── ⋆⋅☆ will write : fluff, angst, mild smut and smut with feelings/plot (mdni w/ smut), sibling reader, etc. will write gendered reader upon request, otherwise i default to gender neutral
── ⋆⋅☆ won't write : intense smut, incest, non/dubcon, large age gap, voyeurism, intense kinks, etc. unsure if i'll write it? ask! i reserve the right to deny any request i am not comfortable with
my ask box is always open, feel free to drop in to yap to me!! i love talking bout things (if you drop by and ask, you might get some fun thoughts from my brain...just sayin')
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【 this is a side blog! 】 ⭒ layout by @bejeweledinterludes <3
Don’t mind me , just sliding in here to see if it’s Tuesday yet .
Nope ? Not yet ?
Well okay then.
Well since im already cozy in here , wanted to ask :
What is your favorite trope or genre to write and what’s your least favorite?
Besitos!!
Aww, my love! 🥰
WELL it's Tuesday where I am, just two hours until the new chapter of Sun Bleached Flies, so you made under my bed to my blog just in time!
As for your question: I'm more a scenario gal than a trope gal, but a few will always be fun to me:
Magical shenanigans - amnesia, curses, time travel, alternative universes - anything that puts the story on its head and asks "what if?"
AUs - whether just canon-divergent or a fully different world/genre, it's just so interesting to see how characters would be different if they existed in completely different circumstances
Gender swap - WELL. Do I need to say anything about this? 😄 I guess this could technically count as an AU (or even be part of magical shenanigans if it happens as a result of that), but it's special enough to me to deserve its own mention.
I don't know if there is anything I don't like at all. I think I can see the appeal in pretty much anything, so long as the circumstances are right. Is that cheating? 😄
How about you, @aniresrene? And would also love to hear the answers from some other people (and anyone else who wants to share!): @ambiguous-avery @bettystonewell @kblognar @aseafullofstars @mellowyellowdaydream @theedaythatnevercomes @thesundontshineontheseeyebrows @myceliumsunshine
this got lost in my notifs oopsiessss anyways im here guys !! i made it !! fashionably late but i made it !!
i have favourite tropes and it is painfully obvious because every. single. work. of mine. seems to have them in it. i love friends to lovers because im demiromantic and rely on a strong friendship to turn into romantic feelings. i think my top genre to write may actually be soft smut/smut with feelings even though i dont write much of it...otherwise i love me a good straight fluff fic, especially domestic fluff <3
as for tropes i dislike...age gap is my big one. i genuinely dont know why i dislike it so much but i can rarely RARELY read an age gap fic and actually like it </3 i hate one night stand and/or cheating tropes, and for some reason i have yet to understand, i strongly dislike fake dating/fake married tropes lol. i will say, i find it extremely difficult to enjoy the vast majority of soldier boy fics out there. he's not a genre or a trope but i feel like he needs to go in here; i just dont vibe with him lol
i truly think all my moots have been tagged except for maybe @bejeweledinterludes so uhhh...free tags ? open tags ? whatever its called lol
RAIN PATTERED ON THE WINDOWS OF BOBBY’S HOUSE WHILE the distant bangs of popcorn popping in the microwave could be heard from the kitchen. dean was tapping his foot in front of it, eyeing the bag in the microwave like this was a hunt. he always claims he makes the perfect bag of popcorn and everyone else makes it wrong—but you and sam will soon be the judge of that.
sam’s walking to the couch, sitting with his long legs stretched out over bobby’s old weapons chest, which is doubling as an ottoman tonight. the DVD menu for the princess bride repeats for the third time as you and sam wait for dean to be done in the kitchen. there’s two 6-packs of beer, enough candy to put a small child in a coma, and a batch of brownies you’d made for this occasion.
because you guys had a night off.
and a night off means movie night.
sam rolls his eyes as dean brings the big bowl of popcorn with him out of the kitchen, sighing as dean flourishes it to you both like he’s a magician. “behold,” he grins. “the best goddamn popcorn you’ll ever have in your life.”
“you say that every time, y’know,” you remind dean with raised brows.
“and is it the best popcorn?” dean inquires, but doesn’t wait for your response before answering for you. “the answer is yes. yes, it is. hit play, sammy.”
“nono, i gotta turn on the closed captionin’ first,” sam snatches the remote from the makeshift ottoman, to which dean says “aw, naw, you couldnt’ve done that the whole time i was makin’ the freakin’ popcorn?!”
you just laugh, shaking your head as the brothers snap at each other, then finally calm down. dean sits on the other side of you, shoving the popcorn at sam before he hits play for real this time. it’s almost like you’re the middle of a sandwich—sam and dean being the bread as you’re squished between them. and you don’t mind.
dean makes a comment every once in a while as the movie plays—but you know deep down, he loves this movie just as much as he loves raiders or a cheesy slasher flick. you see it in his eyes when he thinks no one’s watching him, completely absorbed in the film.
the movie’s just a hair over 90 minutes, but halfway through, you start to feel your eyes droop a little. they’re burning slightly from being awake for so long. you’d been tired all day, fresh off the last hunt, but now, it was really starting to hit you, despite it not even being that late.
you glance over down at sam, who’d put his head on your shoulder a while ago. you didn’t think anything of it—but now he’s fast asleep on you already, mouth half open as he leans against you, hand on your thigh as if to keep you here with him. biting down a grin, you shake your head to yourself. you glance over to dean on your right, and he’s not faring much better, either. you can tell he’s fighting sleep hard—you wonder if he got even less hours of z’s than you did. it’s highly probable.
“y’know if you’re tired, you can fall asleep,” you point out quietly, wary of the sleeping sam winchester on your shoulder. dean glances over at you.
“oh, yeah, like snoozin’ sasquatch over there?” he snorts softly, shaking his head, too.
“i mean it,” you say quietly, not delving into the deflection this time. “i’ll still be here when you wake up.”
dean takes a second, absorbs your words. for a brief moment, you expect him to snap shut at you like a clam, like he sometimes does. instead, all he says is:
“…y’don’t know that.”
and while it’s technically true, it’s a little insane to think that something would take you from here, of all places. yet you know it’s always on dean’s mind, losing the people he holds so dear. bobby’s is one of the places you feel the most safe—but with dean and sam is where you feel safest. so being here, with them, it gives you enough breathing room to feel comfortable. you reach up with your free hand not trapped under sam, touch dean’s shoulder. he tenses up a little before relaxing again, melting in your touch.
“promise i will,” you murmur, fingers still brushing his shirt. “well, unless, of course, some strong-armed older brother decides to move me.”
that breaks dean’s barreling train of thought, the corners of his lips pulling up. you’re always able to do that: take dean out of his spiraling thoughts before he gets in too deep. he sighs, shakes his head before he moves to grab your hand on his shoulder, takes it in his own and holds it.
you’d always liked dean’s hands. sam’s, too. dean’s were big, rough, calloused—but his palms were soft. sam’s were longer, more slender, but still big—and both their hands were always so warm. your thumb brushes over dean’s knuckles, not pushing him any further to do something. dean appreciates the fact that you let him lead in moments like these—where the air’s too fragile to say anything or make a sudden move.
eventually, he relaxes a little more, shoulders slumping. not completely—but you’re still considering it a win. he sighs again, then admits defeat: he lets go of your hand and scooches further back against the couch, putting his own head on your other shoulder, mirroring his brother. with the close proximity, you smell both dean and sam’s scents mixed together. it makes you feel a little high—unless you’re just still fighting sleep.
“thank you,” you feel the soft rumble of dean’s sleepy whisper on your chest, his arm resting around you—careful not to disturb his brother. you almost didn’t hear it, had it not been for his face pressed into your shirt. “…for bein’ there. for me ‘n him.”
your heart hurts with how vulnerable dean sounds. like he was a burden to you, like sam was a burden to you. it made your throat tight, knowing dean thinks that way.
you don’t say anything right away. instead, you bury your face into dean’s hair and inhale, tightening your own arm around him. his breathing’s already slower—and without looking at him, you can tell he’s already fallen asleep. but you respond anyways, whispering into his hair.
“always.”
📨 hmmm maybe if i write about this enough sam and dean will materialize in my bed so i can cuddle them until their brains are all fuzzy. universe… can you hear me universe… please… anyways thank you once AGAIN to @aseafullofstars for keeping me sane and giving me this amazing idea for a part three, ily <3
hey guys !! i have a ko-fi now :] the link is right here, and will be linked in my pinned post, as well as the descriptions to all future fics <3
i'm setting this up in light of a lotta stuff happening in my personal life, and while i do have a job for now, i want to get what i can from this to help me start being able to cover my own tuition fees while i navigate an iffy at-home situation :]
posting will stay exactly the same, and as always, there is never any obligation to tip me. if you don't want to or can't afford to, your support on tumblr means everything to me anyway !!! also as a note, i am using paypal for this so be aware that if you dont use paypal, you may run into some issues or extra fees that i have no control over :]
perhaps the strangest post i'll ever have to make, but if you have "misandrist" in your bio, please note the he/him pronouns in my pinned post and consider not following me :] it's really unsettling to be followed by accounts with that in their bios so do us both a favour and double check, ty !!
๋࣭⭑ atlas : spencer's job is hard, and you're determined to ensure that whatever happens after he comes home is as easy and comforting as it can possibly be
๋࣭⭑ binary stars : spencer x reader (gn)
๋࣭⭑ classification : fluff + comfort
๋࣭⭑ stellar density : 4.5k
๋࣭⭑ omens : a lot of fluff, spencer crying because let's be honest he's got a lot of emotions to get out, non-sexual nudity/showering together, all the cosy things i could think of
๋࣭⭑ message in a bottle : so apparently i write for spencer now ??? i've had so many ideas for him floating around in my head bcs @ambiguous-avery and i keep yapping nonstop about him LMAO (and while you're here, PLEASE PRETTY PLEASE go check out their spencer fics !!!)
๋࣭⭑ taglist ༊彡 masterlist
The knock on your apartment door is gentle, almost hesitant, like whoever is knocking is afraid to disrupt some kind of silence. There’s a moment where it’s completely quiet, the air in and around the apartment holding it breath, giving it space to exist in the late evening hours. The next knock follows just a moment later, a lilting pattern that’s become your secret code. So that you know it’s really him and not something that’s followed him home from work and lives in the dark spaces between your light and his. Your voice is muffled by the heavy door, but Spencer knows what you’re saying, because it’s the same thing every time; door’s locked, come in. There’s a shuffling muffled by wood, a slide of metal on metal, and a quiet snick as the mechanisms inside the lock turn to open the door, gliding smoothly against each other.
The hinges perform their usual creaking dance as the door opens, their soft duet with the footsteps on the floor a familiar comfort to you now. Spencer has a specific rhythm he moves in after long cases, and tonight is like all the others. First, his bag is placed by the door, open and sorted through to assure the contents are ordered correctly. Next, his coat slides off his shoulders, forming an orderly ghost on the rack next to yours. Then, his converse come off, laces neatly tucked away and alighted with your own shoes, matching coloured laces reflecting the light. Finally, after he’s assured everything is in order, he moves from the hall to the main room, in search of you.
Tonight, you’re sitting at the kitchen counter, one leg crunched up in a position that looks painful but probably isn’t. You’re reading something on your phone, no doubt something you’ll tell him about later whether he’s interested in it or not; he’s always fascinated when it comes to your interests. There’s a pot on the stovetop, and Spencer can hear the faint bubbling of it like muted conversation. The stack of pages in his arms is deposited gently on the table, and your eyes finally drift up to meet his, soft meeting exhausted.
“Hi,” you murmur.
“Hi,” he replies, equally quiet.
“Tea or coffee?” you ask, smiling at the way his shoulders slump at the familiarity of the question.
It’s a litmus test you’d created together as an indirect way to check up on the other without giving away details you’re not ready to say aloud. Tea means a little time to decompress, and a quiet evening curled together, soaking in the warmth you bring each other. Coffee means everything is fine, and that you could go for a little more excitement in your evening by means of a new movie or new adventure. When his eyes turn melted and soft at the question, you know the reply before he even gives it.
“Tea, please,” he says, slouching even further.
“What kind?”
Your voice is kind in the way that almost brings tired tears to his eyes.
“Chamomile?” he asks weakly.
You stand from the chair, walking over to him and slinging your arms around his shoulders, guiding his head to the crook of your neck.
“I love you,” you whisper as he shuffles closer. “Go shower while I finish dinner. Take your time.”
“Okay,” he hums, making no motion to move.
“I can wash your hair,” you offer.
“I- I can do it.”
“I know.”
“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”
You step back just a half step, your hands planted firmly on his arms.
“Do you want me to?” you ask.
“To what?”
“To wash your hair.”
For a moment, he’s still, the only sounds being his breathing mixing in time with yours and the low boil of soup. His soft doe eyes flick to yours and away again, dropping to the floor as he nods shyly.
“Are you sure it’s okay?” he asks.
You softly kiss his cheek, turning it a soft pink.
“It’s always okay,” is your reply.
Spencer makes a soft noise, something that sounds like acceptance with the tiniest hint of guilt. You catch the guilt, soothing it away with another kiss, this time to the opposite cheek.
“Go get ready,” you say. “I’ll be right there.”
“Are you sure?” he asks again, because he needs to be absolutely certain he’s not burdening you with things you don’t want to handle.
“Mhm.” He can hear the smile in your tone. “Always.”
Spencer lingers for a moment longer, seemingly unwilling to part from you. He finally does after you squeeze his shoulder, muttering softly to yourself as you shut off the stove. You follow him down the hall, one of your hands resting firm on the small of his back, grounding him through his dress shirt. While he heads right into the bathroom, you make a quick stop in the laundry room, throwing a towel and Spencer’s sleep clothes into the dryer. It chimes happily as you feed it the clothing, the door locking with a determined click when you close it. Back in the bathroom, you bring your own pyjamas inside, setting them on the floor while Spencer meticulously folds his work clothes, a desperate attempt to regain whatever control he feels he’s lost. He hovers, watching you undress like you’ll disappear if he looks away for too long.
“Spencer?” you say.
“I- Yes. Hi.”
You offer a smile, so sweet and tender that the only word for it is loving.
“Where’d you go?”
He pauses, sorting his options and deciding on the truth, because you deserve to hear nothing but the truth.
“Just…” he trails off into a heavy silence, leaving you to fill in the planks.
“Okay,” you say, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “C’mon handsome.”
Spencer blushes pink at your compliment, and with his clothes off, you can see the blush moving down his neck that would normally be hidden. Luckily, you’re too focused on the waster temperature to tease him, your soft murmurs as you search for his preferred temperature; warm enough to remind him he’s safe, but cold enough to remind him he’s still alive. The shower rain is interrupted by you stepping under it, muffling a yelp when you realize the water is way too cold, and Spencer has to try very hard not to laugh at your misfortune. You peel back the curtain and beckon Spencer inside after a few more adjustments.
As soon as he’s inside, you move so that he’s under the water. He sighs audibly at the warmth on his back, pattering rainfall washing away his stress, eyes closed and shoulders curling ever inward. He looks impossible small, as close to a scared child as a grown man can be. You feel yourself melting at the sight, and he physically does when your fingers meet his hair and start working the water through his curls. Each press of your fingers to his scalp soothes him more, and by the time you’re reaching for his shampoo, he’s learning almost all of his weight on you, head resting on your shoulder. The opening of the bottle lid cracks like a firework, loud and unwelcome, but the flood of his shampoo scent makes up for it; warm, slightly sweet, smelling entirely like home and comfort. It’s blissfully comfortable in here, under your touch, under your loving hands.
The only sign Spencer is still conscious is the soft sob he bites back the moment it escapes.
“You’re okay,” you murmur into his ear. “’S okay Spence, you’re home.”
“I know,” he says, voice thick yet not entirely convinced.
“Yeah?” you say, adjusting his head.
He puffs a watery sigh, clearing his throat decisively. He’ll probably talk about it later, but words have no space in here right now. He settles instead of nodding and shuffling slightly closer, basking in your warmth. Each pas of your hands through his curls as you wash the soap out chokes him up a little further, and he’s painfully aware of how helpful the water is in hiding his tears.
When he’s fully cleaned off, you leave him a few minutes to himself for soaking while you go fetch his towel and clothes. You say his name with cautious care when you return to avoid spooking him, the only acknowledgement being the shower turning off and his hand peeling back the curtain before wrapping around himself again. Your arms are spread wide and he walks right into them, collapsing against you as you wrap him in the towel.
“It’s warm,” he comments.
“Mhm. Put it in the dryer for a moment.”
He makes another wounded noise, throat tight. The feeling of your arms around his body, warm and solid, drag and uneven breath out of him. You smile, laughing softly as you towel him dry, only stepping out in order to give him privacy as he changes.
You’re back at the stove when he returns, stirring the pot with a wooden spoon, the steam curling up around your face like a halo. The clean shirt and flannel pants you set out for him also carry the warmth of your dryer, achingly gentle in his heart as he envelops himself further in your domesticity. The stool creaks a little as he sits down, the wobbly leg slamming into the floor harder than he intended. If you’re mad about the sound, you don’t say anything, instead opting to grab the good bowls for the soup, placing one in front of him with a soft clink.
“Open,” you say, bringing the soup ladle toward him.
He’s about to ask why, but when he sees that you’ve made his favourite soup recipe he got for you from Rossi, he opens his mouth for you without question. It burns his tongue a little, but he’s so beyond grateful for the taste of something made with love that he barely even registers the discomfort. When it hits his stomach, a gooey warmth floods him, ocean waves of home tugging at his body until he gives in and floats away.
“Good?” you ask, watching him.
“Very,” he replies, blinking. “It’s hot.”
You giggle. “Well, yeah. It’s boiling.”
You side a cup of water across the counter that he drinks gratefully, soothing his burned tongue and throat.
“Eat here or out there?” you ask, jutting your thumb to the couch.
Spencer evaluates his options with the kind of serious calculation he leaves only for your questions. Eating on the couch means he can wrap up in blankets and keep you tucked close, your head a grounding weight. But, eating on the couch means you’re both more likely to spill, given the liquid nature of soup and the uneven surface properties of your thrift store couch and wonky coffee table. Sitting at the counter guarantees a safter surface, dramatically reducing the chances of a spill. He’ll just have to settle for the only physical touch being your knees resting together under the countertop.
“Here,” he finally answers, still uncertain. “It’s more stable and I don’t want your couch to have soup spilled all over it.”
You nod, accepting. “Get cozy.”
The soup is ladled into bowls and placed in your spots, two spoons following, and two crumpled napkins ending the setup. Then, decisively like you’d read his mind and planned this all along, you slide your chair next to his.
“Scootch over,” you say, nudging him with your hip.
Immediately, his chair scrapes clumsily on the floor to make room, his hand pulling your chair close enough to be content. As soon as you sit, he curls into you, resting his head on your shoulder, damp hair tickling your neck. Your hum reverberates in Spencer’s chest, and he’s fairly certain if kept up long enough, it would have healing properties like a cat’s purr.
“Y’okay?” you ask, ruffling his hair.
“Mhm.” He sighs, heavily, the stress melting from him bit by bit until the knot in his chest feels just a little looser.
“Bad case?”
He shrugs. “Guess so.”
“Nothing wrong with saying that.”
“I know. Saying it just makes it more real, I suppose.”
You kiss the top of his head. “Wanna talk about it?”
“Not really.”
“Is there a happy ending?”
His silence says everything and more. The heavy pause fills the room wall to wall, leaving barely any space for anything else. It crowds you and him out, pressing against his skin until it aches, and until the reminder of his failure is settled heavily in his soul.
“’S not your fault, y’know,” you say as you take a spoonful of soup.
“I was meant to talk him down.”
“And did you?”
“…Not well.”
You frown. “What’s that mean?”
Spencer’s fingers leave the spoon and opt to twist with each other in his lap, nails starting to pick at his cuticles. You give him a few minutes to collect his thoughts before your hands grab his, intertwining his fingers with yours and squeezing tightly.
“I- I did talk. For a while, actually.”
When you say nothing, he continues.
“It was just- his mental barriers are- were very strong. He was able to keep it all locked up tight, and breaking that resulted in a breakdown. I pushed too hard.”
Your hand tightens reassuringly in his.
“It just didn’t matter, in the end. It wasn’t enough for him.”
“Spence?”
“Hm?”
Your hands cup his face, thumbs stroking cheekbones, dipping into dark circles and sweeping along rosy warmth. One thumb passes over a silvery scar, and you smile fondly.
“Did he listen? When you spoke?”
Spencer pauses. “For a while.”
“Then it meant something.”
“He still-.”
“Sweetheart,” you say. “Sometimes people decide they’re going to do something no matter what.”
“I know.”
“And sometimes,” you interrupt kindly. “Someone talking in their last moments makes them feel alive. You don’t have to change everyone’s mind, Spence. You just have to remind them they’re human.”
Spencer goes quiet, the kind where he’s internalizing something, making it rational and real, something more than just a string of words.
“Look,” you say. “All you can offer is comfort. Something to remind them they’re not alone. I know you can do that.”
“Even if it didn’t change the outcome?”
“Especially then.”
You lean closer, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead, lips brushing the furrow in his brow.
“Whatever happened today changes nothing to me. I still love you, I know you did your best, and I’m still right here.”
Spencer heaves a shuddering breath, hands trembling faintly in his lap. You tilt his head up to find his bottom lip trapped between his teeth in an effort to keep it from trembling too. Another forehead kiss and a half-choked sob breaks free, his body crunching in on itself like he’s recoiling from a shot. You lean his body into yours just like in the shower; one hand on his back, the other buried in his hair as his head rests in the crook of your neck. You rock slowly side to side, stroking his hair that’s still slightly damp and slides nicely through your fingers.
“You’re okay,” you murmur.
“I’m okay.”
You nod, squeezing the hug tighter. “You’re okay, you’re home, you’re safe.”
He’s quiet for a moment. Then, so soft you barely hear it, he whispers one word into the skin of your neck.
“Promise?”
Your heart shatters, pulling him tighter to you so that you can envelop as much of him as possible. Your smell surrounds him, warm and safe and you.
“Promise. Always promise.”
Spencer breaks quietly, a rock sinking gracefully to the sea floor, the ripples only big enough for you to see them and follow them to him. You cradle him to your chest, feeling his tears wet your skin as he clings tighter.
“I gotcha,” you murmur, soft and safe and so tender it hurts his chest more than his quiet sobs do.
He nuzzles closer to you, noes pressing to your neck and mouth muffled in your shirt, quieting the last dregs of already quiet sobs. With each slow movement of your body’s pendulum motion, your voice is whispering reassurances, and your lips are pressing gentle kisses to his teary cheeks and his hair. You don’t rush him, and he doesn’t make nay indication he’s moving; you just exist in each other’s orbits, lines of yourself molding into one being, the best part of the both of you tangling together. His empathy and your sympathy. Your rationality to his emotionality. Everything that makes him cry meeting every part of your comfort. Spencer feels softer than he ever has before, because nowhere will ever be as safe as home in your arms.
Finally, after what was several minutes and only felt like half a moment, Spencer’s head tilts up from its burrow in your neck. You hum lightly at the feeling of his weight leaving, letting him pull as far out of your arms as he wants. He sniffles heavily, taking the tissue you hand him and wiping his nose. He uses the backs of his hands to wipe his eyes, knuckles scraping on rough, red skin. Spener clears his throat a few times as your hands finish wiping stray tears, and he laughs a little in embarrassment.
“I’m sorry,” he apologizes.
“God, Spence, don’t apologize.”
“I- okay.”
He sniffs again, looking at his shoes.
“You needed that, hm?” you ask, rubbing the back of his hand with your thumb.
“Actually, crying releases hormones that help with emotional regulation. Many people report fewer negative emotions after crying.”
You’re watching him, fond and soft, listening to every word just to dissipate it all with one statement.
“So yes, you did need that.”
He blushes. “Yea, I did.”
“C’mere,” you say, tugging at his hands until he follows you to your feet. He’s standing a little taller now, like the weight compressing his spine as been lifted.
“What are you doing?” he asks as you loop your arms around his middle.
“That thing,” you offer unhelpfully. “Deep…uh. Deep something, I forget.”
Spencer laughs low in his throat, soft as ever. “Deep pressure therapy?”
“Yeah, that.”
“You know, it’s actually-.”
He’s cut off abruptly by your arms spreading over as much of his back as you can, squeezing him tight to your chest. He’s stiff for a moment, taken aback by the pressure and the abruptness of it all. Slowly, his arms land on your waist, resting there as you scoop him up into the biggest bear hug of his entire life. You eventually part with one last squeeze and a soft kiss to his lips that make them tingle pleasantly.
“Better?” you ask, turning to the table and grabbing his bowl.
“Much.” He goes to sit and take a spoonful of soup, finding both his bowl and spoon are gone. “What’re you doing?”
“Reheating your soup,” you say easily, sticking both bowls in the microwave and setting the timer, the hum loud in the kitchen space.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
You shrug, leaning on your elbows. “I know. I wanted to.”
“Why?”
“For you.”
“Why-.”
“Because you’ve had a right day and because I love you.”
Another pause follows, the air hesitating.
“Why…”
You sigh in mock exasperation, grinning widely. “Do you ever stop asking questions?”
Spencer returns your grin, brighter than he’s looked all evening. “No.”
Just then, your eyes light up like you’ve discovered some secret he doesn’t know about. “I know what you can do, though.”
“What?” he says, excitedly.
“Sit down,” you say, pushing him into the chair. “Let yourself be cared for,” you say with a kiss. “And let me love you like you deserve.”
He gives you a weak glare. “You could just tell me to stop talking.”
“I don’t want you to stop talking, I want you to stop pretending you feel perfectly normal.”
That shuts him up quick, because you are right and there’s only so long he can argue before giving in and letting you win. Before he can think of more to say, the microwave beeps and you’re sliding soup in front of him again, spoon in his hand as he eyes it. The soup is gone in minutes, Spencer not quite realizing how hungry he really was until he finally started eating. Normally, you’d make a joke about slowing down, but tonight doesn’t feel like the night for it.
He sits with his head on your shoulder while he waits for you to finish, the heat of the soup in his stomach and the emotional drain of crying starting to lull him into a half-asleep state. He doesn’t even realize you’re done until you’re tapping his shoulder and he’s stirring with a soft groan.
“Still with me?” you ask lightly.
“Mhm,” he sighs, sitting up and rubbing at his puffy eyes.
“Bed?”
He nods, stretching out like a cat and curling back in. His next question, asked so softly you almost miss it, makes your heart burst in light.
“Read to me?”
You hesitate, not because you don’t want to, but because it’s him. “Haven’t you memorized every book we own?”
He shrugs, starting into your eyes so tenderly they need to make a new word for it.
“Not in your voice.”
The admission makes your soul feel important for the first time in way too long. Spener, the boy with the eidetic memory, who knows every word to every line of every book he’s ever read, thinks having them read to him by you means more than his perfect memory of the pages. You can feel your cheeks flush hot at the knowledge, but if he sees it or not is lost on you.
“Pick something then,” you say instead, gesturing to the shelf. “I’ll clean up.”
“Love you,” he mumbles, kissing your cheek before hopping out of his chair and scurrying to the bookshelf.
The faint sounds of your movement in the kitchen perfectly fill in the stillness between Spencer’s own movements. The clink of spoon on bowl in the pauses as he thinks, the soft hush of water under his breathing as he mutters to himself about each book. Eventually, quiet conversation fills the space, two separate ones who’s answers flood together until the commentary sounds like two people talking to each other. You’re commentating the dishes, chastising the water that flies off the spoons and hushing the bowls that touch too loudly. Spencer is relaying the plot of the book to you, knowing you’re listening just to hear the sound of his voice. He digs through his shelves, unsatisfied, until he finds something tucked behind a copy of The Odyssey; a collection of children’s stories, with a foreword about the history of illustrated novels, gifted to him by his mother. It features her careful handwriting noting his childhood commentary on the margins of almost every page.
“Find something?” you say, startling him a little.
“Jesus, you scared me.”
“Sorry.” You peer closer at the tan cover in his hands, reading the title. “Is that Beatrix Potter?”
He’s quiet, face flushed a deep red, turning the book away in his arms to hide it from your gaze.
“Spencer, these are great. What’s up?”
He shrugs, trying to be casual and landing somewhere in the realm of petrified.
“They’re children’s stories,” he says like that changes everything.
“So?”
“So…I’m not a child.”
“I know.”
He makes a frustrated noise in his chest. It’s not at you, it never is. Rather, it’s t he fact that for all his might he can’t figure out how to put it into words that he should be past the children’s story phase. Yet the fact you’ve still offered to read something he holds such fond memories of makes every argument he had disappear from his mind.
“DO you want to read it?”
Your voice snaps hm back. “What?”
“Do you want me to read it to you?”
Spener swallows anxiously, though he’s not sure why he’s afraid.
“Would you?” he asks softly.
“’Course I would. They’re good stories. Bedisdes, you need something lighter tonight.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Spencer hands you the book, rising to his feet and clearing his throat.
“Just don’t make it weird. Please. I’m not a kid.”
You smile reassuringly. “I know, sweetheart. It won’t be weird.”
Spencer takes your free hand in his, his thumb tracing over the mountain ranges of your knuckles. His footsteps pad lightly down the hall in time with yours, socked feet whispering in rhythm the way they only do because you’ve spent so long around each other. His flannel pyjama pants hush soft too, reeds in the water of your apartment’s oasis. The hall feels both endless and barely a step long, Spencer getting lost in his thoughts as you walk the few steps to your bedroom.
Cracking the door open, you let him in first, watching as he climbs into bed, throwing the sheets over his legs and sighting when he gets comfortable. You close the blinds over your window, lighting the bedside lamp and taking note of how kindly the light caresses Spencer’s face. The edge of his nose is lit up gold, soft eyes reflecting it back too. When he smiles at you, his eyes light up with love amidst the hazel, reminding you exactly why you love him.
“Scootch over,” you say, crawling into bed beside him.
He’s adjusted the pillows your for already, learning them against the headboard so that you can comfortably read. You already know where he’ll move before he does; you register his pillow right in place for your head at the exact moment he throws an arm over you and rests his head on your chest.
“Are you comfy?” he asks when you’re settled in.
“Mhm,” you reply. “Are you?”
Spener answers by snuggling closer with a satisfied groan.
“Good,” you say, ruffling his hair.
You’re about to flip past the foreword when Spencer’s eyes ask you to read it without his voice saying the words. You adjust seamlessly, clearing your throat as you start with the foreword. With your hand carding through his curls and your voice vibrating in his ears, spencer falls asleep faster than he has in years; before you’re finished the foreword, he’s already snoring impossibly soft against your chest, fingers twined carefully in your shirt. You finish the entire first section just in case, but when he doesn’t wake, you set it on the table and turn out the lamp, slowly easing yourself down the mattress until you’re lying comfortably. Spencer doesn’t stir, and it’s not long before you drift off with him after pressing a final kiss to the top of his head.
tags : use the taglist form or send me a comment/ask/dm to be added to spencer reid taglist !!
dont usually do this but if any of yall have ever had an endoscopy and/or gastroscopy before I am begging on my knees for you to tell me what to expect bcs I am #soscared for mine on tuesday 😭😭 pictures of my cats for extra bribery pls help me LOL
okay SO since it seems like im gonna be awake and feeling the whole thing except for (wait for it) The Tiniest Bit of Numbing Spray, im turning this into a science experiment so I dont go insane. YOU are helping with it.
tell me the questions you want me to answer afterward 🤭 this is science. ask me questions ill concentrate on them if I can remember them and then answer them afterward tmrw :]
dont usually do this but if any of yall have ever had an endoscopy and/or gastroscopy before I am begging on my knees for you to tell me what to expect bcs I am #soscared for mine on tuesday 😭😭 pictures of my cats for extra bribery pls help me LOL
๋࣭⭑ atlas : headcanons on how sam would be with a reader who gets panic attacks
๋࣭⭑ binary stars : sam x reader (gn)
๋࣭⭑ classification : comforting
๋࣭⭑ stellar density : 1.2k
๋࣭⭑ omens : described anxiety and panic attacks, nonverbal overwhelm, big comforting sam who just really loves you
๋࣭⭑ message in a bottle : requested !! as someone who also deals with occasional anxiety/panic attacks i really liked this one (hence why i chose sam...a little self indulgence never hurt anyone !!)
๋࣭⭑ taglist ༊彡 masterlist
sam winchester would...
Sam is no stranger to panic attacks. He's had his fair share all throughout his life, and as much as you both wish it wasn't so, it makes him the most equipped to help you deal with your own. It's almost reciprocal, a way to pay back all the times you've helped him with his, but he's not keeping score; he'll do anything to keep you on the ground where you belong.
He's done his research, even before he met you. In a desperate bid to keep his own at bay and learn to handle them alone, he knows plenty of tactics and if you asked, he could explain the science behind it too. Knowledge helps him understand what scares him, and he regains his research fervor when you start going to him for help. He will try any and every strategy he can think of until you both find one that works for you, because the last thing he wants is for you to pretend its helping when it's not.
He does his absolute best to remember everything that could make you panic or get overwhelmed. Sometimes he recognizes things that you don't, and he's always so proud of himself when he does. It's very important to him that he keeps tabs on everything that could affect you, because he would never forgive himself for missing something so obvious. Every time he misses something, he asks you to tell him what it was for future reference.
If you're someone who needs space to breathe through it, he'll hover just close enough that you can still see him and feel the comfort radiating off of him, but still far enough away that you don't feel crowded or pressured. If you need his touch, though, he's more than willing to hold you through it, arms tight around you like he'll never let go; and if the world keeps hunting his love, he just may never let you go back into it.
Sam has absolutely mastered the art of listening to you when you aren't speaking. He knows every tiny detail in your body language; partly because he's always had an innate ability to read people, but partly because he knows that what you don't say speaks louder than what you do vocalize. The simple act of watching how you stand tells him everything he needs to know about your emotional state; if you need a break, a helping hand, or if you just need him to get you the hell out of there as soon as he can.
Speaking of rescuing you, Sam has no shame with coming up with excuses for you to leave situations that you dislike. If you're getting anxious or nervous and you can feel a shutdown coming, all you need to do is lightly tug on his fingers that are already laced with yours, and he's got an elaborate excuse about needing some air already on the tip of his tongue. You don't have to pretend when you're around him, because he will do whatever he needs to do to get you into a safer situation, even if that does mean he has to embarrass himself a little.
He has no problems with comforting you in public either. If you have a panic attack in a public space, he understands that even though you're probably super embarrassed by it, he doesn't care about how he looks to the others. He'll drop to the floor beside you and hold you if you need it, angling his back to the room so that all you can see is his face and all anyone else can see is his broad shoulders. He has no problems using his size to his advantage here; getting you out of a room faster, blocking inquisitive glances, making you feel all consumingly safe in his space.
The lights of the room are too bright, angling in on you like predators cornering their prey, all sharp teeth and bright eyes that stare and stab into you like they can tear you apart with just a glance. It's noisy, not enough to harm you but enough to make you wish you were anywhere else right now. The sounds of people talking overlap with each other until you can barely hear Sam anymore, and it's just a thousand voices of strangers that all flood your ears at once, demanding for your attention like begging dogs with no collars to hold them back. Even his grip on your hand, which to this point has been steady and strong, is starting to slip away. Not physically, because his fingers are still entwined with yours, but mentally, like you're forgetting what a human hand feels like in yours, the pressure of his fingertips disappearing into thin air like they were never there to begin with.
And just like that, every wall in the building is closing in on you, choking you with concrete dust and faded memories until you can barely breathe in the smell of Sam's cheap cologne. Faded ghostly hands grab at your throat until it's closed shut, a lump in there that won't dislodge even though you can feel tears already pricking at your waterline, threatening to trail down your cheeks like little rivers. Your feet stop walking, knees already threatening to give out, words stuck between your brain and tongue and washing away in your lungs until they're nothing more than a faded concept and a desire to be heard by someone who wants to listen. You know Sam stops walking too, attached to you by your joined hands you can no longer feel, but you don't know for sure until he's turning around in front of you and cupping your face in his hands.
"Still with me?" you hear him murmur.
You can't reply, not when you're in this state. Your thoughts are everywhere and nothing can even make it close to your mouth. His arm links with yours as he drags you off to a second room, tucked away behind a heavy door he locks with a deft precision that says he doesn't care who gets mad at him for it later, not until he knows you're going to be okay. You sit on the floor, knees arraigned comfortably and back pressed against the wall, hoping something stable and unchanging like the wall will help you. Sam crouches in front of you, sitting cross legged and opening his arms just enough to give you the option to crawl into them if you want, his low voice already starting its soothing murmurs about anything and everything that comes to mind.
You leave the room feeling better than you have all night, his arm around your waist and your body held close to his own, feeling the warmth radiating from his chest underneath his flannel shirt. He leans into you every once in a while to press a kiss to your temple, constant little reminders that there is nothing about your anxiety that you have to handle alone, a reminder that he's always going to be there for you even if you can't say the words and ask for him yourself. What's your pain is his pain, and what's your solution soothes his mind too, especially when your solution is him.
hi twin!! wanted to request one of the supernatural boys (whatever one u think fits it best!!) w/ a significant other that suffers from panic attacks or gets non verbal w/ overstimulation… love u!!😞💙
hello hun !!! I come bearing this gift of this fic <3 I went for headcanon style so i could better work in both ideas because I genuinely could not make up a plot to save my life LMAO 😭😭
Been a longtime fan of you since last year!! Apprentice your fics and for you not using ai!! 💜
oh anon you made my night sweetheart !!!! tysm for sticking around this long, it means a lot to me <3 ai will never ever have a place in my fics or on this blog :] its all my pure organic handmade nonsense LOL
currently reading? the exorcist by william peter blatty
currently working on? my mechanic!dean winchester fanfic 🤪 read here
currently wearing? black midi dress with bones n mushroom print and black platform sandals
current obsession? Dean Winchester & Willoughby tucker i’ll always love you album
last google search? barking dog gif
favourite flower? gladiolus
no pressure tags with moots id like to get to know more: @spybarbie @inbreddaughter @glittergluz @priestesspie @uglylittlelamb @serawinchester @sainteangel @thesundontshineontheseeyebrows @s0ullesslullab1es @thousandyearsorsmth + anyone who would like to join!
I havent done a tag game in ages and I think i last played this one on main 😶 guess its y'alls turn to know me now !! thank you for the tag @bitesizedtales <3
LATEST SONG?
orbiter - noah kahan (for fic inspo, it'll be soft and sweet don't worry !!)
CURRENTLY WATCHING?
nothing... :( but on my watch list is : criminal minds, spn s5-15, and another rewatch of project hail mary
CURRENTLY READING?
unironically ? anna karenina lmao. yes it is 735 pages, yes i will probably finish it by the end of the this week. y'all will know when i do
CURRENTLY WORKING ON?
ough so much...a sam fic based on orbiter, several spencer reid fics, the beginnings of a dean fic. i have a strange desire to write a really long fic thanks to @ambiguous-avery so im plotting ideas for that
CURRENTLY WEARING?
my work uniform </3 i wish i could say i was wearing something cool but i genuinely own no cool clothes LMAO
CURRENT OBSESSION?
in the fic world, spencer reid. in the not-fic world, i'm getting close to another astrophysics deep dive lol
LAST GOOGLE SEARCH?
ao3. unirionically, ao3. before that tho my last search was "lidocaine product monograph" because i'm getting a prodecure done next week involving it and i wanted to read up on it (did you know the organic formula for lidocaine looks like a person lying on their back ??? now you do !!)
FAVORITE FLOWER?
lilies lilies lilies I ADORE LILIES !!!! honourable mentions go to begonias, geraniums/crane's bills, and wolf willow which isn't technically a flower so much as a flowering shrub, but i love love love the smell of it <3
summary : when you're taken by an unsub who holds a peculiar grudge against your father, seven minutes make a hell of a difference between life and death.
warnings : angst with maybe -45% comfort ( THIS MEANS NEGATIVE 45 NOT AROUND 45 PLS USE UR BRAINS I CANNOT KEEP EXPLAINING IT) kidnapping, torture, mentions of harm being done to other people, completely made up plot btw so no spoilers for the actual show, spencer losing his shit, established relationship
word count : 9.5 k
a/n : as usual, not proofread ! probably about season 10-11!reid as in looks reference but the plotline is all over the place so uhm sorry abt that i was legit js pulling shit from my criminal minds memory bank and shoved them all together... so yeah defo not season-wise accuracy. (the crash is based on s13 so lil spoilers on that... and i also looked up every technical term i could think of to make spencer sound accurate so uh) enjoy !
Spencer's hands are careful as he fastens your bulletproof vest over your chest, his brows furrowed. The fluorescent lights of the bullpen wash him pale, catching the faint shadows under his eyes from too many nights spent buried in files.
“You tightened it too much,” you mumble, wincing as he tugs the straps.
“It’s supposed to be tight,” he says automatically, not looking up.
“Pretty sure breathing is also supposed to happen.” That finally earns you a glance. Not amused. Just worried.
“You joke when you’re nervous.”
“And you lecture when you are.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. My lungs would like to file a formal complaint.” His mouth twitches despite himself, but it disappears almost immediately. Spencer smooths his hand over the front of the vest one last time, checking for gaps like he doesn’t trust the fabric to do its job properly. You study him for a second.
“You know,” you say quietly, “most people just say ‘be careful.’”
“I did say that.”
“Three times.”
“Because you ignored me the first two.” A snort escapes you, but it fades when you notice the way his fingers linger near your ribs. Restless. Anxious.The case had gotten ugly fast.Three victims in four days. All connected to the Bureau in some way. Retired agents. Informants. One federal prosecutor. And now the unsub had escalated from taunting the BAU to targeting your father directly. Aaron Hotchner had made enemies before. Plenty of them. But this one felt different.
Personal.
The unsub had been sending photographs for weeks now. Grainy shots of Hotch entering Quantico. Jack at soccer practice. You grabbing coffee outside the bullpen with Spencer. Watching. Waiting. The latest message had arrived that morning.
Tick tock, Hotchner.
And underneath it:
What hurts worse? Losing your team… or your daughter?
Hotch had gone frighteningly still when Garcia read it aloud. You’d watched the muscle in his jaw tick once before he started assigning teams like the world wasn’t tilting beneath his feet. Now the bullpen buzzes around you—agents moving quickly, radios crackling, Emily and JJ arguing quietly over routes—but Spencer still hasn’t stepped back.
“Spence,” you say softly. His eyes flick to yours immediately. “I’ll be okay.” The problem is he doesn’t answer. Because Spencer Reid has seen too many people promise that before bleeding out anyway. Behind you, your father emerges from his office already shrugging into his jacket.
“We hit the road in two,” Hotch says. The entire room shifts instantly into motion. Spencer finally lets go of your vest, though reluctantly, like peeling his hands away from something important.
“You stay with Luke,” he says firmly. “Don’t split up. Don’t go anywhere alone." You blink at him.
“Wow. You and my dad should start a podcast.”
“I’m serious.”
“You’re always serious.”
“That’s statistically inaccurate.” That almost gets a real smile out of you.Almost. Then Hotch’s voice cuts through the bullpen again.
“Let’s move.” You reach up and pull Spencer down towards you, catching his lips in a quick kiss as your dad, Luke, Walker and Emily all walk towards the black SUV's waiting for you downstairs.
The kiss barely lasts two seconds.
Still, Spencer chases it for half a heartbeat when you pull away, his hand catching briefly at your wrist like he’s fighting the urge to keep you there.
“Be careful,” he says quietly. You soften a little at the look on his face.
“Spence, we’re literally just surveilling a warehouse.”
“That statement significantly increases the statistical likelihood something catastrophic is about to happen.” Luke snorts from beside the elevators.
“He’s got a point.” You roll your eyes, backing toward the bullpen doors.
“You’re all dramatic.” Hotch appears behind you, expression unreadable but tired in the way only your father can manage.
“Move.”And just like that, the moment’s over. Everyone scatters into motion.
The unsub’s name is Daniel Kessler.
Former paramedic. Former military. Smart enough to stay ahead of the BAU for six weeks and angry enough to make mistakes.
More specifically: angry at Aaron Hotchner.
Three years ago, Hotch testified in a corruption case involving Kessler’s brother. The brother went to prison. Died there eleven months later.
Kessler blamed Hotch.
And now bodies were piling up across Virginia with surgical precision and handwritten messages left behind at each scene.
The latest lead had come fast—a possible location tied to one of Kessler’s shell companies just outside Quantico. Which was why the team was mobilizing so quickly. Three SUVs. Hotch and Rossi in the first. JJ and Tara in the second. You, Luke, Emily, and Walker in the third. Spencer stayed behind with Garcia to monitor incoming intel. He looked miserable about it.
At first, the drive is almost painfully normal. Walker’s driving. Emily sits shotgun flipping through case notes while Luke scrolls through updates on his phone beside you in the backseat. Rain taps softly against the windows. The highway stretches dark and endless ahead of you. Your phone buzzes.
SPENCE
You forgot your scarf.
You smile despite yourself.
YOU
Tragic. I’ll hold a funeral later.
Three dots appear immediately.
Then:
SPENCE
Funny people are statistically more likely to survive traumatic situations.
You bark out a laugh. Luke glances over.
“Pretty Boy?”
“Unfortunately.” Emily sighs dramatically from the front seat.
“You two are disgusting.”
“You say that like you haven’t watched them stare at each other for ten straight minutes in briefing rooms,” Walker says.
“I have,” Emily replies. “That’s why I said it. I've also watched them pine for each other for years. This sudden shift in dynamics is weird. I honestly liked it better when Reid was all stuttery and shy around her."
"We didn't pine." You grumble, shifting in your seat. Four separate looks immediately get directed at you. Luke actually lowers his phone.
“Be serious.”
“He wrote you a six-page apology because he accidentally snapped at you once,” Emily says to absolutely no one’s surprise.
Walker snorts from the driver’s seat.
“Reid used to look like he was being held hostage every time she touched him.”
“He still does sometimes,” Luke says.
“Okay, wow,” you mutter. Emily twists slightly in her seat to look back at you.
“Sweetheart, he once walked into the glass conference room wall because you smiled at him.”
“That happened one time.”
“Twice,” Luke corrects. Walker laughs.
“Nah, my favorite was the coffee thing.” You narrow your eyes.
“What coffee thing?”
“You brought him coffee every morning for like eight months,” Walker says.
“Because he forgets to eat when he’s working.”
“And Reid started memorizing your coffee order after day two,” Emily adds smugly. Luke points between all of you.
“See, this is why none of us were shocked when they finally got together.”
“You were all shocked,” you argue.
“We were shocked it took this long,” Emily corrects. Emily cackles. “You're dating a textbook.”
“A very pretty textbook,” you mumble before thinking better of it. Unfortunately the entire car hears you. Walker makes a wounded sound.
“Oh, that’s disgusting.” Emily clutches her chest dramatically.
“No, let her continue. This is healing me.” You flip her off from the backseat. Rain continues tapping softly against the windshield as the SUV speeds down the dark stretch of highway. The radio crackles quietly every few seconds with updates from the other cars. Somewhere ahead, Hotch and Rossi are already discussing entry routes. JJ’s voice cuts in briefly over comms before fading back out. For a moment, everything feels strangely normal.
Easy.
Luke elbows you lightly.
“You know Reid almost called Hotch Sr when he asked permission to ask you out.” Your head whips toward him.
“What?” Emily bursts into delighted laughter.
“He did.” Walker nearly misses the curve in the road because he’s laughing too hard now.
“No he did not.”
“Oh, he absolutely did,” Emily says. “Hotch just stared at him for like ten full seconds while Reid visibly aged.” Luke deepens his voice badly in imitation. “‘Agent Hotchner, respectfully, I was wondering if—’”
“Stop talking,” you groan.
“—if your daughter would potentially—’”
“You’re all dead to me.” Emily wipes tears from under her eyes.
“Your father looked so uncomfortable.” Walker grins into the rearview mirror.
“Honestly brave of Reid. I’d rather fistfight a bear than ask Hotch for dating permission.”
“He didn’t ask permission,” you defend automatically. Luke raises an eyebrow.
“He absolutely did.” Luke laughs. And for one perfect, stupid second, everything feels fine.
Then you see it. Up ahead. Small. Sharp. Metal glinting beneath the headlights. Your stomach drops instantly.
“Walker—” Too late. The SUV hits the spike strips hard. The sound is explosive. All four tires blow at once.
"Shit !" Walker jerks the wheel violently as the vehicle fishtails across the slick highway. Emily shouts something.
"Everybody hold on !" Luke grabs for the handle above the door. Your seatbelt locks brutally across your chest as the world spins sideways.
Then— Headlights. Blinding. A truck horn screaming— And impact. Metal shrieks. Glass detonates. Your body whips sideways so hard your vision whites out completely. Something slams into your ribs.
When you wake up, you can’t breathe. Pain hits first. Not sharp. Everywhere. Burning agony flooding through every inch of your body like someone poured gasoline into your veins. A broken sound leaves your throat. Smoke curls through the crushed SUV. Your head lolls sideways. Everything looks wrong. The windshield is gone. The dashboard is crumpled inward. Blood streaks the windows. Your seatbelt digs painfully into your chest. For a second you can’t understand why your left arm won’t move properly. Then feeling rushes back all at once and you nearly black out again.
“Fuck—” Your voice comes out shredded. You force your head up. Emily’s slumped against the passenger door, unmoving, blood running down the side of her face. Luke’s crumpled awkwardly beside you.
Walker— Walker’s head hangs at an angle that makes your stomach twist violently. Too still. Far too still.
“Walker,” you croak. No response. You try again, panic climbing your throat. You reach forward, wincing at the pull of your seat belt, shaking him. “Walker!” His entire body slumps forward, head landing on the steering wheel with a deafening thud. You bite back the bile threatening to spew out of you, your vision tunneling as you jerk back. Your chest caves inward.
Oh God. Smoke thickens around you. The car groans. Somewhere outside, people are shouting. You fumble clumsily for the seatbelt release with trembling fingers. It finally clicks. The second it unlatches, your body pitches forward violently and agony tears through your side hard enough to make you scream. Something’s wrong. Something is very, very wrong. You look down. Blood. So much blood. A jagged piece of metal protrudes from beneath your ribs. Your vision flickers.
“No no no—” The driver-side door suddenly jerks open. Cold rain floods in. A man appears beside the wreckage wearing EMT gear. Reflective jacket. Medical gloves. Calm eyes. Relief crashes through you so hard you almost cry.
“Ma'am,” he says firmly. “Stay still.” You nod weakly.
“My-My friends - Please you have to-” Your eyes dart around, trying to catch a glimpse of the other cars. You can see smoke and fire from somewhere behind you, and panic claws up your throat. "Oh, god- my-my dad is in- please, you have to-"
“We’ll get them,” he says quickly. “I need to move you first.” Your brain feels slow. Foggy. He cuts through your vest with terrifying efficiency. Strong hands slide beneath your arms. Pain explodes through your abdomen as he pulls you free from the wreckage. You scream.
“I know,” he says soothingly. “I know. I got you.” Rain pours down around you. Lights flash red and blue across the highway. Your head lolls weakly against his shoulder as he carries you toward the ambulance. You can barely keep your eyes open. Your body feels heavy.
Wrong.
“Dad,” you mumble. “Need my dad—”
“We already got the two other cars evacuated. We have extra RA's en route to escort your friends to the hospital. Your father is waiting for you there.” the EMT says. You nod, rain soaking your clothes. He loads you onto the stretcher. The ambulance doors stand open behind you.
Then— Movement. Across the wreckage. Another SUV. Crushed against the guardrail. And stumbling out of it— Hotch.
Your father can barely stand. Blood runs down the side of his face. One arm hangs limp. But the second his eyes land on you— Pure horror floods his expression.
“Sweetheart !” Your breath catches.
What ?
Your breath catches. The EMT had said Hotch was already at the hospital. Your stomach drops so violently it almost makes you vomit.
No.
No, no—
Hotch stumbles forward through the rain, slipping against the soaked pavement as he tries to run toward the ambulance. Rossi is behind him shouting for medics, for backup, for somebody to stop the vehicle, but your father’s eyes are locked entirely on you. On the man beside you. And suddenly you understand. The EMT’s hand tightens on the stretcher rail.
“Wait,” you whisper. Hotch sees your expression change.
“No!” he roars. The ambulance doors slam shut. The sound nearly knocks the air out of your lungs. Panic detonates through your body. You jerk upright instantly despite the agony ripping through your abdomen.
“Stop the fucking ambulance!” you scream, scrambling backward across the stretcher. Pain tears through your ribs so hard your vision whites out, but adrenaline keeps you moving. “Stop—” The EMT grabs for you. You swing first. Your fist cracks against his jaw hard enough to snap his head sideways. For one glorious second, he actually looks surprised.
“Bitch,” he mutters. You lunge for the door handles. Your blood-slick fingers almost catch them before he hauls you backward violently. Agony explodes through your side and a scream rips out of your throat. Outside the tiny rear windows, you can still see your father. Hotch is running after the ambulance. Actually running. Broken. Bleeding. Desperate.
“Dad!” you sob, slamming your palm against the doors. “Dad!” The ambulance swerves sharply.
The EMT hooks an arm around your waist and drags you back against him with brutal force. You fight instantly, elbows flying despite the pain.
“Get the fuck off me!” you choke out.
“Jesus Christ,” the man snarls, struggling to keep hold of you. “You really are his kid.” Something cold presses suddenly against your neck. A syringe. Your blood runs cold.
“No—” The needle plunges into your skin. You gasp sharply and shove at him harder, but your limbs already feel wrong. Heavy. Slow. “No no no—” The man restrains you easily now, forcing you back onto the stretcher as the sedative floods your bloodstream. Your vision starts swimming almost immediately. Outside, through the blurred back windows, you see Hotch reach the ambulance for half a second— His hand slams against the rear doors as he screams your name.
“No !” The sound breaks something inside you. Then the ambulance surges forward. And your father disappears into rain and flashing lights. Your body stops cooperating.
Your arms feel numb.
Your heartbeat echoes strangely in your ears.
The EMT pulls off his mask calmly while you struggle weakly beneath him.
Not an EMT.
Kessler.
You recognize him now. The eyes. Cold. Empty. Patient.
“You should’ve stayed still,” he says, almost disappointed. Your mouth won’t work properly anymore.
“You…” you slur weakly. Kessler sighs, pushing you flat against the stretcher as your body goes limp beneath his hands.
“Relax,” he murmurs. “You’re bleeding internally. This is keeping you alive.” You try to fight him again anyway. Your hand barely lifts. Kessler watches you with detached fascination.
"Let's see if Aaron Hotchner's precious daughter is more important than putting me behind bars." He grabs another needle and grabs you arm.
You try to fight back- God, you try.
But your body feels like it's been filled with concrete, like your veins are hardening with every passing second, weighing you down.
Kessler grins.
"Sweet dreams."
-----------------
"Aaron- Aaron, listen to me-" Rossi is waving his arms in front of Hotch as real sirens flood the space. Emily crawls out of the car, coughing and bleeding from her temple, her hand pressed to her side as she limps her way over to Luke's side of the car and tugs him out. JJ stumbles from another wreckage, waving her hand in front of her face as she coughs, a large gash running down the side of her arm. Tara doesn't look badly hurt, just concussed as she stumbles down the stretch of highway, her hand pressed to her head in confusion as Derek helps her forward.
And Aaron Hotchner can't fucking breathe.
"N-No, we- we have to go after her." He rasps, shaking his head. "The ambulance didn't have a license plate but-but it was him. It was him, Dave." Rossi grabs Hotch hard by the shoulders.
“Aaron!” Hotch’s chest heaves violently. Rain pours down his face, mixing with blood from the cut at his hairline. His eyes are locked on the empty stretch of highway where the ambulance disappeared into the storm.
“The ambulance didn’t have plates,” he says again, voice shredded raw. “It was him. Dave, it was fucking him.” Behind them, chaos erupts across the crash site. Actual EMTs flood the highway now, shouting over each other as they move between the wrecked SUVs. Red and blue lights flash violently across twisted metal and shattered glass. Somebody yells for extraction tools. Another medic shouts about fuel leakage. Walker’s body is finally pulled from the front seat. Emily sees the tarp being unfolded and stops dead.
“No,” she whispers. Luke catches her arm before she can stumble forward. JJ presses a trembling hand over her mouth, blood still running down her forearm. Tara stands dazed beside Derek, one hand against her temple as she tries to process the devastation around her. For one horrible moment, nobody speaks. Then the highway explodes back into noise.
“Aaron,” Rossi says again, more firmly this time. “Talk to me.” Hotch looks like he can barely breathe.
“She saw me,” he rasps. “She looked right at me.” His voice breaks on the last word. Dave’s stomach twists. Because Aaron Hotchner does not break. Not like this. “She realized it wasn’t real,” Hotch says, staring blankly down the road. “She started fighting him.” Emily looks up sharply.
“What?” Hotch drags a hand over his bloodied face.
“He was dressed like an EMT.” His breathing turns uneven. “I thought she was being transported until I saw—” He cuts himself off hard. Too late. Rossi catches it immediately.
“What did you see?” Aaron closes his eyes for one second too long. When he opens them again, there’s something almost haunted sitting behind them.
“She was hurt.” The team goes still.
“How bad?” JJ asks quietly. Hotch swallows.
“I don’t know.” Lie. Everybody hears it. Aaron’s jaw tightens violently. “There was blood,” he says carefully, like each word physically hurts. “A lot of blood.” Emily’s face drains of color. Luke curses under his breath.
“She couldn’t move properly,” Hotch continues hollowly. “He had to carry her." Nobody says anything after that. Because they all know what that means. Then headlights tear onto the highway. A black SUV brakes hard across the shoulder. Spencer is out of the vehicle before it fully stops moving. Garcia barely gets the car in park before he’s sprinting after him.
“Hotch!” Spencer shouts, panic already threading through his voice as he takes in the wreckage. “What happened?” Garcia steps out behind him—and freezes completely.
“Oh my God.” The highway looks apocalyptic. Smoke. Rain. Crushed SUVs. Flashing lights reflecting off blood-slick pavement. Spencer eyes scan frantically across the scene.
JJ.
Emily.
Luke.
Tara.
Derek.
Rossi.
Hotch.
His stomach drops. Because you’re not there. Spencer’s breathing changes instantly.
“Where is she?” Nobody answers quickly enough. And terror detonates behind his ribs. “Where is she?” Emily looks away. Garcia starts crying immediately. Spencer stares at them.
“No.” Luke steps forward carefully.
“Reid—”
“No.” The word cracks out of him violently. “What happened?” Hotch finally steps toward him, rain dripping from his ruined suit.
“Kessler staged the crash,” he says hoarsely. “He took her.” Spencer just stares at him. Like the sentence physically does not make sense.
“Took her?” he repeats faintly.
“The ambulance was fake,” Rossi says grimly. “He disguised himself as an EMT.” Garcia lets out a broken sob behind them. Spencer’s face goes completely white.
“When?” he asks.
“Less than four minutes ago,” Luke says. “Local units are already searching—” Spencer looks immediately at Hotch. Not Rossi. Not Emily. Hotch. Because Hotch saw her last. And Aaron realizes Spencer already knows that too. Their eye contact lasts half a second. It’s enough. Spencer’s expression changes instantly.
“How bad was she hurt?” Hotch doesn’t answer quickly enough. Spencer takes a step forward. “How bad?” Aaron looks wrecked. Actually wrecked.
“She was conscious,” he says carefully.
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Aaron,” Rossi warns quietly. But Spencer doesn’t look away from Hotch. Hotch exhales shakily through his nose.
“There was blood.” Spencer’s breathing stutters.
“How much?”
“I don’t know.” Another lie. Spencer hears that one too. And suddenly he looks furious. Terrified, grieving, furious. “She couldn’t move on her own,” Hotch admits quietly. “He carried her into the ambulance.” Garcia breaks down harder behind them and Derek crosses the space immediately to grab onto her. Spencer physically sways where he stands. For a second it looks like he might actually collapse. Then his face hardens into something sharp enough to cut glass.
“What direction?” Hotch blinks.
“Reid—”
“What direction did he go?”
“Eastbound,” Hotch answers carefully. Spencer immediately turns toward Garcia’s SUV. Hotch grabs his arm before he gets two steps. “You are not going alone.” Spencer jerks free instantly. His eyes are glassy with panic now.
“You let her get in that ambulance.” The words hit like a gunshot. Silence crashes down around the wreckage. Spencer looks horrified the second he says it. Because he knows exactly who he just said it to. A father who watched his daughter get kidnapped while injured and bleeding. Hotch recoils anyway. Not angry. Just devastated.
“I know,” he says quietly. That destroys Spencer more effectively than shouting ever could. His face crumples. Rain pours around all of you in endless sheets as sirens scream across the highway.
And somewhere out there— You’re alone with Kessler.
--------
When you come to, the first thing you feel is that the pain at your abdomen has lessened.
It’s still there.
Deep. Burning. Wrong.
But dulled somehow, like your body’s been wrapped in cotton. Your eyelids feel impossibly heavy as you force them open. Darkness swims above you for a second before dim industrial lights sharpen into focus overhead. Concrete ceiling. Rusted pipes. Water dripping somewhere nearby in slow, echoing intervals. Your wrists jerk instinctively.
Metal rattles. Cold panic slams into you. You're strapped upright to some kind of steel chair bolted into the floor. Thick restraints pin your wrists and chest in place. Your injured side throbs violently when you struggle, making black spots burst across your vision.
“Easy. I bandaged you up but you're still actively bleeding out.” The voice comes from somewhere ahead of you. Kessler steps into view calmly, sleeves rolled to his elbows like he’s in the middle of an ordinary workday instead of holding an FBI agent hostage. Your breathing quickens immediately.
“Fuck you,” you rasp. He actually smiles faintly.
“That’s usually the morphine talking." Morphine. That explains the floating feeling in your limbs. You look down quickly. Your vest is gone. Soaked bandages are wrapped tightly around your abdomen beneath a gray thermal shirt that definitely isn’t yours. There’s dried blood everywhere. Along your arms. Beneath your fingernails. Across the floor near the chair. Your stomach twists hard.
“How long—”
“Thirty-six minutes since the crash,” Kessler answers smoothly. Ice floods your bloodstream. The team. Your dad.
“Where are they?” you demand. Kessler ignores the question entirely. Instead, he walks toward a camera mounted on a tripod across the room. And your blood runs cold all over again. “No.” Kessler adjusts the lens casually. “No no no—”
“You know,” he says conversationally, “your father’s reputation in the Bureau is fascinating. Aaron Hotchner. Untouchable. Unshakeable. Men like him always think they understand sacrifice until it becomes personal.” Your restraints clatter violently as you fight them.
“You’re insane.”
“Probably.” He doesn’t even blink. Then he reaches beside the camera and wheels something large into frame. A timer. Digital.
Bright red numbers glaring through the darkness.
00:59:48
Your stomach drops.
“What is that?” Your voice cracks. Kessler finally looks at you directly.
“The amount of time your team has left.” He grabs your arm, sighing as he squeezes and IV bag and mounts it onto the stand beside you.
“Kessler—”
The dosage is regulated electronically.” He taps the pump beside the bag. “Small increments over time. Once the drip reaches completion…” He shrugs lightly. “Multi-organ failure. Cardiac arrest shortly after.”
Your mouth goes dry instantly.
“No.”
“The fascinating thing about poison,” he continues conversationally, “is how personal it feels. Bullets are loud. Explosions are chaotic. But poison?” He tilts his head. “Poison makes people wait.”
Your stomach twists hard enough to make you gag. You stare at him in horror. Then fury detonates through you.
“You’re a fucking coward.” Kessler hums softly.
“And yet your father still can’t catch me.” He presses a button. The camera light turns red.
LIVE.
—————————
The BAU bullpen is chaos. Medics move between injured agents while tech analysts flood every available screen searching traffic cams, road footage, satellite hits—anything. Nobody’s winning. Hotch stands in the center of it all like a ghost. Still covered in blood. Still soaking wet from the rain. Spencer sits at Garcia’s station beside her, fingers flying across the keyboard so fast they blur. His hands are shaking violently.
“Nothing,” Garcia whispers tearfully. “No ambulance hits, no hospital pings, no traffic cams—he scrubbed everything.” Emily presses gauze harder against the cut on her temple.
“He planned this for months.”
“No,” Spencer says instantly. Everyone looks at him. Spencer’s eyes stay locked on the screen. “Longer.” Before anyone can respond— Every monitor in the bullpen flickers. Static crackles. Garcia startles violently., fingers flying over her keyboard, trying to figure out how this is happening. Then your face appears onscreen.
Bruised. Bloodied. Restrained.
The room stops breathing.
“No,” Hotch says faintly. Your head lifts weakly toward the camera, disoriented and terrified and alive. Spencer goes white beside Garcia.
“No…” The digital timer flashes beside you.
00:58:03
“What the hell is that?” Luke breathes. Then Kessler steps into frame. And the entire room explodes into motion.
“Trace it now!” Emily shouts. Garcia is already typing frantically.
“I’m trying!” Kessler looks directly into the camera.
“Good evening, Behavioral Analysis Unit.” Kessler smiles like he’s hosting a lecture instead of a hostage broadcast. Garcia’s hands fly across the keyboard.
“I can’t get a lock—he’s bouncing the signal through multiple servers—oh my God, oh my God—”
“Penelope,” Emily snaps, though her own voice shakes. “Focus.”
“I am focused!” Onscreen, Kessler slowly circles your chair. The camera quality is grainy but clear enough to show the blood staining the bandages around your abdomen. Clear enough to show the IV line running into your arm. And the transparent liquid steadily dripping through the tube. Spencer goes completely still beside Garcia.
Not calm.
Worse.
The kind of stillness that means he’s trying very hard not to completely lose his mind. Your head hangs weakly forward before lifting slightly at the sound of Kessler speaking. Your eyes look unfocused. Drugged. Terrified. The bullpen falls silent. Even the analysts nearby stop moving. Because this isn’t just being streamed to the BAU.
This is public.
News stations are already picking it up. Social media feeds explode in real time across nearby monitors. Millions of people watching an FBI agent tied to a chair with a countdown beside her.
“Aaron Hotchner,” Kessler says smoothly, looking directly into the camera. “You know, I expected someone taller.” Hotch doesn’t react outwardly. But Rossi sees his fist tighten. Sees the blood dripping from where Aaron’s fingernails cut into his own palm.
“You built your career profiling monsters,” Kessler continues. “You taught agents how to think like predators. How to anticipate violence.” He tilts his head slightly toward you. “But you never considered what happens when someone decides to study you instead.” Your breathing trembles onscreen.
“Kessler—” you rasp weakly.
“Shh.” He adjusts the IV line almost tenderly. “You don’t need to talk right now.” Spencer physically flinches. Luke swears violently under his breath.
“The poison entering Agent Hotchner’s daughter’s bloodstream,” Kessler says calmly, “is administered incrementally through an automated pump system. By the time the timer reaches zero…” He smiles faintly. “Well. I imagine your Dr. Reid can explain organ failure better than I can.” All eyes snap toward Spencer automatically. Spencer’s face has gone corpse pale. But his voice still works. Barely.
“It depends on the toxin,” he says mechanically, eyes glued to the screen. “If it’s ricin-based or synthetic colchicine compounds, systemic collapse would begin gradually. Respiratory distress first. Then cardiovascular instability. Seizures. Multi-organ failure—”
“Spencer,” JJ says softly. He cuts himself off instantly. Onscreen, your eyes flutter shut for a second too long.
“Hey,” Kessler says sharply, gripping your jaw hard enough to force your head back up. “Stay awake. It's not fun for our viewers if you die right now." You whimper, trying to inch away from him. He chuckles, low and mean. A broken sound leaves your throat as your body jerks weakly against the restraints. Spencer’s breathing changes instantly.
“What just happened?” Emily demands. Spencer stares at the screen.
“The poison’s already active,” he says quietly. Garcia looks horrified.
“But there’s still fifty-seven minutes left—”
“The timer isn’t for symptom onset.” Spencer swallows hard. “It’s for fatal dosage completion.” Nobody speaks. Onscreen, Kessler steps back toward the camera.
“You have one hour,” he says conversationally. “Find me before the drip finishes…” He shrugs. “And maybe she lives. But I should warn you,” he continues. “Removing the IV incorrectly triggers the failsafe.” He taps the side of the electronic pump. “And if the line stops prematurely…” Another small shrug. “The dosage accelerates.” Garcia lets out a strangled noise.
“That’s impossible,” Luke snaps.
“No,” Spencer says faintly. Everyone looks at him again. Spencer’s eyes stay locked on the screen. “It’s not.” Hotch spins around, his chest heaving.
"Garcia, get me a list of Kessler's known adressesses, a list of his spending info- maybe he rented out a place- i want everything you have on him, now !"
Garcia is already moving before Hotch finishes the sentence.
“I’m on it, I’m on it - okay- okay - ” Her voice is high and strained, fingers slamming across the keyboard like she’s trying to outrun panic itself. Multiple windows open and collapse across her monitors. “Known addresses are mostly burned, he went dark after his brother's death but - there’s financial ghosting here, offshore shells, prepaid infrastructure - he’s not staying anywhere with a paper trail -he’s not staying anywhere period -”
“Focus,” Rossi says sharply, but even he sounds strained now. Emily is already leaning over her shoulder.
“What about municipal access points? Abandoned government facilities?” Luke shakes his head.
“We’re checking transit grids already. He’s not static - he’s moving through infrastructure, not occupying it.” Spencer doesn’t blink.
His eyes are locked on the screen. On you.
00:53:18.
Your head droops again, just slightly, and Spencer’s breath catches so hard it sounds like it hurts.
“Hey,” JJ says quietly, noticing him. “Reid, stay with us.” But he doesn’t answer. Because his brain is already somewhere else. Already rebuilding everything Kessler just showed them.
The IV pump. The feed latency. The lack of metadata. The stabilization pattern. Spencer swallows hard.
“He’s not in a building,” he says suddenly. Garcia looks up.
“What?” Spencer’s voice tightens.
“The signal stability - there’s too little fluctuation for a fixed structure. No HVAC interference, no power grid variance, no reflective bounce patterns consistent with concrete reinforcement -” Emily frowns.
“Then where is he?” Spencer doesn’t look away from the screen.
“Mobile containment unit,” he says. “Or a retrofitted transport shell. Something insulated enough to mask environmental noise.” Luke curses under his breath.
“Like a van.” Spencer shakes his head once.
“Bigger.” Silence. Hotch turns slowly.
“Bus?” Rossi suggests grimly. Spencer finally looks at them.
“No,” he says. “Something that can support medical-grade equipment, power draw for a stabilized livestream, and internal temperature control without drawing attention.” Garcia’s hands freeze mid-type.
“Ambulance.” Spencer nods once. But it doesn’t feel like relief. It feels worse. Because that still leaves too many possibilities. Too many jurisdictions. Too many vehicles. Too much ground to cover while the clock keeps bleeding out.
00:53:04.
Onscreen, Kessler steps back into frame briefly—just enough to adjust something near the IV stand. You flinch sharply. Harder this time. Hotch makes a sound low in his throat—barely audible, but it cuts through the room anyway. Spencer’s hands curl into fists at Garcia’s station.
“Garcia,” he says quickly, voice suddenly urgent. “Cross-reference registered medical transport units within a fifty-mile radius of the crash corridor. Anything that went off-route in the last hour.”
“I’m already - ” Her screen updates rapidly. “Got it, got it - Okay, there’s twelve possible matches - ”
“Twelve,” Luke repeats sharply.
“We don’t have time for twelve,” Emily snaps. Hotch steps forward again.
“Cut it to three,” he orders. “Now.” Garcia swallows hard.
“I can filter by signal - give me thirty seconds - ”
“Twenty,” Hotch says. Nobody argues. Because on the screen— You shift again. Barely conscious. Barely holding on. And Spencer Reid, who has spent his entire life turning chaos into patterns, suddenly looks like he’s staring directly into something he cannot solve fast enough.
Garcia’s screen updates again. Once. Twice. Then locks. Her breath catches so hard it hurts.
“I’ve got him,” she says. Nobody speaks. Hotch turns instantly.
“Where.” Garcia swallows.
“Abandoned agricultural zone outside Leesburg—old county service land. There’s a decommissioned livestock processing facility on the property. Signal’s cleanest there—he’s stationary.” Spencer is already there before she finishes the sentence.
“How far?” he asks immediately. Garcia glances at the route mapping.
“Forty-six minutes,” she says quietly. The number lands like a gunshot. Silence. Emily shakes her head once.
“We don’t have forty-six minutes.” Rossi is already moving toward the SUV.
“Then we don’t waste a second.” Hotch stares at the map like he can force the distance to shrink through sheer will. Spencer’s voice breaks through again, sharper now.
“How long—how long until completion?” Garcia’s fingers tremble over the timer feed.
“Fifty-three minutes,” she whispers.That finally shifts the math in the room. Because everyone understands it at the same time. Forty-six minutes to reach you.Fifty-three minutes until the drip completes.
Seven minutes.
That’s all they’ll have once they get there. Seven minutes to find you. Seven minutes to neutralize Kessler. Seven minutes to keep you alive. Hotch exhales once, slow and controlled—but his eyes are shattered.
“Let's move,” he says. The SUVs tear down the highway in formation, sirens splitting the night open. Inside Hotch’s vehicle, no one speaks anymore unless they have to. The countdown is on every screen.
Every phone. Every live feed Garcia refuses to close.
00:52:41.
Spencer stares at the map overlay like he can bend it into something faster. Luke grips the seat hard enough to go white-knuckled. Emily keeps her eyes forward, jaw tight, blood still drying at her temple. Rossi drives like a man refusing to accept physics as final. Hotch doesn’t move.
Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away from the road even once.
“Forty-six minutes,” Luke says quietly, almost to himself. Spencer’s voice is barely audible.
“That’s if nothing goes wrong.” Nobody responds to that. Because they all know what it means.
------------------
00:07:00.
Your body feels like lead.
Your veins are on fire.
Your mouth has gone dry, and you can barely breathe- every breath sounds like a rusty rattle of child's mobile. Your vision flickers in and out like a broken signal. Your body isn’t yours anymore. It’s heavy in the wrong places, light in others. Your fingers twitch weakly against the restraints, but there’s no strength left behind it.
The IV pump beeps steadily beside you. Too steady. Too calm. Like it doesn’t care that you’re dying.
You groan, trying hard to stay awake, to stay concsious.
They're coming for you. They have to be.
The room hums with fluorescent light and something worse underneath it—your heartbeat, irregular now, stumbling against the poison like it’s losing the argument. Kessler circles you slowly, hands behind his back like he’s inspecting something he built.
“Do you know what your father hates most?” he asks lightly. Your head lolls a fraction toward him. It takes effort just to keep your eyes open.
“People like you,” he continues. “Not weak. Not careless. Just… loved.” Your throat tightens. Spencer’s name tries to form in your mind and doesn’t quite make it. Kessler steps closer, studying your face like he’s waiting for something interesting to happen.
“You’re very difficult to break,” he says thoughtfully. “That’s what makes this worth watching.” The IV pump beeps again. Too steady. Too final.
Your fingers twitch weakly against the restraints. Kessler leans in just slightly.
“I wonder how long it takes,” he murmurs, almost curious. “For Aaron Hotchner to choose between duty and family.” Your stomach drops hard.
“Don’t,” you rasp, but it’s barely sound. He smiles faintly.
“Oh, he already has.” And then— The doors behind him explode inward. Not an opening. An impact.
Wood and metal snap as tactical force hits the room like a wave.
“FBI! DOWN!” The shout is immediate chaos. Hotch is first through, weapon up, eyes scanning—locking instantly on you like everything else in the room ceases to exist.
“Aaron!” Rossi calls, sweeping left. Emily and Luke split right. Derek comes in hard behind them, already moving. Kessler barely has time to turn before Hotch has him pinned against the nearest surface, gun pressed high, voice ice-cold.
“Don’t move.” Kessler actually laughs once. Spencer doesn’t even look at him. He’s already across the room. Everything else collapses into noise and motion behind him—Hotch securing Kessler, Rossi shouting commands, Emily cuffing him down—but Spencer doesn’t register any of it. He reaches you like gravity finally remembered him.
“Hey—hey, hey,” he breathes, hands shaking as they go to your face immediately. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” Your eyelids flutter.
"Spence ?" He nods, hands working at your restraints atfer he softly tears the IV out of your arm.
"Yeah, yeah, it's me. I'm here, alright, i'm here." Your body falls forward, exhausted, the second those restraints stop holding you up, your body folding like it’s been waiting for permission to collapse. Spencer catches you before you hit the ground. Immediately. Completely.
“No - no, no, no - hey, hey, hey - stay with me,” he says, voice cracking violently as he pulls you into him. “Stay with me, okay? Stay with me-look at me.” Your head lolls against his chest. He’s on the floor now without even realizing it. One arm under your shoulders. One hand pressed hard against the bandages on your abdomen like he can physically stop what’s happening inside you. He looks up, his eyes frantic.
"Derek ! Derek !" He calls as Hotch and the others disappear outside, pushing a cuffed Kessler with them. Derek's head snaps over and his face drains of color.
"Holy shit." He gasps, his chest heaving. Spencer chokes on a sob, pushing your hair away from your face.
"We-We need an ambulance. She-She's losing blood, she-" He gasps in a breath, shaking his head. "He’s got to have—he’s not carrying something like this without a reversal agent.” Spencer doesn’t look away from you. “Shelves,” he says instantly, voice raw but focused only on survival. “Look—look everywhere. Cabinets. Lockboxes. He wouldn’t leave it unbalanced.” Derek moves immediately. The timer ticks down like a taunt.
00:04:53.
Derek rummages through shelves, cabinets, drawers, cursing under his breath as he throws things on the ground. You clutch weakly at Spencer's vest, your hands shaking.
"Spence.." He shushes you, pressing his lips to your forehead.
"Hey, hey, don't talk, okay ? You're going to be fine. Just fine, okay ?"
"I-I'm so cold." You manage, shivers coursing through your body. Spencer grimaces.
"I know, baby, i know." He looks up. "Derek, where the fuck is that antidote !" Derek rips open another metal cabinet so hard the hinge screams in protest.
“I’m looking, I’m looking!” he snaps back, breathless, scanning shelves packed with medical bags, vials, and sealed containers that absolutely should not be here. “This guy is insane—”
Spencer hears none of it anymore. All of it narrows down to you. To the way your fingers are trembling against his vest. To the shallow, uneven rise of your chest. To the way your skin feels wrong beneath his hands—too cold, too fast to lose heat.
“I’ve got you,” he repeats again, but it’s not steady anymore. It’s breaking apart at the edges. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you—just stay with me, okay? Just—just stay with me.” Your head tips slightly against him. And for a second, his entire body goes rigid.
“No,” he whispers immediately, like he can undo it with the word alone. “No, no—hey—look at me. Look at me.”
Your eyes barely open. Barely there. But they do. And it ruins him.
“Got something!” Derek suddenly shouts from the far side of the room. Spencer’s head snaps up so fast it hurts. Derek holds up a small locked case - medical-grade, reinforced, labeled in a way that makes Spencer’s stomach drop immediately. “Is this it?” Derek demands. Spencer doesn’t even hesitate.
“Yes. Yes, that’s it - bring it here, now!” Derek slams it down beside them and Spencer’s hands are shaking so badly he almost fumbles the latch. The lock clicks open.
Inside: syringes. A sealed ampoule. A vial clearly marked in clinical print- ANTIDOTE.
He’s already drawing it up.
“Where do I—”
“Her arm,” Spencer says instantly, tearing his own focus into something sharp and functional because if he doesn’t, he’s going to fall apart completely. “Right arm - no, no - left - there, there - ” Derek moves in, steady hands taking over what Spencer can’t control anymore.
“I’ve got it,” Derek says low. Spencer nods too quickly, not letting go of you for even a second. His other hand stays pressed to your shoulder like an anchor. “Okay,” Derek says. “Injecting now.” The syringe depresses. For half a second, nothing happens. Then your body jerks—just slightly. Spencer makes a sound that’s halfway between a gasp and a sob.
“Hey - hey, hey,” he says immediately, hand cupping your cheek. "You're gonna be okay." But you're still slipping somewhere he can’t follow fast enough. “I’ve got you,” he repeats again, but now it’s desperate. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I’ve got you - please - please don’t do this - ” Derek looks up sharply at the doorway, where JJ stands frozen.
"We need medical backup now!” JJ nods, rushing away.
Spencer sobs, then immediately chokes on it, pressing your hand tighter against his chest like he can force you to stay by sheer will alone. Footsteps thunder back in—Hotch, Rossi, Emily. Hotch sees you on the floor. And something in his face breaks cleanly. But Spencer can’t look at him. Can’t look at anyone. Because you’re right there in his arms and still not safe.
“Hey,” he whispers, voice collapsing completely now, tears spilling down without permission as he holds you closer. “Hey, hey- don’t leave me. Don’t leave me, okay? Please - please don’t leave me.” Your fingers twitch once.
Weak. Barely there. But it’s enough. Spencer grabs your hand immediately like it’s a lifeline.
“Yeah,” he chokes out, crying openly now, forehead pressing to yours. “Yeah, that’s it. That’s it. Come back to me. Come back—please, just come back to me.” Your shiver, a soft whimper drawing from your lips.
"I-I'm tired." You manage, shaking your head. Blood from your abdomen is still soaking your shirt, your pants, and Spencer is shaking.
"You-You can't sleep, baby. You have to- You have to stay awake. Keep your eyes open." The antidote has taken effect. The colour that had drained from your skin over the hour is coming back, and your breathing has returned to a normal pace. And the pain flooding back into your body is unbearable. You can feel the blood pumping out of you from your abdomen, and you groan weakly as you try to press your hand over the wound, only to find Spencer's hand already lodged there. You gulp, bringing your hand up to softly touch Spencer's cheek.
"Yo-You came for me." You rasp. Spencer chokes on a laugh, a desperate, wet thing.
"Of course I did." He mumbles. "How could I not ? God.." He gulps, shaking his head. "I love you." You smile, holding back tears as you cough. Your body trembles with shivers, and you groan.
"I-I'm sorry." You rasp, shaking your head. Spencer's heart drops. He shakes his head.
"Hey, hey- no. Don't apologise, you're going to be just fine, okay ? Y-You're going to be fine." You nod, smiling through the pain. You want to believe him.
You really do.
The antidote is working.
Derek said it is. Spencer knows it is. But you’re still so cold. Still shaking in his arms like your body can’t decide whether to stay or let go.
Spencer sniffles, brushing your hair away from your face.
"The ambulance is gonna be here any minute. They're going to make you all better. Okay ?" You nod.
"Okay." You say, forcing a smile, choking on the blood that creeps its way up your throat. "I love you, Spence." You rasp, shaking your head. Spencer’s heart hammers against his ribs, a frantic, desperate drumbeat of denial. He tightens his grip on your hand, bringing it to his lips, pressing a kiss to your cold knuckles.
“Don’t you dare say that like it’s a goodbye,” he orders, his voice a raw, broken thing. “It’s not a goodbye. You hear me? It’s an ‘I’ll see you in a minute.’ We’re going to have so much to talk about. Y-You're gonna rub this in my face, yeah ? Brag about how you-you survived this and i panicked for nothing.” He’s rambling, his brilliant mind reduced to a single, primal function: keep you here. Keep you with him. Your eyes are still on him, but they’re starting to lose focus, the light in them dimming like a candle in a draft. The smile on your lips is a ghost, beautiful and terrifying.
“Spence…” you whisper, and it’s the worst sound he’s ever heard, thin and reedy, threaded with the liquid rattle of fluid in your lungs. “It’s… so quiet.” He doesn’t understand what you mean. The room is chaos-Hotch’s clipped commands, Derek’s frantic pacing, the sound of JJ’s voice on the phone with dispatch. But then he realizes. For you, the world is collapsing. The sounds are fading, the pain is receding, and all that’s left is this.
Him.
“No, no, it’s not quiet,” he argues, his voice rising in panic. “It’s not. Just listen. Listen to me. I’m right here. I’m so loud, remember? You say I never shut up. So just… listen to me. Stay with me.” He’s pressing harder against the wound in your abdomen, a futile, desperate attempt to physically hold your life inside you. His hand is slick, warm, and the smell of copper fills the air, thick and suffocating. It’s the smell of his failure. Your breath hitches, a shallow, wet gasp.
"Tell… tell my dad… I’m sorry.” The words hit Spencer like a physical blow. Dad. Hotch, who is standing just feet away, right behind that door, pacing and shouting orders. Spencer can’t call for him. He can’t give him that. He can’t acknowledge the world beyond the circle of his arms.
“You’ll tell him yourself,” Spencer chokes out, tears streaming down his face, dripping onto your cheeks. “You’ll tell him tonight. When we get home. We’ll order Chinese food and you’ll tell him you’re sorry for worrying him, and he’ll pretend to be mad but he won’t be, and we’ll all be fine. We’ll be fine.” Your fingers, the ones he’s holding, twitch weakly. Your grip loosens. The pressure is gone. “No,” he whimpers, a sound so pathetic and full of pain it doesn’t even sound like him. “No, hold on. Hold my hand. Don’t let go. Don’t you let go of me.” Your eyes open again and you nod. He smiles, kissing your forehead. And then, through the cacophony of his own despair, he hears it. Faint at first, then growing stronger, clearer. A high, insistent wail that cuts through everything else.
Sirens.
Relief so profound it’s dizzying crashes over him. It’s the cavalry. It’s the answer. It’s another chance.
His head snaps up, his tear-blurred vision finding the window ahead.
“Did you hear that? They’re here. They’re almost here.” He looks back down at you, his face breaking into a wild, desperate grin. “You hear that, baby? You hear that? The ambulance is here. They’re here. You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.” He’s laughing now, a wet, hysterical sound of pure relief, staring at the window as the red and blue lights start to show.
“We did it. We made it. Just hold on. Just a few more seconds. Please, just a few more seconds for me.” He looks back at the doorway, expecting to see the paramedics burst through with their bags and their machines and their magic. But the sirens are still distant, screaming down a street that’s too far away.
He looks back down at you. And the world stops. Your eyes are still open, but they’re not seeing him anymore. They’re fixed on a point just beyond his shoulder, glassy and vacant. The shallow rise and fall of your chest has stilled. The hand he’s clutching is limp and cool in his.
The silence in the room is absolute.
“No,” he whispers. The smile is gone from his face, wiped clean away. “No… no, no, no, no, no.” He shakes his head, a sharp, jerky motion of denial. “Hey… hey, look at me. Look at me. They’re here. The ambulance is here.” He shakes you gently, then a little harder. “Hey.. hey, look at me. You’re not allowed to do this. You’re not allowed to leave me. You hear me? C'mon, this isn't funny." He shakes you."Come on! Look at me.” But you don’t. You can’t. The sirens are closer now, screaming, a piercing, torturous sound. They’re the sound of hope arriving seven minutes too late. The door bursts open. Emily is the first one in, her face flushed and triumphant.
“Spencer! The ambulance is here, they’re coming, they’re—” She stops. Her eyes find Spencer, cradling your still body on the floor, and she sees everything. The blood. The stillness. The absolute, soul-crushing devastation on his face. Her triumphant shout dies in her throat, replaced by a small, choked gasp. Hotch is right behind her. He takes in the scene with one sweeping, all-seeing glance. He sees Kessler’s handiwork, he sees the discarded antidote, he sees Spencer on the floor. And then he sees you. He doesn’t make a sound. The unit chief, the man who faces monsters for a living, simply breaks. His shoulders slump, his face goes slack, and all the color drains from his skin. He stumbles forward a half-step, his hand reaching out, then falling back to his side. He knows. Emily rushes to Spencer’s side, her hand hovering over his shoulder, afraid to touch.
“Spencer…?” He doesn’t answer. He’s lowered his head, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his body wracked with huge, silent, violent sobs that shake him to his core. He holds you tighter, rocking you back and forth, a desperate, rhythmic motion.
And Spencer Reid - who has spent his entire life understanding loss in theory before he ever had to survive it in practice - lets out a sound that is not human.
It rips out of him.
Raw.
Shattered.
“No - no, no, no, please - please, please - ” He pulls you closer instantly, like he can reverse it if he just holds you tighter.
"Reid." Derek's voice echoes around the small space. Spencer shakes his head. Spencer doesn’t hear him anymore.
Doesn’t hear Emily crying.
Doesn’t hear the radio chatter suddenly erupting outside as the medics arrive too late.
He just holds you. Like if he stops, even for a second, the truth will finish settling. Sirens flood the building outside. Red and blue light strobing through the broken doorway.
And still -Spencer is whispering your name into your hair like it’s a spell.
Like it’s the only thing left that still makes sense.
The paramedics finally burst through the doorway, their practiced efficiency grinding to a halt as they take in the scene. No one moves. No one breathes. The paramedics slowly back out of the room, hushed whispers echoing in the small space.
Spencer looks up, devastated.
"No.. No, where are they going ? They-They have to save her, they-"
"Reid." Derek rasps again, wiping at the tears falling down his face. He looks back down at you like it’s instinct, like he can anchor himself in you. But you don’t move. Not even a tremor. Not even the smallest betrayal of life returning. Just stillness. Heavy and final.
Spencer’s breath stutters.
Once. Twice.
Then completely stops behaving like it belongs to him.
His hand shakes as it smooths over your hair. So careful. So tender. Like you’re made of glass and he’s terrified of what happens if he presses too hard.
Emily makes a sound behind him—small, broken, human.
“Spencer…” she tries again, stepping closer like she might physically pull him out of it. But he flinches at her voice like it burns.
“No,” he snaps instantly, sharper than he means it. Then it collapses immediately into desperation. “No, no—don’t—” Hotch is still at the doorway. Still completely still. Like something inside him shut off in self-defense the second he understood. But his eyes don’t leave you. Not once. Not even when Rossi puts a hand on his arm and squeezes like he’s trying to hold him together by force. Spencer presses his forehead to yours again.
Harder this time. Like proximity alone can reverse biology.
“I got you,” he whispers, voice breaking into pieces now. “I got you, I got you, I got you—” His sentences stop making sense. They turn into fragments. Into breath. Into something raw and animal and terrified. “I didn’t—” he chokes, pulling you closer like he can physically shield you from the truth, “I didn’t get here fast enough. I didn’t—I didn’t—”
Derek steps forward again, slower this time. Careful. Like approaching something sacred and shattered.
“Reid,” he says quietly. “Kid…” Spencer shakes his head violently again.
“No,” he says again, but weaker now. So much weaker. “No, no, no- Just - just help her. Just - just fix it. Fix it - please - ” His voice breaks completely on the last word. And then he tries again, because Spencer Reid has always believed that understanding something well enough means you can change it. “If I - if I give her CPR - if I - if we - ” His hands move like they don’t belong to him anymore as they lay you down on the ground, flat on your back.
One presses to your chest. Wrong. Desperate. Begging.
“No!” he shouts suddenly, panicked, frantic. “No, no, I can— I can do it. I can fix it. I can- I can-” His voice disintegrates mid-sentence. Because your body doesn’t respond. Because nothing changes. Because time doesn’t care how hard he tries. And that’s when it hits him all at once.
Not gradually. Not gently. All at once. Spencer goes completely still.
His hands freeze where they are on you. His breath catches like it’s been hooked on something sharp. He falls backwards, his hands coated in blood coming up to press against his eyes as he sobs. Emily is by his side in an instant, pulling him into her, rocking him as Derek sniffles and gets to his feet, walking over to your and softly guiding your eyes shut. Hotch swears under his breath, wrecked sobs escaping him, and he turns away from you, gasping for air as he rushes out into the night. Luke, Tara, JJ and Rossi have gathered in the doorway, watching as Derek grabs a folded sheet from one of the drawers and lays it down over you, clearing his throat.
"The- uh, the EMT's should come back in here. Take-" He clears his throat, "Take her to the morgue."
The timer beeps behind them like some sick alarm clock. They all look back and the flashing numbers.
oh god i'm not okay 😭😭😭 op this was beautiful im billing you for my therapy oughhhh fuckkkk :( ty for recommending this coco omg you were right i did like this !!
aw thank you so much nonnie !! here's a sneak peak of my current spencer wip for you <3 I typed it all out under the picture if you cant read my writing :]
(plain text in case you cant read my handwriting.)
That's another thing he misses; your scent. Familiar, grounding, so specific to only you that he could easily pick you out by that alone. Human sense of smell is deeply connected to memories, and every time he inhales your scent, he's reminded of every memory you've ever made together. He misses how you fit in his arms, how your lips feel on his, the colour of your cheeks every time he kisses them. He misses you.
Something disturbs him from his daydream. A light buzzing, a chime that is the familiar one in his phone for your calls.
๋࣭⭑ atlas : spencer's job is hard, and you're determined to ensure that whatever happens after he comes home is as easy and comforting as it can possibly be
๋࣭⭑ binary stars : spencer x reader (gn)
๋࣭⭑ classification : fluff + comfort
๋࣭⭑ stellar density : 4.5k
๋࣭⭑ omens : a lot of fluff, spencer crying because let's be honest he's got a lot of emotions to get out, non-sexual nudity/showering together, all the cosy things i could think of
๋࣭⭑ message in a bottle : so apparently i write for spencer now ??? i've had so many ideas for him floating around in my head bcs @ambiguous-avery and i keep yapping nonstop about him LMAO (and while you're here, PLEASE PRETTY PLEASE go check out their spencer fics !!!)
๋࣭⭑ taglist ༊彡 masterlist
The knock on your apartment door is gentle, almost hesitant, like whoever is knocking is afraid to disrupt some kind of silence. There’s a moment where it’s completely quiet, the air in and around the apartment holding it breath, giving it space to exist in the late evening hours. The next knock follows just a moment later, a lilting pattern that’s become your secret code. So that you know it’s really him and not something that’s followed him home from work and lives in the dark spaces between your light and his. Your voice is muffled by the heavy door, but Spencer knows what you’re saying, because it’s the same thing every time; door’s locked, come in. There’s a shuffling muffled by wood, a slide of metal on metal, and a quiet snick as the mechanisms inside the lock turn to open the door, gliding smoothly against each other.
The hinges perform their usual creaking dance as the door opens, their soft duet with the footsteps on the floor a familiar comfort to you now. Spencer has a specific rhythm he moves in after long cases, and tonight is like all the others. First, his bag is placed by the door, open and sorted through to assure the contents are ordered correctly. Next, his coat slides off his shoulders, forming an orderly ghost on the rack next to yours. Then, his converse come off, laces neatly tucked away and alighted with your own shoes, matching coloured laces reflecting the light. Finally, after he’s assured everything is in order, he moves from the hall to the main room, in search of you.
Tonight, you’re sitting at the kitchen counter, one leg crunched up in a position that looks painful but probably isn’t. You’re reading something on your phone, no doubt something you’ll tell him about later whether he’s interested in it or not; he’s always fascinated when it comes to your interests. There’s a pot on the stovetop, and Spencer can hear the faint bubbling of it like muted conversation. The stack of pages in his arms is deposited gently on the table, and your eyes finally drift up to meet his, soft meeting exhausted.
“Hi,” you murmur.
“Hi,” he replies, equally quiet.
“Tea or coffee?” you ask, smiling at the way his shoulders slump at the familiarity of the question.
It’s a litmus test you’d created together as an indirect way to check up on the other without giving away details you’re not ready to say aloud. Tea means a little time to decompress, and a quiet evening curled together, soaking in the warmth you bring each other. Coffee means everything is fine, and that you could go for a little more excitement in your evening by means of a new movie or new adventure. When his eyes turn melted and soft at the question, you know the reply before he even gives it.
“Tea, please,” he says, slouching even further.
“What kind?”
Your voice is kind in the way that almost brings tired tears to his eyes.
“Chamomile?” he asks weakly.
You stand from the chair, walking over to him and slinging your arms around his shoulders, guiding his head to the crook of your neck.
“I love you,” you whisper as he shuffles closer. “Go shower while I finish dinner. Take your time.”
“Okay,” he hums, making no motion to move.
“I can wash your hair,” you offer.
“I- I can do it.”
“I know.”
“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”
You step back just a half step, your hands planted firmly on his arms.
“Do you want me to?” you ask.
“To what?”
“To wash your hair.”
For a moment, he’s still, the only sounds being his breathing mixing in time with yours and the low boil of soup. His soft doe eyes flick to yours and away again, dropping to the floor as he nods shyly.
“Are you sure it’s okay?” he asks.
You softly kiss his cheek, turning it a soft pink.
“It’s always okay,” is your reply.
Spencer makes a soft noise, something that sounds like acceptance with the tiniest hint of guilt. You catch the guilt, soothing it away with another kiss, this time to the opposite cheek.
“Go get ready,” you say. “I’ll be right there.”
“Are you sure?” he asks again, because he needs to be absolutely certain he’s not burdening you with things you don’t want to handle.
“Mhm.” He can hear the smile in your tone. “Always.”
Spencer lingers for a moment longer, seemingly unwilling to part from you. He finally does after you squeeze his shoulder, muttering softly to yourself as you shut off the stove. You follow him down the hall, one of your hands resting firm on the small of his back, grounding him through his dress shirt. While he heads right into the bathroom, you make a quick stop in the laundry room, throwing a towel and Spencer’s sleep clothes into the dryer. It chimes happily as you feed it the clothing, the door locking with a determined click when you close it. Back in the bathroom, you bring your own pyjamas inside, setting them on the floor while Spencer meticulously folds his work clothes, a desperate attempt to regain whatever control he feels he’s lost. He hovers, watching you undress like you’ll disappear if he looks away for too long.
“Spencer?” you say.
“I- Yes. Hi.”
You offer a smile, so sweet and tender that the only word for it is loving.
“Where’d you go?”
He pauses, sorting his options and deciding on the truth, because you deserve to hear nothing but the truth.
“Just…” he trails off into a heavy silence, leaving you to fill in the planks.
“Okay,” you say, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “C’mon handsome.”
Spencer blushes pink at your compliment, and with his clothes off, you can see the blush moving down his neck that would normally be hidden. Luckily, you’re too focused on the waster temperature to tease him, your soft murmurs as you search for his preferred temperature; warm enough to remind him he’s safe, but cold enough to remind him he’s still alive. The shower rain is interrupted by you stepping under it, muffling a yelp when you realize the water is way too cold, and Spencer has to try very hard not to laugh at your misfortune. You peel back the curtain and beckon Spencer inside after a few more adjustments.
As soon as he’s inside, you move so that he’s under the water. He sighs audibly at the warmth on his back, pattering rainfall washing away his stress, eyes closed and shoulders curling ever inward. He looks impossible small, as close to a scared child as a grown man can be. You feel yourself melting at the sight, and he physically does when your fingers meet his hair and start working the water through his curls. Each press of your fingers to his scalp soothes him more, and by the time you’re reaching for his shampoo, he’s learning almost all of his weight on you, head resting on your shoulder. The opening of the bottle lid cracks like a firework, loud and unwelcome, but the flood of his shampoo scent makes up for it; warm, slightly sweet, smelling entirely like home and comfort. It’s blissfully comfortable in here, under your touch, under your loving hands.
The only sign Spencer is still conscious is the soft sob he bites back the moment it escapes.
“You’re okay,” you murmur into his ear. “’S okay Spence, you’re home.”
“I know,” he says, voice thick yet not entirely convinced.
“Yeah?” you say, adjusting his head.
He puffs a watery sigh, clearing his throat decisively. He’ll probably talk about it later, but words have no space in here right now. He settles instead of nodding and shuffling slightly closer, basking in your warmth. Each pas of your hands through his curls as you wash the soap out chokes him up a little further, and he’s painfully aware of how helpful the water is in hiding his tears.
When he’s fully cleaned off, you leave him a few minutes to himself for soaking while you go fetch his towel and clothes. You say his name with cautious care when you return to avoid spooking him, the only acknowledgement being the shower turning off and his hand peeling back the curtain before wrapping around himself again. Your arms are spread wide and he walks right into them, collapsing against you as you wrap him in the towel.
“It’s warm,” he comments.
“Mhm. Put it in the dryer for a moment.”
He makes another wounded noise, throat tight. The feeling of your arms around his body, warm and solid, drag and uneven breath out of him. You smile, laughing softly as you towel him dry, only stepping out in order to give him privacy as he changes.
You’re back at the stove when he returns, stirring the pot with a wooden spoon, the steam curling up around your face like a halo. The clean shirt and flannel pants you set out for him also carry the warmth of your dryer, achingly gentle in his heart as he envelops himself further in your domesticity. The stool creaks a little as he sits down, the wobbly leg slamming into the floor harder than he intended. If you’re mad about the sound, you don’t say anything, instead opting to grab the good bowls for the soup, placing one in front of him with a soft clink.
“Open,” you say, bringing the soup ladle toward him.
He’s about to ask why, but when he sees that you’ve made his favourite soup recipe he got for you from Rossi, he opens his mouth for you without question. It burns his tongue a little, but he’s so beyond grateful for the taste of something made with love that he barely even registers the discomfort. When it hits his stomach, a gooey warmth floods him, ocean waves of home tugging at his body until he gives in and floats away.
“Good?” you ask, watching him.
“Very,” he replies, blinking. “It’s hot.”
You giggle. “Well, yeah. It’s boiling.”
You side a cup of water across the counter that he drinks gratefully, soothing his burned tongue and throat.
“Eat here or out there?” you ask, jutting your thumb to the couch.
Spencer evaluates his options with the kind of serious calculation he leaves only for your questions. Eating on the couch means he can wrap up in blankets and keep you tucked close, your head a grounding weight. But, eating on the couch means you’re both more likely to spill, given the liquid nature of soup and the uneven surface properties of your thrift store couch and wonky coffee table. Sitting at the counter guarantees a safter surface, dramatically reducing the chances of a spill. He’ll just have to settle for the only physical touch being your knees resting together under the countertop.
“Here,” he finally answers, still uncertain. “It’s more stable and I don’t want your couch to have soup spilled all over it.”
You nod, accepting. “Get cozy.”
The soup is ladled into bowls and placed in your spots, two spoons following, and two crumpled napkins ending the setup. Then, decisively like you’d read his mind and planned this all along, you slide your chair next to his.
“Scootch over,” you say, nudging him with your hip.
Immediately, his chair scrapes clumsily on the floor to make room, his hand pulling your chair close enough to be content. As soon as you sit, he curls into you, resting his head on your shoulder, damp hair tickling your neck. Your hum reverberates in Spencer’s chest, and he’s fairly certain if kept up long enough, it would have healing properties like a cat’s purr.
“Y’okay?” you ask, ruffling his hair.
“Mhm.” He sighs, heavily, the stress melting from him bit by bit until the knot in his chest feels just a little looser.
“Bad case?”
He shrugs. “Guess so.”
“Nothing wrong with saying that.”
“I know. Saying it just makes it more real, I suppose.”
You kiss the top of his head. “Wanna talk about it?”
“Not really.”
“Is there a happy ending?”
His silence says everything and more. The heavy pause fills the room wall to wall, leaving barely any space for anything else. It crowds you and him out, pressing against his skin until it aches, and until the reminder of his failure is settled heavily in his soul.
“’S not your fault, y’know,” you say as you take a spoonful of soup.
“I was meant to talk him down.”
“And did you?”
“…Not well.”
You frown. “What’s that mean?”
Spencer’s fingers leave the spoon and opt to twist with each other in his lap, nails starting to pick at his cuticles. You give him a few minutes to collect his thoughts before your hands grab his, intertwining his fingers with yours and squeezing tightly.
“I- I did talk. For a while, actually.”
When you say nothing, he continues.
“It was just- his mental barriers are- were very strong. He was able to keep it all locked up tight, and breaking that resulted in a breakdown. I pushed too hard.”
Your hand tightens reassuringly in his.
“It just didn’t matter, in the end. It wasn’t enough for him.”
“Spence?”
“Hm?”
Your hands cup his face, thumbs stroking cheekbones, dipping into dark circles and sweeping along rosy warmth. One thumb passes over a silvery scar, and you smile fondly.
“Did he listen? When you spoke?”
Spencer pauses. “For a while.”
“Then it meant something.”
“He still-.”
“Sweetheart,” you say. “Sometimes people decide they’re going to do something no matter what.”
“I know.”
“And sometimes,” you interrupt kindly. “Someone talking in their last moments makes them feel alive. You don’t have to change everyone’s mind, Spence. You just have to remind them they’re human.”
Spencer goes quiet, the kind where he’s internalizing something, making it rational and real, something more than just a string of words.
“Look,” you say. “All you can offer is comfort. Something to remind them they’re not alone. I know you can do that.”
“Even if it didn’t change the outcome?”
“Especially then.”
You lean closer, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead, lips brushing the furrow in his brow.
“Whatever happened today changes nothing to me. I still love you, I know you did your best, and I’m still right here.”
Spencer heaves a shuddering breath, hands trembling faintly in his lap. You tilt his head up to find his bottom lip trapped between his teeth in an effort to keep it from trembling too. Another forehead kiss and a half-choked sob breaks free, his body crunching in on itself like he’s recoiling from a shot. You lean his body into yours just like in the shower; one hand on his back, the other buried in his hair as his head rests in the crook of your neck. You rock slowly side to side, stroking his hair that’s still slightly damp and slides nicely through your fingers.
“You’re okay,” you murmur.
“I’m okay.”
You nod, squeezing the hug tighter. “You’re okay, you’re home, you’re safe.”
He’s quiet for a moment. Then, so soft you barely hear it, he whispers one word into the skin of your neck.
“Promise?”
Your heart shatters, pulling him tighter to you so that you can envelop as much of him as possible. Your smell surrounds him, warm and safe and you.
“Promise. Always promise.”
Spencer breaks quietly, a rock sinking gracefully to the sea floor, the ripples only big enough for you to see them and follow them to him. You cradle him to your chest, feeling his tears wet your skin as he clings tighter.
“I gotcha,” you murmur, soft and safe and so tender it hurts his chest more than his quiet sobs do.
He nuzzles closer to you, noes pressing to your neck and mouth muffled in your shirt, quieting the last dregs of already quiet sobs. With each slow movement of your body’s pendulum motion, your voice is whispering reassurances, and your lips are pressing gentle kisses to his teary cheeks and his hair. You don’t rush him, and he doesn’t make nay indication he’s moving; you just exist in each other’s orbits, lines of yourself molding into one being, the best part of the both of you tangling together. His empathy and your sympathy. Your rationality to his emotionality. Everything that makes him cry meeting every part of your comfort. Spencer feels softer than he ever has before, because nowhere will ever be as safe as home in your arms.
Finally, after what was several minutes and only felt like half a moment, Spencer’s head tilts up from its burrow in your neck. You hum lightly at the feeling of his weight leaving, letting him pull as far out of your arms as he wants. He sniffles heavily, taking the tissue you hand him and wiping his nose. He uses the backs of his hands to wipe his eyes, knuckles scraping on rough, red skin. Spener clears his throat a few times as your hands finish wiping stray tears, and he laughs a little in embarrassment.
“I’m sorry,” he apologizes.
“God, Spence, don’t apologize.”
“I- okay.”
He sniffs again, looking at his shoes.
“You needed that, hm?” you ask, rubbing the back of his hand with your thumb.
“Actually, crying releases hormones that help with emotional regulation. Many people report fewer negative emotions after crying.”
You’re watching him, fond and soft, listening to every word just to dissipate it all with one statement.
“So yes, you did need that.”
He blushes. “Yea, I did.”
“C’mere,” you say, tugging at his hands until he follows you to your feet. He’s standing a little taller now, like the weight compressing his spine as been lifted.
“What are you doing?” he asks as you loop your arms around his middle.
“That thing,” you offer unhelpfully. “Deep…uh. Deep something, I forget.”
Spencer laughs low in his throat, soft as ever. “Deep pressure therapy?”
“Yeah, that.”
“You know, it’s actually-.”
He’s cut off abruptly by your arms spreading over as much of his back as you can, squeezing him tight to your chest. He’s stiff for a moment, taken aback by the pressure and the abruptness of it all. Slowly, his arms land on your waist, resting there as you scoop him up into the biggest bear hug of his entire life. You eventually part with one last squeeze and a soft kiss to his lips that make them tingle pleasantly.
“Better?” you ask, turning to the table and grabbing his bowl.
“Much.” He goes to sit and take a spoonful of soup, finding both his bowl and spoon are gone. “What’re you doing?”
“Reheating your soup,” you say easily, sticking both bowls in the microwave and setting the timer, the hum loud in the kitchen space.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
You shrug, leaning on your elbows. “I know. I wanted to.”
“Why?”
“For you.”
“Why-.”
“Because you’ve had a right day and because I love you.”
Another pause follows, the air hesitating.
“Why…”
You sigh in mock exasperation, grinning widely. “Do you ever stop asking questions?”
Spencer returns your grin, brighter than he’s looked all evening. “No.”
Just then, your eyes light up like you’ve discovered some secret he doesn’t know about. “I know what you can do, though.”
“What?” he says, excitedly.
“Sit down,” you say, pushing him into the chair. “Let yourself be cared for,” you say with a kiss. “And let me love you like you deserve.”
He gives you a weak glare. “You could just tell me to stop talking.”
“I don’t want you to stop talking, I want you to stop pretending you feel perfectly normal.”
That shuts him up quick, because you are right and there’s only so long he can argue before giving in and letting you win. Before he can think of more to say, the microwave beeps and you’re sliding soup in front of him again, spoon in his hand as he eyes it. The soup is gone in minutes, Spencer not quite realizing how hungry he really was until he finally started eating. Normally, you’d make a joke about slowing down, but tonight doesn’t feel like the night for it.
He sits with his head on your shoulder while he waits for you to finish, the heat of the soup in his stomach and the emotional drain of crying starting to lull him into a half-asleep state. He doesn’t even realize you’re done until you’re tapping his shoulder and he’s stirring with a soft groan.
“Still with me?” you ask lightly.
“Mhm,” he sighs, sitting up and rubbing at his puffy eyes.
“Bed?”
He nods, stretching out like a cat and curling back in. His next question, asked so softly you almost miss it, makes your heart burst in light.
“Read to me?”
You hesitate, not because you don’t want to, but because it’s him. “Haven’t you memorized every book we own?”
He shrugs, starting into your eyes so tenderly they need to make a new word for it.
“Not in your voice.”
The admission makes your soul feel important for the first time in way too long. Spener, the boy with the eidetic memory, who knows every word to every line of every book he’s ever read, thinks having them read to him by you means more than his perfect memory of the pages. You can feel your cheeks flush hot at the knowledge, but if he sees it or not is lost on you.
“Pick something then,” you say instead, gesturing to the shelf. “I’ll clean up.”
“Love you,” he mumbles, kissing your cheek before hopping out of his chair and scurrying to the bookshelf.
The faint sounds of your movement in the kitchen perfectly fill in the stillness between Spencer’s own movements. The clink of spoon on bowl in the pauses as he thinks, the soft hush of water under his breathing as he mutters to himself about each book. Eventually, quiet conversation fills the space, two separate ones who’s answers flood together until the commentary sounds like two people talking to each other. You’re commentating the dishes, chastising the water that flies off the spoons and hushing the bowls that touch too loudly. Spencer is relaying the plot of the book to you, knowing you’re listening just to hear the sound of his voice. He digs through his shelves, unsatisfied, until he finds something tucked behind a copy of The Odyssey; a collection of children’s stories, with a foreword about the history of illustrated novels, gifted to him by his mother. It features her careful handwriting noting his childhood commentary on the margins of almost every page.
“Find something?” you say, startling him a little.
“Jesus, you scared me.”
“Sorry.” You peer closer at the tan cover in his hands, reading the title. “Is that Beatrix Potter?”
He’s quiet, face flushed a deep red, turning the book away in his arms to hide it from your gaze.
“Spencer, these are great. What’s up?”
He shrugs, trying to be casual and landing somewhere in the realm of petrified.
“They’re children’s stories,” he says like that changes everything.
“So?”
“So…I’m not a child.”
“I know.”
He makes a frustrated noise in his chest. It’s not at you, it never is. Rather, it’s t he fact that for all his might he can’t figure out how to put it into words that he should be past the children’s story phase. Yet the fact you’ve still offered to read something he holds such fond memories of makes every argument he had disappear from his mind.
“DO you want to read it?”
Your voice snaps hm back. “What?”
“Do you want me to read it to you?”
Spener swallows anxiously, though he’s not sure why he’s afraid.
“Would you?” he asks softly.
“’Course I would. They’re good stories. Bedisdes, you need something lighter tonight.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Spencer hands you the book, rising to his feet and clearing his throat.
“Just don’t make it weird. Please. I’m not a kid.”
You smile reassuringly. “I know, sweetheart. It won’t be weird.”
Spencer takes your free hand in his, his thumb tracing over the mountain ranges of your knuckles. His footsteps pad lightly down the hall in time with yours, socked feet whispering in rhythm the way they only do because you’ve spent so long around each other. His flannel pyjama pants hush soft too, reeds in the water of your apartment’s oasis. The hall feels both endless and barely a step long, Spencer getting lost in his thoughts as you walk the few steps to your bedroom.
Cracking the door open, you let him in first, watching as he climbs into bed, throwing the sheets over his legs and sighting when he gets comfortable. You close the blinds over your window, lighting the bedside lamp and taking note of how kindly the light caresses Spencer’s face. The edge of his nose is lit up gold, soft eyes reflecting it back too. When he smiles at you, his eyes light up with love amidst the hazel, reminding you exactly why you love him.
“Scootch over,” you say, crawling into bed beside him.
He’s adjusted the pillows your for already, learning them against the headboard so that you can comfortably read. You already know where he’ll move before he does; you register his pillow right in place for your head at the exact moment he throws an arm over you and rests his head on your chest.
“Are you comfy?” he asks when you’re settled in.
“Mhm,” you reply. “Are you?”
Spener answers by snuggling closer with a satisfied groan.
“Good,” you say, ruffling his hair.
You’re about to flip past the foreword when Spencer’s eyes ask you to read it without his voice saying the words. You adjust seamlessly, clearing your throat as you start with the foreword. With your hand carding through his curls and your voice vibrating in his ears, spencer falls asleep faster than he has in years; before you’re finished the foreword, he’s already snoring impossibly soft against your chest, fingers twined carefully in your shirt. You finish the entire first section just in case, but when he doesn’t wake, you set it on the table and turn out the lamp, slowly easing yourself down the mattress until you’re lying comfortably. Spencer doesn’t stir, and it’s not long before you drift off with him after pressing a final kiss to the top of his head.
tags : use the taglist form or send me a comment/ask/dm to be added to spencer reid taglist !!
summary: a rodeo on a saturday night is a great way to unwind after a case in texas. dean's just not expecting to start crushing on one cowboy in particular
pairing: dean x cowboy!reader (m) | genre: sweet n spicy | word count: 1.9k (oh its short oops)
warnings: calf roping/tie-down roping (no animals are harmed), dean's cowboy fantasy, strangers to ???, unrequited (for now), dean is head over heels and reader doesn't even know who he is, competence (reader wins) is hot (dean is hard), implied masturbation (god i hate writing that word so much LOL), dean has a lot of sexy thoughts and nowhere to put them, internalized homophobia if you squint
notes: requested !! you have found the secret to part of my joy; male reader fics. i love this request so much AUGH. alos mandatory disclaimer; reader does calf roping/tie-down roping in this fic, becaus this is the most common variant across rodeos in the united states. just be aware that there are some real life welfare concerns with this event, and although nothing bad happens in the fic, just know i'm not ignoring that for these purposes, okay ? okay :]
part 2 | taglist
Dust clings to the outsides of Dean’s leather boots as he trudges from the parking lot to the rodeo grounds. It clouds up from the gravel of the lot, smearing the dark leather in a gust of light grey. It puffs up from the sand on the pathway of the entrance, adding a pale tan layer to what is already a mess. A second tan layer slams into the outside of his right foot when a gust of wind kicks up a cloud, sending half of it onto his shoes and the other half into Sam’s face. Normally, in response to Sam’s sneezes caused by the dust, Dean would’ve elbowed him in the side and earned himself a glare. Today, Dean is far too excited to bother Sam, even when their proximity to each other in line means Sam sneezes partly on the back of Dean’s neck. Today, the setting sun and the first glares of the bright white spotlights are beyond fascinating.
Dean’s barely listening to Sam’s commentary about finding their seats as he weaves through the crowd in search of a drink. Any beer he gets here is going to end up a little too warm and much too expensive, but he can’t find it in himself to care about that. All he’s concerned about is getting some alcohol in his system and getting comfortable on the metal grandstands, brim of his ball cap pulled low over his head. Tongue poking out from between his lips, he pays for his and Sam’s beers, handing one off to his brother as they march toward the stands, searching for somewhere they can sit that won’t block the view of anyone else. They settle on something halfway up, where Sam’s back is to a support pole and Dean can sit hunched over with his elbow on his knees, in the way he always does when he’s examining something worth remembering.
Dean sits through the pre-rodeo nonsense while Sam wanders off for the bathroom, eyes scanning the crowd and the edges of the ring, looking for anything out of the ordinary. He doesn’t find anything strange, as expected, and he actually has to snap himself out of the case mentality when he remembers he’s not even working right now. There’s no ghosts haunting the grounds, or shapeshifters among the people here. It’s just the crowds of Texas clambering together under the summer night and the white spotlights, jostling each other and eagerly placing bets on the winners of each event.
Dean’s gaze drifts from the people down to the ring again, studying the faces lined up along the sides. It’s mostly men down there, ranging from kids just barely out of high school to guys who’ve been doing this their entire adult lives. A couple of them are trying to wrangle a rope over the nose of some huge brown horse, who keeps jutting his head up in defiance every time they get close to it. Another man is twisting a ring around his finger; a wedding ring most likely, probably making some wordless promise to his family that he’ll be safe tonight. There’s a group of women at one end who’s expressions are fiercer than any of the men. Hair curled precisely, flannels buttoned up and jeans tucked nicely into boots, hats on their heads. One woman has her arm around the neck of her horse, and Dean finds himself enthralled by her.
Until he moves his head and a man comes into view, standing at the edge of the pen near the gate and trying very hard not to stare up into the stands. He’s got a hand over his eyes, likely to block the glare from the artificial suns around the ring, the other hand resting on his hip, thumb tucked into a belt loop. The hat on his head gets wordlessly readjusted, tilted back just enough that Dean can get a glimpse of his face; sharp eyes, shadowed stubble across his jaw, hair curling stubbornly near one ear in the shape of a sideburn that never got trimmed correctly. Whoever this guy is, he’s not anything special. And somehow, Dean completely misses Sam nudging him when he comes back, because he’s focused on watching this cowboy. For a brief moment, the cowboy’s eyes sweep over the stands, stuttering on the general section Dean is sitting in. For a brief moment, Dean is convinced their eyes meet.
Dean looks away first.
He misses the grin on your face, hand reaching up to scratch the hinge of your jaw. He misses the fact that you, in fact, did see him. Tipping the hat back was a ploy to see if it was you he really was watching. Despite the distance, it was pretty hard to miss the blush that spread across Dean’s face. You’re called back to your gate with some new material on your mind, a little something to get you through the night. You don’t know his name, you don’t even know if he’s from around here, but something deep in your stomach tells you it won’t be the last time that you see him.
Back in the stands, Dean’s sipping on his beer, resting it on the ground between his feet when he’s not drinking it. Sam finished his during the last event, watching the women on their horses go round the barrels with the kind of speed Dean’s not even sure he’s seen in the movies, let alone in real life. Dean’s fascinated by the men on the bucking horses, and even though they all fall off quick, he’s still amazed by how long they do hold on. For a brief moment, under the heat of the lights, a thought flashes across his mind. Something dirty, something he absolutely shouldn’t be thinking in a public place. His mind wanders to the cowboy he saw earlier; you. He wonders if maybe you’ve done this event before, even if you aren’t competing it now. He wonders if you still remember any of it. He wonders, just for a second, if they call it ‘cowgirl’ for a good reason. He’d let you ride him like that if you asked.
He’s snapped out of his thoughts by the announcer’s voice for the next event, the loud, booming drawl of someone who was clearly born for this kind of job. The scoresheet gets thrown up on the board, the names of all the riders splashed across the screens in achingly bright LED letters. There’s no pictures beside the names, and he has no way of recognizing who’s who, but he finds himself leaning closer as the event begins. The riders cycle through with impressive speed, agile even on a horse that feels like it was never meant to be tamed and ridden. The calves are cute, and out of the corner of his eye, he can see Sam a little enamoured by them, making soft sounds whenever he feels that one got thrown to the ground too harshly.
The announcer calls your name, and as soon as your picture shows up on the screen, Dean leans in almost imperceptibly closer. Finally, he’s got a name to the guy who’s been invading his thoughts for the last hour or so. He has a name to put to the face of the guy who’s made him frustratingly hard in the middle of a public place. Part of him wants you to lose, because he wouldn’t feel so bad for falling for you. The other part of him thinks there’d be nothing hotter than you winning. The camera zooms in on you, and you tip your hat with a grin, smile lines creasing your cheeks under the stubble Dean’s been thinking about. How would it feel on the insides of his thighs?
The clock starts and you’re out of the gate in prefect time. Dean doesn’t know the first thing about horses, but he does know that your horse looks like it was made for this. Even you, hunched proud in concentration over the neck of your horse looks like there’s nowhere else in the world you could possible be besides right here, right now. Rope in hand, you’re throwing it around the calf in record time, you use just the right amount of force to stop the calf in its tracks without injuring it. The legs of your jeans get caked in dirt as you hop to the ground, tying up the calf effortlessly and putting your hands up in the air. Dean thinks you look a little like you’re resisting arrest, but he can’t deny the way his face heats up at the flash of skin of your stomach when raising your arms makes your shirt ride up.
They call time after the required six seconds pass, and you allow yourself the smallest grin of celebration as your time flashes up on the board. Fastest of the session so far, and pretty close to your personal best. Dean doesn’t know the second part, but he’s grinning like he does, face hurting from the expression. Even though it’s not your job, you drop to your knees in the arena and carefully start working on untying the calf. Dean thinks it’ll run away from you, because what animal wouldn’t run away from the person who just tied it up in rope? Instead, the minute it’s freed and standing back on all four legs, the calf nudges your hand with its head, to which you scratch the ears in reply.
“I like him,” Dean murmurs to Sam.
“Yeah?”
Dean gives a half-hearted nod in reply. “Yeah. He’s good.”
“I like him too-.” He pauses, studying Dean’s red face and the way his legs are crossed for the first time in probably his entire life. “Oh, you like him, like him.”
“Shut up,” Dean mumbles.
“Dean, he doesn’t even know who you are.”
He shrugs. “’S okay. Not like we stay long enough anyway.”
“We could.”
Dean’s head turns so fast it cracks something in his spine. “Do not.”
Sam’s hands raise in surrender, barely concealing a laugh. “Easy there, cowboy. Just a comment.”
By the end of the night, you’ve won your event, Dean’s looking for the first girl he can screw at the bar, and Sam is scheming ways to stay, just so Dean can see you again. He’s in the motel with his laptop open, searching for any case he can come up with. He’ll make a fictitious one if he has to. By the time midnight rolls around, he’s sobered up from his one drink and has decided waiting for Dean to come back is pointless. He’s out cold by the time Dean, who’s been burying his feelings in cheap whiskey and pretty women, comes back and locks himself in the bathroom. Your face won’t leave Dean’s mind, every sinful thought he’s ever had swirling around in his brain until he’s convinced he’ll be shot for thinking them. Upon exiting the bathroom, he sees Sam’s laptop shining bright in the dark, the webpage announcing a possible case in town standing proud on the screen. And just like that, Dean’s hard all over again, because it means he can look for you. And maybe interrogate you, just a little bit.
๋࣭⭑ atlas : spencer's job is hard, and you're determined to ensure that whatever happens after he comes home is as easy and comforting as it can possibly be
๋࣭⭑ binary stars : spencer x reader (gn)
๋࣭⭑ classification : fluff + comfort
๋࣭⭑ stellar density : 4.5k
๋࣭⭑ omens : a lot of fluff, spencer crying because let's be honest he's got a lot of emotions to get out, non-sexual nudity/showering together, all the cosy things i could think of
๋࣭⭑ message in a bottle : so apparently i write for spencer now ??? i've had so many ideas for him floating around in my head bcs @ambiguous-avery and i keep yapping nonstop about him LMAO (and while you're here, PLEASE PRETTY PLEASE go check out their spencer fics !!!)
๋࣭⭑ taglist ༊彡 masterlist
The knock on your apartment door is gentle, almost hesitant, like whoever is knocking is afraid to disrupt some kind of silence. There’s a moment where it’s completely quiet, the air in and around the apartment holding it breath, giving it space to exist in the late evening hours. The next knock follows just a moment later, a lilting pattern that’s become your secret code. So that you know it’s really him and not something that’s followed him home from work and lives in the dark spaces between your light and his. Your voice is muffled by the heavy door, but Spencer knows what you’re saying, because it’s the same thing every time; door’s locked, come in. There’s a shuffling muffled by wood, a slide of metal on metal, and a quiet snick as the mechanisms inside the lock turn to open the door, gliding smoothly against each other.
The hinges perform their usual creaking dance as the door opens, their soft duet with the footsteps on the floor a familiar comfort to you now. Spencer has a specific rhythm he moves in after long cases, and tonight is like all the others. First, his bag is placed by the door, open and sorted through to assure the contents are ordered correctly. Next, his coat slides off his shoulders, forming an orderly ghost on the rack next to yours. Then, his converse come off, laces neatly tucked away and alighted with your own shoes, matching coloured laces reflecting the light. Finally, after he’s assured everything is in order, he moves from the hall to the main room, in search of you.
Tonight, you’re sitting at the kitchen counter, one leg crunched up in a position that looks painful but probably isn’t. You’re reading something on your phone, no doubt something you’ll tell him about later whether he’s interested in it or not; he’s always fascinated when it comes to your interests. There’s a pot on the stovetop, and Spencer can hear the faint bubbling of it like muted conversation. The stack of pages in his arms is deposited gently on the table, and your eyes finally drift up to meet his, soft meeting exhausted.
“Hi,” you murmur.
“Hi,” he replies, equally quiet.
“Tea or coffee?” you ask, smiling at the way his shoulders slump at the familiarity of the question.
It’s a litmus test you’d created together as an indirect way to check up on the other without giving away details you’re not ready to say aloud. Tea means a little time to decompress, and a quiet evening curled together, soaking in the warmth you bring each other. Coffee means everything is fine, and that you could go for a little more excitement in your evening by means of a new movie or new adventure. When his eyes turn melted and soft at the question, you know the reply before he even gives it.
“Tea, please,” he says, slouching even further.
“What kind?”
Your voice is kind in the way that almost brings tired tears to his eyes.
“Chamomile?” he asks weakly.
You stand from the chair, walking over to him and slinging your arms around his shoulders, guiding his head to the crook of your neck.
“I love you,” you whisper as he shuffles closer. “Go shower while I finish dinner. Take your time.”
“Okay,” he hums, making no motion to move.
“I can wash your hair,” you offer.
“I- I can do it.”
“I know.”
“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”
You step back just a half step, your hands planted firmly on his arms.
“Do you want me to?” you ask.
“To what?”
“To wash your hair.”
For a moment, he’s still, the only sounds being his breathing mixing in time with yours and the low boil of soup. His soft doe eyes flick to yours and away again, dropping to the floor as he nods shyly.
“Are you sure it’s okay?” he asks.
You softly kiss his cheek, turning it a soft pink.
“It’s always okay,” is your reply.
Spencer makes a soft noise, something that sounds like acceptance with the tiniest hint of guilt. You catch the guilt, soothing it away with another kiss, this time to the opposite cheek.
“Go get ready,” you say. “I’ll be right there.”
“Are you sure?” he asks again, because he needs to be absolutely certain he’s not burdening you with things you don’t want to handle.
“Mhm.” He can hear the smile in your tone. “Always.”
Spencer lingers for a moment longer, seemingly unwilling to part from you. He finally does after you squeeze his shoulder, muttering softly to yourself as you shut off the stove. You follow him down the hall, one of your hands resting firm on the small of his back, grounding him through his dress shirt. While he heads right into the bathroom, you make a quick stop in the laundry room, throwing a towel and Spencer’s sleep clothes into the dryer. It chimes happily as you feed it the clothing, the door locking with a determined click when you close it. Back in the bathroom, you bring your own pyjamas inside, setting them on the floor while Spencer meticulously folds his work clothes, a desperate attempt to regain whatever control he feels he’s lost. He hovers, watching you undress like you’ll disappear if he looks away for too long.
“Spencer?” you say.
“I- Yes. Hi.”
You offer a smile, so sweet and tender that the only word for it is loving.
“Where’d you go?”
He pauses, sorting his options and deciding on the truth, because you deserve to hear nothing but the truth.
“Just…” he trails off into a heavy silence, leaving you to fill in the planks.
“Okay,” you say, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “C’mon handsome.”
Spencer blushes pink at your compliment, and with his clothes off, you can see the blush moving down his neck that would normally be hidden. Luckily, you’re too focused on the waster temperature to tease him, your soft murmurs as you search for his preferred temperature; warm enough to remind him he’s safe, but cold enough to remind him he’s still alive. The shower rain is interrupted by you stepping under it, muffling a yelp when you realize the water is way too cold, and Spencer has to try very hard not to laugh at your misfortune. You peel back the curtain and beckon Spencer inside after a few more adjustments.
As soon as he’s inside, you move so that he’s under the water. He sighs audibly at the warmth on his back, pattering rainfall washing away his stress, eyes closed and shoulders curling ever inward. He looks impossible small, as close to a scared child as a grown man can be. You feel yourself melting at the sight, and he physically does when your fingers meet his hair and start working the water through his curls. Each press of your fingers to his scalp soothes him more, and by the time you’re reaching for his shampoo, he’s learning almost all of his weight on you, head resting on your shoulder. The opening of the bottle lid cracks like a firework, loud and unwelcome, but the flood of his shampoo scent makes up for it; warm, slightly sweet, smelling entirely like home and comfort. It’s blissfully comfortable in here, under your touch, under your loving hands.
The only sign Spencer is still conscious is the soft sob he bites back the moment it escapes.
“You’re okay,” you murmur into his ear. “’S okay Spence, you’re home.”
“I know,” he says, voice thick yet not entirely convinced.
“Yeah?” you say, adjusting his head.
He puffs a watery sigh, clearing his throat decisively. He’ll probably talk about it later, but words have no space in here right now. He settles instead of nodding and shuffling slightly closer, basking in your warmth. Each pas of your hands through his curls as you wash the soap out chokes him up a little further, and he’s painfully aware of how helpful the water is in hiding his tears.
When he’s fully cleaned off, you leave him a few minutes to himself for soaking while you go fetch his towel and clothes. You say his name with cautious care when you return to avoid spooking him, the only acknowledgement being the shower turning off and his hand peeling back the curtain before wrapping around himself again. Your arms are spread wide and he walks right into them, collapsing against you as you wrap him in the towel.
“It’s warm,” he comments.
“Mhm. Put it in the dryer for a moment.”
He makes another wounded noise, throat tight. The feeling of your arms around his body, warm and solid, drag and uneven breath out of him. You smile, laughing softly as you towel him dry, only stepping out in order to give him privacy as he changes.
You’re back at the stove when he returns, stirring the pot with a wooden spoon, the steam curling up around your face like a halo. The clean shirt and flannel pants you set out for him also carry the warmth of your dryer, achingly gentle in his heart as he envelops himself further in your domesticity. The stool creaks a little as he sits down, the wobbly leg slamming into the floor harder than he intended. If you’re mad about the sound, you don’t say anything, instead opting to grab the good bowls for the soup, placing one in front of him with a soft clink.
“Open,” you say, bringing the soup ladle toward him.
He’s about to ask why, but when he sees that you’ve made his favourite soup recipe he got for you from Rossi, he opens his mouth for you without question. It burns his tongue a little, but he’s so beyond grateful for the taste of something made with love that he barely even registers the discomfort. When it hits his stomach, a gooey warmth floods him, ocean waves of home tugging at his body until he gives in and floats away.
“Good?” you ask, watching him.
“Very,” he replies, blinking. “It’s hot.”
You giggle. “Well, yeah. It’s boiling.”
You side a cup of water across the counter that he drinks gratefully, soothing his burned tongue and throat.
“Eat here or out there?” you ask, jutting your thumb to the couch.
Spencer evaluates his options with the kind of serious calculation he leaves only for your questions. Eating on the couch means he can wrap up in blankets and keep you tucked close, your head a grounding weight. But, eating on the couch means you’re both more likely to spill, given the liquid nature of soup and the uneven surface properties of your thrift store couch and wonky coffee table. Sitting at the counter guarantees a safter surface, dramatically reducing the chances of a spill. He’ll just have to settle for the only physical touch being your knees resting together under the countertop.
“Here,” he finally answers, still uncertain. “It’s more stable and I don’t want your couch to have soup spilled all over it.”
You nod, accepting. “Get cozy.”
The soup is ladled into bowls and placed in your spots, two spoons following, and two crumpled napkins ending the setup. Then, decisively like you’d read his mind and planned this all along, you slide your chair next to his.
“Scootch over,” you say, nudging him with your hip.
Immediately, his chair scrapes clumsily on the floor to make room, his hand pulling your chair close enough to be content. As soon as you sit, he curls into you, resting his head on your shoulder, damp hair tickling your neck. Your hum reverberates in Spencer’s chest, and he’s fairly certain if kept up long enough, it would have healing properties like a cat’s purr.
“Y’okay?” you ask, ruffling his hair.
“Mhm.” He sighs, heavily, the stress melting from him bit by bit until the knot in his chest feels just a little looser.
“Bad case?”
He shrugs. “Guess so.”
“Nothing wrong with saying that.”
“I know. Saying it just makes it more real, I suppose.”
You kiss the top of his head. “Wanna talk about it?”
“Not really.”
“Is there a happy ending?”
His silence says everything and more. The heavy pause fills the room wall to wall, leaving barely any space for anything else. It crowds you and him out, pressing against his skin until it aches, and until the reminder of his failure is settled heavily in his soul.
“’S not your fault, y’know,” you say as you take a spoonful of soup.
“I was meant to talk him down.”
“And did you?”
“…Not well.”
You frown. “What’s that mean?”
Spencer’s fingers leave the spoon and opt to twist with each other in his lap, nails starting to pick at his cuticles. You give him a few minutes to collect his thoughts before your hands grab his, intertwining his fingers with yours and squeezing tightly.
“I- I did talk. For a while, actually.”
When you say nothing, he continues.
“It was just- his mental barriers are- were very strong. He was able to keep it all locked up tight, and breaking that resulted in a breakdown. I pushed too hard.”
Your hand tightens reassuringly in his.
“It just didn’t matter, in the end. It wasn’t enough for him.”
“Spence?”
“Hm?”
Your hands cup his face, thumbs stroking cheekbones, dipping into dark circles and sweeping along rosy warmth. One thumb passes over a silvery scar, and you smile fondly.
“Did he listen? When you spoke?”
Spencer pauses. “For a while.”
“Then it meant something.”
“He still-.”
“Sweetheart,” you say. “Sometimes people decide they’re going to do something no matter what.”
“I know.”
“And sometimes,” you interrupt kindly. “Someone talking in their last moments makes them feel alive. You don’t have to change everyone’s mind, Spence. You just have to remind them they’re human.”
Spencer goes quiet, the kind where he’s internalizing something, making it rational and real, something more than just a string of words.
“Look,” you say. “All you can offer is comfort. Something to remind them they’re not alone. I know you can do that.”
“Even if it didn’t change the outcome?”
“Especially then.”
You lean closer, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead, lips brushing the furrow in his brow.
“Whatever happened today changes nothing to me. I still love you, I know you did your best, and I’m still right here.”
Spencer heaves a shuddering breath, hands trembling faintly in his lap. You tilt his head up to find his bottom lip trapped between his teeth in an effort to keep it from trembling too. Another forehead kiss and a half-choked sob breaks free, his body crunching in on itself like he’s recoiling from a shot. You lean his body into yours just like in the shower; one hand on his back, the other buried in his hair as his head rests in the crook of your neck. You rock slowly side to side, stroking his hair that’s still slightly damp and slides nicely through your fingers.
“You’re okay,” you murmur.
“I’m okay.”
You nod, squeezing the hug tighter. “You’re okay, you’re home, you’re safe.”
He’s quiet for a moment. Then, so soft you barely hear it, he whispers one word into the skin of your neck.
“Promise?”
Your heart shatters, pulling him tighter to you so that you can envelop as much of him as possible. Your smell surrounds him, warm and safe and you.
“Promise. Always promise.”
Spencer breaks quietly, a rock sinking gracefully to the sea floor, the ripples only big enough for you to see them and follow them to him. You cradle him to your chest, feeling his tears wet your skin as he clings tighter.
“I gotcha,” you murmur, soft and safe and so tender it hurts his chest more than his quiet sobs do.
He nuzzles closer to you, noes pressing to your neck and mouth muffled in your shirt, quieting the last dregs of already quiet sobs. With each slow movement of your body’s pendulum motion, your voice is whispering reassurances, and your lips are pressing gentle kisses to his teary cheeks and his hair. You don’t rush him, and he doesn’t make nay indication he’s moving; you just exist in each other’s orbits, lines of yourself molding into one being, the best part of the both of you tangling together. His empathy and your sympathy. Your rationality to his emotionality. Everything that makes him cry meeting every part of your comfort. Spencer feels softer than he ever has before, because nowhere will ever be as safe as home in your arms.
Finally, after what was several minutes and only felt like half a moment, Spencer’s head tilts up from its burrow in your neck. You hum lightly at the feeling of his weight leaving, letting him pull as far out of your arms as he wants. He sniffles heavily, taking the tissue you hand him and wiping his nose. He uses the backs of his hands to wipe his eyes, knuckles scraping on rough, red skin. Spener clears his throat a few times as your hands finish wiping stray tears, and he laughs a little in embarrassment.
“I’m sorry,” he apologizes.
“God, Spence, don’t apologize.”
“I- okay.”
He sniffs again, looking at his shoes.
“You needed that, hm?” you ask, rubbing the back of his hand with your thumb.
“Actually, crying releases hormones that help with emotional regulation. Many people report fewer negative emotions after crying.”
You’re watching him, fond and soft, listening to every word just to dissipate it all with one statement.
“So yes, you did need that.”
He blushes. “Yea, I did.”
“C’mere,” you say, tugging at his hands until he follows you to your feet. He’s standing a little taller now, like the weight compressing his spine as been lifted.
“What are you doing?” he asks as you loop your arms around his middle.
“That thing,” you offer unhelpfully. “Deep…uh. Deep something, I forget.”
Spencer laughs low in his throat, soft as ever. “Deep pressure therapy?”
“Yeah, that.”
“You know, it’s actually-.”
He’s cut off abruptly by your arms spreading over as much of his back as you can, squeezing him tight to your chest. He’s stiff for a moment, taken aback by the pressure and the abruptness of it all. Slowly, his arms land on your waist, resting there as you scoop him up into the biggest bear hug of his entire life. You eventually part with one last squeeze and a soft kiss to his lips that make them tingle pleasantly.
“Better?” you ask, turning to the table and grabbing his bowl.
“Much.” He goes to sit and take a spoonful of soup, finding both his bowl and spoon are gone. “What’re you doing?”
“Reheating your soup,” you say easily, sticking both bowls in the microwave and setting the timer, the hum loud in the kitchen space.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
You shrug, leaning on your elbows. “I know. I wanted to.”
“Why?”
“For you.”
“Why-.”
“Because you’ve had a right day and because I love you.”
Another pause follows, the air hesitating.
“Why…”
You sigh in mock exasperation, grinning widely. “Do you ever stop asking questions?”
Spencer returns your grin, brighter than he’s looked all evening. “No.”
Just then, your eyes light up like you’ve discovered some secret he doesn’t know about. “I know what you can do, though.”
“What?” he says, excitedly.
“Sit down,” you say, pushing him into the chair. “Let yourself be cared for,” you say with a kiss. “And let me love you like you deserve.”
He gives you a weak glare. “You could just tell me to stop talking.”
“I don’t want you to stop talking, I want you to stop pretending you feel perfectly normal.”
That shuts him up quick, because you are right and there’s only so long he can argue before giving in and letting you win. Before he can think of more to say, the microwave beeps and you’re sliding soup in front of him again, spoon in his hand as he eyes it. The soup is gone in minutes, Spencer not quite realizing how hungry he really was until he finally started eating. Normally, you’d make a joke about slowing down, but tonight doesn’t feel like the night for it.
He sits with his head on your shoulder while he waits for you to finish, the heat of the soup in his stomach and the emotional drain of crying starting to lull him into a half-asleep state. He doesn’t even realize you’re done until you’re tapping his shoulder and he’s stirring with a soft groan.
“Still with me?” you ask lightly.
“Mhm,” he sighs, sitting up and rubbing at his puffy eyes.
“Bed?”
He nods, stretching out like a cat and curling back in. His next question, asked so softly you almost miss it, makes your heart burst in light.
“Read to me?”
You hesitate, not because you don’t want to, but because it’s him. “Haven’t you memorized every book we own?”
He shrugs, starting into your eyes so tenderly they need to make a new word for it.
“Not in your voice.”
The admission makes your soul feel important for the first time in way too long. Spener, the boy with the eidetic memory, who knows every word to every line of every book he’s ever read, thinks having them read to him by you means more than his perfect memory of the pages. You can feel your cheeks flush hot at the knowledge, but if he sees it or not is lost on you.
“Pick something then,” you say instead, gesturing to the shelf. “I’ll clean up.”
“Love you,” he mumbles, kissing your cheek before hopping out of his chair and scurrying to the bookshelf.
The faint sounds of your movement in the kitchen perfectly fill in the stillness between Spencer’s own movements. The clink of spoon on bowl in the pauses as he thinks, the soft hush of water under his breathing as he mutters to himself about each book. Eventually, quiet conversation fills the space, two separate ones who’s answers flood together until the commentary sounds like two people talking to each other. You’re commentating the dishes, chastising the water that flies off the spoons and hushing the bowls that touch too loudly. Spencer is relaying the plot of the book to you, knowing you’re listening just to hear the sound of his voice. He digs through his shelves, unsatisfied, until he finds something tucked behind a copy of The Odyssey; a collection of children’s stories, with a foreword about the history of illustrated novels, gifted to him by his mother. It features her careful handwriting noting his childhood commentary on the margins of almost every page.
“Find something?” you say, startling him a little.
“Jesus, you scared me.”
“Sorry.” You peer closer at the tan cover in his hands, reading the title. “Is that Beatrix Potter?”
He’s quiet, face flushed a deep red, turning the book away in his arms to hide it from your gaze.
“Spencer, these are great. What’s up?”
He shrugs, trying to be casual and landing somewhere in the realm of petrified.
“They’re children’s stories,” he says like that changes everything.
“So?”
“So…I’m not a child.”
“I know.”
He makes a frustrated noise in his chest. It’s not at you, it never is. Rather, it’s t he fact that for all his might he can’t figure out how to put it into words that he should be past the children’s story phase. Yet the fact you’ve still offered to read something he holds such fond memories of makes every argument he had disappear from his mind.
“DO you want to read it?”
Your voice snaps hm back. “What?”
“Do you want me to read it to you?”
Spener swallows anxiously, though he’s not sure why he’s afraid.
“Would you?” he asks softly.
“’Course I would. They’re good stories. Bedisdes, you need something lighter tonight.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Spencer hands you the book, rising to his feet and clearing his throat.
“Just don’t make it weird. Please. I’m not a kid.”
You smile reassuringly. “I know, sweetheart. It won’t be weird.”
Spencer takes your free hand in his, his thumb tracing over the mountain ranges of your knuckles. His footsteps pad lightly down the hall in time with yours, socked feet whispering in rhythm the way they only do because you’ve spent so long around each other. His flannel pyjama pants hush soft too, reeds in the water of your apartment’s oasis. The hall feels both endless and barely a step long, Spencer getting lost in his thoughts as you walk the few steps to your bedroom.
Cracking the door open, you let him in first, watching as he climbs into bed, throwing the sheets over his legs and sighting when he gets comfortable. You close the blinds over your window, lighting the bedside lamp and taking note of how kindly the light caresses Spencer’s face. The edge of his nose is lit up gold, soft eyes reflecting it back too. When he smiles at you, his eyes light up with love amidst the hazel, reminding you exactly why you love him.
“Scootch over,” you say, crawling into bed beside him.
He’s adjusted the pillows your for already, learning them against the headboard so that you can comfortably read. You already know where he’ll move before he does; you register his pillow right in place for your head at the exact moment he throws an arm over you and rests his head on your chest.
“Are you comfy?” he asks when you’re settled in.
“Mhm,” you reply. “Are you?”
Spener answers by snuggling closer with a satisfied groan.
“Good,” you say, ruffling his hair.
You’re about to flip past the foreword when Spencer’s eyes ask you to read it without his voice saying the words. You adjust seamlessly, clearing your throat as you start with the foreword. With your hand carding through his curls and your voice vibrating in his ears, spencer falls asleep faster than he has in years; before you’re finished the foreword, he’s already snoring impossibly soft against your chest, fingers twined carefully in your shirt. You finish the entire first section just in case, but when he doesn’t wake, you set it on the table and turn out the lamp, slowly easing yourself down the mattress until you’re lying comfortably. Spencer doesn’t stir, and it’s not long before you drift off with him after pressing a final kiss to the top of his head.
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