summary: getting shot was dramatic, but recovering is worse. especially now that spencer reid has a key to your apartment and a color-coded plan for your survival.
genre: hurt/comfort, flangst tags/warnings: reader is elle's sister, mentions of a gunshot wound/incision/scar (not graphic), reader is prescribed narcotics (not a plot point or issue but still, TW if you want to avoid), caretaker spencer reid, arguments, reader is very bad at being taken care of, spencer is clingy, actually they’re both clingy, domestic fluff, kissing, no use of y/n. fyi this fic will make more sense if you’ve read liminal first! 6.6k words
a/n: to everyone who waited patiently while i worked through writer’s block and life stuff, thank you :’) sorry if this is a tad boring but i felt like it wouldn’t be right to ignore reader’s recovery phase after getting shot. next part won’t take as long I promise lol | GIF by @reidgif 🫶🏼
greenaway!reader masterlist 🥀
The ride home from the hospital takes longer than it should.
It’s D.C., which means everything is fifteen minutes away yet somehow still takes an hour, so you’re half asleep against the window by the time Spencer pulls into your building’s parking garage. The pain meds haven’t knocked you out completely; they’ve just dulled you into a soft, irritated haze where your body feels like it belongs to someone else and you’re borrowing it under protest.
Spencer circles around the car before you can reach for the handle. Of course he does.
“I can do it,” you mumble as he opens your door.
“I know,” he replies, voice gentle in that maddening way that makes it impossible to argue with him. “Let me anyway.”
He reaches down and offers you his hand. Your fingers curl around his and he steadies you as you shift out of the car, careful of your side, careful of everything. The movement pulls at the tender spot against your ribs and you suck in a breath through your teeth.
Spencer’s eyes flick to your face immediately.
“I’m okay,” you insist.
He nods like he hears you, but his hand tightens just slightly like he doesn’t believe you. “Just— please take it slow,” he says. You bite back the instinct to snap, because you know he’s doing it with love and fear in equal measure.
He guides you toward the elevator, and you lean in closer to him as the elevator doors slide shut. Spencer presses the button for your floor with his free hand, then glances down at you.
“You’re doing great,” he murmurs.
You snort, which is a terrible idea, because laughing hurts. “Please stop talking to me like I’m a wounded bird.”
His mouth twitches. “You are kind of a wounded bird.”
“I’m not a bird,” you say. “If anything, I’m—” You pause, searching for something that feels like you. “A raccoon.”
Spencer’s eyebrows lift. “A raccoon?”
“Mean, scrappy, nocturnal,” you list. “Has tiny hands.”
He huffs a soft laugh. “You do not have tiny hands.”
“Compared to yours, I do.”
His gaze drops to your intertwined fingers. His thumb brushes over your knuckles in a slow, grounding stroke that makes something in your chest loosen.
“I’ve missed you,” he says, very quietly.
You blink at the elevator doors and pretend the sudden tightness in your throat is from the stale air. “You’ve seen me literally all day, every day.”
“True,” he agrees. “But you know what I mean.”
The elevator dings.
Spencer’s hand slips from yours to your lower back as you walk. You make it three steps before you realize your key isn’t in your pocket, because you haven’t worn pants with real pockets in… well, a while.
Spencer doesn’t even slow down. He just reaches into his jacket and pulls out his keyring—
His keyring, now featuring his very own key to your apartment.
The memory flickers in, fast and foggy. You, doped up and pissed off, shoving your spare into his palm because you needed your iPod and your charger and really anything to pass the time that wasn’t hospital-grade.
You told yourself giving him a key was practical.
He told himself the same thing. His eyes still went bright anyway.
Back in the present, your stomach does a weird little flip.
He catches it. “I— I can give it back,” he says quickly. “If you want.”
You shake your head softly. “Don’t be dumb,” you murmur.
Spencer fights a smile as he slides the key into the lock like he’s done it a hundred times. The door opens and warm air spills out, carrying the scent of laundry detergent and candles and your apartment’s familiar, slightly dusty personality.
You step inside and stop in your tracks.
Your records are still on their shelves; your boots are still kicked off by the entryway; your leather jacket is still draped on the back of a chair. It’s the same place you left the morning you got shot.
But it’s also… different.
Cleaner, for one. Dishes gone. Counters wiped. Blankets folded. There’s a paper grocery bag on the table and a small tray of gauze and medical tape and antibacterial soap next to the sink.
And then you notice it: more of Spencer’s things that weren’t here before. A few more of his books added to your shelves. His telescope set up by the living room window. The blanket he usually keeps on the back of his couch, now taking up residence on yours. A soft gray cardigan hanging on the hook by the door like it belongs here.
Like he belongs here.
“I, uh, stopped by yesterday while you were napping to make sure things were in order before your discharge,” Spencer explains, hovering close but trying not to look like he’s hovering.
You glance at him. “So you cleaned, and made yourself at home as well?”
Spencer’s smile is tired but real. “Yes,” he admits. “I told you already, you’re going to heal, and I'm going to be with you for all of it.”
Your apartment has always been the place you can shut the door and disappear, the place no one has a key to unless you hand it over. Your spine should go stiff at the sight of his cardigan on your hook. You should feel your skin crawl.
But instead, you feel… strangely steady.
Spencer watches your face carefully, like he’s waiting for you to insist he doesn’t need to stay with you during your recovery.
You don’t say anything.
Spencer’s hand finds yours again and he guides you toward your room. He helps you sit on the edge of the bed and immediately starts arranging pillows behind you with the intensity of someone building a small, medically approved throne.
“You’re nesting,” you observe.
“I’m just making sure you have enough support to keep your weight off your side," he explains, adjusting one pillow two inches.
You stare at him. “Spencer.”
He pauses, hands still on the pillow. “Yeah?”
“You’re going to drive yourself insane,” you tell him, softer than you mean to.
“Maybe,” he admits quietly. “But… you’re here.”
Your pulse trips. You swallow around it.
He clears his throat and reaches into his bag on the floor. “Okay. Let’s discuss your medication regimen.”
You groan. “Oh my god.”
Spencer’s mouth twitches. “I… I made a schedule.”
“I figured you did.”
“It’s not too complicated,” he says, already defensive, which would be funny if it didn’t hit something tender. “It’s just so you don’t take too much of anything by accident, and so you don’t miss any doses. And there are—” He stops, catches himself, steadies. “There are options, for the, uh, painkillers, depending on your level of discomfort.”
He holds up a sheet of cardstock paper with times and dosage details and color-coded checkboxes to keep track of everything.
You stare at it. Then at him. “You’re being such a dad.”
“I’m being practical.”
“Sure, dad.”
Spencer sighs, but his hand keeps shaking slightly as he lays the paper on your nightstand. “Please don’t call me that. And just… will you humor me?”
You pick up the paper and tap it once with your finger. “Fine. But if you laminate this, I’m telling Morgan.”
Spencer’s laugh is quiet, relieved. “Fair.”
He brings you a glass of water and sits down on the edge of the bed. He watches you take the first dose like he’s counting the seconds between your breaths.
“You’re staring,” you say.
“Definitely.” He leans in and kisses your forehead, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth like he can’t help it. “I can’t help it. I’m just so glad you’re here,” he murmurs between more kisses.
“Someone’s feeling sappy,” you tease.
“Is a man in love not allowed to be sappy?”
Oh. There’s that word again—
Love.
It still feels new, and weird, and wonderful every time you hear it.
“Mm, fine. I guess it’s allowed,” you relent.
Later, after somehow staying upright long enough to brush your teeth and change into pajamas, you settle back into bed. Spencer fusses with the blankets for a minute, and then just… stops.
He stands there, hands flexing once at his sides.
“Well?” you ask, squinting. “What are you waiting for?”
Spencer’s mouth twitches, but his eyes stay careful. “I… I was going to go sleep on the couch.”
You stare at him. “…Why would you do that?”
“Because you’re still healing, and I don’t want to—” He swallows. “I don’t want to risk hurting you. And I thought you might want space.”
Something in your chest pinches at the worry in his voice.
“Spence,” you say gently. “Get in.”
He hesitates.
You pat the mattress with as much authority as you can manage while held together by stitches. “I’m not asking you to wrestle me. I’m just asking you to sleep next to me.”
Spencer’s eyes soften. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. I’m… tired of waking up in a bed without you,” you admit.
That does it. He eases down with ridiculous care, like you’re made of glass and he’s terrified of being the one to crack you.
He wraps his arm around you gently, and you shift the smallest amount closer. It’s enough for him to go still before relaxing fully.
“Welcome home,” he whispers, his breath warming the back of your neck. “I love you.”
You close your eyes and let yourself believe it.
—
Your first week home becomes a series of tiny negotiations and small victories.
Spencer sets alarms for your meds; you take the antibiotics but hold off on the narcotics as long as you can manage. He makes you eat something with protein in it; you complain the entire time and still finish the bowl. Garcia shows up with a care package that includes fuzzy socks and another stuffed animal you swear you don’t want. Morgan checks in with a text every day. JJ and Emily drop off a stack of case files you’re “not supposed to look at,” but they do it with a wink. Rossi swings by once with a tray of homemade carbonara and a strict warning not to overdo it.
Once, in the middle of the night, Spencer wakes up suddenly and bolts upright, eyes wide like he’s listening for a sound only he can hear. You don’t ask why — you just slide your hand into his and feel him remember how to breathe.
By day six, you can walk to the kitchen without getting dizzy. By day seven, Spencer’s started to say “love you” whenever he leaves the room the same way he says “be right back,” and your reply becomes automatic. Love you too.
It scares you a little.
It steadies you more.
—
By the time you hit the two-week mark, you can do most of the basics again. Not the big things; not the things that matter to your pride — but the small things. The humiliating little tasks that used to be so automatic you never thought about them. Standing at the sink long enough to wash your face without needing to sit down. Walking from the bedroom to the couch without holding your breath like you’re bargaining with your own ribs. Pouring yourself a glass of water and not feeling your vision tilt.
You can do those things now, but Spencer still acts like you can’t.
It becomes routine: Spencer anticipating your needs before you can even admit you have them. He gets you a blanket before you feel cold. He slides a pillow behind your back before you realize you’re slouching. He asks if you’ve eaten. He asks if you’ve taken your meds. He asks if you’ve reached your step goal yet. He asks you to rate your pain on a scale of 1-10. He watches your face when you breathe.
You tell yourself it’s love, because you know it is. But it’s not just that — it’s love twisted with fear so tightly they’ve fused together.
This morning, you wake up to Spencer sitting beside you in bed with a book open in his lap. His glasses are on. His hair is messy in that soft way it always gets when he’s been running his hands through it.
He looks down when you move. His gaze goes instantly to your side, like he can see through the blanket.
“How’s your pain?” he asks.
You blink at him. “Good morning to you too.”
His mouth twitches, apologetic. “Sorry. Good morning, honey.”
You shift carefully and an ache blooms, dull and annoying. You keep your face neutral anyway.
“My pain is fine,” you insist. “I’m gonna go make coffee.”
Spencer closes his book immediately. “I can do it.”
You swing your legs over the side of the bed. “I didn’t ask you to.”
He’s already up. He’s always already up. Like some nervous part of him has been waiting for the moment you try to do something alone so he can step in before anything goes wrong.
“Just let me,” he insists.
You ignore him and stand slowly, starting toward the kitchen.
Spencer follows you. It’s like walking with a shadow that thinks it’s your supervisor.
“I’m not going to faint, Spencer,” you say, eyes forward.
“I know,” he replies.
You get to the kitchen and reach for the cabinet. Spencer reaches first.
You stop. Stare at his hand on the mug.
He freezes, then slowly draws it back like he’s been caught doing something embarrassing.
You take the mug. You feel him watching you the entire time you set it on the counter.
When you reach for the coffee grounds, Spencer’s hand darts out again. Your fingers still.
He notices and drops his hand like it burned you.
You inhale slowly and feel the pull in your incision. That little reminder that your body is still healing, still tender, still not yours to command.
“Stop,” you say quietly, turning around to face him.
Spencer looks up. His expression is filled with concern. “Stop what?”
“Everything. You’re trying to do everything for me.”
His brows lift. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
“It is,” you insist, and the sharpness comes out before you can sand it down. “You’re hovering constantly, Spencer. I’m not trying to run a marathon. I’m making a pot of coffee.”
“I know,” he says. “I’m not trying to stop you from making coffee. I’m just trying to make sure you don’t overdo it.”
“No. You're suffocating me.”
The word lands hard in the small kitchen.
Spencer goes still. His jaw tightens. His eyes flick toward your side, then back to your face like he’s trying to decide whether to argue with you or agree.
“I’m just trying to keep you safe. Sue me, but I’d rather annoy you than miss something.”
“I am safe,” you say. “I’m home. I’m alive. I’m not bleeding out.”
Spencer’s throat moves as he swallows.
“You think I don’t know that?”
You hate yourself for it, but this frustration has been building for days. For every moment you’ve tried to be grateful and patient and reasonable while slowly going insane.
“I think you’re acting like I can’t even make coffee without dying,” you snap.
“That’s not true.”
“Is it not?” You gesture around the apartment. “You’ve taken over everything, Spencer. You refill my water. You carry my phone. You bring me snacks like I’m a toddler. You keep asking me if I’m okay every five minutes.”
Spencer exhales slowly. “Because you keep lying.”
Your eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”
“You do,” he says, and now his voice is sharper too, because you pushed and pushed until you found the edge. “You tell me you’re fine and then I catch you grimacing when you stand up. You say your pain is nothing and then your hands shake when you reach for something. You think I don’t notice?”
You stare at him, pulse loud in your ears.
“I didn’t want you to notice,” you admit quietly.
Spencer’s expression flickers. “I can’t not notice.”
He steps closer, hands open at his sides like he’s trying to show you he’s not trying to control you.
“I love you,” he says, quiet but firm. “And I watched you almost die. So yes, I’m going to ask if you’re okay. I’m going to be too careful. I don’t know how not to be right now.”
Your chest tightens, and for a second you almost crumble. It would be easier if the problem was that he didn’t care. It would be easier if you could be righteously angry.
But he cares so much it’s spilling everywhere, and you don’t know where to put it.
“I know,” you say, voice rough. “I know you love me. I know why you’re acting like this. That’s not the problem.”
Spencer’s eyes search yours. “Then what is?”
You swallow.
The real answer has been sitting in your throat like a stone.
“It doesn’t feel like we’re dating anymore,” you admit finally.
Spencer blinks, startled. “What?”
“It feels like I have a live-in nurse,” you say, and your tone turns bitter because you hate that you’re admitting this out loud, “who happens to share a bed with me. And yeah, you hold my hand, and you kiss my forehead, and you tell me you love me. But it… it doesn’t feel romantic.”
Spencer’s mouth opens. Closes. He looks genuinely caught off guard, like he’s been so consumed by the task of keeping you safe that he hasn’t realized what he’s been losing in the process.
“I didn’t know it felt like that for you,” he says finally. “I thought… I thought being careful was part of loving you right now.”
“I know,” you say, frustrated now for reasons that have nothing to do with coffee. “And I know it probably sounds selfish and unfair and maybe a little insane, considering the circumstances. But I’m not asking you to forget I’m healing.” Your throat tightens. “I’m asking you to act like you still want me.”
Spencer goes very still.
His eyes soften first, then darken with something complicated. Guilt. Hurt. Fear. Desire that he’s been keeping on a leash.
“You think I don’t want you?” he asks, voice low.
Heat crawls up your neck. You look away, because it’s humiliating. “It’s hard to tell anymore.”
Spencer makes a small sound. He steps closer and gently circles your wrists with his fingers. His gaze is steady, intense, very Spencer. The kind of intensity that feels like being seen too clearly.
“I want you all the time,” he says quietly.
Your breath catches.
He raises one hand to cradle your face, his thumb slowly brushing over your pulse point.
“I want you when you’re asleep,” he continues, voice quiet but unwavering. “I want you when you roll your eyes at me and call me insufferable. I want you right now while you’re mad at me in this kitchen.”
He swallows, throat working, as if the truth tastes sharp.
“But you’re healing,” he says, and now the fear edges back in. “I’m terrified of being careless for one second and making things worse. I’m terrified you’ll push yourself because you think you have to prove something. So I… I’ve been trying to be good.”
You stare at him, heart pounding hard enough to feel it in your fingertips.
“That’s the problem. You’re being so good you’re not being you.” You let out a shaky breath and your anger collapses into something messy and raw and honest. “I miss you,” you admit, and it feels ridiculous because he’s been in your apartment every day, in your bed every night, literally holding you together with his hands. “I miss you acting like my boyfriend. I miss flirting. I miss you looking at me like you can’t help it. I miss feeling like we’re… us.”
Spencer’s eyes go bright. He blinks once, fast. He loosens his grip around your wrist and slides his palm into yours.
“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I didn’t realize I was doing that.”
“You were busy keeping me alive.”
Spencer’s mouth twitches, but his eyes stay serious. “I was busy being scared.”
You take a careful breath.
“I’m scared too,” you confess. “I hate needing help. I hate feeling weak. I hate that my body can’t do what I want it to do. And I hate that I’m… mad at you for loving me, because it makes me feel like a terrible person.”
“You’re not terrible,” Spencer says immediately.
“I kind of am,” you mumble.
Spencer shakes his head, firm. “You’re human. And you’re injured. And you’re used to being in control.”
You scowl. “I’m still in control.”
He raises his brows. “You were literally shot.”
You glare at him. “Stop bringing that up.”
Spencer’s mouth twitches again, but then he grows serious, leaning in a little closer.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “Tell me what you need.”
You hate the question immediately, which is usually how you know it matters.
“I need you to stop treating me like I’m going to break,” you reply. “I need you to let me do things myself sometimes.”
Spencer nods once. “Okay.”
“And I need you to… still be my boyfriend,” you add, voice smaller. “Not just my caretaker.”
Spencer’s gaze softens. “I can do that.”
You swallow. “Can you?”
His thumb strokes your knuckles, grounding.
“Yes,” he says, and there’s something steadier in him now, something like a decision. “I can. I want to.”
He hesitates a moment, then leans in and kisses you. It’s careful, because he’s careful, but it’s not chaste. It’s Spencer kissing you like he’s been holding back and he’s finally letting himself show you that he hasn’t stopped wanting you for even a second.
Your hand tightens around his. Your body aches. Your chest aches more.
When he pulls back, he stays close enough that you can feel his breath.
“I’m still your boyfriend,” he murmurs. “I promise.”
Your eyes burn. You blink hard and try to cover it with sarcasm. “Good. Because your bedside manner was getting a little weird, Doc.”
Spencer lets out a quiet laugh, relief threaded through it. “Okay. New rule,” he says, voice gentle but serious.
You squint. “Oh god.”
He looks amused. “You get to tell me when you want help. I’ll try my best to stop jumping in first unless it’s something genuinely unsafe.”
“And you,” you say, because it can’t be one-sided. “You’re allowed to… check in. But not every five minutes.”
He nods. “Reasonable.”
“And,” you add, because you can’t stop yourself, “you have to kiss me like that once a day.”
His brows lift teasingly. “Only once a day?”
“At minimum,” you reply.
His smile turns soft and devastating. “Deal.”
You exhale slowly, the fight draining out of you. Spencer lifts your hand and kisses your knuckles. It’s old-fashioned in a way that makes your stomach flip.
“Alright. So. You’re making coffee,” he says.
“I am,” you confirm.
He steps back, hands up in mock surrender. “And I’m letting you.”
You glare. “Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not making it weird,” he replies, and his voice is lighter now. “You’re making it weird.”
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself, and reach for the coffee grounds again.
This time, Spencer doesn’t move.
He just watches you like you’re something miraculous and frustrating and real.
And when you glance up at him, he says it, quiet and easy, like it belongs in the kitchen with the smell of coffee:
“I love you.”
Your heart stutters.
You roll your eyes, because you have a reputation.
“I love you too,” you say, and then add, “Now go sit down. Your nervous energy is making me nervous.”
Spencer laughs, and the sound feels like the first truly normal thing that’s happened in your apartment in days.
—
Time starts moving again in small ways.
Over the next few weeks, your world expands by degrees. The apartment stops feeling enormous. You start taking longer walks — first to the elevator and back, then downstairs to the lobby, then out onto the sidewalk for ten slow minutes of fresh air that leave you more tired than they should. The bruising fades from angry purple to yellow, then disappears entirely. The incision stops feeling like a live wire every time you breathe and settles into something duller, meaner, more familiar. A scar instead of an open wound. You still hurt, but it’s the kind of hurt you can plan around now.
By the start of week five, Spencer’s back at Quantico. It makes him miserable in a way he tries very hard to hide, but he fails, just as miserably. He packs your lunch like you’re the one leaving. He leaves sticky notes around the apartment with things like eat something real and take the pain meds if you need them and drink more water in his messy, sweet scrawl. He texts you reminders you absolutely do not need. He calls on his lunch break just to hear your voice, then pretends he had a real reason to call.
You let him lie about that.
That Friday, he comes home early. His tie is loose. His shoulders are tight. He drops his bag by the door and crosses straight to you on the couch, leaning in to kiss you hello longer than usual, like he’s trying to reassure himself you’re still here.
You pull back just enough to study his face. “What’s wrong?”
Spencer exhales and rests his forehead against yours for a beat. “There’s a case,” he says quietly. “They need me to start traveling with the team again.”
The news settles awkwardly in your chest. You’ve been waiting for this part. Expecting it, even. Spencer was always going to go back into the field eventually. Still, the thought of him being somewhere else while you’re here makes your apartment feel different before he’s even gone.
You keep your face even. “Okay.”
Spencer’s eyes soften. He looks at you for a second like he knows that one word is doing a lot of work.
“It’ll only be a few days,” he says. “And I’ll call whenever I can.”
You huff softly through your nose. “You already call me too much.”
His mouth twitches. “I’m choosing to hear that as encouragement.”
That earns the smallest smile from you.
He kisses you again, careful and warm. “If you need me, you call,” he murmurs against your mouth. “I don’t care where I am.”
You roll your eyes because you have standards. “Please. I’m not going to interrupt an active FBI investigation unless I’m on fire.”
Spencer leans back just enough to give you a look. He brushes his thumb over your cheek once, then kisses the corner of your mouth. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
“Yeah,” you mutter. “You better be.”
And when he pulls away, the apartment already feels a little too quiet.
—
The first thing you learn after Spencer leaves is how quickly absence can rearrange a room.
The second thing you learn is something deeply offensive: you miss him instantly.
Not in a cute, wistful way, but in a way that makes your ribs ache with the wrong kind of pressure. Like your body has gotten used to having his presence pressed up against it all the time, and now it’s confused about what to do with itself.
It’s ridiculous.
You’ve been alone your whole life. You practically invented solitude as a coping mechanism. You used to go entire weekends without speaking to another person and call it self-care.
Now your apartment feels wrong without the sound of Spencer moving through it.
You glare at the empty room like it personally betrayed you. “This is stupid,” you mutter.
The room does not apologize.
—
Spencer calls you before he even lands.
He calls again after they get to the hotel. He calls in the morning while he’s walking from the briefing room to the SUV. He calls between interviews. He calls so often you start to wonder if the team is going to file a formal complaint.
By the second day he’s away, Morgan texts you:
Reid is being weird.
You reply:
you say this as if that’s not his default setting
Morgan sends back a laughing emoji and nothing else, which is somehow the most Derek Morgan response possible.
On Spencer’s third call of the morning, you answer with, “Hi. Yes. I’m still alive. No, I have not mysteriously dissolved into a puddle in the hour since we last spoke. How’s your day going?”
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath. “Okay. Sorry. I’m not trying to be overbearing.”
“You’re not,” you tell him, because it’s true. “You’re just being a little annoying.”
His laugh is soft. “That’s fair.”
You shift on the couch and glance at the TV, muted. A mindless reality show you haven’t really been watching. You haven’t been able to focus on anything longer than ten minutes since he left, which is deeply humiliating.
“How’s the case?” you ask, because it feels normal. It feels like you.
Spencer’s voice changes, subtly, work mode creeping in. “It’s… messy,” he says. “There’s a pattern, but it’s inconsistent. Rossi thinks the unsub is escalating, but we don’t have enough to confirm it yet.”
You sit up a little straighter without thinking. Your body protests and you ignore it, because you’re you.
“What does victimology look like?” you ask.
Spencer pauses. You can practically hear the smile in his voice. “You miss it.”
“I miss not being stuck on my couch like a Victorian invalid,” you correct. “And yes. I miss the job. Obviously. Now tell me the details.”
He fills you in in careful, bite-sized pieces, like he’s worried you’ll get too invested and push yourself. You listen anyway. You ask questions. You feel the familiar itch in your brain — the one that only casework scratches.
Later that night, he texts you a selfie.
It is, without exaggeration, one of the worst photos you’ve ever seen. It’s also, unfortunately, adorable.
The angle is off. His face is too close to the camera. Part of his head is cropped out. His glasses are crooked. Half his hair is sticking up. He’s wearing a ridiculously patterned shirt you’ve mocked before. He’s very obviously pouting.
The caption reads:
Proof of life. Promise I’m not miserable.
You stare at it for ten full seconds, then burst into laughter so loud you immediately regret it. You clutch your side, wheezing, and type back:
that is the face of a man who is definitely miserable (and has definitely never taken a selfie before)
His reply comes fast:
Rude.
You laugh again, softer this time, and the warmth that spreads through you is almost annoying. Because he’s not here, and you somehow still feel held.
—
This morning, you overdo it.
You decide you can carry a package up to your apartment from the lobby without a cart because it’s not that heavy and you’re not helpless and you’re not weak and you’re not—
Your body disagrees halfway to the elevator.
By the time you make it back into your apartment, you’re sweaty and irritated and your side feels tight and angry. You sit down hard on the couch and stare at your hands like they personally failed you.
You could take a breath, take something for the pain, pretend it didn’t happen, and tell Spencer weeks later as a funny anecdote so he doesn’t freak out.
You could.
Instead, you pick up your phone and call him.
He answers on the second ring. “Hey, sweetheart. Everything okay?”
“Don’t freak out,” you say.
Spencer goes silent for a beat. “That’s a terrible way to start a conversation.”
You close your eyes and lean your head back against the couch. “I picked up a package from the front desk. It was heavier than I thought. Now my side hurts and I’m annoyed.”
Spencer exhales sharply, and you can hear the fear in it, the way his nervous system still doesn’t know the difference between discomfort and disaster.
“Okay,” he says, voice steadying as he forces it into place. “Are you bleeding?”
“No.”
“Are you dizzy?”
“A little, but that’s mostly because I’m mad.”
Spencer makes a sound that might be a laugh if he wasn’t so wrecked. “Can you check your incision for me? Just to make sure nothing pulled since it’s not completely scarred over yet?”
You do, carefully, lifting the edge of your shirt. “It’s fine. Everything looks the same.”
“Okay,” he says again, softer. “Okay. Take the pain medication you’re supposed to take. Not the ‘I’m stubborn and I’ll suffer’ version.”
“Fine.”
“And hydrate,” he adds.
“Yes, dad.”
Spencer exhales through his nose. “I already told you not to call me that.”
“Then stop sounding like you’re about to ground me.”
A tiny, unwilling laugh slips out of him. “That’s fair.” He lets out a breath that actually sounds like relief. “Thank you,” he adds quietly.
You blink. “For what?”
“For calling,” he says. “For telling me instead of… pretending it’s nothing.”
Something warm twists in your chest.
“You’re welcome,” you say, trying to keep it light. “I’m okay, I promise. Don’t cry about it.”
“I’m not going to cry.”
“You sound like you want to cry.”
Spencer huffs. “I’m having a very normal reaction from three states away.”
You smile into the phone before you can stop yourself. “Okay.”
His voice softens. “I love you.”
The words don’t scare you the way they used to.
“I know. I love you too.”
—
When Spencer walks through your door the following evening, you can tell immediately he’s been holding himself together with sheer force of will.
His suit is rumpled. His curls are wind-mussed. His eyes look tired in a way that makes you want to pull him into bed and keep him there for a week.
He drops his bag by the door and crosses the apartment in three long strides, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t get to you fast enough. He stops in front of where you’re sitting on the couch and just looks at you.
“You’re okay,” he says breathlessly.
You tilt your head. “I told you I was.”
Spencer crouches in front of you, hands on your knees, careful not to jostle you. He presses his forehead to your thigh for a second, eyes closed, and you feel him exhale like he’s been holding his breath for days.
“You missed me,” you say, because you’re you.
Spencer lifts his head and looks at you with a tired, helpless kind of honesty. “Yes.”
You smile, soft around the edges. “Good.”
He leans in and kisses you, slow and warm and grounding, like he’s reminding himself you’re real.
When he pulls back, his thumb strokes your knee absent-mindedly. “I hated being away from you.”
You arch a brow. “You’re going to have to get better at it. It’s still gonna be a while before they sign off on me coming back to work.”
Spencer’s mouth twitches. “I’ll try.”
He stands and holds out his hand to help you up, like he always does now. You take it, because you’re learning when to let him.
He pulls you into his chest carefully, arms wrapping around you. For a moment, you just stand there, breathing each other in, the apartment finally feeling right again.
“You’re home,” you murmur.
Spencer kisses your hair. “I’m home.”
—
Later that night, the apartment settles into one of those rare, quiet silences that actually feels earned.
The dishes are done. The lights are low. Somewhere outside, a siren passes and fades. Spencer checks the lock twice, the same way he always does.
You’re already in bed when he comes back from the kitchen with two glasses of water. He sets one on your nightstand, slides in beside you, and reaches automatically for the book he abandoned on the nightstand before he left.
You’ve been watching him since he walked into the room, which becomes obvious the second he looks up and catches you in the act.
His mouth lifts at one corner. “What?”
You shrug one shoulder against the pillow. “Nothing.”
Spencer gives you a look over the top of his glasses. “That’s almost never true.”
“You just look weirdly good in my bed. It’s annoying.”
That gets a real laugh out of him, soft and surprised. “Weirdly good?”
“Yeah. Like you belong there or something. It’s very rude.”
Spencer closes the book and sets it aside. He shifts closer, careful by habit now, one hand settling lightly at your waist. His thumb moves once, slow and absentminded.
“I do belong here,” he says gently. “You gave me a key.”
You snort. “Under duress.”
“And yet you haven’t asked for it back.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “Don’t get smug. It’s unattractive.”
Spencer’s smile softens. He studies you for a beat, and when he speaks again his voice is quieter.
“You okay?”
The question lands differently now. Less like triage. More like him.
You take your time answering. “Yeah,” you say. Then, because that’s not quite enough and he’ll hear that immediately, you add, “I just keep having these moments where I look at you and remember all over again that this is real.”
His expression changes at that, just enough to make your chest tighten.
“What part doesn’t feel real?” he asks.
You glance back at him. “All of it. Mostly the part where you love me enough to alphabetize my spice cabinet and terrorize me with sticky notes and call me seventeen times a day when you leave town.”
Spencer looks faintly offended. “It was not seventeen times.”
“It was close enough.”
He huffs a laugh, but there’s something softer under it. Something a little wrecked.
You shift a little closer, the motion slow and careful. His hand tightens at your waist on instinct, then eases when you settle.
“I’m still getting used to it,” you admit.
“To what?”
You look at him for a long second before answering. “Having someone I miss before they’ve even been gone a full day,” you say. “Having someone who…” You stop, annoyed at yourself, then force it out anyway. “Who feels this much like mine.”
Spencer goes very still. Then he reaches up and brushes a strand of hair back from your face, fingertips skimming your temple tenderly.
“You say things like that,” he murmurs, “and somehow you still wonder why I can’t help but call.”
He leans in and kisses you, slow and warm and careful in all the places that matter. It starts soft, but there’s heat under it almost immediately. Enough to make your pulse jump. Enough to remind you both of what’s waiting on the other side of healing.
When he pulls back, he doesn’t go far. His forehead rests against yours.
“I love you,” he says quietly, like the words still matter too much to ever get careless with them.
They do. They probably always will.
You touch his arm, then slide your hand down until your fingers lace with his.
“I know you do,” you whisper first, because you can’t help yourself.
Spencer’s mouth twitches.
Then you add, “I love you too.”
His eyes close for a second, and something in his face loosens, like he’ll never quite stop being affected by hearing it.
“Get some sleep,” he murmurs, pressing one last kiss to the corner of your mouth. “You have physical therapy in the morning.”
You groan. “Way to kill the vibe.”
Spencer smiles against your skin. “I’m a professional.”
“You’re the worst.”
“And yet,” he says, settling beside you, hand still wrapped around yours under the blanket, “you love me.”
You let out a soft breath that might be a laugh, might be surrender, might be something a little too close to actual happiness.
“Yeah,” you murmur into the dark. “And yet.”
ᝰ.ᐟ
this fic is part of the greenaway!reader universe/series! you can read more about this pairing here ♥️
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