Children of that age will almost always run to their mothers first…

Why does it matter? 

He needs to stop.

It shouldn’t matter if you have a child, and it definitely shouldn’t matter if you’re married. You’re just a piano player, nothing more.

Yet he can’t shake you from his mind. 

The way you said his name like he was an old friend.

The way you seemed so sure that God loved him. 

“This is Dr. Spencer, he’s here to save us.”

He rolls his window down to try and ease the pressure building in his head. He doesn’t remember telling you his first name.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

“What have we got so far?” Hotch speaks first, everyone looks exhausted as they crowd around the little table. 

“Based on the level of violence and physicality of the crimes we should assume our killer is male.” Emily speaks first. 

“Male and strong enough to overpower both of our victims. Noah Harper was concious for the entirety of his torture, whoever did this had to be strong enough to restrain a nearly three hundred pound, 6’2 farmer. It would have been no small task. It’s safe to assume that Jared Kettler was also still alive when he was tortured.” Rossi throws down a stack of notes, as Spencer scans them it’s clear they went and spoke with the coroner a few towns over. Normally Jarad Kettler himself would have been in charge of autopsies, the next closest person qualified to do an autopsy was over an hour away. 

“Most likely a sexual sadist, with this level of torture they must be getting something out of it, otherwise why bother?” Emily’s pinching the bridge of her nose as she speaks.

“Unless it’s to send a message.” When Spencer finally speaks the room falls silent.

“What message would this possibly send? They were completely different victims, unless there’s a connection there that we’re missing, they were seemingly chosen out of convenience.” Rossi sits back in his chair, they all seem lost in thought. 

“This isn’t our typical case. You all know what kind of town we’re in, they don’t take kindly to strangers, if we’re going to figure this out we need to play by their rules. That means we might be here for an extended period of time, if we can’t build trust within the community no one will talk.” Hotch speaks in that serious way he does. The idea of being here for an extended period of time makes Spencer want to pull his hair out, this town is having a deeply disturbing effect on his psyche. “Morgan, I want you with local law enforcement, J.J. and Prentiss, you'll be with the victims' families and anyone with direct ties to them. Reid I want you at the church, get a sense of the community. Rossi and I will focus on potential suspects, it is imperative that our suspect list doesn’t go public. Treat everyone the same, and don’t bring anyone in for questioning without running it by me first. If these people get an inkling of who might be behind things everything changes. If it’s someone they don’t think is capable of the murders they will protect him with their lives, and if they think that someone is capable and a suspect they may take matters into their own hands.” Hotch continues to talk but Spencer’s zoning out, staring out the small open window into the darkness outside. 

The church means more of you. 

His stomach churns, for a brief moment he swears he catches a whiff of your perfume on the breeze that blows into the room. 

He’s about to ask to switch with someone but the conversation’s seemingly over as everyone starts to stand. He follows them out of the room, frowning as Hotch puts a hand on his shoulder.

“I’d like you to attend tomorrow's service, sit in the back, get a feel for the crowd, you know the drill.”

“Hotch I-”

“And try and get some sleep tonight.” It’s clear he’s staring at the bags under his eyes when he says it. 

“I’ll do my best.” Hotch nods in response, following the rest of the team out the doors, Spencer stays behind when he sees Joel Barker laughing with another officer. 

“Who was in charge of cleaning the scene at the Harper house?” Spencer comes up behind him, interrupting their conversation, no sense in making small talk.

“That would be…” He scans the room, settling on the youngest man, he couldn’t be older than his early twenties. “Officer Langdon.” He answers quickly, clearly eager to be rid of him.

Spencer weaves through the desks until he’s towering over the young man. 

“Can I help you?” He’s certainly got an attitude for the youngest member of the force.

“You cleaned up after the Harper murder.” He phrases it more like a fact than a question. 

“I did.”

“You did a terrible job.” The back of his neck feels sweaty, since when does he talk to people like this? 

“Good thing you aren’t my boss, then.” The younger officer is quick to snap back at him

“What was written in chalk on the western wall of the bedroom.”

Officer Langdon goes pale, fingers twitching against his keyboard as his eyes look anywhere but at Spencer. 

“There wasn’t anything written at the scene, I cleaned up the blood and had the body transported to the morgue.” He takes too long to answer, his eyes never meet Spencers. 

“Which morgue?”

“Two towns over in Briggsbain.” That much is true, it’s the same morgue they took Jared Kettler to. 

“Okay, and I’ll ask you one more time, what was written next to the mirror?” Spencer does his best to look intimidating but it clearly isn’t working as the young officer stands up, puffing his chest out. 

“And I’ll tell you one more time. There wasn’t anything written at the scene.”

“Would you be willing to testify that fact in a court of law?”

“Why would I be testifying anywhere? I’m not the lead on this case I’m-”

“Someone was murdered. Brutally, and if someone were to jeopardize our investigation by lying to me I would personally see to it that they were brought to justice, to the fullest extent, in a court of law.” He shouldn’t be having this conversation without Hotch.   

“I’m not lying to you.”

So much for that lead.

He returns to the motel, head spinning, and with a worse migraine than he’s had in years.

He needs to get out of this suffocating town. 

He doesn’t sleep well. 

He’s haunted.

You come to him in dreams, reminding him in hushed whispers that he’s completely lost.

“A sheep without a shepard.” You murmur to him.

Your lips are too red, your nails are too red, and the blood coating the front of your little white nightgown, is too red. 

You climb in through the motel room window, crawling across the floor until you reach the bed, you scurry up into his lap and he’s frozen in place.

When you sit down on top of him he can see that the blood on your clothes is your own. Your chest is cut open, in the shape of a cross, as you reach forward, you lovingly wrap your fingers around his neck. Squeezing until there isn’t any air left in his lungs.

He shoots up into a sitting position, clawing at his throat, entire body covered in a sheen of sweat, the cold air conditioning of the room makes him feel clammy as he snaps free of his nightmare. His heart threatens to burst from his chest as it beats like a hummingbird's wings. 

Running both his hands through his hair he throws his legs over the side of the bed, he needs a shower. 

“Shit.” He grumbles to himself as he stares down at the mess smeared across the front of his pants. Jesus, what is he, a highschooler? The last time he came in his pants was when he was nineteen, he’s thirty fucking years old. 

He needs a cold shower. 

Something, anything, to get rid of his extremely confusing erection. 

It’s only 5:35, he’s got plenty of time before the rest of the team wakes, he cleans his pants and boxers in the sink, hanging them up on the towel rack to dry before he steps into the shower.

The last thing he needs right now is to see you, but there’s no way he could explain that to Hotch.

“Sorry Hotch, I can’t go to the church, there’s this girl who works there and I feel like she’s going to kill me, and everything about her seems terribly wrong, and I’ll also get an erection if I think about her for too long.” 

That wouldn’t go over smoothly. 

He resigns himself to staring at the wall until 6:30. At that point he takes one of the team's cars to the church, which already seems to be bustling with people. He does his best to blend in but he sticks out like a sore thumb. 

Every single person is dressed like they’re from the early nineteen hundreds. He feels like he’s in a horror movie, he somehow feels under and over dressed as he slips into the church, settling in the back pew as he sits, silently observing everyone. 

Father Levi Matthews stands at the front of the room in his robes. He doesn’t stand by the door to greet people, he lets them come to him. 

Prick. 

Every family he observes has the same dynamic. Father’s who speak too loudly, and mother’s who stay quiet and meek as they tend to the children. Everyone stares at him as they take their seats. 

The seat at the organ remains empty, no matter how many times his eyes flit over to the bench. 

The church is nearly full by seven and he’s only heard a few whispers about Noah Harper, most of which are murmurs of sympathy as Abigail Harper walks by in her lacy black dress.

He nearly jumps out of his skin at the sound of a loud organ note. When he turns, sure enough, there you are, warming up on the organ. You hold a bright red apple between your teeth as you do so, after playing a quick scale you remove it. Turning to stare directly at him as you eat it. 

He makes several attempts to look away, telling himself that it’s rude to stare, but you continue to do so anyway. Everytime he glances up at you, you're facing him, taking bite after bite of the apple in your hand until only the core remains. 

You toss the core into a nearby bin before sucking a finger into your mouth. He closes his eyes as he puts his head down.

What is wrong with this place, what is wrong with you?

He’s about to get up and leave, maybe he can tell Hotch he’s sick and hide in his motel room until it’s time to leave. He starts to stand but you’re suddenly playing music and Levi Matthews is starting to speak so he sits, praying to himself that the service is short. 

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

The service is anything but short. 

Nearly three hours of Levi Matthews shouting about nothing, the only interesting part of the service is the music. You’re one hell of a musician. You don’t look at him once during the service, and when it’s over he busies himself with talking to as many people as possible, anyone but you.

After speaking with a few different people he finds himself stuck with Edith Miller. 

A chatty woman in her late thirties, who’s married to a member of the police force who’s notably not in attendance.

“Do officers typically not attend the service?” He’s abandoned his notebook, no one wants to talk to him when he’s writing down everything they say, it makes them feel like they’re on the record or something. 

“They do half on and half off on Sundays so they can attend every other one.” The woman has a thick southern accent. 

Half the town's police force wasn’t accounted for last Sunday morning. 

He can’t find you, he scans the crowd but you aren’t there, occasionally he catches a glint of what he swears is your 

Fingernails against someone's arm but by the time his eyes focus it’s gone. 

He recalls those fingernails clicking softly against the piano keys yesterday, you didn’t wear a wedding ring.

“The organist, is she married to your pastor?” It’s an inappropriate question and he knows it. Edith laughs in his face when the words leave his mouth. 

“You’ve clearly already met our angel.” Her voice is unkind as she speaks. 

“Yes, I spoke with her yesterday.”

“She really is something, but no, she is not married to Father Matthews, although I’m sure she would just love that.” There’s a sarcastic edge to her voice. Small town drama. 

“So Hazel isn’t her daughter?” 

“No,” She continues to laugh but he doesn’t understand what’s so funny. “Hazel is Mary Ellens.” 

Thank god for his eidetic memory, there’s an infinite number of new names to remember in this damn town. 

“So Mary Ellen is married to Father Matthews.” He repeats the names over and over again, he’ll need to write them down if he intends to properly remember them. 

“She was, before she passed, a terrible thing to happen to someone so young.”

“How did she pass?”

“Sweet girl went peacefully in her sleep, brain aneurysm, she was only twenty five. Hazel was hardly a year old.” Edith’s face conveys sorrow but her voice is almost sarcastic. 

“It sounds like a terrible loss. I'm so sorry.” He should drop it, the personal lives of these people had no impact on the case. “How did she earn that nickname? Angel?” He curses himself for even asking but Edith clearly likes to gossip and doesn’t mind answering. 

“It’s the funniest thing, I couldn’t tell you her actual name. We've called her angel since she came here, I think Father Matthews started it. She was our angel, heaven sent when we needed her most.” 

“When you needed her most?” He’s more focused on the fact that you came here at all, you told him you’ve lived here all your life, but he can’t afford to give away any unnecessary information. 

Not when it’s obvious people are more than comfortable lying to him. 

“Well… if I remember correctly she moved here two summers ago, just before poor Mary Ellen passed. I don’t think Levi would have survived those first few months without her here to help around the church. She practically preached his sermons for him. In my personal opinion it’s a little inappropriate for a woman and a man to be so close right after something like that happens but I suppose it’s not my place to speak up about something like that.” 

Two summers ago. 

“You know, Mary Ellen was a prodigy on the piano, if you asked her to play any tune she either knew it already or could figure it out after hearing it just one time. She was…” Edith’s voice fades out and is replaced with a high pitched ringing. He winces, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. When he opens his eyes Edith is still droning on, but he isn’t looking at Edith anymore, he’s staring over her shoulder. 

At you. 

You’ve appeared directly in his line of sight, seemingly out of thin air. 

Your hands are wrapped around a steaming mug of tea as you nod, manicured mails clicking against the ceramic of your cup while you give a sympathetic smile to the woman speaking to you. 

Abigail Harper.

Her daughter stands at her side, silent and blank faced, staring at the floor as you comfort the girl's weeping mother. 

You speak so softly yet he can hear the words clearly from across the room, and through the ringing in his ears. 

“He’s in a better place now, Abby.” Your ruby red lips whisper as you pull her into an embrace. Your chin rests on Abby’s shoulder. He watches your sharp nails rub gentle circles against the widow’s back but your eyes are on him. Cold, dark eyes and a whisper of a smile on those lips.

He blinks and your gaze is elsewhere, pulling away from the hug after one last reassuring squeeze. With bated breath he watches you crouch down, sitting on your knees in front of the emotionless little girl.  

“And how are you holding up, Arizona?” Taking her small hand, in yours, you exchange whispers, something he doesn’t catch as you lean in, but he can read your lips for just a second before your hair covers his view of your mouth. 

He only makes out one word. Your lips curl, tongue poking out between teeth so he can clearly catch just a moment of the exchange.

“…monster…”

Then a lock of hair slips out from behind your ear and he’s left in the dark as to what is said to Arizona. 

All he knows is that whatever it is makes the child break down. A mix of tiny hiccups and wails as she crumples forward, right into your arms. A hush falls over the room and people turn towards the commotion just in time to see you scoop Arizona up into your arms. Your blood red fingernails are a sharp comparison to the pale blonde hair of the inconsolable child. 

He hears mumbled praise from the congregation. 

It’s as if the sun knows to shine perfectly, streaming in through the stained glass like a halo behind the scene you’ve made. A picture perfect moment with you at its center, curled up on the ground, comforting poor little Arizona Harper. 

Eventually you stand, handing her back to her mother before heading in his direction. You’re in no rush, people take your hand and pat your back as you move through the crowd, offering a smile as bright as the sun to all of them. 

When you smile at him it doesn’t reach your eyes. 

“I’m almost finished with your nightgown, I should have it over to you by tomorrow.” You hold Edith's hand in both of hers as she nods. 

“You are a miracle worker.” They all speak to you so reverently, even if Edith had just been speaking ill of you, she easily puts a faux smile on her face. 

“You flatter me, Edith.” Dropping her hand, the attention is turned towards him as he stands up a little straighter. “Good morning, Dr. Reid. I hope you enjoyed the service.”

“It was certainly informative.” His frown only deepens as your grin spreads further across your face. 

“Something tells me you need some time with God.”

“What makes you say that?” He doesn’t need god, he needs to get out of this suffocating little town.

“You look a little lost.” 

His mouth goes dry as you put a hand on his arm, and the ringing in his ears is back. You don’t smile at him anymore as you leave. 

Your perfume remains long after you walk out of the church. 

And he finally puts his finger on the scent.

Frankincense. 

He’s vaguely aware of the fact that Edith is still speaking to him. 

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

“Isn’t she just perfect? She does seamstress work for the women around town. She’s always happy to show off.” She sneers when she says it, turning from him to greet Abigail as she approaches.  

“Yeah…” His voice trails off as his feet move before his brain can stop them. He doesn’t bother saying goodbye to Edith, instead he pushes through the crowd, moving hurriedly towards those large wooden doors. When he throws them open and moves down the steps of the chapel you’re already long gone.

The smell of frankincense lingers in the air and all he’s left with is a case with no leads, a headache, and a distinctly empty feeling in his chest.  

A black SUV peels into the gravel parking lot in front of him, making his heart skip a beat, he relaxes when the window rolls down and it’s just Morgan.

“We need to get back to the station.”

“Already? The service just ended, I haven’t had much of a chance to-”

“We’ve got another body.”

He hurries down the rest of the steps, climbing into the passenger seat. 

“What did you learn?”

“Not much, just what I could discern from the service. These people are serious about church, you can hear a pin drop when that man speaks. What about the local force? Did you find anything?”

“Typical small town police force, loyal to their people, proud of their town. They aren’t too happy about us being here.”

“I’m aware.” He snaps, leg bouncing up and down. 

“What aren’t you telling us?”

“What?”

“You’re on edge, you’re thinking about something and you haven’t told us, we aren’t going to make any progress with this case if we don’t have all the information.”

But he doesn’t have any concrete information, he just has a hunch.

“Something was written at the Harpers house in chalk, the police are insisting there wasn’t.” 

“And you’re just telling me this now?”

“Well, I don’t have any actual proof, but I know for a fact that we’re being lied to by local officers. They aren’t cooperating with us and I- I just know that they’re hiding something.”

“We’ll need proof if we’re going to do anything about it.” 

“What about this body? What do we know so far? I can’t call anyone else to let them know.” Holding his phone out in front of him he’s reminded of just how remote this town is as he stares at the blinking no service alert. 

“I sent an officer to tell Emily and J.J, they’re gonna pick up Hotch and Rossi on the way, I figured it would be fastest to just pick you up myself.” He speeds down the road, when he pulls back into the station Spencer gives him a confused look.

“Aren’t we going to the scene?”

The look on Derek’s face is grim as he leans over to the glove compartment, tossing Spencer a pair of latex gloves and donning a pair himself. 

“This is the scene.” 

Officers are moving frantically around the outside of the building, he watches as the young man he recognizes as officer Langdon, braces himself against the brick siding of the building. As they both approach he vomits, tears streaming down his face, Derek tries to speak with him but he rushes into the station.

“I’m gonna go talk to the kid, he’s the one who found the body, you go around back, I want one of us to get a clear look of the scene before anyone has a chance to ruin it.” Morgan moves before he can protest. And Spencer is left in the rush of officers, all of Willow Creek's small police force must be here.

Turning around the corner he’s met with a mess of yellow tape, he doesn’t get any time to focus on how disorganized everything is because propped up against the dumpsters is a sight no one would be able to tear their eyes off of. 

He’s staring at a familiar face.

Joel Barker, the chief of police. 

With his stomach torn open, and his insides spilling out onto the pavement. He wasn’t just killed and left here, he was displayed. When the human body is cut down the middle like that everything doesn’t just fall out, someone reached inside of him and removed his intestines and stomach and laid them out so they looked like this. From what he can see the officer's eyes and tongue are in the mix, which means they were either removed and placed amongst his insides or he was forced to eat them and then they were ripped from his…

His stomach churns. 

It’s unprofessional, he’s an FBI agent, he shouldn’t be having a physical reaction to a scene like this, he’s seen things like this before. 

Well, he’s seen bad things, maybe not as bad as this. 

He swallows the bile threatening to burst from his throat, moving closer to examine the disfigured face of the officer. 

The tip of his nose is pulled up and stapled awkwardly to the bridge of his nose. And the cherry on top isn’t a cherry at all, it’s an apple. Shiny and red, his jaw looks like it’s been dislocated, and shoved in between his teeth is the apple. It gets the point across, even if it’s a little blunt, and it confirms his theory. This isn’t the work of some sadist who can’t control themselves, this is someone who wants to send a message. 

Joel Barker is a pig.

At least he was. 

For a second he’s blinded by the flash of a camera, he regains his vision just in time to see an ungloved hand with a rag reaching for the wall beside the corpse.

“Stop!” He shoulder checks the officer out of the way, holding his arms out to keep him back. “This is an active crime scene. You'll kindly refrain from destroying it…” 

He takes a step back, brows furrowed as he reads the text over and over again, branding it into his brain forever. Pieces start to slide together but the bigger picture just gets blurrier as he stares at the chalk message left behind. 

YOUR GOD IS NOT HERE, BUT MARY ELLEN IS

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

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You feel as if you are the last dog left in the pound, tail thumping against the concrete, knowing the vet is coming to put you down. You have always wondered if dogs can sense it, the way the air thickens, the hushed tones, the finality of your last moments, knowing that there is no way you can claw your way back out.

The analogy was lodged into your brain like a tick; the entire week of your birthday, you feel like a dog who knows they’re about to be put down. You picture the metal bars, the stench of antiseptic, the echoing barks fading into whimpers. You picture the clock striking twelve, and once again waiting for the flood of text messages that will never come. Today is supposed to be your day, yet it seems so unimportant to everyone else–your own sick birthday tradition. 

Thirteen years old, the last birthday with your biological mother. Thirteen candles to blow out, and none of them are hers. She doesn’t even remember, doesn’t care to pretend. You sit surrounded by threadbare stuffed animals in that stale, smoke-filled house, lighting a scavenged stub of a candle with shaking hands. You blow out the candle in one shaky breath, the flame dying as smoke curls upward, your wish not quite landing. Two weeks later, you’re taken away, and your mother's candle remains cold and unlit.

Sixteen candles, and you had asked for a party. You spent an hour on your hair and set out cups for people who would never come. Sixteen candles and you watch them burn all the way down into the frosting, waxy little rivers. The house is quiet, the cake untouched, the silence louder than any shout. You light a single sad candle yourself and blow it out hard, tears mixing with the smoke as the flame gutters and dies. No one arrives; the candles of everyone else stay brilliantly, mockingly lit while yours sputters out into nothingness,

At eighteen, you have learned to expect disappointment. Eighteen candles to blow out and still none flicker for you. You strike the match alone and make a wish, blowing out the flame with a practiced numbness, the smoke stinging your eyes. The lesson sinks in deeper each year. The hours shall pass, and you will wait for your wishes to be granted by your dearest friends, yet not one of them will acknowledge your day.

Twenty-one candles, and you cry anyway. Alone in a bathroom, tap water running so your roommate won’t hear you weep, your reflection blotchy in the mirror. You told yourself that twenty-one would be different, that there was some unspoken rule that adulthood came bundled with people who stayed. Twenty-one candles stuck into a slice of grocery store cake, and you don’t waste your breath on wishes anymore, understanding all the way down to your marrow that maybe your holiday just isn’t worth celebrating.

You hate your birthday; you hate that it arrives dressed like every other day; you hate that you are not celebrated; you hate that some stubborn animal part of you still hopes, every single year, right up until midnight. You hate your birthday the way you can only hate a thing you once loved; you hate it each year that it comes and goes; you hate your birthday just a bit more than you hate the days that follow.

Nobody ever forgets Christmas or Halloween, so why is your day the holiday everyone manages to fail? As if to mock you, the blaze of the candle grows bigger, a sick reminder that the day of your birth will never be important, a ledger of candles lit for no one.

So now, as the clock strikes 10:57 on the night before your birthday, you sit alone on your couch, knees tucked to your chest. The room is dark, save for the sickly yellow glow of a single lamp, and for a moment, just for a moment, you let yourself wonder what it would be like to look forward to tomorrow.

Pulling you from your thoughts, you hear a soft knock at the door, an apologetic rapping; it is almost as if he knows you have been trying to disappear into yourself all evening.

You unfold yourself from the couch, the floorboards creaking underfoot, open the door, and there he is, all awkward limbs and earnest eyes. He is standing there clutching a large vanilla birthday cake with soft whipped icing in one hand, with cursive lettering that reads “Happy 26th Birthday " and a pint of ice cream in the other. The icing is smeared and a little dented on one side. It looks like it's been through something and survived, and it makes you smile.

The cake looked surprisingly good for a last-minute find. You take note that clouds of whipped icing adorn the cake, and not the heavy buttercream that usually turns your stomach. A throwaway conversation from months ago flickers into your mind: the two of you stuck in the bullpen on a long case night, sharing stale vending machine snacks. You had mentioned offhandedly how whipped icing was the only kind worth the calories. Of course, he remembered.

He’s wearing the cardigan you’d once told him made him look “soft around the edges,” with his signature purple scarf and messenger bag slung around his shoulders. 

"I couldn’t let another birthday start without being the first to say it. Happy almost birthday,” he says. It’s 11:00 PM; he’s early but not too early as to seem overeager.

He steps inside, and the apartment shrinks further under his presence. The glow of the lamp highlights the faint concern etching his features as he sets the cake and ice cream down. You looked a bit off tonight–shoulders tense, eyes shadowed–and he’d noticed.

You think, watching him fuss over paper plates, that this is the closest thing to being wanted you have ever let yourself feel on this particular night of the year.

“Did you know that vanilla is actually derived from orchids? It’s one of the most labor-intensive crops in the world, pollinated by hand in most places. Makes it feel a little more special, right?

The fact pulls you back from the edge just enough, a tether. You manage a small laugh, and suddenly your apartment doesn’t feel so much like a cage. You don’t tell him that he’s the one who makes it all feel special; you don’t trust yourself to say it and have it not come out sounding like what it actually is.

Spencer starts slicing the cake with care, fingers steady despite the late hour.

You watch him, the way his hair falls across his forehead, the faint beauty marks dusting his cheeks. Your chest aches with it, that familiar, uncomfortable pull of affection. You’ve spent countless nights lying awake, tracing the lines of his face in your imagination, turning them over like prayer beads, convinced that maybe, just maybe, if you memorized him perfectly, he might finally see you the same way.

He hands you a plate, the slice generous and slightly uneven, and for a second, your fingers brush his as you take it.

“Thank you,” you murmur, words weighing heavy with words left unspoken. 

You eat in comfortable silence first, the cake sweet on your tongue but somehow still hollow, like everything else is on nights like this. Your apartment suddenly feels like it’s closing in on you, the walls feeling closer now that he’s here filling space. Spencer speaks softly about the team, about statistics on birthday superstitions across cultures, his voice a gentle ramble that usually soothes you, but tonight it stirs the dog in your chest, tail thumping, ears pressed flat, waiting for the needle. 

Eventually, the conversation drifts, as it always does with him.

“So,” he says, hands tucked away in his pockets, “I have a question, and I need you to be honest with me.” “I’m listening.”

He exhales. “Do you think–hypothetically–that JJ would ever go out with someone like me?”

The question lands somewhere low in your chest, a large, ugly weight you weren’t prepared for.

“Someone like you–meaning what exactly?”

“Meaning. I don’t know. Meaning me.” He laughs, a little embarrassed, a little hopeful, and it makes him look younger than you’ve ever seen him, and it makes you feel irrationally far away from him. You were watching someone you love walk toward a door leading somewhere you couldn’t quite follow.

“I think,” you say, and your voice is steady, though your heart isn’t, “that anyone would be lucky to have someone like you.”

He lights up at that, the way he does over first edition and unsolvable ciphers. He then goes on about her, about JJ’s laugh, how she remembers every deputy’s name in every county they pass through, how she touched his shoulder last Tuesday for exactly a second and a half, how he’s been trying to determine the significance of a second and a half.

You stare at him.

You are distantly aware that your face has stopped doing anything at all. That you’re sitting there with your fork suspended in air, features arranged into a smooth blank nothing, while inside your chest something is being fed, feet-first, into a furnace. He talks about her the way you think about him, perverting the language you invented in the dark, and spending it on her out loud at your birthday table, over the cake that he bought for you.

And then you start bawling.

Tears spill hot and fast down your cheeks, and Spencer goes stricken and scrambles his chair around the table to your side before folding you into his cardigan, and you let him, pressing your face into wool and shame.

“It’s my birthday,” you manage, though wet and muffled. “It always does this to me; it’s not–it's nothing you said.”

A lie with a birth certificate.

“I know, Im so, so sorry,” he soothes, rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades

“She never calls,” you hear yourself say, and now the door is open and all thirteen years of it escape. “My mother, she never once–she was in the same house, and she forgot. You don’t ever really get over being forgettable to the person who made you.” You wipe your face with the heel of your hand, hiccuping.

Spencer doesn’t let you go, and maybe it's that–the not letting go–that makes you brave and vicious in the same breath, because you pull back just enough with your blotchy, ruined face and say it: “JJ isn’t good for you.” He blinks. “What?” “She’s—she’d never see you. Not all the way down. She would love the parts of you that are easy, and the first time you come to her at three am with your hands shaking, she’d flinch, and you’d see it, and you’d never bring your hands to her again. You need someone who’s already–” You stop, too close to the bone. “Someone broken in the same places, that’s all.”

“What about you?” He asks.

“What about me? You echo, setting your fork down on the paper plate, the cheap plastic bending under the slight pressure.

“I mean…your love life. Hypothetically, is there anyone?”

“I… There's no one. Not really. I don’t think that I’m the type of person that you love; I don’t think I’m right for it.”

The admission stings; you think of fleeting attempts at connection, you think of people who came close but never quite reaching you because none of them were him. Your mind spirals into the fixation: replaying his laughs, mapping his routines, the pull of him and only him. It’s too much, so much that it makes your skin crawl.

“You’re more than you think, you know,” he says earnestly as ever. “I mean it.”

You want to lean in, to beg silently for him to be your someone.

If I can’t love myself, maybe he could love me for me–enough to rewrite every empty year.

You think of JJ, beautiful and steady, the way he sometimes mentions her in passing. You picture her warm smiles; you picture her as everything you are not. The kind of light that doesn’t flicker out on birthdays. The jealousy coils low in your gut, whispering in your ear that you’ll never measure up. 

He deserves poems, you think, sonnets and epics and quiet verses scribbled at 3 am because the world needs to know what loving him feels like. Not this half-measure I offer.

You picture him turning that hopeful boyish laugh toward her instead of your dingy apartment, this broken version of you. It’s too much, too ugly; you’re too much; it is all so ugly.

Perhaps the saddest part of your solitude isn’t being alone; it’s about seeing everyone else in love and wondering why you’re not worthy of it.

You imagine a world where he’s yours in that all-consuming way you crave. Maybe he could fill the void until there is no room left for you to drown.

Spencer pauses, fork halfway to his mouth, those hazel eyes searching your face for something only he can see.

“You okay? You seem distant tonight.” His hand hovers near yours on the table, not quite touching, but it makes your skin prickle nonetheless.

You shrug, the movement tight. “It’s just…birthdays are difficult for me.” It’s not a lie; it just isn’t the whole truth either. The whole truth is currently lodged somewhere under your sternum, the kind of thing you have trained yourself not to say out loud, because wanting things has never gone well for you, and wanting him would be the most dangerous version of that particular gamble. “You know how it is.”

He does know; he’s seen the bones of it at least, the way you flinch at certain dates, your quiet withdrawals into yourself. But he doesn’t push; instead, he stands gathering the remnants with that awkward grace of his. 

“I left your candle in the car,” he admits, a sheepish smile playing at his lips. “Come on, let's grab it. Midnight’s not far off.”

The walk to the car feels longer than it should. The night air is cool, heavy with the promise of rain. Streetlights cast long shadows as Spencer walks close beside you, his shoulder brushing yours every few steps. You match his pace instinctively, hyper-aware of every breath, every rustle of his cardigan.

Your mind spirals: If I could just keep him here, in this pocket of time, maybe, just maybe.

You two reach the car, and he pops the trunk, and there, wedged between a stack of case files, is a brown paper bag.

“I should probably just open it here,” you say, only half-joking. “Save ourselves a trip back up three flights of stairs.

He checks his watch, and his expression shifts, quick and startled. “It’s 11:56.”

“So?”

“So you have four minutes until you turn twenty-six, and I am not letting you make a birthday wish in a stairwell. Get in the car.”

You laugh, and it surprises you how easy it comes, how light your chest feels for exactly as long as it takes to slide into the passenger seat beside him.

In the car, the space shrinks immediately. The interior smells like him, faint books and coffee. He fumbles for the paper bag and pulls out a candle, a simple oddity that is ornate, and sets it on the dashboard.

“Did you know this style of wish candle originated from old European folklore traditions? Alchemists used them in rituals, believing the flame could bind intention to reality.” His voice fills the cabin.

The lighting is dim, the car’s roof pressing lower, the world narrowing to this single moment, this bubble of shared breath and flickering potential. Shadows dance as he lights the candle, the flame catching with an unnatural steadiness.

The air grows thick, and you suddenly feel claustrophobic—the walls of every empty birthday before this one closing in.

 “Close your eyes,” he urged, his voice a murmur that filled the suffocating dark. “Wish for everything you want. The science of intention is powerful, even if it’s mostly placebo.”

The flame flickered, casting dancing shadows that made the car’s roof press lower and the seats closer. You squeeze your eyes shut, and in that claustrophobic glow, with the dog's final whimper echoing in your mind and the weight of every blown-out candle on your soul, you take a deep breath and make a wish like a prayer to a cruel god. 

Spencer Reid, love me more than anything or anyone else in this world. More than JJ, more than the team, more than statistics and the stars. Let me be your obsession.

It slams into you like inhaling a lungful of water, flooding you. You open your eyes just as the flame is snuffed out, and suddenly the car has never felt so small.

The silence between you two is absolute, thick enough to make you choke. Spencer is staring at you through the gloom, his eyes wide, pupils completely dilated, reflecting the faint green of the dashboard. For a second, he looks terrifyingly empty.

“Happy Birthday,” he whispers. His voice sounds hollow, yet entirely consumed. 

There is a silence that stretches between you, thick with the smell of melted wax and the ghost of the match’s sulfur. You swallow hard, trying to clear the watery tightness in your chest, but the feeling doesn’t pass.

Then, Spencer blinks slowly, as if resurfacing from somewhere deep, and the hollow in his eyes shifts, turning into a sudden, intense focus that pins you to the car seat.

His hands lay glued to his slacks, but there’s a subtle tremor in his fingers, the kind you have seen before in the months after he got clean. 

You manage a shaky smile that strains the corners of your mouth.

“You’re staring,” you say, a little breathless.

“Am I?” He blinks, as if surfacing from underwater. “Sorry.. I just–” He stops.

The pause stretches and his brow creases. He looks down at his own hands on his slacks as if they belong to a stranger who left them there.

“I lost the sentence,” he says quietly and almost to himself. “I was going to say something, and it’s–gone. I don’t lose sentences.” A small, strange laugh with no humor in it escapes him. His eyes come back up to yours, and for half a second he looks bewildered, a man patting his pockets for keys that are already in the door. “That’s never happened to me before. Isn’t that funny.” He doesn’t laugh again. 

Instead he says your name, testing the shape of it in his mouth like it's a new word in a language he woke up fluent in. He has said your name ten thousand times, and it has never once sounded like that.

The candle smoke hangs between you, sweet and spent. 

“It’s late,” you say, glancing at the dashboard clock, 12:04 now. “You should probably head home, get some sleep before work.”

There's a tightening around his eyes and a subtle hitch in his breathing, barely audible, the first tug of an old craving, but he recovers instantly, offering that boyish smile that makes your heart ache. “No, it’s fine, really; I don’t want you spending the rest of your birthday alone. We’ve done this before, right? Some of my stuff is still at your place from the Denver case.”

His hand has already found the door handle before you can even answer; he isn’t really asking; he is only waiting for you to catch up to a decision that was never really yours to make.

You relish in it, the idea of him staying, filling the empty hours of the night with something familiar. “Yeah,” you breathe, the word heavy with quiet need. “Okay.”

When you both step back into your apartment, the atmosphere feels subtly altered, and when you bend over to work off your shoes, he’s suddenly there, folding down onto one knee in front of you.

“Let me,” he says.

No one has taken your shoes off for​​ you since you were small; you didn’t know your body kept the memory of it, but it must have because something orphaned in you rolls over and shows its belly at the gesture.

He eases the first shoe off, then the second, and his thumb brushes over the knob of your ankle bone. He sets the shoes by the door, toes aligned, exactly where you always put them, exactly to the millimeter.

He stays kneeling for a beat longer than necessary, looking up at you from the floor of your apartment with an expression you’ll spend years failing to name.

“Happy birthday,” he says, for the second time, from his knees

    •●━━━━━━●••

His clothes are, in fact, still hanging in the closet, exactly where he left them after Denver, with a neatness that has never quite matched the rest of him.

You move to change in the bathroom, and when you come out, he’s already in bed, on his side, on your side, actually, but you’re too tired, and you have spent your whole life starving for exactly this, and you are not going to interrogate the first full meal you’ve been offered.

You slip under the covers first, heart pounding with that uncomfortable thrill. Spencer follows suit, but he doesn’t stay on his side; instead, he shifts closer, as if the space between your bodies is physically unsettling him. His arm drapes over you, long limbs tangling until there’s no gap left, his chest pressed against you, breath warm against your face.

The weight of him is suffocating in the best way, the steady thrum of his heartbeat mirroring yours, how he constantly keeps shifting closer; an addict chasing his next fix.

Your heart swells, an intoxicating blend of affection and possessiveness wrapping around your chest. You want him here; you want him locked inside your apartment, away from the rest of the world, away from JJ, away from everything that isn’t you.

“Tell me something true,” you whisper. It’s an old ritual of yours, born on the jet somewhere over Nevada, both of you fighting sleep: tell me something true, you’d say, and he’d hand you a fact like a worry stone, and the world would grow a bit more survivable.

He is quiet for a moment. In this dark there is no space left between his exhale and your inhale; you’re breathing each other secondhand, trading the same warm air back and forth, and you can feel his heartbeat where his chest presses your shoulder; too quick for a man at rest.

“The moon is leaving,” he says at last. “Three point eight centimeters a year. Everyone thinks of it as fixed, but it’s been backing away from the Earth for four billion years.” His arm tightens around you by a degree. “The tides are the Earth holding on.” “That’s a sad one.”

“Mm. I used to think so,” and his nose traces the line of your jaw; his next words landing directly on your pulse. “Tonight it feels different. Tonight I keep thinking that the moon's mistake was the distance. If it just came closer, the leaving stops, the threshold where two bodies quit being two bodies.” “What happens then?” “Tidal forces tear the smaller one apart,” he says into your hair, “and the pieces never leave orbit again. They become a ring, and that's the only way the moon gets to stay.”

“Something true,” he murmurs, one last time: “I don’t want to go home. I don’t think I remember where it is. I think this might be it.”

The conversation lulls; the silence is thick and charged, and your pulse thunders. You turn your head slightly, closing the distance between you, and lean in. Your lips brush his in a tentative kiss–soft, testing, and barely there.

The moment your lips touch, you pull back so fast it’s almost violent, your whole body flinching away from the contact like you’ve touched something too hot to bear. Your eyes are wide and stinging hot with tears; they boil over before you can stop them.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice cracking, the word tumbling out in a rush. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know why I–that was so stupid, I wasn’t thinking, please just forget I–”

“Hey.” His voice is low and steady. “Hey, look at me.” You can’t; instead, you choose to stare at some fixed point over his shoulder, mortified, your pulse loud in your own ears, thinking of every possible way you have just ruined the one good thing in your life that has never once asked anything of you.

His hand cups your jaw, and turns your face back toward his. “I’m not upset,” he says,” I promise. I just want to do that properly.”

And then he closes the distance himself.

It isn’t quick this time. He takes your face in both hands, thumbs pressed just beneath your cheekbones, and kisses you slowly. His lips part yours with a certainty that makes your breath stutter in your chest, and when you make a small, helpless sound against his mouth, he only pulls you closer, one hand sliding from your jaw into your hair, fingers curling against your scalp like he needs the extra anchor point to keep himself from floating away entirely.

The kiss turns wet and insistent, his tongue sliding against yours, in slow possessive strokes that steal the air from your lungs. You pull back for air, and your breaths come in shaky little bursts in the millimeter of space he refuses to allow; his exhales become yours, your inhales feeding him.

His other hand slides down your back, pulling your bodies flush until there's nothing between you except for fabric and pounding hearts. It's euphoric like the first hit of something you both know will consume you. 

He moves back into the kiss, and it's almost too much: teeth grazing your lower lip before soothing it with his tongue, a low, pained sound vibrating from his chest into your mouth. The wet slide of lips and tongues borders on overwhelming, intimate to the point of discomfort. He consumes you, devours the apology, the doubt, the space, chasing the high of closeness like it’s the only fix that matters, hips shifting unconsciously closer, legs tangling tighter as if he could fuse you two together.

It leaves you boneless in his arms, tears still drying on your cheeks, but the kiss doesn’t break easily, and when it finally does, it’s only enough for him to rest his forehead against yours, breaths still mingling in short, shared pants. “I’ve got you,” he says hoarsely. “We’re okay. This is okay.”

As the words leave his lips, his voice catches, and for a split second, his eyes go distant and unfocused, like he’s staring through you into some internal void that has been carved open. A lone tear gathers at the corner of his eye, before slipping silently down his cheek. He doesn’t wipe it away, but there's a fleeting emptiness behind his gaze.

You reach up, thumb brushing the tear away, and he leans into your touch like a man starving for contact. “We’re okay,” he gasps, the words sounding almost disbelieving before he pulls you closer again, burying his face in your neck. The room presses in tighter, the weight of him perfect.

You lay together like that–entwined–the walls so close it feels like they might collapse inward and seal you together forever.

You want him to love and hold you now as if you will die tomorrow.

 •●━━━━━━●••

Morning light filters in through thin reluctant slats that do little to stir you awake. Instead, you wake to a prickling awareness of being watched, an intense gaze fixed onto your face like a physical thing

The sensation pulls you as if the weight of his attention has reached through the haze and dragged you back to consciousness. 

He is propped slightly on one elbow beside you, hair still tousled from the night, eyes wide and unrelenting in the morning light. For a moment he simply stares at you with his breath steady.

A single tear had dried on his cheek from the night before, or perhaps a new one had fallen unnoticed.

“Good morning,” he murmurs when your eyes finally open.

He moves to shift closer, nose brushing your jaw, lips ghosting your collarbone. You smile and reach up to thread your fingers through his messy hair, and he leans into you like a touch-starved thing. 

He had stayed, had held you through the night, and now he watched you like you were the only fixed point in his universe, and it makes you feel absurdly wanted.

Neither of you moved for a while. It is easy, this morning, but eventually, the world intrudes, and your alarm goes off.

You slip from the bed first, and he follows close behind, padding into the bathroom following close behind you, close enough that his hand brushes your lower back as you move through the narrow hallway, like he couldn’t even bear those few feet of separation.

When you close the door behind you for a moment of privacy, you catch the briefest glimpse of his face in the mirror's reflection before the door clicks shut: a flash of something pained crossing his features, jaw tightening, hand twitching at his side. He continues walking past the bathroom, yet he is still fixated on you.

When you emerge thirty minutes later, he is already in the kitchen; the smell of something cooking fills the apartment–eggs scrambling in the pan, toast in a skillet. He looks up at you when you enter, a genuine smile tugging at his lips as he plates the food.

“You’re cooking?” you ask, voice still soft with sleep, leaning against the counter to watch him. “I think I’ve only seen you make ramen and coffee in all the years I’ve known you.”

Spencer shrugs, angling his body toward yours like a magnet, and a faint flush creeps up his neck. “I make an exception for birthdays,” he says, and the total lack of fanfare makes your chest ache. 

He plates the eggs, alongside the toast, and sets them in front of you like an offering. The two of you eat side by side in silence, the gentle clinking of silverware the only sound between you. The eggs were warm and fluffy at first, but as you take another bite, something catches between your teeth. 

It is strange and waxy, a small, pale paraffin mixed with something sweet and faintly artificial. It melts unpleasantly on your tongue for a second before you discreetly work it free; the residue leaves a slick, unnatural film that clings to the roof of your mouth. You glance down at your plate but say nothing, pushing the odd piece aside with your fork; you swallow the discomfort along with the rest of the bite. You didn’t want to shatter this fragile domesticity, not when his arm brushed yours, not when he made the kitchen feel like the only safe space left in the world.

You choose to ignore it. Discomfort came and went, but his adoration—this— you hoped to last long enough for you to have a chance to sit and smell the flowers; this was worth preserving. You would beg him to stay just a little longer if you had to, anything to not lose this euphoric sensation. It was always so fleeting, so you will silently beg of him just this once; don’t stray like everyone else.

The morning bliss is held for those few precious minutes, wrapped in quiet touches and shared glances. Then the silence is cut open by the sharp buzz of your flip phone. Before you can reach for it, Spencer’s hand moves faster, snatching the device. He flips it open, the green backlight glowing in the early morning light.

“It’s Hotch,” he says quietly, holding the phone out toward you so you can see the message, but not quite letting go. The text is brief: briefing in 45. Iowa case–three women dead in six weeks. Unsub living inside their homes before the murders. Wheels up after.

“He hid in the walls,” Spencer says. He has no grimace, no clinical frown; his head is simply tilted, eyes soft and far away, and when he speaks again it's almost wistful. “He’d stay for days, learn their routines, their meals, the sounds they made when they thought no one could hear them.” His thumb moves absently over the phone's casing in a gentle caress before he hands you your phone at last.

The reply box is already open, already typed. On our way, it says–our, singular, one flesh.

You press send.

Your morning bubble hadn’t burst entirely; it had simply pulled along with you in the day ahead. 

“I’ll drive you,” Spencer says, already holding your go-bag and keys, yet you don’t remember him grabbing either of them. This is what being taken care of feels like, and if it feels a little like being handled–you’ve been handled worse.

•●━━━━━━●••

The drive to Quantico is twenty-six minutes with traffic, and Spencer spends all of them in orbit around you. His hand finds your knee at the first red light and stays there, thumb moving in metronomic strokes; it's as if he’s keeping time to something only he can hear, and when you decide to glance over, you find that his eyes are already fixed on you.

“Spencer, pay attention to the road,” you remind him.

“I know,” he says, and smiles, and doesn’t look away for another full second, then two, then three. The light turns green behind his head, and it appears like a halo gone rancid.

He talks the whole way, and it takes you until the expressway to realize that every fact is about you. The statistical probability of two people with your respective schedules crossing paths in the break room at the same time four days a week. The number of times you have touched your left ear during last month's case presentations–eleven, he says; you do it when you’re unsure of yourself, and you shouldn’t be; you’re never wrong. He recites your coffee shop order from three years ago and yours from now and the exact date that it changed, and he says it all in the same cadence he uses for serial arsonists and Bernoulli distributions. You are his newest field of study, his latest area of expertise.

At a stop sign, he lifts your knuckles to his mouth and presses his lips there, then breathes in slowly, through his nose, eyes half-closing like there's something in your skin that he needs to sustain himself. When he exhales, his hands are on the wheel again, and you decide not to think about it at all.

In the parking garage, he cuts the engine and doesn’t move. He sits in the silence watching you gather your bag.

Walking in, he keeps half a step behind your right shoulder the whole way–elevator, hallway, bullpen–a fixed distance close enough that anyone watching would have to call it escorted. At the glass doors he reaches past you, to straighten your badge where it hangs crooked on its lanyard. He turns it face-out with careful fingers, smooths the ribbon flat, and his knuckles come to rest against your sternum for the length of exactly one heartbeat.

“There,” he says, stepping back to survey you. “Now they’ll see you properly.” They, as if the building is an audience, as if you are something being presented.

The round table room is already full when you two walk in together, and JJ is standing at the head of the table with the remote in her hand.

“Happy birthday,” Emily mouths at you across the table, and Derek points at you with both hands like you’ve won something. 

A week ago this would have fed you for days, you’d have carried it home in your chest and lived off it, rationing the warmth, making it last. Now it lands on you and slides off. You give them the smile they’re owed–muscle memory, nothing behind the glass–because there is only one gaze in this room your body keeps track of anymore, and it hasn’t left the side of your face since midnight.

Spencer moves to pull out your chair; he has never once pulled out your chair.

Derek clocks it with an amused arch of his eyebrow; you watch the way he opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again, supposedly saving his comment for later. Spencer sits down beside you, close enough that his knee presses against yours beneath the table and stays there, a single point of heat, a leash.

“Cedar Falls, Iowa,” JJ begins, and the screen flickers to life behind her. “Three women in the last six weeks. All single and living alone.”

The photos are the usual for your job: driver’s license smiles giving way to a stillness.

JJ continues. “In all three cases, evidence suggests the unsub had been living inside the victims’ homes prior to the murders, for days, possibly weeks. Food was missing in quantities the victims wouldn’t notice, furniture moved centimeters and returned. In the second victim’s house, they found a nest of blankets in the crawlspace above her bedroom.” She clicks the remote. “He watches them, he learns them. The M.E. thinks he was in the house when first responders processed the scene of victim number one. He doesn’t leave when they die; he has to be pried out of their lives.”

“He’s not hiding from them,” Spencer says. “He’s cohabitating. In his mind this isn’t stalking, it’s a relationship. The proximity is the intimacy–he probably believes they knew he was there and permitted it, that the arrangement was mutual.” His knee presses harder against yours.

“Loved ones report the victims complained of small things beforehand,” Hotch adds, flipping a page. “Feeling watched, items moved, one told her sister that it felt like the house was breathing around her.”

You notice it then, what’s missing. JJ has been speaking for four minutes, standing at the front of the room, and Spencer has not looked at her once. This time last week he tracked her like sunflowers track the sun; now his eyes move between the screen, the file, and you. He regards JJ as if she were a piece of furniture, as if she has been moved centimeters and not returned.

It feels euphoric, like the first meal after a hunger strike. You are ravenous and ashamed, and you go back for seconds anyway, tilting your head just slightly, just to test it, and his gaze snaps to the motion.

“Geographic profiles going to matter here,” Morgan says. “If he’s this comfortable nesting, then he’s local.”

“I’ll take it,” Spencer says–too fast, before Hotch has assigned anything. “She can work with me.” A pause. “She’s good with the victimology overlay. It’ll go faster.”

The room doesn’t react, but there’s a beat, the sound of six profilers pretending not to profile one of their own. Hotch’s eyes move from Spencer to you, to the point of shared shadow under the table where your knees touch, and his expression wavers just a bit.

“We’ll assign roles on the ground,” Hotch says evenly, and you feel Spencer's go still beside you, a clock stopped mid-motion. His pen hovers over his notepad, mid-word, unmoving for one second, then two, three–and then he’s writing again, and smiling at you.

“Cedar Falls PD is expecting us this afternoon,” Hotch says, gathering his files, and the words come down like needle sliding home, a vet's gentle hand on your scruff, your birthday ending the only way it was ever going to end: “Wheels up in thirty.”

The room breaks apart, chairs scraping, files snapping shut, Derek is already on his phone, Emily already halfway out the door, and Spencer’s hand closes around your wrist before you’ve fully risen from your chair.

He doesn’t say anything; he just steers. Past the break room, past the glass walls of the bullpen where anyone could see, into the file storage room at the end of the hall, the one that smells of toner and old paper. One of the few with a door that locks. The door clicks shut behind you, and the click sounds terribly final.

“Spencer, we have like twenty-five min–” “I love you.”

The words come out wrong, something being pulled up through him by the root, soil still clinging to it, like it hurts him the whole way out. You have imagined them in a hundred different configurations, and they didn’t sound like this.

“I love you, so so so much,” he says, his voice cracking down the middle. “More than anything. More than anyone else in this world—” and there’s water in his eyes and something frantic behind them, a man mouthing words through glass “--more than the team, more than the stars, more than–”

Statistics.

The wish rises in you like bile, verbatim, your own midnight rite read back to you in his voice.

For one whole second the floor tilts and you swallow it the same way you’ve swallowed everything your whole life. You have spent twenty-six years of practice choking down whatever you’re handed. Stomachs feel better when they aren’t empty. The heart feels better when it isn’t cold. Your innards feel better when they aren’t freezing over. The words I love you feel better when they don’t come from an empty heart, and yet you say it back anyway:

“I love you too,” you whisper, and it is the truest thing you have ever said.

He makes a sound then, low, wounded, and then he kisses you.

This, you imagine, is what it feels like to drown. He crowds you back into the shelving until the metal edges print themselves into your spine, until case files shift and slide somewhere above your head. He kisses you like he’s trying to climb inside you and live in your skin. Like your mouth is the only air he’s allowed. He doesn’t let you pull back; each time you try to break for breath, his hand slides to the back of your skull and follows you, closing the distance and stealing the air from your lungs, and you let him, you let him, because you would rather asphyxiate than lose him.

His teeth catch your bottom lip, and there is salt in the kiss, and you can’t tell whose.

His fingers, gripping your waist hard enough to bruise, hard enough to leave ten small proofs of him on your skin–his fingers are moving.

Tap. Tap. Tap

Tap–tap–tap. Slower, longer.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

A tremor, you’ve seen his hands shake before–in the months after Georgia, curled around coffee cups, hidden in his pockets during briefings–and your heart floods with a terrible tenderness. He’s nervous, you think. He’s newly clean and terrified, and he loves you and his poor hands don’t know what to do with all of it. 

So you do the kindest thing you know.

You cover his hand with yours and press it flat against your waist, stilling it, smothering the flutter. You stand there holding it down until it stops moving altogether. The pattern dies under your palm.

Against your mouth, Spencer makes a sound–a small, broken exhale, half sob, half surrender–and then his hand relaxes under yours, and the kiss gentles, and when he finally pulls back, his eyes have that glassy, hollowed calm again; the fog rolls back in.

“We should go,” he murmurs against your lips, and fixes your collar with steady fingers, and looks at you like you are the only fixed point in a spinning universe. “We have fifteen minutes.” He opens the door for you and his hand rides your lower back the whole way to the elevator.

You tell yourself the shaking was withdrawal. You are getting so good at telling yourself things.

•●━━━━━━●••

The jet is the same as it has always been, cream leather and low ambient sounds that lull you to sleep. Spencer boards behind you, close so that you can feel him hover. When you slide into your usual seat by the window, he doesn’t continue down the aisle to his usual spot–the one across from Derek, chessboard between them and JJ within easy conversational distance. He sits beside you, all knees and elbows, thigh pressed to yours from hip to knee, and he reaches over to take your case file and open it for you, arranging it in your lap.

Across the aisle, Derek pauses with his headphones halfway to his ears, gaze ticking from Spencer to you, to the chessboard that will not be played.

JJ passes down the aisle, handing out addenda from the Cedar Falls M.E., and when she hands one to Spencer, he takes it without sparing her a second glance, and the ugly creature in your rib cage stretches and purrs.

The team begins by talking victimology over coffee, to which you contribute. You must contribute, so you do: something about the victims’ isolation, how he selects women whose absences take days to be noticed–women with no standing dinner plans, no roommates, no one who calls on their birthdays.

Spencer nods before you’ve finished the sentence.

“All I’m saying,” Derek begins, nodding lazily between you and Spencer, “is you two have been joined at the hip lately. Pretty boy, you ever get tired of her? Even conjoined twins take breaks.”

It is nothing but Tuesday-flavored teasing, the kind Spencer would usually meet with a flustered blink and a statistic about the psychosocial benefits of workplace friendship, but today he bites.

“Statistically, Morgan, people project their own attachment deficits onto others, Spencer says. Without looking up from the file, “so I’d examine why my proximity to her bothers you before I’d examine the proximity.”

The cabin goes quiet, and Derek’s eyebrows climb. “Okay,” he says slowly, palms up, a man backing up from a dog he thought he knew. “My bad, Doctor.”

Emily coughs into her coffee, and JJ glances up from her folder, and you–God help you–you feel a warm, awful flush of pride, because he chose you over the peace, because the edge in his voice was drawn in your defense.

Spencer turns a page. His jaw is tight; under the table, his hand finds your knee and grips hard. Too hard, knuckles blanching white like a man gripping a ledge, then, against the inside of your knee.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Tap–tap–tap.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Three short, three long, three short.

When you look up, it's him. Not the creature with the fog behind its eyes that has been wearing his cardigan since midnight. The fog is torn open like cheap curtains, and behind it his eyes are clear and present and positively terrified, pupils normal, face bloodless, and he is looking at you the same way he looked at you across the bullpen the day he returned from rural Georgia–a man surfacing with no guarantee of air. His lips part, his voice, when it comes, is small and cracked and undeniably his own with none of last night's hollow music in it:

“Hey–hey, I think–” a panicked breath,”--something’s wr–”

The shutter drops, and the fog rolls back in smooth as tide, the terror irons itself out of his face, his grip melts into a caress, thumb stroking idle circles over your kneecap, and Spencer blinks at you with his adoring hollowed eyes, “Sorry–did you say something?”

The engine hums. Somewhere behind you, Emily laughs at something Derek said.

“No,” you hear yourself say from far away. “Nothing at all.”

The cabin sounds recede first as if the plane was wrapped in wet cotton. Derek's voice, JJ’s laugh, the coffee maker, all of it thins into a low hum. You look down at your own hand resting on the armrest, and it takes you a moment to recognize it, this animal wearing your skin; you watch it turn a page of the case file.

It reads the addendum, it reads it again, and again, and again. Evidence of prolonged habitation. The subject remained in the home after. The sentences swim and school and scatter. It reads the same line about the crawlspace seven times. The second victim told her sister the house felt like it was breathing around her. It presses its spine into the sea, and the plane inhales, exhales, inhales, the fuselage walls flexing gently with altitude. It thinks: normal,  it thinks anything and everything, a whole flock of thoughts released to keep one single thought from landing.

Three short, three long, three short.

It counts the rivets in the window frame: eleven. It counts them again. It counts the stitches in the seam of the seat in front of you, counts the marks on the back of its hand, counts anything, because counting is a stale prayer and it needs a god who deals in small clean numbers rather than candles and midnight and the specific gravity of a wish.

The taste of wax surfaces on its tongue from nowhere, paraffin, faintly sweet. You swallow it and swallow, and it clings like a film to the roof of its mouth, the roof of the cabin, the ceiling lower now, surely lower, the ceiling of a car at four minutes to midnight.

Somewhere below the waterline, the last dog has stopped thumping its tail. It has curled itself small in the farthest kennel of you, nose tucked under paw. This is the space between a held breath and whatever comes after, and you hang there, neither sinking nor saved, while the wish sits beside you, holding your knee like a leash.

“Descent into Waterloo Regional, landing in ten.”

You slowly surface, and somewhere in the climb you take the animal that wore your skin and smother it. It goes out whimpering; it knows the procedure by heart; it has been rehearsing this its whole life.

The light through the window has changed color entirely. Iowa is unrolling below, green and gold and gridded, and your jaw aches like you’ve been clenching it for an hour. The file on your lap is open to the page you had no memory of arriving at, and somewhere over the Midwest an hour of your life has drowned without a sound, the world glittering on above it.

Spencer's hand is still on your knee.

 “You slept,” he says, fondly, though you don’t remember sleeping, and he looks at you with such perfect, bottomless devotion that your chest floods with warmth and the warmth goes down.

You smile back.

The plane sinks, and you sink with it, and somewhere beneath you the tarmac waits.

The Cedar Falls police station is the kind of building that has given up on itself–drop ceilings the color of old teeth, fluorescent lights, a coffee machine older than half the officers drinking from it. The team sets up in the conference room with a corkboard and a county map, and for one hour everything is textbook.

“That’s not what the evidence says.” Spencer's voice cuts across the room for the third time in twenty minutes. Detective Wharton–a broad, patient man with reading glasses pushed up into gray hair–pauses mid-sentence.

“Son, all I’m saying is the second victim's boyfriend had motive–” “The second victim's boyfriend has a suspended license and the spatial intelligence of a toddler.” The words come up clipped and cruel, in a way Spencer’s corrections have never been. His genius has always worn soft shoes; tonight it does not. “The man who lived in that crawlspace re-caulked the access panel behind himself every morning. You’re comparing them because they share one basic trait.”

The room goes quiet, and Wharton takes his glasses off his head and folds them slowly.

“Reid,” Emily cuts in, a low warning.

“What? Am I wrong?” He turns on her, squared in a way you’ve never seen him stand. “Statistically, false leads consume forty percent of investigative hours in the first seventy-two, so if we’d rather be polite than–” “Reid.” Hotch this time.

Spencer's jaw works, and his hands flex at his sides. You watch the rebuttal climb up his throat, so you reach out with two fingers, light as ash, on the inside of his wrist.

All of him stops, the tension pours out of his shoulders, and he exhales, turning back to the map docile, and murmurs, “Sorry, Detective. Long flight.”

Derek eyes your two fingers, and Hotch records the interaction in his mind. 

No one else can do that. Out of everyone in this room, everyone in this world, he is a storm that breaks only for you.

You have spent your whole life being the thing people could walk away from mid-sentence. You keep your fingers on his wrist three seconds longer than necessary.

Assignments go out soon after, Hotch dealing out the cards: Morgan and Prentiss to the second crime scene, JJ on the families, himself and Rossi to the Medical Examiner.

Then his eyes find you across the conference table, and there is a pause before he says it.

“You’re with Reid on the geographic profile. He works faster with a second set of hands.”

He works faster with you is what he doesn’t say. He works at all with you is what nobody says. Spencer's head comes up from the map like a compass needle finding true north, and the look on his face is the kind that should be exchanged in private, if at all.

Hotch sees it, and you watch him do so, but he says nothing about it, simply “Keep me posted.”

The map room has one table, a window painted shut and a box of cold cases stacked in the corners. Spencer has colonized every vertical surface. Maps of Cedar Falls bloom across the walls in his cramped, rushing hand: red string, pushpins, circles radiation out from each crime scene.

You two work in silence for a while, and it is good, the kind that made you fall in love with him. You read addresses out loud; he plots them without looking, left hand writing, while the right traces distances, and the room fills with the small weather of him–pen scratches, page turn, numbers murmured under his breath, rain against the painted-shut window. If you could live inside any single hour of your life, you think it might be this one.

“Here.” He slides a legal pad across the table without running around. “Cross-reference these against the tip line addresses. My annotations are in the margins.”

You take the pad and his notes run down the left side, one per line: High foot traffic–eliminate. Elevated sight lines here. Likely commuter corridor. Possible secondary location.

Municipal easement–check ownership. East access unlit after 9.

New development–no crawlspaces. Old housing stock–prioritize. This block floods–basements sealed.

Midpoint of cluster. Elevated risk after dark.

The letters march down the page in a cold straight column and spell:

H-E-L-P M-E N-O-T M-E

The rain ticks against the window. Across the room, Spencer’s back is to you, shoulders loose, head tilted at his map, and he is humming tuneless and content, and the legal pad in your hands weighs more than anything you have ever held.

Help me. Not me.

He wrote it in his own hand while the thing wearing him simply hummed. The fog and the tear that slid out from under it, and the man surfacing at thirty thousand feet. 

You asked a flame to hollow out the person you love most and poured yourself into the empty cavity, and the flame said yes.

Where his heart used to keep its own counsel lies only you, poured in hot, setting like candlewax. He loves you the way you begged to be loved, more than anything, more than anyone, and every ounce of it is counterfeit, printed in the midnight of a wish. His real hands, the ones that shook, have been slipping messages under the door of his own body since the moment it stopped belonging to him.

Somewhere behind the fog lies your best friend. The man who remembered whipped icing is beating his fists against the inside of his own face.

You look at the column of letters until they blur.

You should stand up and burn what's left of the candle, confessing unto it, save him. That is what love does. But you think of tonight, you think of tomorrow morning and all those that may follow. You think of his eyes on you before you wake. You think of every empty year and how last night, for the first time in your life, somebody was early.

Your hands are steady.

You fold the top page of the legal pad in half, and in half again, and slide it into your jacket pocket down where things are forgotten.

“Anything?” Spencer asks over his shoulder.

“No,” you say. “Nothing yet.”

The dog lets out his final whimper as the needle slides home. 

If he has to break to keep you whole, then you will let him break.

•●━━━━━━●••

The motel has eleven rooms, and the team needs six, and the universe is down to five.

“Reid, you’re with–” Hotch begins.

“Her,” Spencer says instantly. “We’ll take the double. We’ve shared before.”

Hotch looks at him a moment too long, then at you. You keep your face like still water. “Fine,” he says, adding a line to an ever-growing list.

The room smells of cigarettes that quit smoking decades ago. There are two beds, yet only one gets used.

You know what you did today. The folded page rode in your jacket pocket through the rest of the profile, through dinner, through the walk across the parking lot under the sky, and it is in your go-bag now, buried under a spare shirt like a body under a floorboard, and you can hear it anyway. Help me. Not me.

You know what you did, and what you are doing, and yet when he crosses the carpet like the floor of the sea and takes your face in both hands and kisses you, you crave nothing except more of exactly this. He makes you feel wanted as he backs you toward the bed with unbearable gentleness, as he murmurs your name into your temple, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, a man checking and rechecking a proof he cannot believe came out in his favor.

It makes you feel so, so wanted. Twenty-six years you went to bed hungry, and now the table is set every night, ripe for the taking, and who cares–who could possibly care–that the food is poisoned, when it tastes like this, when it is warm, when there is enough.

You know it's wrong, and when he kisses you, you can’t help but think back to who you were before, two weeks ago, a lifetime ago. Nothing more than a walking corpse moving through the monotony of daily life: alarm, badge, casework, dinner eaten standing over the sink, another year older with no one keeping count. Your own quiet funeral held daily. Attendance: one.

He makes you feel as alive as a corpse can be. His love is counterfeit, yet your veins accept it as legal tender, and every place he touches, blood comes back too, and you let it, night after night, wrong after wrong.

After he takes you to bed, he holds you too tightly to sleep, and you don’t ask him to loosen. Held things don’t get left.

At 3 a.m. you wake once, briefly, and his eyes are open in the dark, fixed on you, wet. 

You choose not to wonder which of them the tears belong to.

•●━━━━━━●••

Morning splits you two apart.

“Prentiss stays on the profile with Reid,” Hotch says, dealing out the day over station coffee that tastes like the pot it died in. “You’re with Morgan. Recanvass the first victim's neighborhood. The initial interviews missed the night-shift residents.”

The sound Spencer makes is small, a small wrong sound. Amd then: No. That doesn’t–no. The profile needs her. The victimology overlay, her read on the disposal corridors, I can’t–” His voice climbs a register, and his hand finds your sleeve and fists in the fabric in front of everyone, in front of Hotch. “Switch Prentiss to the canvass. It’s a lateral change; it costs nothing. Hotch. Hotch.”

“The assignments stand.”

“You don’t understand–” and now there's a fracture in it, a bad harmonic, “-- work better–I only work–when she’s–”

“Reid.” Hotch doesn’t raise his voice; he has never once needed to. “The assignments stand.”

For a moment Spencer just stands there vibrating, your sleeve still caught in his fist, his breath audible in the quiet, and the whole team looks at the table, the floor, the map, at anywhere but him.

Then Spencer lets go finger by finger. He smiles a smile assembled from spare parts. “Of course,” he says. “Sorry. Long night.”

Nobody laughs.

On your way out, Hotch touches your elbow and draws you two steps out into the hallway, out of the light, next to a corkboard papered with missing pets and county ordinances. This close, you can see how tired he is, and how little of it pertains to the case. 

“How long has Reid been like this?”

Since 12 a.m. on my birthday, since I lit a candle you’ll never believe in and made a wish you’d arrest me for, if wanting were a crime.

Hotch looks at you, and the pause he leaves is perfect, the shape of a door held open. “Something’s wrong with him,” he says finally. “It didn’t start on this case, but this case is feeding it. You know him better than anyone alive. If there’s something I should hear, I’d rather hear it from you before it becomes something I find out.”

The folded page breathes against your ribs from a go-bag forty feet away.

“He’s just tired,” you say. “It’s been a hard year for him. You know that better than anyone.”

Hotch holds your eyes a moment longer, and whatever he reads there, he files away for later. “Watch him,” he says, and walks away, and you stand there in the hallway of a police station in Iowa learning how frictionless it is the moment a person becomes an accomplice.

The first victim’s house is a green two-story with a porch swing that has stopped believing anyone will sit in it.

Derek walks in the room, loose and unhurried with his hands in his pockets, letting the house talk first. You follow with the file in tow. The living room still has her mail on the table, junk circulars addressed to a woman eleven weeks dead, the world's slowest condolences. Upstairs, the bedroom is preserved: bed made, closet open, a little dish of earrings by the lamp, everything waiting for her faithfully, stupidly, forever.

“Access panel’s in here.” Derek toes the closet wider and points his flashlight at the ceiling. A square of plywood, its edges dark with fingerprint powder. “Man was ten feet above her head every night for a week and a half. He ate her food, read her mail. Techs found a notebook up there–he wrote down what she wore, what she hummed in the shower, wrote it all down like homework.” He shakes his head slowly. “Wharton keeps calling it a break-in. This wasn’t a break-in. This was a wedding only of them attended.”

You look up at the panel. The house is very quiet save for the hum of the downstairs refrigerator that is keeping nothing cold for anybody.

“You know what gets me,” Derek says, quieter now, tracing the seams with a flashlight. “People feel it when they’re being loved wrong. That pressure, they feel it, and they talk themselves out of it because the alternative is too ugly to live in. She told her sister the house was breathing, and she states. That’s the part I can’t sleep on.”

The room tilts.

“Sometimes staying is all a person knows how to do,” you hear yourself say.

Derek studies you for a second too long, the profiler waking and then mercifully lying back down. “Yeah,” he says. “Well, whoever loved her like this didn’t love her at all. Remember that, next time someone tells you obsession is a compliment.”

The night-shift canvas takes the whole gray of the afternoon. A nurse who saw a sedan she can’t describe, a stocker at the Hy-Vee who knew the second victim's coffee order and cries when he tells you what it was, because that's all he has of her. You write it down and are gentle with him. You are so good at being gentle with other people's grief; it is your own you keep in a go-bag under a shirt.

In the car between houses, Derek drums the wheel at a red light and doesn’t look at you when he says it.

“You’d tell me. Right?”

“Tell you what?” “If something was going on with Reid. With–” a hand lifted off the wheel, describing a circle that contains the two of you, the case, the last three days, “--any of it.”

The light turns green ahead of you, and Cedar Falls unrolls its modest streets, its crawlspaced houses, its eleven thousand locked doors that lock nothing out.

“Nothing’s going on,” you say. “We’re close. You know how we are.”

“Yeah,” Derek says, pulling forward. “I know how you are.”

He lets it go. The thing that no one puts in his file is that he knows exactly when people are lying and exactly how much room to give the lie, because he grew up learning that some doors kicked cost more than they save. He gives you the room.

Twelve miles west, in the second-floor men's room of the Cedar Falls police station, Spencer Reid is coming apart.

He has been clean for months. He has a coin in his pocket that he did not buy, could not buy, had to earn in folding chair increments in a church basement. He has a sponsor's number; he has the words, all the words; he has read every study on relapse ever published and can cite recovery statistics to the decimal, and not one printed word of it addresses his current circumstance, because that does not exist in any literature. There is no twelve-step program for being a house with someone new taking residence.

The wish does not care about the coin.

The wish knows only one thing: that you are gone. That its single commandment, its more than anything or anyone, is twelve miles east in a car with Derek Morgan, out of his orbit, and it howls through him. His skin is wrong, his clothes are wrong, the fluorescent hum of the building is a dental drill. Prentiss keeps looking at him with those careful eyes, and every map he draws pulls toward the east side of the county, a compass ruined by its magnet. He had to excuse himself before she saw that all three of his new disposal corridor projections converged on the recanvass grid. On you.

Buried in the sub-basement of his own chest, hoarse from screaming into a mouth that won’t open, is the real Spencer, and he is oh so tired in the marrow. He has been fighting for days on two fronts: against the thing wearing him, and against the old dragon the thing’s panic keeps waking up. There has only ever been one thing that made his particular body quiet.

His hands are shaking and have been for hours–through the projections, through Prentiss’ sideways glances, through every minute of your absence, the tremor climbs from his fingers into his wrists, finding cracks.

There is a seam in the lining of his messenger bag that no TSA agent, teammate, or God has ever looked inside—a seam within a seam.

He locks the door.

It does not take long; it never has; that was always the obscenity of it, how little time the ruin required; the body relearning its worst grammar.

And then the noise stops—all of it. The howling wind and the buried screaming, lowered on ropes. The fluorescent hum becomes a note, almost musical, and warmth moves through him in a slow tide, starting somewhere behind his sternum and spreading outward to his fingertips, his scalp, the backs of his knees, and both of his wars lie down in the same field for just a while. For one chemically embezzled hour there is only one Spencer in that body, and he is quiet, he is warm, and he misses you.

He misses you the way the tide misses the moon: chemically, without any memory of having chosen to.

He sits on the floor with his back against the stall, and his head tipped back and his beautiful hands finally, finally still in his lap and he watched the light fixture bloom and soften like something underwater, and he thinks–with the fog and the drug in perfect agreement for the first time–she’ll be back soon.

Sober, they are enemy and hostage. High, they are simply two men in one ruin, waiting for the same woman.

•●━━━━━━●•

You know the second you walk back into the station, before you’ve cleared the front desk, before you see him. And then you do, at the conference table, walking Wharton and two deputies through the refined geographic profile.

Pupils, pinned to point. Voice, poured slow and smooth as syrup over the consonants—posture, loose in a body that has been strung wire-tight for days. Hands, perfectly still, folded on the county map like they’ve been posed there by a mortician. 

He is brilliant, and fine, better than fine. He is walking them through commuter corridors and buffer zones, but you sat beside him through the last year, and you have memorized him the way other people memorize prayers. You know the difference between his mind running and his mind floating, and this–this weightless brilliance–is floating.

Emily catches your eye from the coffee machine and gives you a fraction of a headshake, mouthing the words: something, all afternoon. I don’t know what.

You know what.

Spencer looks up and finds you; he always does; you could enter a stadium, and his gaze would find its home on you.

He smiles, and under the adoration, under the fog and pinned pupils, and the terrible singing devotion is constant, low-grade hurt, the kind a dog’s eye holds when it loves the hand that doesn’t feed, as if some sediment layer of him knows exactly what you did. Knows you read the letters, knows you folded the page, and every time he looks at you, some drowned part of him is saying, you saw me at the window, and you drew the curtains anyway, and then the wish washes over it, and he smiles anyway, loves you anyway.

He crosses the room, takes your hand in front of Wharton, in front of the deputies, in front of God, laces your fingers, presses his lips to your knuckles with those pinpoint eyes shining.

The wish tightens its tourniquet.

“I missed you,” he says slowly. “I don’t work right when you’re gone.”

This isn’t mutual.

It has never been mutual, not for one minute of one hour since the flame went out. You love a man, and he loves a sentence—twenty-two words spoken at midnight, wearing your face. You are in love with Spencer Reid, and Spencer Reid is in possession of you. They are two different books that happen to share a cover, and you are the only person alive who has read both.

You shelve them together anyway.

“I missed you too,” you say.

At the sediment layer, the hurt flickers–liar, it says fondly, from the bottom of a well. 

You hold his hand tighter.

The crash comes at 2:14 a.m., when the embezzled hour is long spent, and the body presents its invoice.

You wake to an empty bed, a stripe of light under the bathroom door, and the sound of a man trying to be sick quietly. It is the loneliest sound in the English language.

He is on the floor between the tub and toilet, folded all wrong. Those elegant limbs stacked like dropped kindling, undershirt soaked through and gone translucent at the spine, shaking in long rolling waves. The drug is leaving, the wish is waking. When the light from the door falls across him, he flinches from it. Then toward you.

“Don't–” his teeth are chattering. “Don’t look. Please. Not you. Anyone but–not you.”

You sit down on the cold tile in your sleep shirt and put your back against the tub beside him. Close, but not quite touching. The way he sat with you once, three years ago, in a hospital corridor neither of you has mentioned since.

“It’s my birthday week,” you say quietly. “You have to do what I say; that's the rule. And I say I’m sitting here.”

The sound that comes from him starts its life as a laugh and dies as a sob somewhere in the middle, and then the wave crests, and you hold his hair back, and afterward you wipe his mouth with a washcloth wetted in warm water, and he lets you, shaking, humiliated, twenty-four yeats old and a hundred, whispering sorry on a loop like a skipping record–sorry, sorry, I’m sorry, i had it, I had eleven months, I’m sorry–

“I know,” you say. “I know you did.”

“Everyone’s going to–” His breath shreds. “Hotch is going to know. My body is so loud, everything is so loud, except–” His head lolls toward you, eyes glassy, streaming, huge in his blanched face. A worry stone, something true:

“Except you. You’re the only quiet. Why are you the only quiet?”

Because I get to sit on this floor and be needed, needed like insulin, like air. Do you have any idea what that's worth? Do you have any idea what I would burn?

Everything. I’m burning it right now. You are the everything.

“I don’t know,” you say

And you gather him up off the tile, and he comes apart against you completely–face buried in your neck, fever-hot, enormous and small–and you hold him through it hour after hour. You count his breaths: in for four, hold, out for six, again, sweetheart again. When the shaking crests, you talk–about everything, about nothing at all, about the moon backing away from the earth, his own fact fed back to him, a tether braided from everything he ever handed you.

Toward five, wrung out, half-conscious against your shoulder, he murmurs something into your collarbone. You do not know if it was thank you, or I love you, or help me.

You choose not to ask.

When you wake, you are lying in the grey with his arm heavy across your ribs and his breath fever-sour against your shoulder, doing the thing you do best. You plan the household of your damnation.

Hotch is circling. Something’s wrong with him. It didn’t start on this case. I’d rather hear it from you before it becomes something I find out.

The wrongness needs a name, something in the literature that explains the tremors and the arguments and the pinned eyes and missed meals that is true enough to hold weight and enough to drown out every question hiding behind it.

And Spencer, shaking on the bathroom floor at 2 a.m., handed it to you himself.

You lie in the grey and account: he will be benched, grounded, taken out of the field, away from the profile, away from Prentiss’ careful eyes and Derek’s patient ones and given to a program, a schedule, a known quantity. They will call it a relapse, because it is a relapse, and no one autopsies a diagnosis that fits this well. No one will ever say the word wish. And a benched Spencer, a suspended Spencer, a Spencer with nowhere to be and no one cleared to lean on comes home to you; wholly, only.

His arm tightens across your ribs in his sleep, as if some layer of him heard.

You find Hotch at seven, alone in the borrowed office with the blinds half-open, standing over the county map with a coffee he isn’t drinking.

“You asked me,” you say, and close the door behind you, “if there was something you should hear.”

He turns but doesn’t say anything. Hotch never fills a silence that is doing his work for him, and this silence works for him beautifully, while you stand there with your hands quiet at your sides.

“I think Spencer’s using again.”

You watch your words land and something in his posture lowers itself carefully to the ground, like a man setting down a casket.

“Tell me why you think that,” he says.

And you do. You array it for him, every true thing; every true thing is a bar in the cage you are building: the tremor in his hands, the argument, the temper, so unlike him–so unlike him, you say, and your voice does exactly the right things, cracks in the honest places. The way he came back from the profile yesterday, too calm, pupils like periods at the end of sentences. Last night–and here you look away, at the blinds, at the map–last night you found him sick on the bathroom floor at two in the morning, shaking, apologizing. Eleven months, he kept saying. He had eleven months.

Every word you say is true. You have discovered the secret the best liars and the worst lovers share: the truth, curated, is the strongest lie there is–it holds any weight you hang from it and it never recants.

“After Georgia,” you finish, quietly, “I told myself I’d never look away again. So I’m not looking away.”

Hotch looks at the map of Cedar Falls, at the three wounds on it, at the little pushpins where three women were loved by something living in their walls, and when he finally speaks, his voice is the one he uses at gravesides.

“You did the right thing, telling me.”

The right thing. You will keep it. You will take it out and hold it on the nights to come, this absolution issued in error, signed by the most honest man you know.

“He can’t know it came from me,” you say. “He’s–right now, I’m the only thing keeping him steady. If he loses that–”

“He won’t hear it from me.” Hotch sets the coffee down and squares the file in front of him without looking at it. A man buying the next three seconds to become what the next hour requires. “Bureau policy is clear. I should have–” He stops and revises, spends the blame where it always spends it, on himself, and you let him. “I’ll order the test this morning.”

You nod and turn to go,o but at the door his voice catches you, low and even.

“You look tired,” is all he says. “When this case is over, take some time off. Both of you. Whatever this year has been–” he glances at the map, the pins, and something gentle crosses his face. “Take care of him. He listens to you.” “I will,” you say.

It is the truest thing and the worst thing, and it is the same thing.

Scissors meet paper as you cut at his already torn-up form, vexation spelled across your face. Glue meets scraps as he slowly forgets your previous abuse; not given proper time to dry, you rip at him again and again and again and again, stuck in an endless loop with no clean edge left to tear along. 

You take your arts and crafts project–this papier-mache boy, layered in his own margin notes–and shove it down his throat; snippets of paper latch on as his trachea is swiftly lined with cuts, each one thin as a letter, each one in your own handwriting now, because everything he is made of is in your handwriting now. You write it off as an “accident.” Accidents don't happen thrice. You rip again, and at that moment, he learns: glue holds paper together. It was never meant to hold a boy. Glue can only fix so much. 

You close the door behind you with steady hands, and down the hall, Spencer’s head lifts before you’re even in his view, and he smiles at you through the glass with all his hollow, pinned, adoring hurt, and the day begins.

•●━━━━━━●••

At 9:40 am, a field services medic arrives at the Cedar Falls station with a hard-sided case and a lanyard. Hotch crosses the conference room floor to lean down beside Spencer, and says something low, five seconds of something that empties the color out of Spencer's face.

You watch it from the coffee maker; you have grown used to watching from behind things, some alibi for your eyes.

Spencer’s gaze comes up past Hotch, past the deputies, past the map with its ink, and finds you across the room, and the look that marks his face is apologetic. He looks at you like he has failed you–I’m sorry, I’m going to embarrass you, I’m going to cost you something. You cross the room on cue, and press two fingers to the inside of his wrist.

“Hey,” you say softly. “Whatever this is, it’s okay.”

“It’s a screen,” he whispers. His pulse under your fingers is thundering. “Random selection, Hotch said. Random.” His mouth does something terrible with the word because he has already run the probabilities on random and the numbers do not comfort him. His eyes flick helplessly toward the ceiling, toward the God of enclosed small spaces who has been rearranging his life since midnight on your birthday.

He does not look at you. This is what love is, you think, the blind spot with your name on it.

“I’ll be right here,” you say.

He goes with the medic and the bathroom door at the end of the hall closes behind the two of them. The man who reads twenty thousand words per minute is escorted to a toilet like a suspect, and the station continues on around the closed door, phones ringing, a deputy laughing at something, the world going on as it always has.

Eleven minutes later he comes back down the hall, and you know the result from his walk. You’d have known it anyway but his walk announces it to anyone with eyes, a man moving as if any sound might bring it crashing all down. Behind him the medic carries the sealed and initialed truth in her hard-sided case, and she doesn’t look at anyone; that too is protocol.

Hotch is waiting at the door of the sheriff's office. Sheriff Birkin had surrendered it without being told why–another kindness, country-flavored–and it is the only room in the station with wooden blinds that were half drawn.

“Reid,” Hotch says. The name is the whole sentence.

Spencer stops and for a moment he doesn't move at all. His head turns and across the length of the bullpen, he finds you.

The hurt look, the dog’s eyes, the loving hand.

This time there is a question in his look. Not the wish’s question; the wish has none, it is all answer. This is older and quieter, and it comes up from the drowned floor of him: Was it you?

You hold his gaze and do not blink.

The question sinks, and the fog rolls in. He gives you a small, ruined smile, almost as if he were consoling you, comforting you, on his way into the room where his career is waiting to be laid out on the table, and the door clicks shut.

You stalk, orbiting the bullpen with a cold coffee in your hand. You take a phone call that doesn’t exist. You stand at the county map studying corridors you could draw from memory, all arranged around a sightline to the half-drawn blinds of the sheriff's office, through which the scene comes to you in installments, a zoetrope of the wreck you authored:

Slat: Hotch, seated on the front edge of the desk, hands folded, head down as he speaks.

Slat: Spencer in the wooden chair, folded into himself, all elbows and angles, nodding. Nodding again.

Slat: Spencer’s mouth moving–eleven months–I know–my coin, I still have my–and then his hand goes into his pocket and comes out with it, the actual coin, and he sets it on the desk between them like a chess piece being resigned.

Slat: Hotch’s hand on Spencer’s shoulder, just resting there. Hotch’s mouth forming words you don’t need to lip-read: We’ll get through this. You will not lose everything. Let me help you.

Slat: Spencer crying, face in his hands, shoulders shaking, and Hotch not looking away from him, and you—you watch, believing that witnessing your own crime is a kind of penance.

Behind you, close, Derek’s voice: “Hell of a thing.”

He’s standing with his arms crossed over his chest, watching the wreckage, and his face is grief with the parking brake on, and when he speaks again it’s soft, and it’s not entirely about Spencer.

“You knew.” You choose the true answer that serves.

“I found him last night at two a.m. on the bathroom floor.” Your voice does its work; the crack in it is real. “I was going to talk to him after the case. I didn’t want–” You stop and let Derek finish the sentence with something kinder than the truth.

Derek looks at the blinds a while longer. Slat: Hotch lifting Spencer’s coin off the desk and folding Spencer’s fingers back around it with both hands.

“He’s lucky he’s got you,” Derek says.

Somewhere in the pound of you, a dog laughs hysterically until it can’t breathe.

“Yeah,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper.

•●━━━━━━●••

They catch the unsub on a Thursday, in the crawlspace of the fourth woman's house, before he has done anything but live there.

The geographic profile, Spencer’s profile, the last thing he built before being benched, was accurate to within six hundred meters. A utilities record did the rest, and at 6:12 in the morning, Derek Morgan hauls a small, mild, blinking and down out of the insulation above a sleeping woman’s bedroom, a monster that came out smaller than the shadow it cast.

He doesn’t fight. That’s the detail all the deputies keep repeating to each other, unsettled: he doesn’t fight. He comes down soft as laundry, wrists offered, docile, and the whole way across the wet lawn he kept twisting back toward the house, saying to anyone in earshot: “She knew I was there. She let me stay. Ask her–she felt me, and she never said a word. That means she let me. That means it was mutual. She let me.”

You stand on the lawn in the gray Iowa dawn while the fold him into the cop car. The fourth woman stands on her porch wrapped in a deputy’s jacket, shaking and alive, being told by kind strangers that it’s over now, that she’s safe, that none of it was her fault as if that’s any consolation to her.

Later, at the station,n you watch the interview through the observation glass. Rossi walks the small man through his notebook. What she hummed, what she wore, what she ate, and how he’d adjusted his own meals so they’d be digesting together in tandem, sharing something, he says, and his face is soft. He is being understood for the first time in his life, and he blooms under it.

“I take care of them,” he explains, “better than anyone out there ever did. I learn everything. I attend. Do you know what it’s worth, to be attended to like that? Do you have any idea what people are starving for?”

On the dark side of the glass, you fold your arms and hold your own elbows.

Yes, you do not say to the decimal.

The flight home is full of things being said to no one. 

Spencer is benched, suspended pending evaluation; his credentials rode home in Hotch’s briefcase, and something about the laminated ghost of him traveling in another man’s bag undoes you. Spencer sits beside you, Hotch’s order and the wish’s in rare and perfect agreement. He sleeps against your shoulder the whole way, sedated by proximity, his coin closed in the fist that rests in your lap like something you’re being trusted to hold.

Somewhere over Ohio, Derek looks at the two of you for a long time, and whatever he sees, he keeps. Wheels down, case closed. Everything else stays open as a fresh wound.

There are words, that first week–program, mandatory, medical leave, evaluations–words with forms attached with his name on them in triplicate, and a desk in the bullpen that sits emptied. Everyone at work is very kind to you, in the way people are kind to the widow of a man who isn't dead. JJ leaves coffee on your desk without being asked; Emily tells you in the elevator, apropos of nothing, that people go away for a while and come back; that coming back is a thing people do. You thank her. You are gracious after all. You go home each night to the scene of the crime, water your one plant, and do not call him.

You used to be good at alone–alone was your native climate, and you had built a whole life that could run on empty. You eat standing over the sink and feel nothing. You slept alone. The quiet of your apartment was just the quiet of your apartment. Now the quiet has a shape, and the shape is him.

It sits in the kitchen chair where he reads case files with his knees up. It stands at the stove at the wrong hour,making nothing; it is the withdrawal that they don’t have a program for. Your hands don’t shake but you catch yourself rationing pieces of him.

The moon must feel this way, you think, on the nights the earth is still dark:still held. Pulling on tides it can’t see, from a distance it never chose.

Four days pass, and you sleep poorly, in the middle of the bed, in the crater he left behind.

On the fifth night at 11 p.m., there is a knock at your door that you recognize immediately.

You open the door, and it’s Spencer, and it’s raining, and he is a wreck.

Not high, just soaked through and shivering, days of stubble, hair plastered dark against his skull, cardigan buttoned one hole wrong so the whole garment hangs askew. His hands are shaking again, his hands are always shaking now.

“I know I'm not supposed to be here,” he says. “There are rules about isolation, about attachment–they have a whole module on attachment, and I sat in the meeting tonight. I did, I sat in the church basement with the folding chairs, and a man named Kylo was talking about surrender, and I couldn’t hear him. I couldn’t hear him. There’s this sound in my head, it’s like–” He motions with his hands. “It’s loud. It's so loud, all the time, everywhere. The apartment, the meeting, the street. Loud.”

He stops and gathers the last of whatever he came here spending.

“Except here,” he says. “Except you, you’re the only one who can make it stop. I isolated the variables, and it’s you. It’s only ever you.”

The rain comes down and somewhere below, a car passes, shushing through the wet street, carrying strangers home to ordinary lives.

You run a bath because you don’t know what else to do with a shaking man.

The water thunders into the tub while you pee; the soaked cardigan off his shoulders, and he stands in the too bright bathroom and lets himself be handled, pliant as ever, eyes half-shut, swaying faintly like something moored. You help him over the porcelain lip, and he slides down into the hot water, making a sound of relief so total it borders on grief. You are his soil and shelter both.

The water stills, the mirror fogs, the whole world shrinks to one small warm room.

You kneel on the bathmat beside the tub, sleeves pushed past your elbows, and you wash his hair.

You take your time, pouring water over his head with your cupped hand, one palmful after another, and work the shampoo through with your fingertips, slow circles at his temples, at the base of his skull, all the spaces where a mind that never stops carries its punishment. His eyes close, the tremors slow, then space out, then surrender entirely. His breath evens out by degrees, and he leans his whole weight back into your hands with a trust so absolute,

Whatever else has rotted in you, that one room is clean, the one with him in it, and you live in it a palmful at a time.

“My mom used to do this,” Spencer murmurs, eyes closed, voice floating somewhere below the fog and above the water. “When I was small, and she was well, she’d recite while she did it. Chaucer mostly, Middle English, I used to think every kid fell asleep to Chaucer.” A long pause. The rain ticks. “Benningtons been calling all week. I see the name on the screen and I–I can't make my hand pick it up.” His mouth twists,” I can recite the entire clinical literature on what’s wrong with her, and I can’t lift a phone. The phone weighs more than the disorder.”

Your hand stills in his hair.

“Do you want me to–”

“No,” he says quickly, then softer as if ashamed: “No, I’ll call tomorrow when it’s quieter.” His eyes open and find yours, upside down, and the hurt look is there, both versions of him regarding you through the same drowned glass. “Everything will be quieter tomorrow.”

“Finish the rinse?” he asks, and closes his eyes again, and tips his head back into your palm.

You finish the rinse.

Afterward, dried, warm, and drowning in your spare sweatpants and a Bureau T-shirt so old the letters are ghosts, he sits you down on the couch, suddenly shy in a way that cracks your chest open along the old fault line, and retrieves something from the messenger bag he left dripping by the door.

“I made you something,” he says. “I’ve been working on it every night. It’s what I do now, when you’re not there. Instead of.”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Instead, he sets it in your lap like a man presenting his life's work to a committee of one.

It is a wicker basket, lined with tissue paper folded to origami precision, and when you look inside:

Memories, curated and preserved. A napkin from a diner in Denver with your coffee order written on it. Ticket stubs from a movie you barely remember seeing and notes–dozens of them, each one a fact about you: You touch your left ear when you’re unsure, your laugh has a two-note startle before it opens, on March 3rd you said my name in a way I have thought about every day since. You are the proof I use when I argue with the part of my brain that says nothing is safe.

Beneath the notes, nested at the very bottom, tied in a small pink bow, is a lock of your hair, a soft coil of it bound with a jewelry care, and pinned beneath the ribbon is a photograph, timestamped at the bottom edge:12:30 a.m., your birthday. You, thirty minutes old at twenty-six, asleep in your own bed, face slack and unguarded in the dark.

On the back, in his handwriting, five words: My favorite memory. The beginning.

“Do you like it?” Spencer asks, and his voice is so young.

“It’s the best gift anyone’s ever given me,” you say.

He beams–the fog itself rejoicing–and settles back into your cushions, and it’s then, reaching over to tuck a damp strand of hair behind your ear, that he says it casually.

“Oh–I should probably eat at some point. I haven’t today.”

“...What?”

“You weren’t there.” He says it gently. You didn’t call, and you didn’t say to. So I didn’t.” A loose, easy shrug. “It’s fine. I don’t really notice the hunger anymore. It’s quieter than the other thing.”

You look at him; the same man who once lectured Morgan about glucose and cognition is waiting, mild and adoring for instructions. A whole human life re-plumbed to route through you: his appetite, his sleep, his coin, his mother’s calls, all of it flowing through a keyhole shaped exactly like you.

You wanted to be needed. Be needed then. 

Three point eight centimeters a year and you wished him closer. Past the threshold, past the point where two bodies get to stay two bodies, and the tides you summoned did exactly what he said they would; they tore him apart. Now the pieces of him shall circle you and never leave, a debris field in perfect orbit, gleaming, and perfectly yours. Every textbook would call it destruction, but not one of them mentions that it’s also the only way the moon gets to stay.

You reach across and touch his wrist, and the whole ring of him turns toward the pull.

“Come on,” you say tenderly. “I’ll make you eggs.”

So you make him eggs while the rain comes down and he eats them because you told him to, watching you across the counter with worshipful eyes, and you watch him back with whatever yours are now.

And you will babble nonsense until the end of time, the two of you, because what else is left to do, except die silently in your own solitude once you understand that you’ve been living your life in circles? At least the circle is warm now. At least there are two of you walking in it.

Halfway through the eggs, his phone rings. It buzzes against the counter screen up, and the name washes the dark kitchen in cold light: Bennington Sanitarium.

Spencer looks at it. Then at you.

“Spencer, it's about your mom. Answer it.”

“It’s late there,” he says mildly. “She’ll be asleep soon. Everything’s quieter tomorrow.” And he looks back down at his plate and keeps eating, obedient to the last instruction that matters while the phone rings itself out against the counter.

A moment later, soft as a leak beginning: the chime. One new voicemail. A small red drop on the screen.

He doesn’t reach for it; he finishes his eggs, then thanks you for them, and by two he is asleep in your bed, in the crater, breathing deep and even, one hand flung out across the empty space where you are supposed to be.

You are not there; you are in the kitchen in the dark, holding his phone.

You know his passcode; he told you years ago, laughing on a jet–it’s your badge number, don’t read into it—back when a thing like that could be a joke, back when the two of you were just close.

The voicemail plays against your ear, quiet as a confession.

“Dr Reid, this is Casey at Bennington–I’m sorry to call you so late, but Dr Norman felt you needed to hear this sooner rather than later. Your mother’s had a very difficult week. Her episodes have increased in frequency and severity both, and she’s stopped engaging with most of the staff. She isn’t eating much. She’s been writing to you constantly; she gets very distressed when we remind her the letters take time to arrive, and tonight she–” a breath, “--she made me promise to read you part of tonight's letter, and honestly, Dr Reid, I think you should hear it. Quote.‘Spencer baby, listen to your mother. There is someone inside your house. I hear him when you call me–he walks around inside your voice; he wears it like a coat that doesn't fit, and everyone here will tell you I’m confused, but I am your mother, and I knew your voice before you did. You are in danger, baby. Find whatever let him in, and put it out. Put it out, and come home to yourself’ End quote. She asks for you every day, Dr Reid. Dr. Norman would like to discuss adjusting her treatment plan, but truthfully, we all think hearing from you would do more than anything we can prescribe. Please call us back anytime. Thank you.”

Your thumb moves on the screen, almost tender.

Delete.

Diana Reid has spent years being called confused by everyone who ever loved her, and she has never once—not once, not through any episode, any ward, any broken window she reads the world through—been wrong about her son. It takes you one soft movement of a thumb, in a dark kitchen, at two in the morning, to do what no illness ever could.

You’d told yourself that gifting him a butt plug was nothing but a twisted, entertaining approach to loop the little thread in your hands around him and keep a tight hold of him. 

It was only about giving you the upper hand. 

You’d fantasized about him wearing it for you whenever you pleased—a physical manifestation of the exact way you’d dug your fingers into every intricate fold of his brain. 

But now is definitely not the time to dwell on any of that. Now is for working on the local case that hit JJ’s desk this morning. 

In most cases, you and Spencer’s primary job would be constructing the geographical profile. Although you two had a notoriously volatile dynamic, Hotch believed that the two of you gave each other a push, making you the perfect pair to narrow down the search radius as efficiently as possible.

But this time, you were assigned to work with Derek, since Rossi suggested that Spencer would be the best fit to work with the local officers coming in to analyze and compare some of their recent reports that they believed could be directly tied to this case’s unsub. 

You watched as Spencer made his way to the opposite side of the bullpen so Hotch could introduce him to the police. 

One of the cops that came in was a fresh-faced detective who carried herself with a bright, earnest passion for the job. 

She seemed eager to prove that this is where she belonged—that she could be a core contributor to solving this case. 

Standing in the BAU bullpen clearly intimidated her just enough to keep her a little reserved, but whenever Spencer opened his mouth, her eyes would light up with genuine fascination. 

It was nearly impossible to keep your eyes where they belonged—glued to the big map with only three red pins marking its surface, but you knew you had to force a picture of unbothered composure and focus on your task. 

Distraction was not an option. 

After an hour and a half of buried in dry geographic data, you were surprised with how you’d completely forgotten about the two across the bullpen—until Spencer’s soft, stupidly sweet laugh travelled right into your ears, instantly dragging your attention right back to him. 

They were on a small break, because apparently being useful for ninety consecutive minutes was simply too much to ask for when a serial killer targeting innocent children was on the loose. 

You narrowed your eyes, watching as the detective slowly sipped her coffee, looking at Spencer with the same fascination she’d walked in with.

“Blindfold chess is actually much less about visualization than people assume. Most experienced players don’t even visualize the pieces,” Spencer explained, his large hands cutting through the air between them to illustrate a grid, “they rely on geometric relations between the squares. So it’s all about structural spatial navigation and organizing information efficiently.”

“Oh, wow. And can you turn your head into live gps for a chessboard, Dr. Reid?” she asked playfully, looking up at Spencer through her lashes. 

“Yes, actually,” Spencer’s lips curved into the small smile he always wore whenever he got to brag, “I have an eidetic memory, so it’s quite easy for me to keep track of all the moves and pieces.”

“Ooh, superhuman memory?” the officer let out a soft, amused giggle. 

You watched the interaction, standing next to Morgan who had a small, red pin between his fingers as he examined the map and the work you two had done, hoping he wouldn’t notice you dissecting the interaction on the opposite side of the room. 

“Oh—uh, not superhuman, scientifically speaking,” he stammered slightly, the small smile twitching as he adjusted his tie, “It’s just an atypical neurological trait. And almost anyone is capable of incredible data retention if the pathways are mapped out correctly. I just happen to have a genetic predisposition for it.”

Spencer’s explanation came off as modesty. And any stranger that noticed the tight-lipped smile he gave her, along with the quick flicker of his eyes would’ve been certain that Spencer was humble. 

“That’s still very impressive, Doc.”

But you knew Spencer—knew that he is a show off. And the nerves that crept their way into reality in the form of crimson blush faintly working its way up his neck were a natural reaction of a man wholly unaccustomed to getting attention from an attractive woman. 

What did she see in Spencer? How could she possibly be charmed by him?

To you, his smug attitude was transparent, even when he had his nicest act on. 

Maybe deep down, you were terrified because her flirting was normal, healthy, and easy to understand—a smart, pretty cop giggling at his rants and feeding his ego with interest. 

It was the kind of soft, simple attention Spencer was clearly flattered by. 

You were bitter. 

Because what you had with Spencer was nothing like this. 

Watching him smile at her sweet praise made a spike of insecurity pierce right through you. 

What if your undying desire to wrap him in invisible threads was a pathetic attempt at keeping something you couldn’t actually control?

But you could never sit with those thoughts, so you forced them aside instead, convincing yourself she was naively falling for the polished act that hid how truly irritating he could be. 

You patted Derek’s shoulder, “I’ll be right back,” you said before turning around without giving him a chance to reply. 

You walked to your desk, reached under it, and transferred the purple box from the half-zipped bag to the inside pocket of your jacket. 

You made your way to where the two stood, keeping your eyes fixed entirely on Spencer. 

The closer you got, the more you could see the tiny twitch of his fingers against the end of his tie—a telltale sign that he was already feeling the weight of your gaze and presence. 

“Reid,” you interrupted, your voice cool and perfectly professional, maybe even more composed than usual, “We need to pull the 2004 archive file from the unsolved Richmond case. Some of the unsub’s dump sites line up with that report.” 

Spencer blinked, his mouth closing shut as his eyes locked onto yours. 

The shift in his posture was immediate; the flustered boyishness vanished, replaced by quiet tension. 

“Oh—uh, s-sure.” he stammered.

You offered the officer a brief, polite, but utterly empty smile, “Excuse us.” 

Without waiting for Spencer, you turned on your heel and began walking to the quiet, isolated hallway, but Spencer was already trailing behind you like a leashed puppy. 

He quickly fell into step next to you, his long legs adjusting their shift to match your stride.

As the quiet of the corridor took over, you spoke, “Do you enjoy looking like a desperate, starved dog?” 

“W-what?” he stuttered, the corners of his top lip tugging in confusion. 

“Oh, come on,” you took a step closer, the sheer heat radiating from his body at your proximity was intoxicating, and it only made you back him into the cold wall. 

“Did it make you feel like a big man, Spencer? Having a pretty girl giggle at your big words?” 

Spencer looked down at you, the straight strands of his hair falling over his forehead as he let out a soft huff. 

“I didn’t know I wasn’t allowed to make small talk with a nice officer,” his voice dropped to a whisper, “are you jealous? Is this what it’s about?” his eyes scanned yours to see if he’d hit a nerve. 

Spencer couldn’t help but smirk at how your jaw clenched beneath the harsh light. 

His smirk wasn’t as impenetrable as he thought—you could see the hopeful curiosity in his eyes. 

He was practically begging for a yes, in any form it came in. 

You bit back a smile at how obvious everything about Spencer was. Every thought he had was immediately written all over his face, ready for you to read without much effort. 

“You wish,” You murmured, “I just think it’s pathetic how easily you fold for a bit of sweet-talking.” 

Spencer’s smirk faltered, his chest rising and falling a little faster as your body crowded him, planting your foot between his own. 

“It wasn’t sweet-talk.” he softly said before slightly leaning his face down to yours, “You hate that someone was nice to me. Oh my god, you’re crazy.” 

“You haven’t seen crazy yet, Dr. Reid,” you whispered, slowly pulling out the pretty, striped box, “But since you’re feeling so brave today, let’s see how well you can keep up that smart mouth of yours for the rest of the day.” you pressed the bottom of the box against his chest, right over his racing heart.

His fingers brushed against your hand and the velvet bow on the side facing you, “What is this?” he tilted the box to look at it. 

“Go open it in the bathroom and you’ll know what to do.” 

Tense silence stretched between the two of you, before Spencer let out a dry, breathy laugh through his nose, “You’re not serious.” 

You simply held his gaze.

“We have a file to look for.” he whispered, trying to sound reasonable—responsible, but his heavy breath betrayed him. 

“Then you better hurry up,” you shrugged, taking a slow step back, leaving him cold. 

Spencer let out a quiet, defeated breath as he rolled his eyes and made his way to the bathroom. 

----

When Spencer stepped out into the hallway, he didn’t look very different, his hair was slightly neater; the soft locks pushed away from his forehead, and his ears were shaded with a soft pink flush that deepened when his eyes fell on yours. 

The change in his posture was obvious, but maybe that was due to the fact that you were actively looking for the micro-changes in his body. 

His shoulders were tense, his strides were shorter, and his thighs were held slightly closer together while walking, as though he were trying to minimize the friction of every step. 

He stopped a few feet away from you, his eyes stubbornly trying to avoid yours. 

“That didn’t take long,” you murmured, tilting your head to study him, “You okay?” 

His jaw clenched, a faint pulse visible in his temple—he almost looked mad. “I’m fine. Let’s.. let’s just go find that file.” 

“Oh, I actually just found it,” you gave him a wide, fake grin—the file you were talking about had been with Emily long before you decided to approach Spencer in the first place, “I just ran into Emily and gave it to her.” 

You didn’t make an effort to sound believable, but the foreign sensation currently occupying all of his focus made him unable to untangle your motives. 

“We should probably head back,” you casually pointed over your shoulder toward the glass door leading back to the bullpen. 

Every part of Spencer’s body was telling him that he wasn’t going to make it across the room, but he knew that he had no choice but to follow you. 

As the two of you walked back to the chaos, he stared at the back of your head, wishing that he had the power to reach over and bite it off your neck. 

He told himself that the lack of fight in him today was merely a result of stress over the case, and now the metal plug inside of him. But Spencer can’t really fool himself—he knew that the weakness had nothing to do with the case or the plug and everything to do with his fragile dignity when it came to you. 

In no situation would he torment you back for your cruelty, and he hated himself for that. 

But he knew he’d have to at some point. 

----

Unfortunately, the team was chasing dead ends in circles for three hours until another victim was found in a new dump site. 

The unsub was moving at a faster pace now, and there was no time for the entire team to leave and examine the scene, so it was decided that you’d split into two groups. 

You were left at the bureau along with Reid and Rossi. 

While sitting across from Spencer on the round conference table, you ‘accidentally’ flicked your pen off the edge. 

It rolled right to Spencer’s feet and you didn’t make a move to get it as you simply looked at him, raising a brow. 

The sharp pause made Rossi’s eyes flick from you to Spencer, then back to the collection of disturbing crime scene photos splayed out in an order the entire team had memorized from staring at the gruesome details all day long. 

Spencer stared at the pen on the floor, a hint of pure panic crossing his eyes. He knew that bending down was going to change the angle of the heavy metal, shifting it directly against his most sensitive spots. 

He slightly slid off his chair, trying to hide the stiffness of his moves. He bent his knees a little, keeping his torso painfully straight to minimize the strain. 

“You’re moving like a ninety year old, kid” Rossi shook his head with a soft sigh, “Everything alright?”

A soft whimper threatened to slip past his teeth, but he bit his inner cheek so harsh it tasted like copper. 

“I’m fine, it’s just a—a cramp.” his hand awkwardly pointed to his back then a random direction. 

“You should probably do some stretches.”

“Yeah, you should do some stretches, Spencer.” you nodded in evil agreement with Rossi. 

He grabbed the pen, slowly rising before sliding the pen back to you with a hard-to-miss tremble in his hands, “I’m fine.” 

“Thanks, Reid,” you smoothly said, pretending that your attention was undivided and completely on what the three of you had been talking about. 

Rossi eventually stood up to check in with Hotch over the phone, leaving an unbearable silence hanging in the harshly lit room. 

----

An hour later, the rest of the team filed back into the bullpen, carrying fresh reports and faces that made it clear the latest crime scene hadn’t offered many answers. 

You threw yourself into cross-referencing the new victim’s timeline, only taking a few minutes off to grab yourself another cup of coffee. 

You’d completely missed that Spencer followed you to the break room under the guise of refilling his coffee cup. 

The loud clatter of his ceramic mug hitting the counter startled you, making you nearly jump as he stepped far too close next to you. 

“I can’t do this anymore. I’ve been standing for forty five minutes straight, and Morgan keeps asking why I’m sweating so excessively.” 

You didn’t even look at Spencer as you gracefully grabbed a sugar packet and neatly tore and emptied it into your steaming coffee. “You’re fine.” 

His eyes widened as he stared at your infuriatingly indifferent face with a mixture of irritation and pure desperation, “I’m so fucking sore,” he whisper-yelled as his fingers harshly gripped your wrist, stopping you from stirring your coffee, “and my legs are cramping so bad.” 

“I think you’re handling it beautifully, Spencer.” you finally looked up at him. 

He softly shook his head, his fingers tightening around your wrist, “I’m not,” he whispered, “I’m really, really not. I—I can’t even focus.”

You yanked your hand out of his firm, tight grip with a sharp pull. 

“Just suck it up, Reid.” you glared at him, “You’re a grown man, you can handle some cramping. Have some dignity, stop whining, and get back to work.” 

He swallowed whatever protest he had left, watching you turn your back to him and walk away. 

The rest of the evening passed in a blur. 

Every few minutes, you would feel Spencer’s eyes drifting back to you like a magnet, and when you’d meet his gaze, you could see the exhausted swirl of resentment and forced compliance. 

You hadn’t expected Spencer to be this obedient. You’d underestimated the extent of his need to please you. 

Spencer still couldn’t understand why his brain was leaving him entirely subordinate to your whims. 

He was caught in a trap of his own making—one you proudly took full credit for.

To your luck, this case wasn’t one of the tragic ones that were left unsolved, even though you’d started to lose all hope by the twelfth hour of working on it. 

Nothing was better than leaving the office without the guilt of leaving a depraved monster to walk free.

“Hey—uh, can you.. give me a ride home, I’d use my car, but I’m kinda—”

“Yeah, of course,” you interrupted, nodding quickly before walking to your car without looking at Spencer. 

You didn’t need to know his excuse. You just knew that you absolutely wanted him isolated with you in the comfort of your car—not that you intended to do anything to him, of course. 

Spencer was extremely quiet, and you were just waiting for him to speak. 

The silence stretched between you two even after you started driving.

Until he finally couldn’t bite the words back.

“You’re hitting every single bump on purpose,” he muttered, his knuckles creasing into sharp, pale peaks as he dug his fingertips into the strap of his satchel, almost as if he was trying to sink his nails through the leather. 

“I’m driving normally,” you said without taking your eyes off the road, “the road is uneven.” 

“It’s not uneven, you’re just—” the car bounced slightly over a lane marker, cutting Spencer’s words off with a sharp hitch, “you want to make it worse.” he accused.

“What, you want me to just drop you off here?” you turned to look at him.

“Eyes on the road,” he pointed at the windshield, surprisingly, making your eyes follow his finger,  returning to where they belonged while driving, “and no, just stop making it harder than it already is. Seriously.”

“I’m not trying to do anything!” the words bubbled past your lips along with a giggle, making you seem almost angelic. “But if you’re gonna complain the whole drive—” 

“I’m not complaining,” he insisted, his face flushed in the dim light of the streetlights, “I’m simply stating facts. I am incredibly sore and every single movement is—” 

You didn’t let him finish the thought, “Just relax, Spence,” you murmured, your voice dropping to a gentle purr as you reached across the console.

You flattened your palm on the smooth fabric covering his taut thigh, “Will a bit of blindfold chess help you relax?” 

Spencer’s eyes darted between the smirk on your face and your hand that was slowly making its way higher on his thigh, “W—what?” 

You let out a soft, mocking laugh, “Oh, come on. What was it you were bragging about today? That you can easily play an entire chess game in your head? I think that would do a great job at keeping your mind off the pain, don’t you think?” your firm fingers tightened on his stiff muscles. 

Spencer’s face flushed a deep scarlet, his body making no effort in stopping your wandering hand, “I—I was just explaining the framework of spatial memory—” he choked on his own spit,“She asked a question, and I was being informative—” 

“You were showing off, Spencer,” you teased, the friction of your palm against the rough metal of his zipper making his hips involuntarily buck up, shifting the butt plug inside him. 

“You looked so proud of yourself. Let’s see it. Let’s see how good you actually are.”  

Your fingers slid over his zipper before the heel of your hand pressed against the base of his erection. The shock of your touch, combined with the ache that spread inside him, made Spencer’s fingers claw at his tense thighs. 

His head fell back against the headrest as he weakly shook his head, “I can’t—I can’t think when you’re doing that,” he gasped, the buttons of his shirt straining as his ribs expanded to let him take in as much air as possible to stay conscious. 

“I barely even touched you, Reid.” 

He whimpered in response, the raw sound so needy and helpless—so accepting of how pathetic it was that he was, in fact, on the verge of exploding. 

“This is really fucking embarrassing.” your fingers slightly traced the outline of his bulge before giving his length a light squeeze and pressing harder against the base of his shaft.

“I don’t wanna go home.” he blurted out. 

“What?” 

“Don’t—don’t take me back to my apartment,” Spencer stammered, keeping his eyes squeezed tightly shut as if he couldn’t bear to look at you while admitting his shameful desperation.

Your free hand’s fingers tapped the steering wheel in thought before shaking your head, “You’re not coming to my place if you’re not gonna play with me.”

“You’re being childish.” he choked out, his long fingers reaching for the console toward your knee, desperate to be closer to you without exactly touching your skin—terrified that any direct contact might risk you withdrawing your hand and ending the moment before he could earn his way to your bed or couch. 

“I’ll play,” he rasped, “I’ll—I’ll play the game. Whatever you want. Just take me with you.”  

You pulled your hand back, the loss of contact pulling a desperate whimper from Spencer’s pretty lips paired with a soft furrow of his brows. 

He’d given into the game so you’d grant him the mercy of more friction right now and let him feel good to make up for the agonizing pain you’d put him through all day, but Spencer should know not to expect such kindness from you by now. 

“Okay, let’s play,” he took a deep breath, faking his eagerness to play as if that would convince you to bring your hand back to his lap. 

“Hmm, I wanna play when we get home,” you lightly drummed your fingers on the leather-wrapped steering wheel, knowing that Spencer’s imagination can take the sight of your fingers and turn it into something completely filthy during desperate times like this. 

And the broken noise that scraped the back of his throat proved you right. 

“You’re sadistic.” he whispered, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the edge of his seat, fighting the urge to beg. 

“I’m giving you what you asked for,” you murmured, keeping your eyes fixed on the road ahead as your apartment building came into view, “you wanted to come to my place, so you keep your mouth shut, and you play by my rules.” 

Spencer shut his eyes, a bitter, breathless laugh escaping his lips as he weakly nodded to calm himself down, “Okay..” he whispered, trembling from head to toe, “okay.” 

You glanced sideways at him, taking in the flushed skin of his neck and the way his face was already glistening with a sheer layer of sweat. 

A small smile tugged at the corners of your lips at the sight, making you almost want to reach out, wipe the moisture from his temple, and tell him to breathe and that it was going to be okay—almost. 

But you stuck to the closest thing to comfort, “I’m not going to leave you like this,” you said softly, “as long as you earn it and give me a good game tonight.” 

You didn’t push him any further when he didn’t respond. You simply steered the car into the dark parking lot, pulling into a space near the building. 

“Come on,” you instructed softly, unbuckling your seatbelt and opening your door before quickly stepping out into the evening air.  

A shaky exhale answered you from the passenger side, followed by the fumble of his seatbelt as he forced himself to move. 

“Yes, okay.. I’m coming,” he croaked out, his breath hitching as he stumbled slightly on his way out of the car.

You rounded the front of the car, offering a small, mocking shake of your head at his clumsy hustle, “Black or white?” you murmured, leaning against the hood for a second until he made his way to you. 

“Can’t you wait for two seconds till we’re relaxed and sitting to play?” he gestured vaguely with a wave of his shaky hand before dropping it to his side. 

“You think we’re gonna be sitting and doing nothing?”

“Well, that’s how the game is supposed to be. We sit and play like normal human beings—what else do you wanna do?” 

“There’s nothing normal about what we’re doing,” you chuckled softly, turning to face him as you swung the door open before walking into the building.

“I know it’s not normal, that’s not my point,” he huffed, trailing behind you with his hands holding onto the worn strap of his satchel like a lifeline, “I just meant—..look, I’m taking white. What-fucking-ever.”

A low, amused giggle escaped your lips as your hand reached out, lacing your fingers through his trembling ones and tugging him gently across the threshold of your apartment after unlocking the door. 

“Show me what you’ve got,” you teased, shutting the door behind him before pressing up against his chest, tangling your hands in his hair, and pulling him down into an urgent, messy kiss. 

Spencer melted into it instantly, his mouth moving against yours in a clumsy, breathless attempt to keep up before he let out a muffled groan into your mouth. 

His hands awkwardly hovered in hesitation before his fingers dug into your waist to pull you flush against him, making him hit the wood behind him and grunt at the blunt flare of the aching sensation inside him.

His hands couldn’t last too long on one spot, almost as if he was overwhelmed by the touch alone until he found your face. He desperately held onto your face, parting his lips wider and pushing against you so your tongue would slip deeper into his wet mouth. 

You pulled back just enough to catch your breath and say a few words, “It’s your turn, Spence,” you murmured against his mouth, your hand finding the strap of his satchel, sliding it off his shoulder and onto the ground by his feet. 

His forehead rested against yours, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones as he tried to catch his breath, “Okay..” he nodded, shutting his eyes tighter, trying to collect whatever was left of his brainpower,“Um—E4,” he stuttered before diving back down to catch your bottom lip between his own, sucking on it with needy hunger that made your entire body heat up. 

You let out a soft gasp as he tugged on your lips, your fingers tightening in his hair, “E5,” you breathed out. 

His mouth slid down to your chin, his lips dragging warmly over your skin, “Knight to F3,” he muttered.

You bit your bottom lip, stifling a quiet grunt as he pressed closer against you, “Knight to C6,” you whispered against his jaw, pressing a soft kiss right below his ear. 

Your feet stumbled backward, your heels catching on the carpet as you pulled him further into your apartment. Spencer groaned at your clumsiness—the sudden, uneven sway making his stiff hips move far too much for his liking, sending a sharp pulse of heat through his frame as he swallowed down a whine, “Oh my god, you’re killing me—” his fingers dug into your hips, the nails almost tearing through your fitted slacks and plump flesh, “—stop moving like that!” he rasped, his surprisingly strong hands managing to bring you to a halt by locking around your waist and pinning your hips against his own. 

“It’s your turn,” 

And now you were kissing him like a starved woman, reaching up to pull him back into the kiss, hungrily chasing his mouth every time he tried to breathe. 

“Bishop to C4,” he said quickly so his lips could meet yours again. 

He took slow, measured steps forward, his hands steadying you as he guided you both comfortably into your room. 

“Hmm,” 

“Don’t stall,” he warned against your mouth. 

“I’m not stalling!” you protested, tilting your head back, silently urging him to shift his attention to your neck and leave you to soak in the tingling burn of your lips, “Knight to F6.” 

He dragged his tongue down your jaw, trailing wet kisses along your neck before sucking on your pulse point to make your knees go weak. 

Spencer knew all your sensitive spots by heart, and he now had the instinct to seek them out without you saying a word. 

He wanted to show you what he can do—to prove that after months of hooking up, you’d remade him from the inside out and he was finally performing to your standards.

In Spencer’s head, your cruelty had seeped down to his marrow, making his one and only goal to earn your approval. 

But in reality, there weren’t standards for him to crawl his way up to anyways. 

He was already perfect—devoted, and completely under your spell, exactly the way you liked him. 

You felt the edge of your plush mattress hitting the backs of your knees, and you didn’t fight Spencer’s weight off, or flip your positions.

The two of you were growing weaker by the second, and dropping onto the bed would give your weary bodies one less thing to keep up with. 

Spencer grunted, clenching his thighs tightly, the plug pressing against his now hypersensitive walls as he fell between your legs, “Pawn to H4,” 

You slightly furrowed your brows, stupidly expecting him to follow the classic techniques as if it were a script crafted for you to win and eat him alive, “Pawn to H5,” 

Your pawns faced one another, much like your bodies. 

“King to E2,” he whimpered into your mouth. 

How bizarre.

Your fingers tugged on the soft locks at the nape of his neck, pulling his head back, giving your mouth a better angle to devour his. “Knight to E4, you dumb fuck,” 

“Um— Queen to E1,” he hesitated before taking in a deep breath and nodding, “yeah.. E1,” 

“Pawn to D5,” 

You propped your legs up on either side of his body, gasping as he rolled his hips up, driving his covered erection against your core. 

“Bishop to D3,” 

“Bishop to G4,” you whispered against his lips, a small smirk creeping its way onto your face, “Check.”

He let out a low groan, his forehead dropping against the crook of your neck as he bucked his hips up hard against your heat, “King to— fuck— king to D1,” 

A small whimper left your lips as you arched your back, “Spencer..” 

Instead of getting you back on track, he hummed against your neck, his voice vibrating throughout your body, partially forgetting all about the game just at the pretty sound that left you. 

“Pawn to F5,” you swallowed hard, trying to ignore the rhythm he was setting right where you were the hungriest.  

“Pawn to C— c3,” Spencer breathed out, his hands abandoning your waist to blindly fumble at the buckle of his belt. 

The metal clinked uselessly between his shaking fingers as his other hand worked to unzip his work pants. 

You’d usually tease Spencer and slow him down when he got too impatient, but the sound sent a sudden, hot pulse straight to the pit of your stomach, your inner walls clenching around nothing—aching and too needy to protest. 

“Queen to F6,” you whispered.  

“Pawn to D4— I mean, B4,” 

“You can’t take that back,” 

“What do you mean I can’t take it back, I just said it by accident!” 

“Well, it’s an illegal move—” 

“—because I can’t fucking keep up when I’m all..” he vaguely gestured to where your hips met.

“So you quit?” 

“No, I can do this, I’m just very distracted. I can’t help it.” 

“Then get off of me.” 

“What?”

“If you can’t play and make me feel good, you’re useless.” 

“Please, I promise I’ll—” he begged, his face going up to cup your flushed cheeks. 

“—And you don’t wanna quit the game, so get off.” 

Spencer paused, his thumbs brushing your soft cheekbones as he gave you those puppy-dog eyes he was certain would make you melt and bend your own rules, but you didn’t budge.  

“Bishop to D6,” you simply said, shooting your brows up as a warning for him to move like he was told. 

He let out a disappointed sigh and slowly pulled himself up and off of you,“King to C2,” 

You immediately missed the warmth of his body on top of yours, the cool air rushing to replace his oddly comforting heaviness. 

Surely, you didn’t like Spencer like that, and the emptiness that washed over you for ‘ruining the moment’ had nothing to do with him—it was the absence of a heart beating against yours; ribs that were just as shaky as yours, if not shakier, that made you feel steady and stable in comparison; hot breath that fanned over your face to remind you of just how close someone could be. 

“Castle,” you quietly said, sitting up, avoiding his gaze as you reached to your bedside table drawer, pulling out your sleek, vibrant purple vibrator. 

Spencer’s jaw dropped, his throat bobbing as his eyes went wide and glassy, a humiliating sting blurring his vision. 

Only moments ago he was breathing your air, feeling your body, thinking that you wanted him just as much as he wanted you. But you hit him with reality. 

Was it never about him? 

That’s all he could think about as he watched a piece of machinery do the job he wanted to do, leaving him completely replaced and sidelined. 

He also couldn’t brush off how close the vibrator was to your reach in that drawer—how you grabbed it as if it were second nature. 

He knew pleasuring yourself wasn’t wrong at all, but seeing how quickly you stripped down to nothing and turned it on so urgently made him sick to his stomach. 

Were you ever disappointed by your hookups? 

Had his frantic, desperate attempts to satisfy you been so underwhelming that you never told him, choosing to retreat to your trusty vibrator because he simply wasn’t enough?  

You dragged the toy along your soaking folds, amplifying the vibration as you pressed it harder against your pulsing hole without pushing it in just yet. 

You rested your head against the headboard, spreading your legs to give Spencer a clear view of your pussy and inviting thighs that he didn’t have the right to touch. 

“Pawn to B5,” he barely managed to whisper. 

You relaxed your eyelids, moaning with a calm sigh before making your move that was long overdue, “Knight to D7,” 

Your free hand slid up your torso, the feather-light touch teasing him more than it did you, finally reaching one of your breasts, gently cupping it. 

Spencer was losing track. How’d you expect him to keep up with that stupid game when you so cruelly showed him no sign of mercy or pity?

“Pawn to A4..” he sounded completely lost and gutted. 

“You can strip and touch yourself,” you let out a soft, breathy hum, “I don’t wanna be too mean.” 

“You already are,” he whispered, his voice barely audible as his shiny orbs burnt holes straight into your calm-looking closed eyelids. 

He stood up, his trembling legs barely holding him up. 

At this point, he didn’t even want to be touched. He wished you would reassure him and remind him that he was enough. 

This is why he hated you in the first place. 

He moved agonizingly slowly, unbuttoning his shirt as he admired how beautiful you looked when you were this undone, kneading your plump breasts, fingers pinching your hypersensitive, hard nipples. 

You let him take his time in shedding his clothes and placing them on the edge of the bed neatly. 

You swirled the tip of the toy against your entrance before pushing it back in and bucking your hips to add more pressure against your inner walls. 

“Oh my god..” your whimpers were so angelic it almost made him come right on the spot, “Pawn to G5,” you moaned, making the coordinates sound like the sexiest dirty talk ever. 

“Pawn to A5,” he shifted his gaze to his rock-hard dick, choosing to focus on his own pleasure for once, because you clearly preferred it when he wasn’t the one working your body. 

“How are you already so hard?” you bit your lower lip, smirking and shamelessly staring at his throbbing, veiny cock, pulling the toy out just to shove back in with more force, the sight of his weeping erection driving you mad. 

“I—I don’t know,” he whined as he wrapped his slender fingers around his length, immediately giving himself the tight grip he believed he finally deserved. 

He did know—they both did, but he didn’t have enough blood left in his brain to put any proper words together. 

He stroked himself faster, his asshole clenching and unclenching around the buttplug inside of him, making him shake like a leaf at the foot of the bed. 

You let out a loud, helpless moan at the low, quiet grunts that escaped his pretty, swollen lips, your hips rolling against the vibrating silicone. 

You don’t know how you two did it, but somehow, the game went on. 

There were probably many mistakes that slipped your mind with how overwhelmed you were. 

It was becoming too much—even for you. 

“Fuck.. um— Pawn? Yeah, pawn to F3,” you stuttered, your focus utterly wrecked. 

There was no point in playing anymore. 

“Queen to C7,” his lips twitched into a proud smile. 

“Oh, fuck you,” 

“I win,” his eyes finally fell onto yours, 

“I know.”

He reached out to you with his free hand, his entire body leaning toward you as his fingers wrapped around your wrist, “Don’t you always say losers don’t get rewards. You lost, so you don’t get to come.” 

“Fuck off, Spencer,” you huffed, rolling your hips onto the toy to chase the orgasm you were so close to, but his grip held your hand infuriatingly still. 

“Please, Spencer..” you purred, looking up at him through your lashes, determined to make him feel at least a little bad for you, “pretty please?” 

“No, what applies to me, applies to you,” 

“Spencer… but I’m being so nice.. this is unfair.”

“You’re being nice?” he scoffed, shaking his head as he turned off the vibrator, prying your fingers off of it. 

“Mhm,” you hummed, nodding and pouting your lower lip, giving him your most innocent, needy stare. 

“What about me? I won, and I get nothing?” 

“Did I tell you not to come?” 

“No, but I should have an advantage. I deserve to come before you. And I’m not sure if you should come at all.” 

“Well you have a plug wedged up your ass and you can stroke your dick, you're already getting plenty of stimulation. Don’t you think that’s an advantage?” you murmured, tilting your head to the side. 

“I— it’s not—”

You don’t wait for his protest, sitting right up, reaching behind him to gently tap the exposed base of the plug, pumping it into him. 

A sharp, high-pitched gasp tore from his lips, his whole spine arching as the movement sent a shudder straight to his prostate. 

“See?” you whispered so nicely, “Advantage.” 

His jaw stayed slack, his eyes dropping to your lips as you leaned in closer to him. 

Your hand cradled his jaw, tickling his sensitive skin, and feeling him lean into your warm palm. 

“How about you come inside of me? Hm? We haven’t done that in a while.” your fingers moved to brush his raw, red bottom lip that he’d clearly been chewing on, softly soothing it, “does that sound fair, Spence?” 

Spencer was completely gone. He hummed and nodded into your touch, slowly getting closer to your face, “Yeah.. yeah that sounds fair,” he cooed, his lips brushing yours. 

This way, you’ll get your release too. And if you’re being completely frank, you missed feeling him fill you up—nothing could ever compare.  

“Good boy,” you whispered, slowly connecting your mouth with his, licking his slightly parted lips before slipping your tongue between them. 

Guided by pure instinct, Spencer shifted his weight, gently pushing you back to lay against the pillows, his body hovering over yours as he lined himself up with your slick entrance. 

You both kept your eyes fixated on his dick as he dragged it up and down your folds, spreading your slickness up to your swollen clit, his precum mixing with your juices. 

The friction against the bundle of nerves made your hips involuntarily twitch off the mattress, seeking more of him. You wrapped your legs around his waist, tugging him down.

“Don’t tease, Spence,” you whispered against his neck. 

“Oh, please. That’s the least I could do,” his hot breath soothed your frayed nerves before he pressed a soft kiss against your temple.

“Don’t you wanna get off?” you asked, pecking the delicate skin of his neck. 

“I hate you, you know that?” he muttered, his hips betraying him with a needy twitch. 

“I know.. I know” you breathlessly giggled against his shoulder, peppering kisses to lure him into giving in already. 

The sweet assault on his neck finally broke him. He let out a ragged exhale, giving up on his restraint as he tilted his pelvis and slowly pushed himself inside you, stretching you around him in one long stroke. 

“There we go,” you turned your head to face him, pressing his damp forehead against yours. 

He began to roll his hips in a slow, torturous rhythm. 

You ached for him every time he slid out, but he made it up to you with every push back in, hitting your sweet spot with precision that made your heart flutter at how well he knew your body. 

“Fuck,” he choked out, his eyes fluttering shut as the sensation of your pussy swallowing his entire length and the buttplug that shifted against his prostate pinned him between two sources of pressure he could barely handle. “You’re so tight.. it’s too much,”

“It’s okay,” you murmured softly, pressing a firm kiss to his forehead, “you’re doing so well. Just breathe,” your fingers traced his sweaty spine to encourage him. 

He slightly shifted his legs, adjusting his position to reach deeper into you. 

One of his hands slid down your chest before reaching your lower stomach, pressing against the warm flesh to add more pressure as he drove into you with more force, almost making you jolt at how deep you felt him. 

“Spencer..” you moaned, your hips bucking up to meet his own. 

The combination of his palm pressing into your abdomen and his dick buried to the hilt made your vision blur. 

Spencer knew you liked it when he added tension to your walls, and even if he was deluding himself into thinking that fucking you right now was merely a reward for his big win, he couldn’t lie to himself—he was completely at the mercy of your pleasure. 

The heat pooling between your thighs was unbearable, your walls clenching tightly with every roll of his hips—pulling him closer and closer to the edge. 

Spencer’s hands trembled against the mattress, his head hanging low as he fought to keep his composure. 

“Want me to ride you?”

“No— I mean— I’d love that, but I can do this. I promise, I can—”

“Shh, hey.. It’s okay,” you murmured, your palm coming up to lightly rest against his flushed cheek, “Take your time,” 

His brows knitted together. He couldn’t tell why you were being so nice, but the hushing tone disarmed him and he was far too gone to overthink it. 

With a desperate whimper, he resumed his thrusts, pulling out almost entirely before plunging back into you, tearing a sound that almost sounded like a cry from your chest. 

“Does that feel good?” he panted, his voice trembling as he maintained the relentless, fast pace. 

Your toes curled and your hips strained up to swallow him deeper, “Yes—Spencer, god, don’t stop,” you moaned out, your nails digging into his back.

“I’m really close,” he whispered, parting his lips to lazily drag open-mouthed kisses against your collarbone, his saliva cooling your feverish skin, “I’m so so close,” 

Spencer was whining, wishing he wasn’t on the brink of finishing so he could drag it out and edge you until he was ready to let go. 

You slid your hands down to his hips, giving them a harsh squeeze, feeling them stutter under your touch. 

“Come for me, Spence,” your fingers dug into his skin, “just let go,” 

Hearing his nickname on your lips completely ruined him, and he finally snapped. 

“Fuck--fuck!” he sobbed into the crook of your neck, his whole frame trembling as he shot his load into you. 

He held himself pinned deep inside your pulsing heat as the overwhelming waves of his hot thick cum erupted from him. 

He couldn’t stop the broken groans escaping his chest with every surge of his release, filling you until your orgasm was triggered—a blinding, violent rush of pleasure drowning out all your senses. 

Every nerve in your body was lit aflame as your pussy clamped desperately around him, the juices spilling past your entrance, painting your inner thighs. 

“God, it hurts—it hurts so good,” he sobbed against your skin. 

You were almost certain that Spencer had never gotten this deep inside of you, and you were flooded with pride. 

“You did so good..” you smoothed your palms up his back as you pressed a soft kiss to his neck, “such a messy boy,” 

You let him rest on top of you for a few minutes, hearing his frantic heartbeat pounding in your ear.

Once his breathing evened out, you gently tapped his hips, “We still have to deal with your little accessory, though,” you stroked his messy hair. 

He gave you a sluggish, dazed nod   “Just be careful.. I’m really sore.”

Your fingers reached around to find the blunt base of the plug, pulling a sharp gasp out of Spencer’s raw throat as you gave the cold metal a gentle twist. 

“I’m very impressed with how well you took it,” you murmured in an attempt to shift his focus away from the pain. 

“I—I don’t know how I even did that.” 

“Just push against it so it doesn’t hurt as bad,” you instructed in his ear, and he immediately obliged. 

“Good job,” with a slow, steady pull you eased the plug out of him. 

The sudden release sent a fresh, involuntary shudder straight to his hips, making his softening dick twitch inside you. 

“Here ya go,” you gave him a small smile, bringing the plug to his vision before he took it between his fingers, clumsily pulling out of you to get off of your body. 

You could absolutely tease Spencer until he exploded right now, about the toy and the sobbing and everything in between, but you chose to stay silent and let him lay flat next to you. 

“I didn’t know you could play blindfold chess,” he whispered after a long beat of silence.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Reid.” you turned to look at his spent face, his prominent cheekbones catching the dim light of your room, making him look so edible. 

Spencer almost said that he wished he knew everything about you. But he simply caught his lower lip between his teeth, staring into your eyes, and using these few moments of pure peace to take in the mesmerizing sight of your relaxed face, so serene and raw. 

“You smell.” you teased, “You should go shower, while I order some food.” you sat up against the headboard, pulling the sheets up to your chest.  

Spencer’s face scrunched up in annoyance, “No, you go first. You shouldn’t delay peeing—unless you wanna contract a UTI, of course. Might as well take a full shower while you’re at it.” 

You reached for your phone that was now buried somewhere in the sheets, “I’ll just—”

Spencer shot up as his hand slammed against the mattress, physically stopping you from finding your phone, “I’ll take care of it, I know what you wanna eat,” 

His sudden urgency made you jolt and accept his protest, “Ookay, weirdo,” you swung your legs over the edge of the bed, rolling your eyes as he stayed completely still, ogling your naked body as the white fabric slid off your skin. 

Spencer’s favorite part of nights like this was the quiet drop of your walls. He found your presence quite enjoyable when you fell silent and allowed him to stay close without worrying about saying the wrong thing and breaking the spell. 

“Spencer, the brutality is significantly different from the others; the placement of the bodies for the other crime scenes shows remorse, and this one-” you glimpse outside your rain-splattered side window to where the bodies are being zipped up in body bags “this one shows pure anger, hatred even.” 

You look back over to Spencer, his own eyes observing the crime scene past your shoulder. You can identify the cogs turning behind his stare, his brows furrowing as he flits his gaze back towards you. 

“This couple may mean something more to him; he personally knew them and had a grudge over past or present problems. It explains the anger. The other victims were placed where they were through guilt because he didn’t know them; they were picked at random, by opportunity.”  

Bitter blood slides over your tongue; you hadn’t realised you had been biting it so hard. You got used to the sight of dead bodies, however dismembered and unrecognisable, but it still made your stomach churn and twist. 

“You okay?” 

The soft worry in his voice shakes you out of your head; blood didn’t seem so potent when his gaze was on you. 

“Yeah, yeah, I'm okay; it's just that the other scenes were- mild, I suppose. I could still see their faces and the colour of their skin, so I had it wired that this one would be the same. Two punctures through the chest. Not body parts all over the local park.” 

You breathe out, attempting to exhale all the tension wound tight in your body. Hoping to wipe away the sight of pooled blood and cut tendons. You didn’t like your emotions on display, didn’t like how, after years in the job, it still rose up your throat when you couldn’t tell who someone was, but you could tell what part of their body you were looking at.

“Do you want me to drive?” his voice is so tender you could kiss him. Would kiss him if you understood anything about what was going on between you.

“No, I got it. Honestly.”

Twisting the keys in the ignition, the engine rumbles. You cut a quick glance to the left of you, where Hotch and Gideon are exchanging information with the head detective, and then you press your foot down; the car rolling forward. 

The rain turns angry quickly, thundering down unapologetically against the car instead of the previous soft pitter-patter. The forest trees grow taller the closer you get to the police station, creating walls of evergreen around the seemingly never-ending secluded road. 

The wipers squeak as they move across the windshield, trying desperately to remove the clear raindrops that blur the view. The road is silent, no cars behind or coming the other way and nothing but thick trees for miles. The dark clouds above make it seem like something out of a movie. 

Ironic really. 

Driving in an FBI-issued Chevrolet in the most forested state in the US whilst it’s pissing it down with Spencer sitting next to you. It is harder than you admit to yourself, sitting next to him on a daily basis like you didn’t know the pressure of his kiss.  

What a fucked up movie scene this would be. 

“You know, nearly ninety per cent of Maine is forest, seventeen point six million acres of trees”, Spencer mutters matter-of-factly, breaking the silence within the car. 

Your eyes peel away from the road for a split second, catching sight of Spencer's side profile. His focus is on the dense forest passing by; his glasses reflect the greenery glistening and shaking.

“Lots of forest”, you respond, your attention back on the road. 

Your heart feels too tender near him, squishy as if it wants to be moulded by his delicate hands. You swallow your own words every time he gets too close, bite your cheeks when you catch ‘that look’ from him and zip yourself up when you find yourself thinking too much about how bad you want to scribble the word lesson from his vocabulary. 

Maybe this was too far gone. Maybe you were silently falling in love with him, whilst he just thought it was all a lesson. It had started out as a lesson, but not so much anymore. 

That morning three weeks ago, when your mouth was on him, felt like you were both waiting for something more. You had tightened up his tie, and he had passed you your jacket like you were practising for next time, as though next time wouldn't be underlined as a teaching. 

The next time had yet to come, as much as you wanted it to. 

“I think we should talk ab-” he starts. 

Was he thinking the same thing? 

Loud metallic clanking pauses Spencer's words; the SUV starts jerking slightly, rocking you in your seat. Your hands tighten around the wheel, and your foot presses off the accelerator slightly in an attempt to gain control of the vehicle. Gravel crunches like loud cries under the tyres as you steer the car over to the side of the road. 

You only breathe properly after the car is stopped and the keys are twisted. Peering out of the window, you look around to see if any cars are close by, but you assume everyone is tucked under their blankets at six am and therefore no help in this little predicament. 

“Did we just break down?” Spencer asks, furrowing his brows: such an unusual thing, a question falling from the lips of the man who knows everything.  

This is the last thing you need when you and Spencer are vitally needed on this case and at the police station in approximately… twenty minutes. 

The police station that was more than five miles away. 

Twisting the keys again only has the engine sputtering like it is trying its hardest to do something, but failing miserably. You don’t think rubbing the wheel and giving it soft motivating words is the cure; you damn sure would rather do that than step foot in the pouring rain.  

“I think so, yeah”, you hesitate, letting out a frustrated groan, running your hands down your face before pressing the button that pops the hood. 

The rain is cold, sending a shivering chill down your spine as you step out of the car and close the door. The sweater hugging your body does nothing to stop the pounding rain from seeping against your skin. Not even a second outside, vulnerable to the elements, and you already feel soaked through to the bone. 

Propping the hood up, you move your face closer to the inside of the car. Were you meant to know what you were looking at? Nothing was smoking, rattling or doing anything obvious; you're pretty sure the engine is still intact. 

“Spencer!” you call for him, the rain getting louder around you. 

The passenger door opens and closes, and Spencer's tall frame waddles over; his arms crossed over his head, yet not doing the best job of keeping the rain away. Droplets roll down his face, dripping from his lashes and sliding down the tip of his nose. You pass him a look that says ‘Do you know what the fuck I'm looking at?’ 

He squints his eyes, a small wrinkle forming between his eyebrows. “What?” 

You lift a teasing eyebrow at his confusion “I thought you had a degree in engineering?”

“I do” 

You huff out a short laugh and smile at the ridiculousness of it all “Does that not include cars?” 

“I could tell you what everything is but not the problem; I'm not really good with mechanical knowledge”, he bites his bottom lip as he studies the engine bay like he’s guilty of his lack of knowledge, uncomfortable with the idea of not having an answer to something. 

He looks back over to you, his lips twitching up in an amused smile. You wonder if you have the same effect on him as he does on you, a bad day that turns good just from the sight of him. But you particularly don’t see how looking like a wet rat would cheer him up. 

“We are stranded in the middle of Maine with an unusable car”, you point out the obvious. The laughable reality of your situation. 

You find your own mouth twitching, unable to stop the entertained smile from painting your lips. This shouldn’t be as funny as it is; there is a serial killer on the loose, one you and Spencer are meant to help catch, and then fate fucked you sideways. 

Hell, maybe you were going crazy. 

“Maybe we should call roadside assistance?” you recommend, gripping the hood of the car and slamming it back down. 

Spencer shakes his head. “Roadside assistance would take up to three hours in this part of the state. It’s best if we call Hotch and see if we could get someone to come up and drive us to the station.” 

Your eyes widen at his words: “Three hours?”

He presses his lips together and nods before speaking, “Indeed.” 

Stepping into the middle of the empty road, you look around for any sign of nearby civilisation, hoping on a slim chance that lightbulbs will appear above your head. 

None. 

Spencer is already on the phone as you walk back to the SUV, your shoes squelching with every step. You feel like a teabag that has soaked in water for too long. His back leans on the car as he speaks into the phone, the wind whipping his hair out of place and leaving strands hanging in front of his eyes. 

Branches sway, talking to one another as though they already knew more than most. Funny how trees are better communicators than half of the human population, better than yourself.  

You stand in front of him, not too close but close enough to hear Aaron's rough voice through the phone speaker. Spencer watches your movements, the way you fiddle with your beaded bracelet like it grounds you, as though you're battling an emotion without a name. 

“Hotch says Morgan will be here in approximately half an hour” he slides his phone back in his pocket. 

Half an hour? The meeting with the local PD will be over by then, and there won’t be much to say that hasn’t already been said.

“How does he know where we are?” you question, confused. You were well aware of what road you were on, and the vague vicinity of the nearest town, but this road went on for miles and miles, up and down hills and into the deepest forests. 

Spencer absentmindedly taps the black steel of the car, his finger drumming on the door. The weather's assault on the gravel road and the overbearing pine trees drown out any sounds his fingertips might be making. 

“I guessed the coordinates” 

You were too stunned to speak for a good while; you felt your eyebrows raise in response to his words. “You guessed the coordinates?” 

He nods, a small smile on his lips. In half an hour, you would either thank him for his smarts or tease him profusely about sending Derek in a completely different direction. 

His small smile, despite being in the middle of nowhere, soaked through, does something to your insides. Your traitorous heart beats against your ribs, starved for something it wasn’t promised. His glasses are spotted with water droplets, and in defiance of his vision being blurred, he looks at you like you're the answer to everything. 

You're not sure what you have done to earn it. 

This is the first time in three weeks, two days and twenty-three hours that you have both been alone together. Three weeks, two days and twenty-three hours since you both walked out of his apartment together and had a silent agreement that what had happened that morning and the night before was more than a lesson. Something that involved feelings. Something hard to walk away from. 

He is an amazing friend and co-worker, but you always carried something more that was only reserved for him. You should have known the moment you sent that drunk text that the outcome was never going to be stuffing your feelings down and sucking his cock like you didn’t want to get on your knees and beg him to love you.    

“I think we should talk” Your voice doesn’t flatter or waver, even as you feel the heat rising to your cheeks. It is a conversation that needs to be had, and you needed to tell your little love-bug heart that it would be all okay, no matter the outcome. 

His throat bobs, but he seems to understand.

Neither of you mention the cosy warmth waiting inside the car, the solace of being in a dry space. The rain continues to batter both of you, the wind whipping your hair and the musky wet soil scent filling your nose. It would be much more comfortable talking inside, but the conversation wasn’t meant to be comfortable anyway. 

Love wasn’t always meant to be sheltered and hidden; it was meant to be uncovered and bared out in the open, to spread like wildfire. 

“What are we?” you ask softly, the wind carrying your words. 

“I'm not quite sure”, he answers, half to himself. The tip of his nose is flushed pink, eyes half-lidded as he holds eye contact with you.   

Heated tension passes between you both; your heart does funny things and beats like a door knock so relentlessly you wonder if it interrupts the silence within you a couple of times. Your legs feel like noodles, and your chest feels as though it's chained with bolts and screws.

“I like you”, you breathe out, admitting to the biting words. 

You were the one who told Spencer you wanted to teach him how to make a woman feel good; you were the one who gave him instructions as he feasted between your legs; you were the one who looked up with fire in your eyes as he came in your mouth with pathetic whimpers. 

So why the fuck were you so nervous? 

“I- I like you too” his voice is stuttered and quiet, as innocent as the first time you kissed him.  

He liked you. 

You had considered yourself crazy for a while after leaving his apartment those few days ago. Life went by like normal, cases, files and daily routine, and yet it wasn’t the same. You had convinced yourself that maybe Spencer still thought of you in a friendly way despite it all, that he was able to go back to normalcy because it didn’t affect him the way it did you. 

But outside of all the sexual encounters that night and morning, he had held you, kissed you, and called you things that ‘just friends’ would never say to each other. You suspected it was more, always did, but to hear Spencer confirm that almost has you falling to your knees in relief. 

It only takes a couple of steps, your feet feeling lighter than earlier, and your mouth is upon his. 

He stills for a second before his mouth responds to yours, a small sigh leaving his soft lips.

He tastes just the same as before, the sweet coffee you had dreams about mixed with potent desperation. Your hands put faint pressure on his chest, pushing his back against the side of the wet car. 

The kiss is much more hungry and meaningful than the others you shared with him before. His hands come to your cheeks, holding them and pulling you deeper like he is scared you will slip away. 

He moves his tongue against yours painfully slow, memorising the taste and feel of your lips with every sacred second. 

In spite of the cold weather closing around you and your clammy skin, your body starts to heat up, flames lighting up in the most vulnerable places. You softly moan into the kiss, letting your body fall into his. 

Pulling back slightly, your lips hovering over his, you start unbuttoning the top of his wet cardigan. 

“We” kiss “are” kiss “in” kiss “public”, he mutters against your lips, all too aware of being on the side of the road. 

It had been almost ten minutes since you broke down, and still not a single car was in sight; it was far too early, and the weather was far too bad for anyone to be on the road. But you look up at him anyway, recognising his hesitation.

“It’s half six in the morning.” 

“The average population wake up around six; it's a work day, and this road goes into the main city”, he stammers quietly, his eyes on your lips as he speaks. 

“What? Do you want to stop?” you say teasingly, continuing to unbutton his top. 

He scrunches his eyes like that's the most ridiculous thing you could say in that moment. “No- no, I don’t want to stop.” 

He was right, though; it would probably take only a couple of minutes for cars to start driving through this road regularly. You wanted nothing more than to bend over the hood and let him take you, but being fired for public indecency as an FBI agent wasn't on your agenda. 

You roll your bottom lip against your teeth and look behind him, through the window and to the interior of the vehicle. The FBI-issued SUV was bigger than most cars, enough room to do … activities, activities that definitely shouldn’t be done in a car owned by the FBI. 

“Get in the car”

“That’s still illegal, you know” he swallows and surveys the road behind you. 

“It's raining; the windows will steam” You tilt your head to look at him, neediness reflected in your eyes. 

“So?” 

“So don’t get caught”, you respond, smirking. 

He contemplates it for a while, his cheeks flushed bright red, battling between sensibility and desire. He looks off to the side and shakes his head slightly, a small nervous smirk tugging his lips. 

Your eyebrows are raised slightly, waiting for verbal agreement that you could open the car door and let him fall apart under your touch. He looks back at you, his expression leering and hungry, and you understand instantly. You feel your panties dampen even more, dripping with something that isn’t just rainwater. 

You back up, your chest leaving his, and he steps away from the car door so you can reach forward and grip the cold black metal of the handle. 

The inside of the vehicle is far warmer than outside, and the air is thick with leather and something fresh that has you wondering why you didn’t get out of the rain sooner. 

You crawl across the black leather seats and then turn around, leaning your back against the inside of the car door. Spencer runs his hand through his wet hair, slicking back the loose strands and looking around the forest as though he expects there to be an entity watching, ready to report every sin soon to be committed. 

He shuffles into the car, soaking the seats under his knees and closes the door behind him. Hard slaps of rain hit the outside of the car, and the gloomy lighting sets the ambience, highlighting the passion and longing thrumming between you. 

Scooting down, you lie your back flat against the seats. One of your legs hangs off the side, opening them, inviting Spencer to take what his strained pants said he so desperately needed. 

His mouth is slightly parted, breathing deeply, his brain short-circuiting from the pure sight of you lying before him in such a foolhardy manner. This was wrong on so many levels: in the back of an FBI car, about to touch his co-worker on the side of a soon-to-be busy road, with his cock throbbing. 

“We’re getting the car wet”, he mumbles. 

“Taking our clothes off probably helps with that”, you whisper, smiling at his flustered state. 

His eyes run down your clothed body, probably remembering the way your soft skin felt under his hands, how the sweet spot between your legs had him completely pussy drunk. 

Spencer nervously leans over you, his trembling hand coming to the side of your head. You drink in his dark gaze that doesn’t break away, not even for a second, as though he wants to swim in whatever it is that he finds behind your eyes. 

“We have twenty minutes”, you whisper, reaching up to tug on his plaid tie. 

A deep moan leaves his mouth as your lips crash into his like a tidal wave, a beautiful impact. The hand beside your head squeezes into a fist, a sign that he’s falling apart inside, melting into everything his pleasure sinks its teeth into. 

Your gun clanks on the floor, falling from its holster. Thank fuck the safety is on. 

The front of his grey tailored chinos strains, a tent of arousal evident. Your breath hitches in anticipation; there hasn’t been a day that has gone by recently where you haven’t found yourself cutting glances at his crotch, remembering it twitching against your mouth. 

Sitting on his knees, he slides your Converse flats off, water dripping onto the car mats, and then brings his finger to your belt loops. The belt hits the floor with a soft thud. One less restriction, one step closer. 

“Can I? Am I allowed to- is this what you want?” he asks, his voice low and rough. His timid eyes look at you through thick lashes, his eyebrows slightly raised as if it physically pains him to have a layer of clothes keeping you from him. 

“Do you want it too?” 

He nods a few times, emphasising the point that he really did want this. 

Warm morning sunlight peeks through a dark cloud for a split second, illuminating Spencer's red cheeks. So handsome, so perfect in more ways than one, he was like falling into a comfortable mattress after a long day.  

You more than liked him. 

Much more. 

The button on your trousers pops, and the wet fabric that is practically stuck to you slides down your legs like a snake shedding its skin. Rough knuckles graze the outside of your thighs as he strips you, bringing your panties with it. 

“I missed you”, he whispers, barely audible. 

He missed you like this; missed being able to touch you and kiss you and share intimate moments. His firsts.  

“I missed you too, Spence”  Your voice is rougher than you expect, want shown through the barely controlled rasp. 

Your lips find each other again, his hand trailing down your sweater and teasingly tracing the inside of your thighs. You instinctively open them wider, watching Spencer's throat bob as his eyes land on the wet arousal dripping from your entrance. 

“I would have shaved if I ha-” you start. 

“No, it’s okay”, he shakes his head. Slowly, he traces a finger through the wiry hair, tranced “I like it; it makes you more you.” 

Reassurance trickles through you, a soft smile planting itself on your lips. 

Despite his germaphobe tendencies, he would gladly be up for burying his nose in the hair between your thighs.

Interesting. 

A hitched breath leaves the confines of your throat as his finger delves deeper, running his fingertip through your wet folds. Your legs twitch at the sensation, your body chasing the feeling even more. 

Spencer's jaw is tight as he watches his own movements, admiring the wetness collecting on his digit. Your eyes don’t leave his face, tracing all the hard edges and curves, memorising the desire written behind his fixed gaze. You want every cell, nerve and bone in your body aware that this is Spencer eliciting pleasure in the deepest parts of you. 

No one else. 

Warm walls tighten around his finger as he presses it into your entrance, your pussy practically beconing, sucking him closer. The heavy breathing from both of you is accompanied by the lewd squelch your wetness admits with every drag of his finger. 

He leans over you again, his attention back on your face, watching the whimpers leave your parted mouth. His uneven breathing fans over your cheek like long-lost words finally reaching your ears. 

“Off, take it off” Your hand wraps around the bottom of his top. 

Pulling back, his finger leaves your aching walls to finish undoing the buttons of his cardigan you had attempted to tear off of him before. The grey cardigan hits the pile of your clothes with a wet smack, and then next comes the tie and blue striped polo shirt. 

He’s more timid with his shirt off, his pale, slim body on display for your hungry eyes. A pathetic gasp rips from his mouth as your fingertips find the muscles of his abdomen. Holding eye contact, your palm traces the V-line poking from his trousers and up, up to one of the pale pink circles on his chest. 

“I've wanted you for so long”, you whisper, your thumb feather-touching the soft skin of his nipple. 

“I wanted- want you too. For so long,” his voice hesitates and stammers. 

“At first I just wanted to teach you, for you to fuck me” Your finger moves from his chest and down, tracing a horizontal line across the waistband of his boxers peaking through. “But then I got greedy.” 

Your grip comes around his free hand, and you guide it back down to where you need it the most. Two of his fingers collect your slick before prodding your entrance, slowly stretching the begging muscle. 

“How?” he asks, helplessly intrigued. 

“For you. I got greedy for you,” you whisper against his mouth. 

His breath hitches, his forehead moving to press against your neck like he needs something stable to hold onto. Your words knock him off balance, his fingers stilling inside. 

He doesn’t hesitate to catch your lips in a greedy kiss as soon as he moves back from your neck. Fingers trailing lower, your palm teasingly cups the bulge in his trousers, and his hips move forward, applying pressure. 

“You're perfect,” he rasps between kisses " You're so perfect.”

Everything was on fire, lips tingling against his, pussy throbbing as his fingers move again, hand desperate for skin on skin. His words and touch adding fuel to the fire, accelerant to make the flames burn brighter and hotter.

Want fills you like potent liquor. You needed him so bad, needed to have him begging and whimpering under you, confessing all the things he was holding onto. 

The downpour continues from outside, thumping against the metal roof like it were cheering you both on, just as eager to watch as your insides were to feel it. Steam covers the windows, shying the outside away, covering the gods above from the worship happening inside, the distant sound of cars only a mere thought. 

Soft sounds slip from your mouth as he scoots down the black leather seats, his trousers smearing rainwater across the fabric. His fingers stop their thrusting, instead replacing it with a warm, sloppy kiss. 

The feeling is electric; it has your back arching and fingernails gripping the seat so hard you're positive they leave deep crescent moons. His tongue slides across your folds, running a wet line from entrance to clit, not missing a drip of salty arousal. 

He had obviously learnt from last time, reading books, blogs, whatever you didn’t care about, but they had worked. The way his tongue worked was almost expert-level. His mouth wraps around your pulsing clit, sucking and licking like you were his only salvation in this damned world. 

If it wasn’t for his shaking hands grasping your thighs and the ragged breathing every time he took a gulp of air, you would have assumed he had gotten over his nerves, swallowed them as he took your pussy into his mouth. 

Tilting your head to the right in your pleasure daze, through half-lidded eyes, you notice the dashboard clock between the front seats. 

Dammit.

You would gladly spend hours lying down like this, the rain creating harmony whilst the smell of sweat and musk sticks in the air, but Derek was going to be here in a matter of minutes, and the only thing you really needed, you hadn't got yet.

“Spence”, you grab his attention, his puppy eyes looking up through your legs. 

Fingers threading through his hair, you pull the brunette strands enough for him to know where you want him. His body covers you again, tongue intertwining, passing on the salty taste of yourself.

“I need you inside me”, you beg, too aware of the seconds going by.    

He searches your face “But I-” he swallows, “I haven’t made you climax”

“I can come once I have you in me. Spencer, please, we only have ten minutes.” 

Your hands start on his belt, fitting between your close bodies to take off his gun and holster and pull the leather belt from the loops. Every ticking second without his cock in you felt like agony, something you couldn’t prolong.

He huffs out a short, nervous laugh as he watches your hands continue their task “I don’t know how to- I- this is my first” 

“I know. I’ll make it good”  

“What if you don’t finish?”

That was perhaps the stupidest thing that ever came out of his sweet mouth.   

“I will, baby, trust me, I will” A smile plays on your lips, admiring his concern for you despite it being his first time. Gently pushing his chest, he leans back against the seat. “Just let me take control, okay?” 

He falls under your command like a puppy on a leash, eyes wide as he watches you sit up and throw a leg over his lap. His desire is indisputable with the way his bulge is hungrily pressing against your core. 

“Last time - last time you were over, you forgot” His voice wavers as your lips trail up the side of his neck, “forgot your underwear.” 

Spencer's hands come to your waist, and in response, you playfully roll your hips down on him. A pretty moan slips from his mouth, his hands gripping your body tighter. 

Hips moving on their own accord, you hold the back of Spencer's neck and delight in the facial expressions that come across his appearance. His head is lolled back against the seat, cheeks bright red and eyes half-lidded as though he had trouble comprehending his thought process. 

Your sensitive clit rubs against the damp fabric of his chinos, and each spark of friction shakes your legs. “I know” 

“You did it on purpose”, he mutters, “because of what- mh -what you said.” 

Pride fills you. He was finally going to mention it, the little surprise you left on his kitchen counter, pretty white lace he couldn’t get enough of last time his mouth was on you. 

“Mh? What did I say?”

His cheeks flush a shade darker. 

“Men use it for pleasurable purposes; it heightens the testosterone and dopamine chemicals and-” his voice gets a pitch higher, and he squeezes his eyes shut, “- I looked it up. Just- I- you told me to wrap it around myself…my cock.” 

Your own breath hitches with his dirty words. Spencer mentioned sexual organs at work with a firm voice, in a professional manner, but you had never heard him say it this way, desperate. It feels wrong, unheard of, to witness such a thing, but it felt wrong in the best way. 

“Your what?” You push him to repeat it, teasing him in a playful voice. 

“My- my cock” His voice is whiny, having given up with any form of trying to piece back the intelligible parts of his mind. 

“And did you do it?” 

“I.. I did just- please, please keep going,” his hips buck up as a follow-on to his words, his tone showing just how desperate he really was. 

Hooking a finger under his chin, you tilt his face up and hold eye contact as you press your hips harder and rock with more rhythm. The grinding has your own mind covered in fog, mouth open on silent gasps. 

“Did you cum all over my panties?” 

“All over, all over I swe-” a stuttered hiss cuts him off. His fingernails dig into the soft flesh of your ass, hips stuttering as you continue rocking on him. Only when you notice a single tear sliding down his cheek do you stop your movements. 

Smug realisation hits you, “Spencer- did you just-?”   

You just made Spencer Reid cum in his pants with only a few hip rolls. 

To be honest, it wasn't all that surprising. Are you shocked that it happened so quickly? Yes, but with little to no experience, he was bound to bust a load that easily, without being touched. But fuck, did he look so attractive doing so, his eyes blown wide as if he himself was stunned by his body's surrender.    

“Shut up- shut up; that’s so embarrassing”, he winces after catching his breath.

It was one of, if not the most attractive thing you had ever witnessed.  

“It’s not”, you scoff, a light-hearted laugh, and lean your forehead against his sweaty one. “But I need you to get hard again.” 

You could practically imagine the clock, counting down the seconds left until Derek's fist would rasp against the steamed window. You didn’t want to leave, didn’t want the rain to stop pattering against the car like fingertips, didn’t want the smell of sex to disperse when the door opened, and most of all you didn’t want to go until you spilt the words tangled up in your heart, the fact that maybe like wasn’t the right word.

“For the average male in his early twenties it can take anywhere from fifte-” 

“I know”, you whisper, moving your hips up and hands down to his half-zipped trousers. 

Despite the facts, as soon as your painted nails skim his striped boxers, his cock stirs. The wet fabric of his boxers pulls tighter, outlining the shape of his growing hardness.

As soon as you shimmy his trousers and boxers down below his thighs, his flushed cock bounces out, already swelling by the second from just a simple graze of your skin. The sight of his earlier release coating his tip has a whimper slipping from your lips. 

“I don’t have a condom”, he stammers, his voice small. 

The smallness of his voice stills the air around you, the heat seizing for a split second. You search his eyes, searching for anything hinting at uncertainty. 

“I'm on the pill”, you reassure him softly, speaking with confidence in hopes of flushing out any worries he might have “Is that okay? Do you want to stop?” 

His eyebrows pinch upwards, his gentle gaze reminding you that this wasn’t the making of lust but blooming love, feelings that had only recently started kicking up the dirt. 

“It’s okay; I want this”, he whispers, warm breath tickling your lips “Please.” 

The ‘please’ is all you need; an insatiable covet swarms around the deepest parts of you, filling up your soul and heart after so long of hiding itself. Spitting onto your hand, you slick up the head of his cock, eliciting a gasp from Spencer's full lips. 

Slowly, you sink down on him, your hand gripping his base to help position him. Over the pitter-patter of the rain, Spencer's soft breaths bless your ears with every inch of him that slides into your pussy. 

Once fully seated on him, his throbbing length filling you, your forehead meets his. Spencer's hands grip tightly on the plush skin of your hips, his breath coming out choppy as though he is focusing on everything holding him together; he hadn’t been expecting to feel this much. 

“Does that feel good?” he breathes out after gaining some composure.  

“I haven’t moved yet, Spence”, you chuckle breathlessly. 

“I know- I know”, he says, well aware of the fact that, yes, you haven’t moved and he already feels close to the edge, “but still-.” 

“So good”, you promise. 

The truth of this all hasn’t bypassed you; this is really happening. Spencer Reid's cock is throbbing inside your warm heat, and chasing release is the last thing on your mind with the way his eyes are looking up at you through his misted lenses, with that sparkle in his gaze that speaks more than an orgasm could. 

“You're beautiful” slips from his mouth like a prayer, akin to saying amen.  

You never fell for people's compliments; it was always said like a vow, but it was only ever personal opinion. Pretty some days, ugly the next. But for the first time in forever, you believed it, believed him.

You are beautiful. 

“I'm surprised you can even see me”, you tease, unhooking his fogged-up glasses from behind his ears and setting them on the console. An admiring smile grazes your face, the clear sight of Spencer's deep brown eyes furrowing in pleasure enough to spur a physical reaction within you. 

Twitching your hips up a little, his mouth falls open, caught on a low whimper. His hands grip tighter, palming your soft skin. 

Spencer looks like a poor, needy puppy, his wet hair tousled from the mixture of the rain and your hands, his cheeks and nose florid, his half-lidded gaze looking up at you, begging for what was already his. 

You start slowly moving your body against his, your legs and hips working together in tandem, making the most of the time that was slowly slipping through your fingers. The noise of soft skin slapping, friction between damp bodies and various moans, whimpers and gasps fills the warm, thick air. 

Spencer's palm comes to the back of your tilted neck, your eyes closed and head thrown back. “Look at me”, he asks softly, applying slight pressure to your neck, encouraging your eyes to meet his yet again. 

He moulds your pussy with his length like it's his to worship.

The breath shared between you grows hot, so dense it feels like swallowing steam. Your eyes don’t waver, never breaking away from tracking his face even when your hips fall back down on him and his cock easily hits that spongy spot so deep inside it feels like redefining heaven. 

When your thighs start to shake, stuttering your movements, Spencer catches on. Timid hands slide up from your hips and across the curve of your waist, holding tight and guiding your movements.  

Your body leans against his, his bare chest pressing against your damp shirt plastered to your moist skin like wet paper. His lips catch yours, pulling apart on gasps but never too far, always hovering like you could be taken at any moment, vigilant that the clock would stop. 

“I want you to be mine”, he whispers, voice wavering, “I-I want this forever.” 

You swear your heart stops for more than three beats; you almost pinch yourself to assure yourself it's real, that this wasn’t just some made-up fantasy your mind cruelly shaped. 

“I want that too” 

You had wanted it before you even knew it. 

Wanted him before his lips blessed yours. 

Spencer sweetly smiles at your words, hips following yours, lifting up to chase the release on the tip of his tongue. Slowing your hips, your own stomach starts to tighten, your body quivering over his. 

You wouldn’t normally cum so quick, so easily, but the fact that it’s Spencer, that this need and yearning for him have been dragged out for so long, makes it hard not to come apart so fleetly.  

“Clo-close?” He asks, breathing out all the words he can manage, a feeble one. 

“Mhm”, you mumble against his lips, speech shutting you out too.  

The slick drag of his cock inside you is consuming, your so drunk on the glint in his eyes and the hot breath running fingertips down your throat you hardly notice how busy the road has gotten. The sound of tyres against wet gravel is the last thing on your mind, only a distant hum.

Taking note of your reactions, inside and out, he moves his hips accordingly and learns exactly what has your body arching above him, what pulls dirty noises from your throat. He’s a quick learner, despite being hammered by the new feeling of a wet pussy around him; he has control of his motions, knowing to hold back and cherish the moment.    

His lips meet yours again, exchanging hot gasps down your throat, tangling his tongue with yours like a future promise.  

A hot golden heat sizzles deeply inside of you and then spits like hot oil, your orgasm crashing through you. The pleasure taking over you manipulates your whole body, your wet walls tightening around Spencer's cock, legs shaking and back arching. Spencer pants at the tightness strangling his cock, his own release teetering on the edge of undoing. 

“Can I do it inside, please?” he strangles out, holding himself back with a struggle. The weak, pathetic ‘please’ erases any logical thoughts on the time or clean up; you nod without question. 

Spencer resorts to bucking his hips up since your legs stopped being useful the moment you came. Fucking into you from below, his tip bruises your throbbing oversensitive g-spot, riding out your orgasm whilst brinking his. 

Your stomach tightens and twists, your orgasm still rocking through you, being dragged out with every thrust of his cock. The euphoria is compelling, your brain erased of any thoughts but the moment before you.  

“Cumming- cumming- oh god”, he hisses out and then bites his lip hard, his eyes widening solid on you. His face twists as he spills inside of you, his hips stuttering, creating the most beautiful sight. 

“I love you”, you confess as though it’s a sin. Tones of pressure, old and new slides of your chest, the confession leaving you lighter than before. 

It's all real, too real. 

Lately, time had been spent belittling your own emotions, downgrading them and pushing them down because it was unprofessional or overwhelming, just plain scary to feel something this strong. You had a hard time coming to terms with the fact that it wasn’t normal to crave the next sexual meeting with your coworker; it wasn’t usual to get butterflies when he glanced your way, and it definitely wasn’t casual that he was your last thought before falling asleep and first thought waking up.  

But it was out now, said to his pleasure-ridden face.

And you don’t regret it, especially when his next words are spoken so strongly; it leaves no doubt he feels the same. 

“I love you too, I love- love you so much”, he breathes out, slowing his hips, his cock spent inside you. 

His eyes soften and fill with the first sight of love, ripping the mask away and exposing how vulnerable he truly felt around you. His lips come to you, leaning forward and kissing so sweetly, kissing with a type of adoration he didn’t possess before. 

The kissing lasts longer than it should, the surroundings only remembered when the close sound of tyres moving over pebbles reaches your ears.

Oh fuck

Senses come back to both of you: the tickle of the trickling pearl white dripping from your entrance and down Spencer's thighs, how the sun shining in from outside was much brighter than you remembered, combined with the fact that rain was no longer falling from the sky and that the crunch of a close vehicle was a ticking time bomb. 

It was unrealistic thinking you would have more time, hoping there was traffic or a closed road that would prolong this beautiful moment. 

“Fuck, I think Derek is here” You curse yourself for not being more mindful of the time. 

Spencer seems to realise too, his grip on your hips loosening and his head tilting to the side, confirming the outline of the SUV through the fogged (thankfully) windows. 

“Oh, um, how- how are you going to move?” 

Looking down at his release covering your conjoinment, you ask yourself the same question. 

“Carefully?” you wince, knowing however careful you still had to do it quickly. 

Lifting your hips, he slides out of you with a wet pop, followed by the obscene sight of his cum leaking from between your thighs. You don’t have time to question the state of the car nor how you were going to slide on wet clothes because all you know is that if you both don’t get decent within the next few minutes you would scar Derek for life. 

You climb off Spencer's lap, collect your panties from the floor, but pause when you feel Spencer's heated gaze on them, watching you whilst pulling up his boxers and trousers. 

“You want them?” you ask, catching his thoughts. 

His eyes go wide, and his cheeks flush a darker colour; you don’t know why he is so surprised you caught him in the act; it’s not like you read people's emotions for a living. 

“Is that okay?” 

You nod and shove them in his capri pants without a regard. 

Sliding on wet trousers has to be up there as one of the most uncomfortable things in human existence, violated by your own clothes all because you dare get them damp.  

There's a knock on the window as you do up your top button, rushing to look presentable.

“You guys decent in there?” Derek asks, a teasing tone laced in his voice. 

Of course.  

You neglect the idea of sliding on your dripping socks and instead stuff them in your pockets whilst pulling on your shoes. Spencer finishes adjusting his tie when Morgan tries pulling at the locked handle. 

“Wait, wait!” Spencer raises his voice. 

Spencer rakes over your face and body with marvelment and happy disbelief before opening the door with the conclusion that you both look somewhat decent. 

It was obvious anyway; Derek had noticed the heated glances you had been giving Spencer way before this happened, teasing you both about it, so it was inevitable he would clock what was going on soon enough. 

Although you hadn't been expecting this to be the way he found out. 

Once both of you get out of the car, you come face to face with a smirking Derek leaning against his SUV. He raises his brows at the sight of you both, damp clothes stuck to your bodies, hair messed up, Spencer's tie not even looking like a tie anymore. 

“You get a bit wet?” 

“Shut up”, you bite back, embarrassed he saw you in such a sight. If only he knew Spencer was dripping down your thigh. 

“Hey, I'm just saying you both look a little wind-swept”, Derek chuckles, holding his hands up playfully. 

                                                  °‧🌱⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The back of the SUV is warm and relaxing, filled with comforting silence when Derek isn’t yapping about ‘Spencer, my man, no longer a virgin, huh?’ from the driver's seat. It took a while for him to stay quiet; half the car ride had been him asking teasing questions, but when he peeked at the rearview mirror and noticed you subtly joining fingers with Spencer in the back seat, he decided to keep his mouth shut.

The air is different around Spencer, a quiet ease that has your heart beating with content and your stomach swarming in happiness. You send each other small signals, whether it be a short soft glance or squeezing each other's hands three times. 

This change in relationship has gone quicker than you anticipated. Two weeks ago, when your hands and mouths explored each other, you had been thinking it would be no less than a year until the word love would fall from your mouth or Spencer's. 

Oh, how wrong you had been.

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