in my fanfic writer era

Life in the TARDIS was always a curious thing, what with all the planets and nebulas and timelines out there, but above all else, the Doctor.

Oh, was he a treat to travel with.

He was mean and grumpy and his brows were always furrowed with such intense displeasure. He would roll up his sleeves and save the world, while bitching about how everyone was pudding-brained and really, you were pretty sure the only reason he didn't resort to calling everyone a ‘dumb bitch’ was because he considered himself too dignified for it. And after it all, he'd run about the console, not tired in the least, gearing up for the next adventure.

And you wanted him. Carnally.

A part of you was glad the Doctor didn't use profanity, nor was he particularly affectionate, because you would simply explode. It was awful enough without him being intentionally cruel, the way his tongue curled around his words in displeasure, the wrinkled lines of his face set deep with the annoyance of two millenia.

You'd met him on the day when cybermen had flown into the sky and exploded, shortly after one ran at you full-speed, arm gun pointed, like a missile. His coat had been billowing behind him, sonic screwdriver in hand, and he'd whirred the thing into slumping onto the ground.

“You do that a lot?” You'd asked, panting wildly.

“Yes. Do you do that a lot? Stand and let yourself be rammed to death?” He’d waved the screwdriver at you, eyeing you curiously.

Your lips had twitched into a smirk, innuendo flirting on its edges.

“Ah, well, as much as I would love to get rammed to death, I don't really make a habit of it, no.”

“Well that's a stupid thing to love.” The Doctor mumbled, joke going over his head and behind, somewhere beside the inactive cyberman.

You'd followed him to the graveyard, stupidly. You weren't sure why, all your brain could think of in that moment was, ‘That hot man just saved my life. What's the worst that could happen?’

Inevitably, that same logic had landed you in the TARDIS, ooh-ing and ah-ing at every star system he showed you, his face a rare expression of wonderment instead of its usual derision.

You felt like a pervert most of the time, being around him. The Doctor would do something as innocuous as run his middle and ring finger along the console of the TARDIS, which he'd explained preferred she/her pronouns and was deeply sentient, and all you could think of was sucking on them until you choked and his hand was soaked with your spit.

He'd walk past you, closer than his usual two feet of separation, and you couldn't resist but inhale the air because there was something distinctly staticky, earthy, downright divine about the way he smelled, something you wanted to huff like a dog.

The first time you'd closed your eyes and turned your head to the Doctor, nose leaning forward just a little towards his back so you could get one more good sniff, Jenny Flint had given you a look. And then Vastra gave you a look.

They might as well have called you a whore in capital letters, with no words and lots of love. You thought it was very kind of them to not point out your degeneracy to the Doctor.

“Sometimes I feel scared, being alone with him.” You'd whispered to Jenny, in the hope of finding an ally in your attraction to an alien. “I feel like he'll do a single thing and I'll simply…jump him. And then he'll toss me out of the TARDIS.”

“Ma'am, I hardly think you're going to corrupt him—” Jenny laughed in your face, sobering up at her wife’s sharp gaze, a reminder that she was supposed to be posing.

“Jenny is correct. The Doctor is old, he has seen things. This current version of him is rather…displeased, with most things. He—”

“I knowww.” You bemoaned before Vastra could finish talking. “He's so old and so cross and his eyes are always glaring and God help me, I want him in ways that would make a Victorian man faint.” You flopped onto a chaise lounge, scrubbing your face with your hands.

“If you would like us to leave you alone with your thoughts, you only need to say so.” Jenny said, smirking at you, Vatra chuckling alongside her.

“Oh, shut it, both of you.” You grumbled, suffocating yourself with a pillow.

“Miss, the Doctor has informed me that he would like your company aboard the TARDIS.”

“Ooh.” Jenny called out as you scampered out of the room, flipping them the bird and packing yourself into the TARDIS.

The Doctor turned to you, frowning. His eyes flew all over your face, which was presumably red, the mussed appearance of your hair, and the general huffy air you were carrying, before turning back to the console.

“Right. 4-X-Alpha-4, home to the Movellans, beautiful star system—haven’t been there in a while. What do you think about making a trip?” He asked, pulling levers and flicking switches.

“Yeah, sure, whatever.” You mumbled, pinching the bridge of your nose as you bounced up the steps to land yourself in the jump seat.

“What is it with you and your dullness?” The Doctor grumbled, tugging back his sleeves to yank on a particularly heavy lever.

“What's that supposed to mean?” You scowled in offense. You were exhausted by all the excitement of the past few days, your eyes too tired to keep themselves away from the Doctor's hands.

“It means you never have any ideas! You and that dull mind, you never say ‘Oh I want to see this’ you just go wherever I take you! Sometimes I wonder why you even bothered to come aboard.” He waved his hands around as he spoke, his worn skin stretched over thick knuckles and wrinkled by time, though they were yet to lose their dexterity.

“Mainly because you're hot.” The words flew out on autopilot, your eyes still stuck on how neat he kept his nails.

It was only after the beat of complete silence in the room that you realised what you'd said. Your eyes shot up to the Doctor's face, only to find him already looking at you. His eyes were narrowed, his head tilted ever so slightly to the side.

“-ty. You're hotty. Haughty. Y'know. The word that means arrogant and proud. I thought since you're so haughty, you probably have something impressive to show me.”

It was a bad cover. An awful one. Though, with the way the Doctor’s lips twitched into a smirk, you thought you may get away with it. Your fingers curled into the fabric of your seat, hoping he would let it slide instead of making it a thing.

“I'm not a stupid old man, you know.” The Doctor said, voice low and curling like smoke. He clicked a button on his screwdriver, and after a 3 second whirr you felt your chair move of its own accord—flying towards the Doctor until you were close enough to have his knee touch yours.

“...I didn't say you were. I said you were an arrog—”

“Your pupils dilate when you look at me, your attention span drops by thirty seven percent when I roll up my sleeves, your heart beats so loudly for no apparent reason at times that I can hear it, and of course, the sniffing. Did you really think I didn't notice? I simply chose to say nothing.” There was no mockery or disdain when he looked down at you, silver curls gleaming from the light of the TARDIS. His eyes had softened, the curve of his brows gentler than usual even though there was a teasing smirk playing there. Your heart beat impossibly loud—you knew he could hear it now—and you figured if you were to be let down gently, you might as well make a thing out of it.

“Because you're so awful and evil and would ruin me?” You asked, staring at him defiantly as warmth swept over your face. Ignoring your question entirely, the Doctor rested his palms on the arm rest of your chair.

“And, of course, there's the touchiness at the concept of fathers. Do I remind you of him? Is that it?” He leaned in a bit more, voice dropping a few decibels.

“No.” You said resolutely, straightening your back, an action that simply pushed your face closer to the Doctor's. “You're nothing like him. You could never be like him.” Your tongue flicked out to wet your lips, the appendage followed by the aged, kind eyes of the time lord.

“You didn't answer my question.” You whispered, nostrils flaring as the staticky scent of him filled your lungs.

“No, I don't think I'm evil. I am only an idiot with a box.”

Your eyes fluttered as he rested his other palm on the free arm rest, caging you in—not that he needed to, ever, you'd let him put you on a leash and bark if he wanted it, all of your own free will—his breath warm on your face.

He was so close it made you physically tremble—not in nervousness, no, it was the sheer vibration of being so close to the man you wanted yet holding it together because you weren't sure if he was actually going to do anything or just leave you blue-balled.

“Having said that, I do get rather cross when my people decide they're done with me.”

He didn't mean that. You knew he didn't mean that. He got sad, maybe, jealous, sure, at the prospect of his companions leaving, but never angry.

That didn't mean it wasn't an incredibly hot thing to hear. He knew that, you think, he knew exactly what that sentence would do to you and he said it anyways.

“Yes si—”

“I don't like being called ‘sir’.” He practically growled, and even with your eyes closed you could imagine his expression perfectly.

“Yes, Doctor.”

As if the words were some psychic key, finally, finally, the Doctor crashed his lips onto yours, palm wrapping around the back of your neck. He dragged you out of the chair, pushing you up against the console and pressing his body up to yours. He kissed like he was starving, tongue invading your mouth and fucking it with an intensity that barely let you catch up.

The second you let out a soft whimper, fingers digging into his arms, the Doctor combed one hand over your forehead, sweeping your hair back and tilting your head to face up so he could kiss you more comfortably.

He was strong, stronger than he looked, picking you up and hoisting you onto the console with ease. You wrapped your arms around his neck in response, sliding forward until you could press every contour of your bodies together.

The TARDIS let out an angry whirr, the lever you were sitting on launching up with enough force to throw you off the console. Thankfully, the Doctor caught you, holding you up with ease as you wrapped your legs around his waist.

“I think she's encouraging us to move our business elsewhere.” The Doctor said, eyeing her.

“As long as I get fucked into the mattress I really don't care.” You mumbled, taking the opportunity to press your face into his neck and inhaling. You moaned out loud, nuzzling his skin as if rubbing against it enough would let you absorb into it.

“Oh you're a right little whore, aren't you?” The roll of his tongue around the word ‘whore’ sent shivers down your spine. You bit your tongue in a bid to silence your moan, but couldn't really keep your thighs from flexing around his hips.

“So that's why you're not nearly as sensitive as the others to my rudeness.” The Doctor chuckled against your mouth, sliding his lips down your neck.

“So you admit you're rude?” You chuckled, leaning forward to bravely nip at his ear. The graze of your teeth against his skin drew a groan out of him, and he squeezed your ass firmly, once, before dumping you onto something soft.

“You’re the one quivering from me calling you a whore.” The Doctor purred, pairing the words with a squeeze to your thigh.

Blinking and looking around, you realised you were in what must've been the Doctor's room. The walls had Gallifreyan patterns and words etched into them, there were shelves lining every wall and books spilling out of them, and the upholstery and bedding was a lovely TARDIS blue.

While you were busy studying your surroundings, the Doctor had paused, kneeling at the edge of the bed, between your legs.

“Are you sure about this?” He asked, licking his lips while he looked at you. A smidge of hesitation had crept onto his face, and it made you feel even more of a pervert, like you were about to take advantage of an innocent old man.

You knew that couldn't be farther from the truth, but it was still hot to think about.

Your eyes roved over his form, down the loose tshirt he was wearing and settling on the bulge in his trousers.

“Yes. I'm sure, Doctor. I'm always sure with you, about everything.” You softened your voice, looking at him with all the yearning your heart could muster without actually bursting into tears.

“Now, please.” You whined, raising yourself up on your elbows so you could reach one hand out, sliding it over his thigh and to the very edge of the bulge.

“Please what?” The Doctor asked, hesitation sliding off his face to make room for that smug look again.

You made a displeased noise in the back of your throat, sitting up more fully to drag your palm across his crotch, digging the heel of it into his bulge.

The Doctor didn't move, didn't react save for closing his eyes and exhaling. He stayed completely still, even when your hand started toying with the button of his trousers, even when it tugged the waistband of it down to nestle just below his hard cock, trapped in his pants.

“Please?” You tried again, leaning forward to nuzzle his soft tummy, before pressing a kiss to it.

“I'm not doing anything until you tell me what it is you want.” The Doctor insisted, shifting his knee ever so slightly to become more comfortable.

You figured if he could tease, so could you.

Dragging your mouth down his stomach, leaving a slick trail behind, you paused at the hem of his trousers, tugging them down until he was just in his pants. You practically purred at the sight, his hard cock tenting the fabric. You licked your lips, leaning forward to bury your face in his crotch, nuzzling his cock through his pants and breathing in the musky scent. It was even headier than the rest of him, making your eyes roll back. You pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the bulge, moaning when the taste of him soaked through your tongue.

“What a little degenerate." The Doctor said, affection dripping from each syllable. Finally, he moved, but only to snake his hand into your hair.

“Only for you, Doctor.” You groaned against him, rolling your hips against thin air when your words made his cock twitch. You could get off sucking his cock, you thought.

“Doctor, please fuck me.” You licked your lips, tilting your face to look up at him with half-lidded eyes.

He sighed deeply, sliding his hand from your hair to your cheek, lingering there for a second before making its way further down, over your neck, your chest, and finally, to the hem of your jumper.

“Well, if you ask me like that.” The Doctor murmured, tugging the soft fabric up and off you. He sighed reverently, tracing the path his hand took earlier, except this time it was over your bare skin. His hand slipped behind you, unclasping your bra and tossing it aside before cupping one of your tits. He brushed his thumb over the nipple until it pebbled, before letting it down gently and tugging at the waistband of your sweatpants.

“How come I'm the only shirtless one?” You smirked at him, leaning back to raise your hips off the bed. Before you could shimmy the offending garment off yourself, the Doctor tugged your sweats off your legs and tossed them in the corner with the rest of your clothing, before grabbing the hem of his own tshirt and taking it off.

“If I start barking I'll need you to forgive me.” You whispered, sliding a hand up his side and to his chest.

“Oh I doubt you'll be doing much of anything besides screaming very soon.” The Doctor said, silver curls bouncing as he got off the bed to take his trousers and pants off the rest of the way.

Now fully nude, both of you took a moment to simply look at each other, the lights dimming until it was just bright enough to see the silhouettes and faces of each other.

“How would you like to do this?” The Doctor asked, stepping closer to kneel on the bed again, hard cock bobbing between his legs. You bit your lip hungrily looking at it, knowing that if you were to part your thighs they would be wet and slick, but not nearly as much as your pussy.

“I—” You paused, suddenly flushing a bright red. You weren't sure why you were so embarrassed—the Doctor was clearly not perturbed by anything you'd done so far—but the realisation that it was actually happening felt like jumping out of a plane.

You weren't sure if you had a parachute yet.

“C'mon.” The Doctor cupped your cheek, leaning in to kiss you softly. His other hand sneaked between your legs, cupping your wet pussy for a moment before he flicked your clit.

“Ah—” You gasped, before parting your lips from his to confess your desire.

“On my hands and knees. Please.” You said softly, feeling your face grow even hotter when he chuckled.

“Oh, so you want to be taken like a bitch in heat, is that it?” The words were so violently provocative and unfamiliar coming from him that they made you clench around nothing, your mouth falling open in a pant even though you'd done nothing except get naked.

With a swift move, you were suddenly on your front, scrambling to get on all fours as a worn hand tangled in your hair.

“My question. You didn't answer it.” The Doctor purrs in your ear, leaning over you until he could nuzzle your ear.

“Yes.” You whined, high and needy.

“Yes what?”

You made a rueful noise, warmth settling over your body as a garment of your embarrassment and arousal.

“Yes, I want you to take me like a bitch in heat.” You licked your lips, the hesitation resting on them knocked clean off by a moan when you felt the Doctor push into you, slow and even. He was big, big enough for you to feel the stretch and know you would be sore the next day, but you were so incredibly wet that it didn't matter.

He wrapped an arm around your hips, holding you close as his hips bumped into your ass, his cock fully sheathed inside you with a wet squelch that betrayed how desperate you were for him. You arched your back, keening as you felt him press against your spongy walls, grind into the grooves of them.

“Good?” He asked after a few seconds, and you found yourself smiling fondly. Even when he was playing at being ‘mean’ he couldn't help but check in.

“I would be, if you stopped being so nice.” You breathed out, wiggling your ass to entice him.

“Oh, I'd be careful what I wished for if I was you, sweetheart,” The Doctor purred in your ear, pulling out of your sopping wet pussy before thrusting in sharply, a far cry from the gentle push mere minutes ago.

“Fuck—” You gasped, slouching as much as he would allow you to do you could bury your face in a pillow, screaming into it when the Doctor set a cruel pace, fucking into you with noisy, wet slaps.

“Yeah, you like that, don't you? Bet your brain is all empty, not a single thought floating about.” He used his grip on your hair to pull your face up from the pillow, letting your moans echo in the spacious room.

“Let me hear how much you enjoy getting fucked by a mean old man.” He growled, punctuating his words with a particularly sharp thrust that you were pretty sure slammed right into your cervix. Your walls spasmed around him every time the head of his cock bumped into the sensitive spot, and you whimpered, eyes rolling to the back of your head.

He fucked you with far more strength than he should've had in his current regeneration, hoisting you up so your back was pressed against his chest. You let your head loll back onto his shoulder, opening your mouth when he turned to kiss you.

Or at least, you thought he was going to kiss you. Instead, he bullied the middle and ring fingers of his free hand into your mouth, pushing until he felt your throat spasm around the tips of them.

“That's it,” The Doctor murmured, fucking your mouth lazily with his fingers, the pace a complete mismatch with the rhythm of his cock carving out a space for itself inside you. He pushed his fingers in deep all of a sudden, making you gag around them.

“If you can't even take my fingers, how will you ever take my cock, hm?” He hummed in your ear, stroking your tongue with the pads of his fingers. A stray tear made its way down your cheek, earning a mean chuckle. “Oh, is that what you'll do? Cry? Soak my cock in your tears and spit?”

You gasped wetly when he pulled his fingers out, spit rolling down your chin as the Doctor took his fingers and circled your clit, slow and firm.

“Doctor,” You wheezed, grinding into his palm. He hooked a finger on the hood of your clit, pulling it back before using his other finger to tap the exposed bundle of nerves.

You cried out, hands flying to his wrist—not to stop him, simply to ground yourself—as he kept going, gently brushing over the sensitive spot. It was almost too much, the feeling of his calloused finger on your exposed clit.

“Oh, what a pretty little thing,” The Doctor crooned, accent rolling thick off his tongue, sounding far too composed compared to your melting state, “You humans are always so sensitive.” He leaned in, kissing his way from your shoulder to your neck before kissing the space right behind your ear. Heat bloomed from where his lips touched your skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

“You're pathetic,” He growled when more tears streamed down your face, overwhelmed as you were, his thrusts growing slightly erratic. “You'd let me do anything to you, wouldn't you, hm?”

“Yesyesyesyes—please, Doctor—anything, anything—” You sobbed his name, heat coiling sharp and dangerous in your abdomen.

“What a dangerous thing to say to a man like me.” At that moment, his cock did something inside you—you weren't sure what, exactly.

A scalding ball of heat kissed at your cervix with every thrust, as if the sun itself was coming out of the Doctor's slit. Whatever use of your legs you had, it rendered them immobile, spreading from your pussy to the rest of you like lightning.

With a howl, your pussy spasmed around him, your vision whiting out with the force of your orgasm.

The way you were moving pushed the Doctor over the edge, too, his hips stuttering as he came. He kept fucking you through it, the sounds coming out of his throat almost feral as he forced his own cum into you, again and again, as his cock refused to stop pumping.

By the time the Doctor finished, you were completely spent. The moment he let you go, you slid face-first into the bed, feeling copious amounts of cum leaking out of your pussy and down your legs. It soiled the sheets, paired with your own sweat and cum, and you sighed happily, letting your eyes grow unfocussed.

“No need to fret, you can't get pregnant.” The Doctor cooed, appearing beside you with a rag in his hands. You had no idea when he left to begin with, let alone how long it had been, since the Doctor was now clothed.

“Mm…did the Time Lords have a breeding kink or something? There's just…so much.” You grumbled, raising your head from the sheets and wiping the drool off your face as the Doctor carefully wiped down your legs, before dipping the cloth towards your pussy.

“Most of them had a deeply utilitarian view of sex. It was purely for procreation.”

“...so you just tried to breed me, is what I'm hearing.” You smirked, flopping onto your side. The Doctor raised a brow at you, grabbing your arm and pulling you up.

“I just said that it's biologically impossible.”

“Mm, that's why I said ‘tried’.” You giggled, tired, leaning in to kiss his cheek. He sighed witheringly, but pushed you towards the toilet nonetheless.

By the time you were done peeing, the TARDIS had procured your favourite pajamas from your room and placed them onto the bed. Your legs felt unsteady beneath you, but that wasn't really an issue because all you had to do was pout at the Doctor and he was there, helping you into your clothes.

“So um.” You started, mind already brimming with possibilities as the two of you curled up in bed together. “I thought you weren't a cuddler?” You said instead of the obscene fantasies your mind was cooking.

“Yes, well, it's better than letting you have an endorphin crash.” The Doctor grumbled, hand curling around your waist as he pulled you closer to him. You pressed your nose to his neck, sighing as his presence surrounded you fully.

“You're a softie.” You giggled, pressing a kiss to his collarbone.

“And you're a bratty slut, but I don't go around telling you that, do I?” His hand scratched at the base of your neck, slowly lulling you into a drowsy state.

“You should, though. I'd be into it.”

“You'd be into anything.” The Doctor snaps, “I could gag you with your own knickers and flog your cunt for an hour straight and you'd let me.”

The idea sent a bolt of pleasure up your spine, and you nuzzled into him.

“Is that such a crime? That I'm into you?” You asked, unable to see his face since the TARDIS had taken the liberty to darken the room to pitch black.

“...you're giving me a lot of power. As I said, agreeing to anything is a very dangerous thing with a man like myself. I made you cry tonight.” His voice was more morose now, little of that pretend-grouchiness in it.

“And I want you to do it again, and next time I want you to make me cry so much I'm at risk for death by dehydration.” You chuckled, nuzzling him, before your voice softened. “I know whatever you'll do, you'll never put me in danger. I also know that if I tell you to stop, you will. So how can it possibly be dangerous?”

You hated Spencer Reid. You loved insulting him, outsmarting him, reminding him how ancient he is, telling him how stupid his cardigan looked, but you hated him.

You hated his fluffy curls, the particular cadence of his speech, the way he pressed his lips into a smooth line whenever he was pleased, his stupid brown puppy eyes which always hardened when they landed on you, and above all else, you hated how he was always one step ahead of you.

It wasn't that he knew more—everything he knew could be found on the internet—it was that he was always so fucking smug. He knew he was the smartest person in the room, and you hated it.

The first thing he'd done on your joining day was to insult your choice of music, asking why you were listening to music statistically enjoyed by little girls.

You, obviously, didn't take it lightly—after all, he'd insulted Sabrina Carpenter herself—and proceeded to insult him to his face.

It was hard to get along with him when all he was dead-set on doing was insulting your choice in everything—clothes, books, music, even how dusty your shoes were.

Who the fuck even cared about dusty shoes?!

Spencer Reid, apparently, that's who.

It didn't mean you two couldn't work together, it just meant you'd snipe at each other so constantly that no one else could work with the two of you, or even in your general vicinity.

“I just don't understand why these books are so popular when they're just glorified pornography—” Spencer said as the two of you sat down at the table, arguing about booktok.

“And yet I've never heard you complain about actual porn, which exploits real people, as much as you do about smut. It's almost like…you only give a fuck about it because it's popular among women.” You made jazz hands at him, knowing it annoyed him when you invaded his personal space.

He pushed his chair back to escape the scope of your wizard fingers, opening his mouth with a deep frown to protest against the accusations laid against him.

“Besides, incel like yourself could probably benefit from reading a smut book or two—maybe you'd finally figure out what women like.”

Spencer's frown deepened at that, but not with anger.

With confusion.

Remembering the man lives under a analog rock, you smiled to yourself, turning to look at Garcia. You knew he was too proud to ask you what incel meant, and unless he knew what you meant exactly, he couldn't retort to the best of his ability, therefore, you won this round.

“I am not an incel.” Spencer's voice dropped into a whisper as Hotch walked into the room, and you snorted as you picked at a hangnail near your thumb.

“You don't even know what that means, Dr Reid.”

If there's one thing he hated more than losing an argument, it was being told he doesn't know something. Especially if it was you telling him he doesn't know something.

Your pleasant mood at your win, however, was shot in the face once Penelope started listing the case details.

The case involved the murder of multiple women, all attacked in spaces like gas-station bathrooms or changing rooms at the mall, late at night or when there aren't any people around. The kills were spaced out by a few weeks, and the women all had their faces brutally disfigured, yet there were no reports of sexual assault.

It was a strange set of circumstances, but not an emergency, which left you just enough time to swing by your place to gather some of the files for your previous case.

“Can one of you maybe drive me? My car’s in the shop and I really don't wanna pay another—” You clicked on the rideshare app, making a face at the fare, “—hundred dollars? In broad daylight? Are they insane?”

“I could ask you that—putting your car in the shop without a backup mode of communication other than the one you're currently complaining about. Seems insane, considering the median price for rideshare services has increased by sixty percent since 2020.” Spencer’s insufferable voice came from behind you, and you turned around to glare at him. You weren't even talking to him.

“One more statistic and I will reduce your ability to speak by sixty percent—”

“Oh yeah, how's that?” The brunette’s lips quirked into an infuriating smirk, and he leaned towards you, as if he really gave a shit about what you had to say.

“Well first I’d shove my hand into—”

“Alright, kids!” Emily called out, stepping between the two of you.

“Reid, drive her to her place. And while you're at it, figure out how to shut up—” Your mouth split into a beam upon Rossi’s intervention. Finally, someone who also thought Spencer spoke too much.

“Both of you.” Rossi completed, brows raised at the two of you.

“I agree with Dave. Go get the files, agent. Wheels up in three hours.” Hotch said without looking up from his tablet, his voice leaving no room for argument.

Snatching his keys off of him, you practically ran to his car, knowing exactly where he parked it every day, without fail. Getting in, you immediately moved forward the driver's seat—perfect for someone of your stature, but nearly not enough leg room for someone as lanky as Spencer.

Settling into the passenger’s side, you let your lips quirk into a satisfied smile just for a second.

Spencer's face loomed through the window as he bent forward, trying to see whether you'd made any observable changes to the car.

“What, you think I rigged the car to explode the moment to step in?”

“I wouldn't put that level of stupidity beyond you, even though only fifteen percent of suicide bombers are women, but that's not taking into account your—”

“Oh my god just drive!” You groaned, shoving Spencer's shoulder. He let out an offended gasp, his browns deepening into a deeper furrow than before as he adjusted his seat.

“You know I can report you to HR for that? I should actually—”

“Reid, how long do you wanna be stuck in this car with me? Because the longer you spend running that mouth instead of driving, the longer it's gonna take to get to my place. Do you need me to put the address into your GPS? Or do you still use an old-fashioned map?”

“You don't need to do either of those, actually.” Spencer grumbled, pulling the car out of its spot and driving with surprising accuracy to your house. On the ride to your place, you considered asking why he knew where you lived, but then weighed the possibility of him deeming you inferior for not knowing where each of your coworkers live. He'd probably recite the ETA to everyone's house in the BAU just to rub it in.

Your face twisted into a frown at the thought as you got down from the car, barking at him to stay where he was while you fetched the files.

Your room was a bit of a mess, clothes strewn about your bed and the closet floor—a result of constantly loading and unloading a go-bag and never getting around to fixing the mess.

The files were dumped on top of the pile of clothing on your bed—how foolish of you to think that putting clothes on your bed would actually make you fold them—and you quickly snatched them up, making sure none were missing. You switched out your shoes just to be safe, since the ones on your feet felt like they could fall apart at any moment and knowing your luck, it would probably happen while you were chasing the unsub.

Because if the sky was falling and you were in a building, the building would spontaneously combust so the piece of sky could crush you.

At least, that's how it felt when the last blueberry cronut was taken by the guy in front of you at the coffee shop.

Leaning against the wall to put the shoes on, you brushed your palms over your clothing to smooth it out, before turning to face the mirror. The mirror was just short enough that while standing at the door of your closet (which you always did when checking your appearance) it only showed your reflection from the neck down.

It was hard to find a mirror short enough to cut off your face yet long enough to show the rest of your outfit, but six garage sales and three trips to Ikea later, you'd found it. And you were perfectly pleased with it.

As you adjusted the files in your arm, your eyes settled on the mirror again. Only a few steps, and you'd be able to see your face.

‘I could have something on my face. My makeup could need fixing.’ You told yourself, taking a deep breath, shifting your weight from one foot to another. Biting your lower lip, you slowly took one step back, bringing your chin into the reflection.

For a few minutes, you simply stared at the unsightly thing, heartbeat thumping in your ears.

‘Fuck it. Someone will tell me if I have something on my face. Probably Reid.’

You closed your eyes as you took several more steps away from the mirror, until you were far enough away that your reflection wasn't visible anymore.

Shaking off the tension in your shoulders, you stepped back into the living room, only to find Spencer standing there.

“I thought I told you to stay in the car.” You snapped at him, harder than usual, as he poked at your bookshelf. He startled, spinning around to look at you. The disarmed expression on his face—brows up high, eyes wide, mouth slightly open—lasted only a moment before it settled into its usual displeasure, the way it always did around you.

Trying to ignore the thoughts about how a disarmed Spencer could almost be…cute, and how maybe you'd wanna see more of him if he always looked at you like that, you tapped your foot impatiently, waiting for an answer.

“You did. You also left your door unlocked.”

“So you just let yourself in?”

“Yes.” Spencer said, the displeasure turning into smugness. “You are strange.”

You raised a brow as you stormed towards the door, hand absent-mindedly coming up to pick at your chin.

“Is that right, pot?” You said the word like it might've been a slur, grabbing your keys off the hook and opening the door, gesturing for Spencer to get out with a dramatic bow.

He approached the entrance primly, like he truly was a princess and you were the chivalrous guard guiding him out of the dungeon.

“Yes. You have a mirror right below the key hooks but it's covered with a cloth, not to mention you didn't use it before leaving just now which, statistically, is what mirrors close to the door are used for.” The brunette said, hands behind his back as he walked out into the sun.

You paused just as you turned the key in the door, your heartbeat suddenly skyrocketing. You began to clear your throat, before realising what an obvious tell that would be to a profiler and deciding to simply act as if nothing was awry.

Which it wasn't.

“Yes, well, who needs a mirror when geniuses like yourself are around, hm? I'm sure you'll more than enjoy pointing out the slightest flaw in my appearance, won't you?” You asked with a saccharine smile, biting your tongue when you noticed, in hindsight, what a classic deflection it was—divert attention away from yourself to the primary individual scrutinizing you. Spencer's lips turned down into a frown at that, as did his brows, but his eyes weren't narrow with derision like usual when he looked at you.

“Besides, cleaning that mirror is hard. Looks good when guests show up, otherwise I don't really have a use for it other than collecting dust.” You get inside the car, glancing up once to look at Spencer before pulling out your phone and sending a text to Hotch that you two are on your way back.

Spencer stands for just a moment longer, his face still pulled into that frown when he got into the car.

For the rest of the journey, including on the plane, Spencer didn't throw a single barb your way.

It chilled your blood far more than any of the crime scene photos.

The crimes themselves didn't make any sense—the women were killed in female-only zones, but with incredible brutality that indicated extreme rage at the victims, a personal rage, yet there was no connection between any of the women, and no sexual assault.

“Maybe the unsub’s gay and misogynistic.” You wondered out loud, spinning around in the only spinny-chair in the room, which you'd claimed by racing past Spencer and settling yourself into it, knowing he'd be too icked out to sit somewhere your germy self ever sat.

“Could be, but the amount of attention put to destroying the face…could he be trying to take away their identity? Send some kind of message?” JJ said, frowning at the photos of the bodies.

“No, he's leaving their IDs behind.” Spencer murmured, and you sighed as you made another turn in your chair, the springs squeaking softly.

“Maybe we're looking at this all wrong. What if the unsub's a woman?” Emily said from where she'd stationed herself in the chair closest to the coffee machine.

“A woman who kills via bludgeoning? That's exceedingly rare. In fact, only eleven percent of female offenders use blunt force to kill.” You rolled your eyes as Spencer spouted the statistic, cracking your knuckles as you decided to argue against him even though you agreed with what he had to say.

“It would explain how the killings happen in female only areas—bathrooms, changing rooms. And if the killer is having a psychotic break of some kind, then maybe something about these women throws her into such a rage that the adrenaline allows her to exert the kind of force she's normally not capable of.” You smirked at Spencer, brows raised in challenge.

He opened his mouth to argue, one finger pointed at you before he even spoke, and as you struggled to keep your eyes away from the long, elegant finger, Spencer hesitated.

“I…it is possible, yes.”

“Would saying ‘You are right’ cause you to burst into flames, Reid?”

“No, but it might cause my tongue to fall off, and I'm rather fond of it.”

“I bet you are. Too bad it doesn't do anything better than just talk.”

Silence.

Your face grew warm as you realised the words just came out of your mouth, too close to flirtation to be a true personal jab. Your tongue grew heavy in your mouth as you realised that you did, in fact, mean what you said, which only made the embarrassment of having said it that much worse.

Spencer's expression shifted, morphing into surprise the way it had done in your house, his lips moving around air for a few seconds. He stared at you, tilting his head ever so slightly, and you couldn't help but glance down when he swallowed—his throat bobbing under that light stubble he'd begun maintaining after getting out of prison.

Your own lips parted, to do what, you weren't sure. When you'd brought your eyes back up to lock with Spencer's, a shot of warmth hit you, because his expression still hadn't changed, hadn't reverted into that frown, that unhappiness he always bore around you.

And you liked seeing him that way.

“Ahem.” Rossi’s voice (rather rudely) said from behind you, and you nearly jumped out of your skin.

“Anyways, as Reid was just about to admit, Emily and I could be right.” You said, clearing your throat.

“We still don't know the cause. Why would she be so angered by these women?” Morgan said, standing up to look more closely at the pictures of the victim.

“Well they all look nearly identical, and their faces were what the unsub attacked, so they probably reminded her of someone she hates. A mother, a sister, a boss, an ex—someone who she cannot stand. We don't know when she might go for the real target as opposed to a substitute, so we need to find her as soon as possible.” Hotch said, instructing Morgan to call Penelope and give her the parameters—which really weren't a lot. The women had nothing in common besides their physical appearance, but considering where the bodies were found, Rossi thought she might’ve been part of a cleaning crew that rotated multiple places, as and when they were hired.

An entire week of searching later, nothing.

No women who matched the physical description of the victims were missing in the city, and no cleaning crews had been found that were common to all the murder locations.

Your break in the case didn't come until day eight of the case—well, technically it was very early day nine at one in the morning—when you got up from the desk to go and douse your face with some water.

Usually when you entered the bathroom, you kept your eyes to the ground or the sink, avoiding the mirror entirely. Even so, in your periphery, it was hard to ignore the existence of your face.

Only when you glanced up, just enough to see up to your mouth—unshapely and sullen, with cracked lips and a tinted lip balm that settled into the lines of them—criticising everything that was wrong with them, wrong with you, and trying to hold back tears because it would only make your nose red, adding to the red splotches you knew were there even without looking at your full face—a result of not being able to stand yourself long enough to even do your make up—that it hit you.

The tears dried up on their own as you stared at your lips, parted in surprise.

“Guys!” You shouted, scrambling out of the bathroom and into the bullpen, faintly thinking ‘Surprise isn't such a bad look on me.’

“What is it?” Spencer said, looking annoyed, with just a hit of alarm at the urgency in your voice.

“What if the person the unsub's targeting is herself?”

Everyone stared at you, their sleep-deprived minds taking a moment to catch up with what you were saying.

“Explain.” Hotch said, putting down the cup of coffee he'd been clutching the entire day like it was Jack’s birth certificate.

“What if the reason the unsub hates these women so much is because she hates herself? She can't stand her appearance, so when she runs into someone who looks like her, it sends her into a frenzy!” You looked quite frenzied yourself, you were sure, but thinking about how you looked only made a slight pang make itself known near your diaphragm, so you shelved the thought for later.

“So she's dysmorphic?” JJ said, frowning in thought.

“And probably really mentally ill. A person can't live day-to-day carrying something like that. She probably can't even stand her own reflection, has a history of attacking reflective things—ask Penelope to check for vandalism—and she might've even been institutionalised before.” You said, hands wildly flying through the air to emphasize your words.

“This could break the case—good job, agent.” Hotch said to you, before picking up the phone to call Penelope.

You beamed with joy at the thought that for once, you'd made the ultimate deduction, not Spencer.

Noticing his abnormal silence, you turned around, flashing your 1000 watt smile right at him. He was frowning, brows pulled together in thought as he stared at the far wall behind you.

“Contemplating what to do with your life now that I've proved I'm better than you?” You sniped, awaiting his incoming jab eagerly.

Only, it never came.

Spencer's eyes simply refocused, landing on you. He searched your face for something, eyes flying from your eyes to your forehead to your cheeks. You weren't sure what he was looking for, but the action unnerved you.

“What? What is it? Do I have something on my face?” You reached up, picking at the week-old acne scar near your chin just to check if it was bleeding again.

“You were just in the bathroom. Shouldn't you know if there's anything on your face?” Spencer's voice was quiet, quieter than when he’d ever spoken to you.

You stared at him, feeling your brows pull together in astonishment.

“For your information, not all of us are as vain as you, Dr Reid.” You scoffed at him, tucking your hand into your pocket to prevent you from picking further.

Spencer didn't reply to your insult yet again, only staring at you. His brown eyes settled firmly onto your orbs, as if he could see something there. Your eyelids fluttered, in part to break the gaze, and in part because of how dry they were getting.

“That was a…ingenious deduction.” The brunette said finally, before walking away and leaving you standing there, heart beating loudly.

You swallowed nervously, your vision growing a little blurry. Your tongue felt heavy again, and you swiped your palms against your thighs in a bid to get rid of the sweat on them.

That was—he praised you. The man who hated you, had hated you since the day you joined, just gave you a compliment.

It shouldn't have felt as good as it did.

His voice a quiet rasp, his eyes focused on you, only you, but not in derision—it all made your spine feel just a little bit molten.

That was, until you realised where you were, who you were thinking about, that you hated the man, and settled into your chair with a huff, glancing at a distracted Spencer once before resting your head on the table for a little cat nap.

After you had what was essentially a sketch of the unsub herself, it was easy to find her. Sheila Williams had been hospitalized once for trying to claw her own face off, and arrested twice for breaking the glass display of a store and the mirror in a diner’s washroom.

The interrogation was…an ordeal.

Well, for once, Hotch decided to send you and Spencer in to do it, since you were the one who made the connection and Spencer was, well, Spencer.

The only problem was that Sheila kept her eyes firmly shut, refusing to look at either of you.

“Sheila? Can you please look at us?” You made your voice as soft as possible, leaning in slightly to make sure she could hear you.

“Nonono—don’t wanna—no.” Sheila mumbled, voice a nervous whisper. Her brows were furrowed in intense distress, her hands shaky.

“Sheila, I promise nothing bad will happen if you look at us.” Spencer's voice was the softest you'd ever heard it—the only exception being when he was speaking to kids. “We're not here to hurt you. We just want to understand why you did what you did.”

The evidence they found at Sheila’s place—blood-soaked clothes, a pipe wrench with the second victim's DNA on it, the GPS in her car placing her at all the murder locations and the camera footage showing her there—was more than enough to have her declared guilty. What you needed was to understand whether a criminal conviction was the way to go—and so far, all signs were pointing to ‘no’.

The moment Sheila opened her eyes, only with further coaxing from Spencer in that soft, almost purr of a voice, her eyes bypassed both of you and locked in on the mirrored glass behind you. Immediately, it sent her into a frenzy, making her pull violently at her restraints and when those wouldn't give, she started hitting her face against the table. Her hands flew around to throw you off when you tried to stop her, one of her nails catching on the skin of your cheek.

By the time you and Spencer stopped her, she'd broken her nose, and even then she buried her face in Spencer's chest when you two hoisted her up, her body physically trembling from the psychological toll of just…seeing her face. Spencer went with the cops, letting Sheila keep her bloody face buried in his chest, gently patting her back.

Watching them walk out of the interrogation room, you closed your eyes briefly, knowing that when you opened them, the mirrored glass would be there—now in front of you rather than behind you, as you stood right behind Sheila's chair.

Your chest felt like it was caving in, and your vision blurred as you slowly opened your eyes, guiding yourself out of the room. There was a dull sting to your cheek, but you couldn't care much about it. Morgan was standing there, looking at you in concern.

“You okay?”

‘No. I'm worried I'm gonna end up like that unsub and claw my own face off one of these days.’

“Yeah, yeah just—that was a lot.” You sighed, trying to act normal. It wouldn't be too concerning for you to be a little off, though, since you weren't as seasoned as the other team members and naturally hadn't seen such disturbing behaviour before.

You followed Morgan back to the briefing room, swallowing the scream that fought tooth-and-nail to get out when you caught your reflection in the glass door for just a second.

Maybe this was how it had started for the unsub, too. Small. Easy to ignore.

Despite feeling nauseous, you took a sip of the coffee Emily offered you, settling into a chair before your legs could start wobbling.

“I think we have enough evidence to tell the DA to have her institutionalised.” Hotch said. You hummed in agreement, hand coming up to pinch the bridge of your nose.

“Yeah, I mean, she clearly needs help.” JJ said softly. Your fingers found an old scar hidden between the hairs of your left brow. “Everyone gets insecure sometimes but hating yourself so much you can't even stand your own face? That's—I can't even imagine what that might stem from. It's gotta be a hard thing to live with.”

Your short, blunt nails started picking at the scar, searching for its edges, any way you could slide your nail under the edge of it and rip it off your face. Your chest still felt heavy, and your stomach roiled. You weren't sure why—it wasn't even that big of a deal.

“She's with the EMTs. I asked them to let her keep her eyes shut unless medically necessary.” Spencer's voice cut through the chatter of the bullpen, and you flicked your thumb nail against the edge of the scar as you turned to look at him.

His cardigan and tie both had blood smeared on it, and he looked just a little perturbed. His eyes narrowed onto you, judgmental, and you immediately hardened your expression in response.

“Have fun being the unsub's emotional support fed?”

Spencer was comforting Sheila because it was the only way to stabilize her, you knew that, but you two weren't exactly known for being nice to each other—your relationship was built on mutual hatred.

Well, from him, at least. You were just responding in kind. You were pretty sure the only reason Spencer kept cooperating the bare minimum with you was because he was good at his job.

Spencer stayed quiet, his lips parting around words that died in his throat, like the blanket ready to swaddle a miscarried baby.

“Let's all rest up tonight, we'll leave first thing tomorrow morning.” Hotch said, finally giving you the ticket you needed to stand up and sweep past Spencer.

The hotel was only a stone’s throw from the police station, so you decided to walk. The breeze was cutting, stabbing your lungs every time you drew it in. The wind whipped against your face, and the scratch from earlier stung like it was fresh. You wanted to use the time to think, but the sight of all the pigeons proved to be distracting enough to take you out of your head.

The cars of the rest of the team were already parked in front of the hotel by the time you reached it, and you were glad none of them were drifting in the hallways.

In the confines of your room, you threw off your coat, settling into the chair in the corner. On any other night you would've grabbed the fantasy novel you were carrying to read it—the cliffhanger on chapter 19 had you itching all day—but your brain was simply abuzz.

Tears formed in your eyes, but you weren't quite sure why.

Maybe it was because you had to stare at a version of yourself bash her head in.

‘That’s bullshit. I'm not like her. I would never kill someone for looking like me. I'd get help before that.’

…

Would you?

A disdain that had lasted from your teenage years, well into adulthood, strong enough to impact the way you set up your home and everything around you, going so far as to disable the front camera on your phone, yet subtle enough to not be caught in the psych eval every prospective agent went through before joining the academy.

Would you really be able to catch yourself before you spiralled further?

It seemed insane, a simple insecurity leading to killing. Yet it was what you dealt with every day, small things building up until a person simply exploded. You'd seen it all with your own eyes, but it just…didn't feel real.

Not with yourself.

A sharp knock startled the hotel key from your hand and onto the floor, making you realise you hadn't bothered to click it into place and turn the lights on.

Blinking away the remnants of tears from your eyes, you scrambled towards the door, slotting the card into place as all the lights turned on. For a second, you were worried there was something going on with the case, maybe you'd gotten it wrong, maybe the unsub was the complete opposite of your profile—

“I know you're in there.” Spencer's voice came through the wood, muffled, but neither alarmed nor urgent.

“What do you want, Reid?” You were glad your voice didn't crack, too large a giveaway even though the piece of wood blocking your face.

“To talk.”

“About what?”

You hear him sigh in annoyance.

“I've already been through one interrogation today, and so have you. Just let me in.”

You contemplated just leaving him out there. After all, he'd been so suspicious for the past few days—maybe he was finally done. Done with all the fighting and the jabs and insults. What he'd do, exactly, as a result of being done, you weren't sure, but it couldn't be good.

Then again, he probably looked really miserable on the other side of that door and your brain really needed the rush of seeing it after the day you'd had.

“What?” You asked, opening the door with an annoyed huff.

Spencer's head was tilted towards the ground, one hand resting against the door frame, looking defeated. You felt a rush of…something, seeing that.

The moment his head snapped up, you prepared yourself for conflict. He opened his mouth to speak, eyes narrowed and forehead wrinkled, his frizzy curls sticking up every which way, but his expression changed completely in just a second.

His frown fell, his mouth closed, and his eyes widened slightly, flitting all over your face. Your heart jumped into your throat at the sight.

The brunette straightened, striding inside your room on his long legs, right past you.

“Wow, okay, you enter a lady’s room late at night with no explanation or permission? People will talk, y'know.”

He didn't respond. Whatever momentary astonishment had overtaken him had passed, his forehead now more creased than you'd ever seen it. The line of his back held tension, moreso than usual, and he balled his fists up beside thighs.

“Close the door.” He said, eyes trained on the carpeted floor. You didn't particularly care for his attitude.

“Oh, so now you're making demands? I mean really, Reid, the absolute—”

“I'm not fucking around right now. Close the door.” Spencer turned to face you, his eyes almost burning with whatever it was he needed to discuss. The same kind of intensity it held when you two were in the field, when there was no room for banter or fucking around because lives were on the line.

You obeyed him, closing the door with a soft click before leaning against it.

For the first time since you'd met him, Spencer looked genuinely frustrated. He opened and closed his mouth several times, tongue slipping out to wet his lips, his eyes closing in apparent frustration. His balled fists flattened over his face, and when he dragged his skin back, he opened his eyes again, looking at you.

“You know, you've been wrong before, about several things, but I don't think you've ever been this wrong.”

The words felt like a slap. You swallowed around the rock in your throat, because if Spencer had come in here to berate you for your work, you suspected there would be more where that came from.

“Bullshit. I was right about the unsub, I was right about the profile, I was right about the motive—”

“I'm not talking about fucking work right now! Or a petty sociological debate of which we both know the results! Or even your awful taste in songs!” The sheer volume of Spencer's voice stunned you into silence. He didn't yell. He snapped and he insulted and he rolled his eyes but he didn't yell at you. Spencer swallowed, panting slightly. Upon seeing what must've been your bewildered expression, his face softened, and he screwed his eyes shut again.

“Then—then what are you talking about?” Your voice was uncharacteristically quiet. Unsure. You were never unsure with Spencer before that moment.

“You.” His eyes snapped open, unbearably big and sad.

Confusion flooded your mind—you were half-convinced you'd been shot on your way to the hotel and this was just a fever dream.

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Yes you do. You're not in denial, I know that.” His tone was so absolute, he had complete belief in whatever he was talking about.

If only he would be so kind as to let you in on the secret.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I told you—you.”

“What about me?” Your volume was rising now, too, your hands waving around in the air to gesture to your entire self. You understood why Spencer kept dragging his hands across his face. The conversation was making you want to pull your hair out.

“Relating to the unsub.”

You had been shot on the way to the hotel. That was simply the only explanation.

You did not spend the entire fucking day masking every emotion, every twitch of the lip, every little glance, just to be found out by the one guy who had no reason to even think about you any more than he had to in a professional capacity, let alone actually pay attention to your existence when it didn't serve or annoy him.

“I don't know what you're implying—”

“Yes you fucking do!” Your denial only egged Spencer on, and he walked closer to you, stopping when he was about three feet away.

“The picking of your scar? The way none of us were even in the same league about the unsub's motive but you figured it out after going to the bathroom, a place with mirrors? The way you keep your eyes away from all reflective surfaces? The fact that the mirror in your house was covered with a sheet—”

“I told you that was because it was hard to clean!” Your voice was reaching a desperate pitch, you could hear it, you wouldn't believe yourself if this were a true interrogation.

“No!” Spencer said, sounding indignant. “You did not tell me, you lied to me. There is a difference.”

“All of that is circumstantial and proves absolutely—”

“You're bleeding right now.”

Whatever your next words were, they promptly died on your tongue. Spencer's words were like a period, the argument a sentence, and you the dumb conjunction trying to keep it going. But there was nothing to continue.

“Sheila scratched your cheek. You were bleeding at the precinct. You probably didn't realise it, but that's why everyone was being so nice.” The indignation had drained out of his voice. He just sounded tired now. Why would he be tired—why did he even care?

“The blood has since dried on your cheek and the cut is untreated, whereas you're the kind of person who slaps a bandaid on cat scratches. The only reason you didn't take care of it is because you didn't know it was there, on the one part of your face you can't see without a mirror.”

Your hand came up to your cheek, feeling around for the tell-tale scab. You opened your mouth to speak, but the words felt like smoke, so you simply looked past Spencer's shoulder.

“It could also be because I just got in—”

“No you didn't. You left the precinct before me, walked here, which, based on your average speed, would only take you ten minutes. It's been an hour and half.”

Your eyes snapped to the clock on the wall, trapped behind metal bars for whatever reason, and you found to your chagrin that Spencer was right.

Now it was your turn to close your eyes. Not in frustration—in defeat.

He'd done it. He'd found the one weakness you had, because that's just how much he hated you.

“I'm not a risk to the team. I'm not gonna have a psychotic break just because I don't like my face.” Admitting it out loud made your lower lip wobble, and tears burned like acid behind your eyes.

“I'm not worried about you being a risk.” Spencer sounded even closer, now, but you couldn't bring yourself to look at him.

“Then why do you even care? What, you just saw an opportunity to humiliate the person you hate and you couldn't help it?” There was silence from the other end, which you took as confirmation.

“I—what?” The sheer affronted nature of the word made your eyes snap open, and you found yourself deeply embarrassed to find your vision blurry with tears, too blurry to parse the expression on the brunette's face.

“You think I hate you? That I wanna humiliate you?” You had never seen Spencer so offended—his mouth was so wide in disbelief you thought for a second his jaw was about to crack.

“...don't you? You're always fighting with me.”

“No! I'm not—we don't fight, we banter! It's different!” Spencer's hands were in his hair again, and you realised he was only about a foot away from you.

“Because you don't hate me?” Your voice sounded incredulous even to your own ears.

“Yes!”

‘Liar.’

“Then why do it? Why counter everything I say, all the time, with no real reason?” You scoffed, voice thick with tears.

“Because I like how you react!” Spencer exclaimed, stepping even closer. “You get mad and then you come up with some insult that's either really smart or funny even if it's in a juvenile way and then you—your brows furrow when you're annoyed, and that scar twists in funny ways, and your lips always form a pout around whatever you say next and your eyelashes practically brush your cheek even when they're narrowed and glaring at me and—”

His hands shot out at you, and before you even had the opportunity to react, they were on your face, gentle and calloused. His hands were large, easily encompassing the entirety of the sides of your face. His eyes were even bigger than before now, his lips turned down in a pout, his brows curved in a way you thought only cartoon puppies were capable of.

“Your face haunts me. It derails my work, my deductions, because I cannot help but goad you just to have an excuse to stare at it fully, to see it move and exist—my reading speed has declined by thirty five percent ever since you've joined the team! You make incredible deductions and get that smug look on your face when you're right, when you turn around and call me an idiot, or when you manage to race past me for the best chair in the room and I pretend I'm angry about it when in truth, at any given point I can steal it from you.”

Spencer's face was closer now, his angular nose brushing against yours. You weren't quite sure what to do with your hands, or with the acidic feeling in your eyes again, or with the desperation with which Spencer was speaking.

“I—it pains me, that what you find detestable is the thing that is ruining my life. That when you look at yourself you don't see the intelligent spark in your eyes or the natural voracity with which you approach everything, but rather something that you cannot stand.” His voice dropped to a whisper, and when your hands found their way onto his wrists, he considered it an invitation to push closer, pressing his forehead against yours.

His face was warm, as was his body, now close enough to radiate heat onto you. His thumb stroked the underside of your eye on your uninjured cheek, his other hand tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear.

“That can't be true.” You said softly, biting on your lower lip and looking down.

“It is,” Spencer sounded even more desperate than before, squeezing your face slightly, “You just think that because some stupid voice in your brain wants you to.” He sounded like he wanted you to believe it.

You wanted you to believe it.

“Let me fix that cut? Please?” The brunette breathed the words against your mouth, before practically kneeling on the ground so you'd be forced to look down at him.

“...I don't even feel it.”

“That doesn't mean it's not worth fixing, pretty.”

The tears refused to go away, now joined by a stray sniffle. The nickname felt like a shot through your chest, painful and raw.

You let Spencer gently tug you along to sit on the edge of the bed, your eyes firmly stuck on the floor, before he went into the bathroom to fetch the first aid kit.

It was only after you remembered that you'd covered the bathroom mirror with a tshirt that your head snapped up and towards the wooden door, only to see Spencer come out looking slightly forlorn.

Ashamed, you looked away again, focusing on the swirls your shoes made on the carpet.

You couldn't ignore him for long, since soon after the mattress sank beside you under the weight of one lanky agent, two of his fingers pinched your chin, turning you to face him.

“Hey,” He said, voice soft, eyes softer, as he raised the little alcohol soaked cotton ball to your cheek, “having insecurities is normal, pretty.”

“Not to this extent, it isn't.” You blinked rapidly as the cold object touched the dry blood, wiping it off.

“Says who?”

“People.”

“People also say I'm autistic.”

“...well that might be true so I don't think you're really helping the case here.” Your lips twitched into a smile as the familiar rush of fighting—no, bantering—with Spencer curled around your nervous system. You took your eyes off the wall behind him to glance at his face, only to see his cheeks dimpled with a soft smile.

Your heart soared and your own smile widened in response. His face only softened further, if that was even possible.

You hissed as the cotton touched the cut, softly wiping any dirt or dust off of it.

“Is it bad?” You asked apprehensively.

“No, it's just a small scratch. About an inch long, not too deep, easy to slap a bandaid on.” Without waiting for an affirmative from you, Spencer grabbed a bandaid, carefully placing it over the cut.

“I'll look ridiculous, walking around with bandaids on my face over a scratch.”

“I can draw the FBI logo on it if it'll make you feel less ridiculous.”

You snorted, unsure whether the brunette was joking. You didn't really care. He could've said he was going to draw a dick on the bandaid and you would've let him.

His hand cupped your cheek, the tips of his fingers trailing past your ear and into your hair. He didn't do or say anything, simply looked at you with an earnestness no one had ever displayed before.

So you leaned in to press a soft peck to his lips.

Spencer looked stunned—that wide-eyed, off-guard look you'd come to love so much in the two times you'd seen it.

“Your face haunts me too, for the record. And your hair. And your dumb cardigans and ties.”

“I thought you hated my dumb cardigans and ties.” The way Spencer's lips curled around his words made you soft, reaching out to wrap his tie around your fist.

“Yes, well, consider me a fox and your dumb cardigans and ties a nice bunch of grapes.” You tried to sound stand-offish, but the absolute beam taking over your face wouldn't really allow it.

“Am I the crow, then?”

“Duh.”

“I do like things that sparkle.” Spencer leaned in, brushing his nose against yours again.

“Oh yeah?” You taunted, lips twitching into a smirk.

“Yeah. Your smile. Your eyes. Your brain.”

“My brain sparkles?” You laughed.

“You sparkle. I like you.”

You licked your bottom lip once before biting it.

“That's good. Cuz I kinda like you too.”

“Really? I couldn't tell.” You rolled your eyes at the sarcasm, rolling off his tongue even while he was an inch away from you.

“Fuck you.”

“At least take me on a date first, pretty.” Spencer whispered, before leaning in and brushing his lips softly against yours.

You pressed back against them, allowing your mouths to be slotted together as you curled into him as much as you physically could. He wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you into his lap to sit on one of his thighs.

There was nothing hurried about the kiss, which felt like it lasted for hours—by the grace of the tiny breathing breaks you two kept taking—both of you warm and purring into each other.

“Stay?” You asked softly when you two parted. Spencer's fingers came up to tuck your hair away again, and he pressed his forehead to your temple this time, nosing your cheek, holding you close now for no other reason than just because.

I don't agree with people who say Samira shouldn't have apologised—obviously, from a moral pov she shouldn't have, but it's just part of her character. She is the kinda person to do that. And I also think Robby was genuinely trying to extend grace to her at the end there, because he knew he'd been unfair to her the entire day, and he did it because she reminded him of himself. He didn't do it well, but this man is suicidal and hanging on by a thread.

I'm kinda unsure about the Baran thing—if she's been cleared by a neurologist, she's fine to work, but I get why Robby was such a dick abt it (I'm not saying he was right, I'm saying I get it). He sees himself as crucial to the ED. He's basically being a tsundere, and wants the ED to still need him, to keep him from killing himself, but it doesn't work like that and that upsets him.

I like that Mel finally got to have fun without Langdon. Don't get me wrong, I love Kingdon, but I also think it's unhealthy for both Santos and Mel to have one friend, and for that friend to be a white man, so it was refreshing to have them finally be able to bond after the many failed attempts the entire season.

Robby girldad (?)

I love that it was Langdon who ripped into Robby. I just love it sm because it shows that Langdon got the help he needed, he did the work, and even though emotionally he still wants Robby's validation, logically he knows that he would've disappointed Robby eventually, bc as he said, not even Robby can live up to his own expectations.

Mcvadi watching the fireworks together was straight up yuri cocaine (WHY IS YOUR ARM AROUND HER IF NO GAY) and the Langdon drug test scene...

Anyways, based on how the entire season has played out, I actually don't have many complaints about this finale. There are some things I wanted to see, personally, but from a narrative pov it made sense to do things the way they were done.