angel

It’s not that Sam never called you, it’s just that he usually relayed information through Joaquin, figuring “that flirt is calling her ass, anyway.” (Sam’s words, not yours). It was entirely possible Joaquin’s phone died, and he wanted to call you anyways, to ease your nerves about his latest mission. The guy never remembers to plug his phone in, anyways. You’re half sure he didn’t even own a phone charger. He always pawned one off of you every time you spent the night at his place. Pressing the little green button and raising it to your ear, you answered.

“Hey, Sam, what’s up, you-“

“-Come to the MedStar.” It was quick and interrupted. You had to physically fight back a devious eyebrow raise.

“I’m sorry? The-“

“The hospital, come to it. MedStar Georgetown.” Your heart felt it stopped beating for a second, as a rush of adrenaline beamed through your bloodstream. It wouldn’t be a stretch to say your hands started shaking.

“Sam, you’re scaring me.”

“It’s Joaquin.” Sam’s words cut through the speaker like an automated bullet, entering your temple and exiting deep in the pit of your stomach. What the hell did he mean ‘It’s Joaquin’?

“Sam, is he okay?” Your voice must have come out shaking, because the teen girl handing you your beverage muttered a hesitant ‘are you okay?’ You didn’t even know the answer to that, right now.

“Sam, I said-“

“He’s alive.”

Not comforting. Not at all. ‘Alive’ was truly subjective, in this context. Was he breathing on his own? Was he awake? For God’s sake, was he comatose?

Before any of the terrifying thoughts could escape your lips, Sam spoke.

“Get your ass here, now.” Then he just… hung up.

Oh God. Oh Lord. He’s alive. ‘He’s alive’ is what you kept telling, muttering to yourself, as you fumbled with your keys, breath shaky, as you typed the hospital address into your phone. As your hands sweated, slipped on the leather of the steering wheel. Shit. Focus. God knows you don’t want to end up in the hospital bed next to him. But at least you’d be next to him, not half-speeding down the freeway, worrying yourself to nausea over the wellbeing of your best friend.

Every exit and road sign was a blur, and you paid zero mind to any speed limit. The only thing that mattered was closing the gap between you and Joaquin.

Rushed breaths and one haphazard park job later, a partially confused but well-intentioned volunteer showed you to the room Torres was in.

The time was both fast and slow, if that was even possible, and your heart felt as though it was stopping and beating out of your ribcage all at once. Your hands sweated, shook profusely as you pushed open the door.

The room was cold, a rush of air brushing past your hot skin. The lights were dim, the midday sun casting patterns through the half open blinds. Sam said something. Your name, maybe, as he turned away from the nurse to look at you. With all the respect in the world to Sam, you did not care. The only thing occupying every neuron and fold of your brain was the way Joaquin laid in that hospital bed, arms at his side, monitors beeping with every shallow, incomplete breath he drew in through bruised airways.

You wanted to hug him. To hold him. To grasp him tightly and never let go, the touch reminding you that he was really here, really alive. You knew he wasn’t in the condition for that, for God’s sake, you could tell just by looking at him. The thin paper gown barely hid the burns crawling up his neck, tough red splotches marring his tanned skin. His eyes immediately connected to yours.

Your feet carried you to the side of his bed, kneeling on the cold linoleum. Your hands hovered, hesitantly and scared over the side rail. It was almost as though Joaquin could hear your inner monologue through his own ears. He raised his arm slowly, battered fingers wrapping around your own tightly.

“Hey, hey, hey…” he smiled weakly, dark eyes leveled with yours. “I’m okay.”

—

Your eyes were trained on his beeping monitors, from where you sat, the glow haunting, every shift in his heart rate, respiration, blood oxygen had you sneaking out of the room to the nurses’ station, asking if he was still okay. The answer was always yes, no matter how hard your heart pounded against your ribs, the doctor Google in you finding no comfort in the consistent 112/68 mmHg displayed on the screen.

Joaquin stirred in the bed, the gentle rustling of thin sheets alerting you, your eyes glancing to the clock. 2:23 am. He took in a shaking breath, and it sounded like it hurt. You’re sure it did. You knew it did. Sam filled you in.

Joaquin was shot out of the air in the falcon suit. He fell 200 feet from the sky into a military vehicle and caught fire. And he had the audacity to tell you he was “okay”.

You rose, a sharp breath escaping your lungs, as your feet padded over to the side of his bed.

He breathed out your name, an audible groan following the words. It hurt for him to even speak.

“Don’t- don’t talk…” Your eyebrows knitted together, intertwined in concern, one manicured hand threading into his fingers. He wanted to argue, to say something sarcastic, to make a joke, to do anything other than lie there like a damn invalid. But the attempt ended in a strangled cough, his lungs protesting the effort with a surge of pain. You flinched at the sound, a crackling grit escaping his lips, holding his hand tighter.

“Do you want me to get the nurse?” You spoke just above a whisper, almost muttering the words, afraid that if you spoke, your voice might just shatter him. He just shook his head with a stubborn pride, brow line falling into his nose in protest. He didn’t want any more sedatives. He was already so doped up on a fentanyl drip, he could barely see straight. Could barely focus on your pretty eyes, or the way your lips curled into a forced smile of concern.

“Do I really look that bad?” He whispered. If he spoke any louder, he might just fall into another coughing fit. He glanced up, forehead sweat-slick with hair sticking to it, his dark eyes begging for something, you didn’t know what.

“You look like hell,” you grabbed the edge of the chair you were sitting on previously, pulling it to the side of the bed with a creak. You sat. You weren’t going anywhere.

He pressed the back of your hand to his lips, eyes closing, as though the feeling was better than any of the narcotics they had him on.

“You really know how to stroke a guy’s ego,” he laughed painfully.

“Your ego is what got you into this situation, dumbass,” You sternly joked, lowering your head to rest on the side of his bed.

He knew you were right. He didn’t protest. He was well aware that his actions contributed to his accident.

“Pot callin’ the kettle black, Cariño,” he rasped out. “Little miss reckless over here.”

“I’m not the one who got gunned out of the sky, Quin.”

He huffed, eyes following your figure. How long have you been wearing his sweatshirt? You sighed a shaky breath.

“Joaquin, you- you fight like all hell,” his thumb stroked gently across your knuckles. “You’re smart, skilled, trained,” your voice cracked. “But you need to start thinking before you act. I can’t- I…” Sigh. His big, pathetic brown eyes looked so wet and sad. Did his lips always pout that way? “I can’t imagine something worse happening to you.”

He flinched. God, the way your lips wavered shattered his heart into a million pieces.

“I know, I know… alright, I know,” his head fell to the side, the plastic of the pillow crinkling under his face. He shut his eyes. “It just gets so… intense out there.”

You grabbed his hand with both of yours, now, drawing his sad eyes back to you.

“You saved lives, Joaquin,” his eyes glinted with an unexplained pride, either from having you here, or the statement you made. “But you need to start valuing your own.”

He took a shaky breath, eyes still closed. Your words sliced through the fog of pain and medication, hitting uncomfortably close to home. Saving lives. That was what he wanted to do, more than anything else. But he couldn't help the feeling of guilt that gnawed at him. You were right, damn it. He'd been caught up in the heat of the battle, acting on instinct and adrenaline, not considering the consequences.

You could tell he felt bad. You could see it in his face. The hum of lit up tv screens and ac blended horrifically and uncomfortably with the beeping of the machines he was hooked up to. His voice, slightly softer, warmer this time, broke through the silence.

“Come here,” he tugged gently on your hand, still holding it tightly. You leaned in. “No, come…come here,”

“Joaquin, what-“

“On the bed, please…” his voice was heavy with pain, not physical, but emotional. The fleeting ‘please’ hung heavy in the air.

“Joaquin, you are in no state-“

“Don’t give me that, please, I’m not made of glass, just…I need to hold you.” His voice was utterly pathetic. Was he always this needy? It hurt, really, seeing him in so much pain. You’d seen him in the heat of battle, soft and giggly after sex, on roadtrips with his hand on your knee as he screamed incorrect lyrics at the top of his lungs with the utmost confidence, as you cruised down I-95. But never in pain. You’ve never seen him breathing shallowly in order to preserve a fleeting sense of comfort, hooked up to twelve different machines you didn’t understand, not even with six seasons of House MD under your belt. It hurt more than you could have expected. It’s felt as though someone was wringing out your heart like a wet rag, the water pulsing through your veins with a cruel tinge of adrenaline. You couldn’t just leave him like that.

“Please…” he whispered, an almost silent plea that you would give in to his probably dumb request. You couldn’t help but scoff.

“Good to know the fall didn’t scramble the part of your brain that makes you a stubborn asshole.”He laughed. And it didn’t sound like it hurt.

Your feet swung gently over the side of the hospital bed, careful not to apply too much pressure, or hurt him, God forbid. The sound of ac buzzing was slowly drowned out by the frustrated ruffles of thin, hospital-grade bedsheets, as Joaquin pulled you down into him by your hips. Damn, you’d think he wasn’t even injured anymore, the sheer force of the pull. As his fingers settled comfortably and coldly above your hips, he sighed. It was a deep, heavy, contented sigh, like a large dose of pain medicine had just kicked in. He tucked his head warmly into the junction between your neck and head, eyes fluttering shut, as his heart rate evened out.

Like a smooth, round rock, your heart skipped. The way his hands found solace in the dip of your waist under the camo sweatshirt you took from him was nothing short of… well, ecstasy. It’s not like he’s never touched you like this before, far from it, in fact. But, this time, his hands didn’t roam in rushed fervor, the heat of intimacy. Instead, they were held on your skin in tenderness, a soft, quiet kind of striking domesticity that travelled straight to your chest, plucking at your heartstrings like the guitar track in a corny country song. He pulled your hand to his lips, placing a tender kiss to your knuckles, the kind that lingers, the kind that expresses a certain kind of want. Not teasing, not flirty, just… safe. Like he was telling you, himself, that it was okay.

You looked at him. Really looked at him, this time. Studied the curve of his jaw, the slight stubble that had begun showing on his upper lip, and thought. Thought about the times you would eat copious amount of chicken McNuggets after the gym, laughing in his car like hyenas. Thought about his ridiculous taste in music while you played games and watched movies, sprawled on his bed. Thought about the gentle, fleeting moments after sex. The ones where the world seems to stop spinning and all that matters is the two of you.

His breath tickled your neck, the warm press of his nose against your skin as he breathed you in. You should’ve pulled away, climbed out of the bed and pulled up a chair like a friend would. Friends, even friends with damn benefits wouldn’t softly trace small circles on his back, a silent hush. Wouldn’t be pressing her nose to his hair just to smell the shampoo she knew all too well, all soft and loving.

“You’re gonna have to stop doing that,” he mumbled against your skin, lips tickling the spot above your neckline. His voice was thick with a long-awaited sleep, tinged with something deeper.

“Doing what?” Your voice came out in a barely audible whisper, just loud enough for Joaquin to register.

“Makin’ me think I’m not gonna be able to do this ‘casual’ thing anymore…”

“…Joaquin-“

“I’m serious, Cariño, it’s not just… sex anymore, is it?”

You couldn’t deny it, not with the way he was holding you right now, or the whole-body ache you felt at the thought of losing him. A soft laugh escaped your lips, as you pressed a long, tender kiss to his lips, a silent answer.

“So… what now, then?” He asked.

This wasn’t how you expected your first date with Doctor Spencer Reid to look. It was supposed to be a romantic dinner, or a coffee shop rendezvous, not you hunched over a gas station toilet with your hair pulled back. The cold tile pushed against your knees, heels long discarded to the side of the small handicap stall. Spencer’s hand soothed up and down your back gently, as he continuously mumbled small ‘it’s okay’s and ‘just breathe’s as you continued to heave into the toilet.

“Shellfish allergies are the most common allergies among adults, and among the most common for children, I don’t see how they can get away with not labeling it on the menu,” Spencer sighed, adjusting himself on the cold tile.

“Maybe-” *burp* “Maybe I just missed it,” your voice echoed in the porcelain.

“That’s not possible, I have an eidetic memory,” Spencer’s lip curled up. “The ingredients listed in your salad were romaine lettuce, cherry tomatoes, quinoa, beets, chickpeas, and ginger dressing,” he pressed his lips together. “Not even a mention of a protein.”

“It’s so cute when you remember stuff like that-” another gag. Spencer laughed, readjusting his grip on your hair. “You can appreciate me all you want when your diaphragm and abdominal muscles stop contracting,” his hand smoothed down your sweater gently, hair tickling your neck a little.

“The more you kno-ow-” *gag*… This might take a while.

—

Spencer held open the bathroom door, his arm looming over you as you walked into the fluorescent lights. He looked at you with a mix of pity and concern. His lips were pressed together, one end quirked up in a worried smile.

“I’m going to get you a ginger ale and some crackers,” Spencer put his hands in his pockets, leaning back and forth on his feet.

“Spence, you don’t need to do that-“

“It’s what my mom used to get me when i was sick,” he smiled. “And now you’re on an empty stomach,” he shrugged, moving a piece of long hair behind his ear.

Your heart skipped a beat at the sentiment, and he grabbed your hand gently. “And some mints, too,” you smiled, dropping his hand, high heel shoes swaying in your other. “I plan on kissing you later, and I don’t want to taste like shrimp salad.”

Spencer was slack-jawed, face reddening a little.

He followed you across the gas station, grabbing a bottle of ginger ale and some saltine crackers. Needless to say, he was mesmerized by you. Sure, you were fatigued, wrapped in a sweater that smelled like fish and toilet, petechiae speckled across your under eyes, but to him, the casual state you were in, the sway of your hips as he watched you saunter down the linoleum aisles was the most attractive thing he had ever seen.

Though, he wasn’t hard on the eyes either, the way his casual striped shirt was rolled just over his forearms, revealing the veins that crawled their way up his skin. And it was hard to ignore how his hips moved in the new brown pants you noticed, or the way he flexed his jaw when you got close enough to him.

“Four dollars for crackers is a little insane,” your hands swayed back and forth, a couple lights illuminating your walk back to Spencer’s Volvo Amazon.

“Spence, you’re the one who insisted on name-brand,” you giggled, stomach still a little upturned. “I told you, generic is just as good and half the price.”

He pulled his keys from his pocket, clicking the doors open.

“Inflation is actually up one percent from last year,” his loafers scraped on the ground. He was really pretty like this, face illuminated by the cool night sky and a couple of Texaco street lights. “It was caused by a combination of poor judgement of lenders, giving out mortgages to subprime borrowers, financial deregulation, and the housing market collapse,” he chuckled to himself. “It’s uh, quite fascinating, other than the fact that crackers now cost four dollars,” he motioned to the bag in his hand. “And name-brand saltines DO taste better,” he pulled open the door to the passenger’s seat, motioning for you to enter. You couldn’t help but giggle a little at his insistence on chivalry.

His car reflected his personality to the nth degree— it was clean, well maintained, and smelled fresh. A small yankee candle air freshener that JJ got him dangled from the rearview mirror. It was scented like Christmas cookies, which, knowing Spencer, made sense. He climbed into the driver’s side, placing the bag of groceries on your lap, twisting the keys in the ignition.

You discarded your shoes beneath you, trying to ignore the nausea still bubbling up in your abdomen. Looking at Spencer’s nonchalant visage as he browsed radio channels seemed to do the trick. He turned it to the jazz station, likely his regular taste in music.

You tried sorting through the bag, pulling out the soda and crackers, but you felt a little pang of something in your chest. Maybe it was anxiety, or typical first date jitters. But, whatever it was, Spencer noticed.

“Is something wrong?” He reached over the console, placing a hand on your knee. You suddenly felt hyper-aware of how your cardigan smelled like vomit, shrugging it off, annoyed.

“I’m okay…” You tossed it into the back seat, throwing a couple mints in your mouth. You mulled them over between your tongue and teeth, trying not to make eye contact with the man beside you, partially knowing that it would only make you feel guiltier.

“Research published indicates that nearly 60% of people downplay their stress or emotional pain when talking to friends or family, often responding with ‘I’m fine’ despite experiencing significant distress,” his lip tinged up into a smile. “And you just assaulted your sweater.” He somehow always found a way to make you smile. You craned your neck up to him, his loose curls framing his face. You sighed.

“I just…” The ginger ale cracked open with a gurgle in your hands. “I kinda feel like I ruined our first date, a little…” You took a long sip of the drink.

“Try to sip on that,” Spencer’s hand moved from your knee up to the bottle, pulling it away from your lips. “After vomiting, the stomach lining is often irritated and sensitive. Sipping fluids slowly is less likely to trigger further nausea and vomiting compared to drinking large amounts at once,” his big, brown eyes were tinged with a little concern, but you complied. “And there’s no way you could have ruined this date,” he smirked.

“I just didn’t imagine it going like this, y’know?” You returned his small smile. “I thought we would… go to a nice restaurant, or a café, one that properly labels their allergens, might I add!” He smiled at that, hand moving to steady your wagging finger. “Then we would… go back to your place, watch a movie, or read books, or something…” You tapped your fingers on the bottle that was slowly collecting condensation. “Then we would kiss goodnight, and I wouldn’t taste or smell like vomit,” You scoffed, motioning to the sweater in the back seat. “It could have been perfect,” you looked up at him, expecting him to be upset, or concerned, somewhat, but he just smiled.

“Honestly…” he looked out the window thoughtfully. “This is kind of exactly how I imagined it going…”

“How?!” You hit him playfully on the arm.

“I mean, not you getting sick, which was the restaurant’s fault, by the way-” He smiled. “It’s just that, ever since the first day you walked into the BAU, I could tell that there was something different about everything you did.”

You thought back to the day he was referring to. The first time you laid eyes on Doctor Spencer Reid, part of you already knew you would become quick friends. He had a copy of The Metamorphosis in original German tucked under his arm, a book mark already two thirds the way through the pages. When you inquired about it, his eyes lit up a little, sparks flying immediately. You two spent the next hour talking about classic literature, favorite stories, earning your patented matching nickname from Morgan: Pretty Girl. The rest was history, for the most part.

“Nothing we ever did together was perfect, y’know?” He went on. “Like when we accidentally fell into that lake apprehending the unsub…” You laughed, the memory flashing in your head, the image of the two of you covered in duckweed, soaked head to toe coming to life in your brain. “Or when that book shelf got pushed on top of you in the university library while questioning a suspect…”

“Or when the mother of that victim tried to get us to join the circus,” you started to smile, laughing with Spencer. His smile twinkled in the moonlight, making you swoon a little.

“See?” He tilted his head, chestnut curls accentuating his jawline and smile. “Naturally, following that trend, our first date wouldn’t go as planned either,” he reached over the console, putting a hand reassuringly on your thigh. “You didn’t ‘ruin’ anything…” His train of thought tickled you a little, his reasoning going straight to statistics.

You picked at the box of saltines, sighing a little.

“You still feel bad,” he put it plainly, hand rubbing small shapes into the skin of your thigh.

“How’d you figure that, Boy Genius?” You smirked, popping a cracker into your mouth. “I know I didn’t…” you swallowed. “Ruin it, per se,” a shrug lifted your shoulders slightly. “I just feel like it could have been more romantic than… well, how it is right now…” you looked down at your lap, a bag of groceries on top of your now-wrinkled skirt.

Spencer smiled sympathetically, gears turning in that genius brain of his.

“What can I do to make tonight perfect, then?” He tilted his head down to look you in the eyes. You smiled. The radio lulled softly, a shallow tune buzzing out…

‘Who loves you, ask yourself a question…” Billie Holiday churned gently from the radio, mellow tune making you smile a little. Of course this is Spencer’s taste in music, what else?

‘Who loves you sweetheart, and tell me…”

An idea pricked itself into your brain, and you looked up at Spencer, his eyes dark, drunk on you.

“Dance with me…” Your voice came out barely a whisper, smile plastering your lips. He laughed a little, nervous, maybe.

“I-I can’t really dance-“

“It isn’t hard… Just…” you shrugged. “Dance with me.” Before he could respond, your car door was open, walking around to the driver’s side. The door tugged open, Spencer clearly amused and flustered, at the same time. “I-“ he sighed. “You can’t take no for an answer, huh?” You shook you head vigorously, smiling. He laughed, reaching to turn up the radio, stepping out of the car. He pulled a sweater from the backseat of his car, one that didn’t smell odd, wrapping it haphazardly around your shoulders. The cold concrete glazed over your feet, heels still shed in the car’s floorboard. His hands rested awkwardly around your shoulders.

“I’ve uh, never danced before…”

“There’s no skill involved in slow dancing…” you smiled. “I say that, of course, only having been to one prom with an actual date,” your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer, as his hands migrated to your hips, locking you in.

‘Who needs you, needs you every minute? Who fell for you from the start?…’

The car’s radio pushed out a gentle melody, filling the empty parking lot. Somehow, in the dinginess of the situation, the street lights felt like stars, and the lot a stage. Spencer’s eyes twinkled down at you, warmth radiating from underneath his patterned dress shirt. You two swayed under the moonlight, for some time, his large hands moving up and down your hips gently, eyes fixated on your face.

“Does this fix it?” He asked.

“Hm?”

“The date,” he reached a hand up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Does this make it just as romantic as you dreamed it?” You smiled, head leaning into his hand. Looking around a little, you thought. This was the beginning of a relationship with THE Spencer Reid, the man you had been ‘down-bad’ for (Morgan’s words, not yours) since the day you first met. You were giddy. And, by the look on his face, he was too.

“…It does,” a smile creeped up your cheeks, which made him return the gesture. You sighed. “Our first real date…”

He laughed.

“Yeah, I think we’ve got the fake one beat,” he reminisced, mind wandering to your outing with the team about a week ago.

“So,” his voice came out shakily, cracking a little. He cleared his throat, making you giggle a little. “Is it uh… safe to say I’m you boyfriend?” He smiled wide, moving his forehead down to touch yours. The closeness made you grin. “Because that’s what I told my mom.”

You laughed. “Yes, Spence,” you looked up into his big, brown eyes, reflections of yourself staring back.

“Not just for the night, this time?”

A warm, genuine grin bloomed up your face.

“Not just for the night.”

(INFINITE THANKS TO EVERYONE WHO PUSHED ME TO KEEP WRITING MORE PARTS 💕💕 YOU’RE ALL ENCOURAGED TO REQUEST MORE)

Spencer wasn’t a fan either, but you both knew that this wasn’t something you wanted floating around the office, or, God forbid, an unsub’s criminal plan somehow involving your relationship. So, it is what it is. You were left with two real places you could be a couple: each others apartments, and around Spencer’s mom.

You ADORED her, and she returned the same sentiment tenfold.

The first time you met, you had been, admittedly, and reasonably so, scared shitless. You had heard little tidbits of information about her through the proverbial grapevine. Penelope told you about how she was in some sort of facility in Vegas, and you overheard some ballsy intern talking about how it was actually an ‘asylum’ because she was ‘crazy’. This pissed you off a little, but Spencer reassured you that it was not a big deal. But, no matter what he told you, or how many times he calmed your doubts, standing in that common room in front of Diana Reid was terrifying.

What if she didn’t like you? What if she thought you weren’t good enough for him? What if you didn’t get along and you would sit in awkward silence as she scowls at you and-

“Spencer, is this the girl you’ve been writing me about?” She smiled wide at her son. He nodded sweetly, something glimmering in his eyes. Your heart pounded a little, but that melted away when she wrapped her arms around you, speaking into your ear. “I already like you, sweetheart,” you could hear the smile in her voice, and you couldn’t help but join her.

The three of you spent hours together— finishing a puzzle she started, talking about your favorite books and stories, stories of the favorite boy you two shared. You were all disappointed, when you had to leave.

“Please visit again soon, sweetheart,” she hugged you, turning to Spencer, whispering something in his ear that was purposely just loud enough for you to overhear. “This one’s a keeper, Spence,” she kissed him on the cheek, waving you goodbye.

“Spence?” You grabbed hold of his hand that searched for yours by his side, and he started rubbing your knuckles with his thumb, a habit you loved about him.

He hummed a little in response, pulling you closer.

“I think I love her,” you smiled.

—

That brought you here, sitting next to Spencer, reasonably spaced out, to avoid suspicion, on the jet toward a new case— a new case in Las Vegas. He read through the file for a third time in the past minute and a half, deft fingers moving along the print. You watched in awe of your boyfriend, the focused look on his face making your heart flutter.

“Spence…” you gently interrupted, nudging him gently on the knee. He broke his eyes from the pages, looking down at you. He smiled. You knew he loved you, but it was times like this— when his eyes would immediately dilate, a small smile effortlessly pulling up on his lips, that made you really believe it.

“What’s up?”

“Since we’re in Vegas,” you started, putting a hand on his knee. He grabbed it. “If we have time, could we visit your mom?” The room must have gotten too quiet, right before you said that, because everyone seemed to hear your innocent suggestion.

“You two making plans, over here?” Morgan jested, flashing a signature smile that you had been Pavlov-ed into associating with teasing. You looked at him curiously, not yet understanding his point. “You two going to visit Reid’s mama? What, are you finally gonna ask for his hand in marriage, Pretty Girl?” He chuckled, proud of his joke. You both blushed harshly, scooting away from each other subconsciously.

“Morgan, don’t say stupid stuff,” you laughed nervously, occupying yourself with the file in your hands, trying not to look at your boyfriend’s same flustered expression. “It makes you sound… I don’t know, stupid,” you scoffed at you inability to come up with anything other than that.

“Sooo,” Emily started, smiling wide at the scene in front of her, tickled a little by Reid’s unconscious, nervous leg bouncing. “You’re NOT going on a solo couples excursion?”

Spencer brushed his hair behind his ear, clearing his throat. “Actually, it’s not at all odd for someone to be well acquainted with their friends’ parents,” he pursed his lips, wetting them with his tongue nervously. “When I was a child, I had more in common with the parents of kids in my class, than I did my friends themselves. Studies show-“

You kicked his leg a little, trying to signal that he was digging himself in a hole. He pursed his lips and went quiet.

“I love making the kiddos uncomfortable as much as the next guy, but let’s reconvene on this case,” Rossi interrupted, flashing you an apologetic smile. You sighed and returned the gesture, as the team went back to the former subject. Reid slid back next to you, looking down at you with big, brown eyes. Behind the prying eyes of the team, he hooked his pinky finger with yours, smiling, as he started scanning over the crime scene photos, again.

—

It was a quick case, thankfully. Forty eight hours after you arrived in Vegas, the hostages were returned home, and the unsub was arrested. The team let out a collective sigh of relief and went out to lunch to celebrate. Well, the team MINUS you and Spencer.

“It makes me so happy that my mom loves you so much,” Spencer pulled you closer, walking toward the exit of the facility, his had tangled in yours.

“Gosh, me too,” you laughed, still giddy from getting to visit your boyfriend’s mom, something that always made your day better. He waved a small goodbye to the staff, opening the door for you. “Rossi said he would come pick us up, right?” You squeezed his hand, his free one moving to cup your cheek. You leaned into his touch, sighing and closing your eyes, the warm summer sun beaming onto your faces. He hummed a small ‘yeah’, swaying with you in the light.

“Y’know…” Spencer started talking. You opened your eyes, looking up at his face, strands of hair shielding his eyes a little. “We don’t HAVE to keep our relationship a secret,” he pushed a piece of hair behind your ear, one hand moving to hold your waist. His eyes searched yours for a reaction. You cocked your head to the side. This notion was a little out-of-nowhere for him.

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” he looked up in thought, eyes squinting from the sun. “When we were in there, we didn’t have to keep anything a secret. We didn’t have to walk on eggshells to keep anything in the dark. We were just,” he stopped, looking down at you. “Y’know, us,” he smiled, both hands holding your waist. He was right, and you knew that. More than anything, you wanted to be able to grab his hand without making sure the coast was clear. He wanted to sit so close to you, you couldn’t breathe. You wanted to be able to smile and laugh and be with him without trying to keep it under wraps. He wanted you more than anything.

“Alright,” you put your hands around the nape of his neck, and he sighed. He loved that.

“You mean it?” He smiled, a little surprised you agreed so quickly.

“Yeah,” you laughed a little. “I mean, once the team knows, we’ll have to have a talk with Hotch about work-home balance,” Spencer laughed at that, knowing you were right. “Penelope, Emily, and Morgan will want all the details,” he rubbed small circles into your skin, his smile not fading from his face.

“And Rossi is gonna make us have the talk,” he chimed in, and you couldn’t help but laugh.

“So that’s it? We’re gonna tell everyone we’re dating?” Your smile was wide, hands combing through the hair at the base of his head. Spencer just nodded, pulling you close to him in a kiss. He smiled into your lips, wrapping his hands all the way around you, then bringing them up to your face. He pulled away, smiling, opening his mouth to say something.

“I-“

“Awwweee!” Your heads spun around to the road, team members’ heads sticking out the window of the van, Rossi in the driver’s seat.

“Reid, you sly dog!” Morgan whistled, smiling wide. Spencer blushed, dropping his hands from your face and laughing nervously. He stuffed his hands into his pockets. You looked between them, then bursted into laughter.

“I guess that’s one way to let them know,” you looked up at your boyfriend. He ran his fingers through his hair.

“I guess so,” he shrugged with a smile, grabbing your hand and walking toward the vehicle.

The secrecy, thankfully, came to and end.

The night went on as one usually does. Some of the team split off into different games, dancing, or their own little conversations. You and Spencer were of the latter group.

“I can’t explain WHY The Princess Bride is my favorite movie, it just is!” You feigned defensiveness, leaning into the seat behind you, laughing. “Why don’t your profile it out of me,” you smiled at Spencer. He laughed, taking a drink of his club soda.

“Fine,” he set his drink down, turning to you. “I think…” he leaned down, leveling his eyes with yours, glancing between both of your irises. “I think it’s probably because, ever since you were a child, you’ve been escaping with fantasy,” he sat up. “It would be safest to assume you identify with Buttercup, that you long for someone close to you to come sweep you off your feet and solve all your problems,” he narrowed his eyes. You looked gently up at him. “But,” he sighed, leaning back. “Knowing you, I’d say you like Westley,” he smiled. “You grew up less wealthy and have worked your whole life to protect the people you love. It’s a movie that makes you believe there’s hope in the world,” he took a long sip of his drink.

Your jaw hung open in shock. “When did you learn so much about The Princess Bride,” you smiled, leaning your head on your hand.

“Garcia made me watch it,” he shrugged, laughing.

“Okay, fine…” You took a sip of your drink, head spinning a little. “So what’s your favorite movie, then, hm?”

He didn’t hesitate before responding, like he had clearly been wanting to talk about it. “L’age D’or,” he spoke with his hands. “It’s a-a seminal surrealist film that was actually co-written by Salvador Dali,” he smiled wide. “It used Dali’s classic absurd style and shocking imagery to critique the bourgeoisie and the Catholic Church. It, uh, was so controversial, actually, that it led to riots and bans,” he continued on about vignettes and taboos, but you just stared at him with a smile, eyes glazed over with pure adoration. Some time after he went on about Luis Buñuel’s other works, you realized you were absolutely whipped for this nerd.

You must have been off in la-la-land, because Reid got a little closer to you to get your attention. “Are you okay?” You snapped up.

“What, yeah, I’m good,” you smiled, smoothing down your slacks. “I’m gonna get another drink,” you smiled nervously, standing up a little too quickly. You stumbled a little, causing Reid to reach out and steady you with his hands. Morgan noticed.

“Hey, Pretty Girl, how many of those have you had?” He gestured to your glass.

“Probably too many,” you smiled half heartedly, realizing you were likely a little more than tipsy. You also started to notice how tightly Spencer’s hands steadied you. “It’s getting late, anyways, I’ll go call a cab,” you started to reach for your phone, but Spencer stepped in.

“Hey, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Pretty Boy is right,” Morgan added. “Someone should take you home.”

“Guys, Im an adult, I don’t need a babysitter,” you laughed, speech slightly slurred. Yeah, you were definitely drunk.

“It’s fine, I can take her home,” Spencer gave a tight-lipped smile to Morgan. He turned to you, ignoring Morgan’s small, concerned smirk. “It’s not safe to go home alone while inebriated,” he took his hands off of you, and you noticed how he flexed them a little. Interesting. You would have to analyze that in the morning, maybe when you weren’t so intoxicated. He pulled his crossbody bag over himself and grabbed your hand, leading you from the booth. “I’m still your boyfriend, for the night,” he smiled.

You couldn’t help but giggle at him.

“Okay, okay, whatever, pretty boy,” your hand tightened around his. The nickname felt different, coming from your lips, he thought. Somehow, it seemed like less of a nickname and more of an observation. He shook it off. “I don’t live far from here, we can walk,” you spoke as you both stepped out of the bar, the biting cold air hitting your skin. You wrapped your arms around Spencer’s, his biceps wrapped up nicely by his cotton sweater. You smiled, and, you couldn’t see it, but so did he.

“Sounds good,” he barely squeaked out, just content to be settling into your touch.

The walk was peaceful, passing by a river or a park, street lights illuminating the sidewalk. They cast a warm glow on the night, shining in Spencer’s eyes, glimmering as he glanced down at you stumbling by his side. The breeze was slightly shielded by Spencer’s towering figure. He relished the feeling of your grip, a sense of security he didn’t know he craved. And, for a moment, it really did feel like you two were a couple.

He helped you up the steps to you apartment. “Such a gentleman,” you joked. He laughed lowly.

“I’m trying to make sure you don’t eat concrete, but if you’d rather I didn’t-”

“I’m kidding, i’m kidding~” you slurred out, pulling out your keys. It danced around the lock a few times, since your vision was blurred, but with some help from your temporary boyfriend, the door pushed open and you were met with the warmth of your apartment. You couldn’t help but sigh, throwing yourself down on the couch. Spencer locked the door behind the two of you, watching you kick off your shoes.

“You should take your contacts out before you fall asleep,” he put his bag down. “Sleeping with them in can increase your risk of infection up to eight times,” he more than scurried over to your kitchen, filling you up a glass of water.

“Speeence, that’s so much work,” you threw a throw blanket around your arms.

“I know, sweetheart, but I don’t want you coming in to work tomorrow with dry eyes and corneal damage,” he set the glass down on the coffee table, kneeling in front of you. You were so tired, you didn’t notice the nickname. He didn’t seem to, either. “Come on, you need to take them out,” he reached for your arm, taking a hold of your wrist. His voice was gentle, laced with a genuine concern, and his touch was reverent. As you looked down to where his sturdy hands held you, you realized, for a moment, how deeply you cared for him.

He knew alcohol made your inhibitions nonexistent, but he didn’t expect you to start crying. “Hey, hey, hey, what’s wrong,” he grabbed the side of your face, wiping a tear off your cheek. His hands were just so soft, it made you tear up more.

“I-I don’t know,” you sobbed out. You really didn’t know.

“Hey, it’s okay, drink this,” he handed you the glass of water. As you took a sip, he moved his hands to your knees, soothing small circles into them. “Why are you sad?”

You sniffled, looking down at his face. His brows knitted together, eyes beaming up into your own. You could have SWORN you saw his heart beating against his sweater. “Because I love you being my boyfriend, and I’m tired of pretending I don’t,” you were a little embarrassed, but you were drunk, so it barely mattered.

Spencer’s heart rate spiked, and a rosy tint started rising in his face. “You don’t mean that,” he soothed, voice just above a whisper.

“I do,” you looked straight into his eyes. They were glazed over in something you couldn’t describe and probably never would.

“According to research, a-about 63% of people have admitted to saying something they regret while intoxicated,” he reasoned out, holding onto your hand.

“Another study found that 54% of those confessions are things they genuinely feel, Spence,” he realized you clearly weren’t out-of-it enough to not hit him with his own statistics. He couldn’t speak, and he really couldn’t think either. His adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, eyes dancing around your face. His heart jumped up and down as an innocent desire swept through his veins.

Did you really mean that? Was he not the only one who stole small glances in the bullpen? Was he not alone in his heartbreak when watching someone else flirt with you? Surely, this was a symptom of the alcohol. Maybe-

“It’s so hot in here,” you broke the silence, breaking away from him. He swallowed hard, eyes moving hesitantly away from your face.

“I’ll uh, I’ll change your thermostat,” he stood up, moving towards the hall.

“Thank you, Spence,” you lied down, sniffling once more.

He gave up on having you take out your contacts or change your clothes. He just spread another blanket over you, shutting off the lights. He even took the liberty of setting your alarm. Before he left, he heard you mumble a small, “Good night, Spence.”

He smiled, sighing.

“Good night.”

—

“Hey, Pretty Girl, didn’t have too much fun last night, did you?” Morgan laughed. He couldn’t see you rolling your eyes under the sunglasses that shielded you from another migraine.

“Ha-ha,” you set your stuff down. “That’s me laughing at your funny joke.”

“Honestly, I’m shocked you didn’t show up with Boy Genius, this morning,” he crossed his arms. “Leaving together from the bar, going back to your place-“

“Derek, nothing happened,” you huffed. At least, you THOUGHT nothing happened. The events of the last twelve hours were an honest blur.

“Okay, okay, I yield,” he threw up his hands, going back to his own work. You turned to see Spencer walking in at about the same time.

He had replayed your words in his mind about a thousand times, maybe more. Did you really mean it when you said you loved having him as your boyfriend? Maybe you said that to every guy who took you home drunk. He thought going through all the possibilities would make it easier to face you, in the morning. He proved himself wrong.

You pulled off your glasses, standing up. As he sat down at his desk, you leaned over it.

“I wanted to say thank you for last night,” you spoke softly, not out of secret, but out of vulnerability.

“It’s no trouble,” he smiled. “I just wanted to make sure you got home safe,” he looked up at you, moving some files around his desk.

“I really, really appreciate it,” you spoke apologetically. “I wasn’t too much… trouble, was I?” You smiled nervously. “When i’m inebriated, my inhibitions tend to…” you trailed off, trying to find the words.

“Disappear?” He smiled, laughing a little.

“Yeah…”

“You weren’t any trouble,” he reassured you, voice steady. “Actually, it was,” he smiled. “It was nice.”

“Nice?” you laughed, feeling your headache melt away at his soft voice.

“Being able to take care of you,” he defended playfully. “I don’t usually get to do that; it’s usually the other way around,” he tucked a strand of his hair behind his ear, looking up at your soft smile. “There was something I wanted to talk about, though…” Your heart skipped a beat.

“Crap, did I do something weird last night? I’m so sorry, if I did, I never-“

“No, no, nothing like that,” he laughed nervously. “You uhm…” he grabbed the back of his neck. He wanted to know if you really felt the same way he did. He wanted to know if you would hold his hand like that while sober. He wanted you. “Would you like to, maybe, get together sometime again?” He squeaked out, smiling shyly. “Maybe, this time, without the alcohol?” You smiled at his offer.

“I absolutely would, Spence,” you giggled out, tapping a nail habitually on the screen dividing your desks. He sighed a sigh of relief.

“Cool,” he pursed his lips together in a smile.

“Cool,” you mirrored him subconsciously.

Maybe it wasn’t just for the night.

“Pretty Boy, you’re plenty of fun,” Morgan jested, one arm around Garcia. “Plus, I think Pretty Girl is going, too,” he smiled.

Spencer knew that was your nickname, given affectionately by Derek. He mulled over it in his mind. At least, if you were there, he might have someone to talk to about common interests. You were, after all, the only one on the team that could follow along with his ranting, taking the chance to blab about your own latest interests, as well. “Fine, I’ll go,” he came to the conclusion that hanging out with team would probably be more exciting than rereading a scientific journal to the soothing sounds of Vivaldi. Plus, he would get to see you outside of work.

“Yay!” Penelope clapped her hands together, her blonde pigtails bouncing. “This’ll be so much fun!” She grabbed Morgan’s hand and started walking out of the bullpen. “See you guys there!”

—

You spotted him as soon as he walked in, grinning wide with a small wave.

“Spencer!!”

He laughed, waving back, in response. He scooted in next to you in the tight booth, his leg hitting yours. “What did I miss?” He asked, smiling at the team.

“Just hearing about Emily’s worst dates,” you smiled up at him, elbows on the table.

“Captivating,” he joked, a little stiff from the close proximity between the two of you. Spencer couldn’t deny that he was attracted to you. Well, he could, and he has been, ever since he met you. Sure, it earned him some teasing from the team, but you weren’t free from it either. ‘That’s just what happens when a man and woman are friends,’ he rationalized. But your relationship was closer than just friends. (Best friends?) It was hard to ignore the way you turned to him, when in a group, or how you always lit up when someone mentioned his name. And if Spencer was trying to hide how big his smile got when he got to rant to you about his favorite subject, or how much you two laughed about who-knows-what in the bullpen when the team wasn’t around, he wasn’t doing a very good job. And he certainly wasn’t doing a good job now, trying to keep his composure as you giggled next to him, as the conversation went on.

“Well, I’m getting another drink,” you spoke between a laugh. “Spencer, you wanna come with?” He looked up at you, standing with your purse over your shoulder.

“Sure,” he smiled, following you out of the booth and to the bar.

“I’ll have…” you leaned against the bar, tapping your chin in thought. “Whiskey and coke, please,” the bartender nodded. “Spence, you want anything,” he looked down at you, hands in his pockets. He squinted down at the little plastic menu that the bar had printed out.

“Just club soda, please,” he smiled shyly at the bartender. You stood up, leaning your hip on the counter.

“I’m glad you could make it,” you spoke to him, smiling.

“Me too.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I love Penelope, but I can’t hear about what she does in the bedroom with Kevin anymore,” you laughed at the end of the sentence. Spencer did, too.

“I know what you mean,” he noticed the way you messed with the zipper on your jacket as you spoke to him, a habit he picked up on quickly, when he first met you. “However, I think listening to Morgan talk about his one night stands is arguably worse,” he laughed.

“It’s SO much worse!” You hit him on his sweater-clad arm, playfully, a wide smile pulling up at your flushed cheeks. He laughed with you, putting his head down a little to hide the blush that bloomed up on his nose.

“Only about fifty percent of first dates result in a second one,” he continued, cracking his knuckles nervously. “there are ways to increase that likelihood, like a good first impression, or establishing shared interests early on,” he gained a little confidence. “actually, over sixty eight percent of successful couples report that they were close friends before dating,” he spoke the last part before he could think about it. After he realized what his words might have suggested, he closed his mouth, turning away shyly. You smiled to yourself, putting your head down a little. “That’s, uh, probably why Morgan hasn’t found someone yet,” he turned back to you, smiling tight-lipped. “At least ONE reason,” he laughed. His lips pursed gently, his chestnut hair dangling around his ears. You looked up at him gently as he loosened his tie, still laughing a little at his joke. Your eyes wandered toward his lips. He licked them nervously, glancing back down at you, eyes scanning your face.

You were snapped out of you Reid-filled daze when an unknown man spoke up next to you.

“Hey, pretty lady,” his voice was gruff and had an inflection that somehow communicated that he had never touched a woman in his life. “Can I buy you a drink?” You turned around to see a man no older than thirty smirking slyly next to you, leaning on the bar. He absolutely REEKED of cigarette smoke.

“I’m okay,” you smiled nervously, subconsciously moving closer to Reid. The doctor narrowed his eyes, a little put off by the advance.

“Come on, pretty girl like you, here all alone?” He advanced. “Let me buy you a drink,” he reached out to put a hand on top of yours, but Spencer stepped in.

“Uhm, actually, she isn’t here alone,” he ran his hand through his hair nervously, giving the man a tight-lipped smile. The man looked between you two, a confused look on his face.

“For real?” His voice came out like gravel, and he scoffed a little bit.

“Yeah, for real,” you grabbed Reid’s hand, squeezing it. “I’m here with my boyfriend,” his heart skipped a beat or two when you called him that. Boyfriend. He couldn’t help but smile proudly at the man.

“You’ve GOTTA be joking,” he slurred, laughing.

“No, she’s not joking,” Reid stood up straight, tucking his hair behind his ear. “And, actually,” he began, his tone changing to how it usually did before he went on a rant. “According to surveys, around seventy percent of women find unsolicited advances in bars to be unwelcome and uncomfortable, rather than flattering,” he pressed his lips together, shrugging a little while squeezing your hand. You couldn’t help but giggle at his attempt to scare the guy off. The man just stood there, confused. “Studies show that people decide within the first seven seconds if they're interested in someone. If you come off as aggressive or disrespectful, your chances plummet, which,” he looked back at you, smiling. “I think is what happened here,” he was proud of himself; you could tell.

“I don’t need your statistics, Einstein, I think-“

“Actually, Einstein had an IQ of about 160; I have an IQ of 187, an eidetic memory, and can read over twenty thousand words per minute,” this effectively wore the creep off, because he just mumbled an angry ‘whatever’ and walked away toward another group of girls.

You looked up at your friend and broke into laughter. He joined. “I cannot believe that worked,” you squeezed his hand a little, turning to face him.

“Honestly, me either. I figured he would either get bored and leave, or end up punching me,” he laughed out. “I may be in the FBI, but I don’t think I can handle a drunken bar brawl.” The bartender set the drinks on the counter in front of you and you gave him a small smile, grabbing yours. “The team’s probably waiting for us,” Spencer grabbed his drink, dropping your hand. You picked it back up, looking up at him.

“Just in case we come across any other creeps,” you smiled, a warmth running through the both of you.

“Good thinking,” he mused, squeezing your hand tightly, walking back toward the booth.

Morgan spotted the both of you, turning away from his conversation with Hotch.

“Oh? What’s this? Pretty Boy and Pretty Girl holding hands,” he crossed his arms. You rolled your eyes at the comment.

“Some weirdo tried picking me up, so,” you held your intertwined hands up so they could see. “Reid is my boyfriend, for the night,” you smiled, taking a sip of your drink. It was, supposedly, just for the night, but Spencer liked the sound of that.

And, admittedly, so did you.

‘It was only three months,’ I kept telling myself. Only. I felt like, logically, he couldn’t have changed that much. I mean, in three months, I don’t even change my tube of toothpaste. Three months, 12 weeks, just a quarter of a year...

“So, are you afraid of change, then? Would that be an accurate judgement?” I looked up.

“No, I don’t think so…” My chest fell. “I mean, change happens all the time, especially in this line of work. People come and go all the time, agents die in the field, I mean, when Gideon left, we just had to move on… it took us a day to just… forget about him,” I looked up at her, writing things down. I sighed. “No, I don’t think I’m afraid of change.”

She hummed. “Go on.”

I stood near the back with Penelope. I kind of hoped it would give me some time to process. She asked me, y’know, if I stood near the back because I didn’t want to see him. I didn’t know if I should’ve felt offended or not, I mean, of course not. I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t eat, focus, I wanted to see him so bad. He’s… my best friend, y’know? When I first met him… I couldn’t help but laugh at myself for thinking like this. God, he was such a nerd, y’know? I smiled. Our desks were next to each other, so he would just talk and talk about everything— the latest Doctor Who episode, a case he just read about, a book he re-read yesterday, just stuff. He said I was the only one who listened to him talk about it, that we should… hang out more often… And of course, he changed, WE changed. After he got… kidnapped, after Gideon left, after his drug problems, y’know I just wanted to be there for him. So, yeah, I mean, he’s my best friend…

“I think we got a little off topic,” she clicked her pen. “I want to try to stay thinking about how you felt when you saw Dr. Reid, not how you know him to be in the past.”

“Right, sorry,” I mumbled.

“It’s alright,” she adjusted her glasses. “I know how much you care about each other,” I felt a double meaning in her words, but didn’t press for more. “Just keep going from where you left off. You stood near the back of the crowd when going to see him,” she motioned for me to keep going. I nodded.

I don’t really remember much that was said. Emily saw I was kind of nervous so she kept asking about my day, a recent case, all that. But I couldn’t help thinking about what I would say to Spencer. Congrats? Welcome back? I missed you? I love you so much, please never leave again? I stopped myself. I just kept nodding and smiling to her questions. Each moment in that building was another grain of sand in my ever-filling metaphorical timer, I just felt so nauseous, so nervous, like my hands were just clammy and dead, my whole body was numb, standing on that echoing linoleum. My heart was beating so loud, I couldn’t hear, I felt it in my ears, I felt my head aching, but when those doors opened and I saw him around the corner… It all just… stopped.

I could feel myself spacing out, just thinking. I adjusted myself on the leather couch, sweat sticking to my thighs.

“Go on…” she motioned. I gulped.

“He uh…”

He made his way through the team, hugging, a kiss on the temple for Penelope. I just kind of stood there, like an idiot, I stood there, hands nervously thumbing in my lap, and then he saw me… I choked a little, I didn’t really know what I expected… His hair was grown out so you could really see his curls. His facial hair was longer, h-his eyes were… dark. But when I looked into them, I swear I saw tears. I couldn’t tell, blinking through my own. He walked over so slowly, it was unbearable, my heart was pounding, but when he wrapped his arms around me…

I could still feel the warmth, his breath against my skin, his arms so tight. “I felt…” my mouth watered from nervousness, maybe. I swallowed. “Relieved,” I breathed out.

It took me a moment, but I just wrapped my arms back around him, tears were streaming from my face, his too, and… he just kept whispering in my ear, ‘It’s okay, it’s okay, I’m here…” He didn’t need to tell me that, I wasn’t the one that needed comforting, but… when I felt his tears on my shoulder, I think I knew that… that HE needed to say it.

“For himself, y’know?”

She nodded. “Did he say anything else? Did you?”

“I don’t think we exchanged any more words…”

When he pulled away from the hug, his eyes were swollen with tears, and I guess he noticed mine, too, the way he kept darting his vision between my eyes, my face, my lips… I reached up and wiped his face with my sleeve. We both laughed a little. It was kind of surreal. It felt like… like the rest of the team wasn’t even there. Like it was just the two of us. I wondered whether or not he would still want his desk next to mine, whether or not we would still watch TV together on weekends when the rest of the team went out, whether we would still criticize the accuracies of crime shows, or catch up on daily gossip in the bullpen… but all those worries kind of… melted away, when he pulled me back into a hug. This time, it was tighter… more sure… like this time, we both really knew, ’This is it,” y’know? ‘It’s okay, now…”

The doctor hummed to herself, breaking me out of my little trance. “So, are you and Dr. Reid romantically involved?”

“I…” my mouth hung open, words on the tip of my tongue, but holding back. “I don’t think that’s a relevant question,” a nervous laugh escaped my lips.

“I disagree,” she clicked her pen. “When you come into these sessions, all you really open up about is Dr. Reid, not your home life, not work. And, not to break patient confidentiality, that’s all he talks about, as well.” My heart stopped a little. Was this lady for real? “You may want to consider a joint session, maybe we could talk through your relationship-“ my phone rang, the name ‘Spencer :)’ flashing on the screen. I gave her a nervous glance, answering.

“Yeah?” I sat up. “Okay, I’ll be right there,” I hung up the phone. “Sorry, it’s a case,” I picked up my shoulder bag and phone, giving a small smile to the psychologist.

“That’s alright, duty calls,” she stood up, opening the door for me. “Same time next week?” I hesitated.

“Sounds great.”