Summary: Reader struggles to feel at home in their body following a trauma.
A/N: This was written for everyone who needs a friend on those difficult nights. I hope this fic feels like I’m holding your hand. This is also yet another entry for my CM Comfort Challenge.
Couple: Spencer Reid/GN!Reader
Category: Angst/Comfort
Content Warning: 🚨Mental illness, PTSD, implied trauma (undefined), feelings of self-hatred, lack of self worth, unintentional self-harm (scratches), crying, implied suicidal ideation🚨 Please take care and remember you deserve to be happy, healthy, and safe. Fanfic is not worth sacrificing your mental well-being.
Word Count: 2.6k
MASTERLIST
⚠️ PLEASE REFER TO CONTENT WARNINGS ABOVE ⚠️
Spencer had been worried about me lately. He didn’t say it, but I could feel it when he looked at me. Swimming between the hazel bursts of his irises was a reflection of my own shame.
Spencer had been worried about me lately. I had not been anything at all. The apathy was the worst part — the ever-consuming nothingness, the cosmic black hole pulling my soul from my flesh until there is nothing left.
Spencer had been worried about me lately.
I guess he’d been right to be.
The water beating against my skin felt far from cleansing. If anything, it just drew more attention to the terror crawling under my skin. Wrinkled fingertips felt like nothing, and they offered no assurance that this body belonged to me.
The pounding water also did nothing to mask the loud sobbing. My chest heaved, breathing in more water than air, and I thought how fitting it was for the way I felt inside.
I sought out sensation; I just needed to feel. It wasn’t my fault that softness felt foreign. There was nothing but sharp, nothing but cutting. I dug my nails into the flesh of my thigh and frantically looked for my soul beneath the skin. I searched endlessly to find the thing that so many had seen as worth taking.
That was how he found me.
Spencer pulled back the shower curtain and bathed my huddled, naked figure in the low light of the bathroom. I hadn’t heard him over the voice in my head telling me that if I just kept going, I might finally cleanse myself of the filth baked into my being. I would rid myself of the rotting smell and sensation that twisted my gut.
He must have heard me, though. He must have been listening.
I hadn’t even looked up before he dove forward into the fray. Near boiling water hit his back, but you wouldn’t have been able to tell that he’d felt it at all in his frenzy.
He grabbed my arms as softly as he could while still forcing my hands to lift. I fought back half-heartedly. My swipes turned to weak pushes until half my body went limp.
“Hey, hey! Hey, it’s okay!”
His tone betrayed his words. The trembling timbre matched my oxygen starved muscles more than any reassurance about the situation. I glanced up, but my eyes jumped away just as quickly. My heart couldn’t handle the pain that I saw. That same feeling crawling beneath now burning skin.
“It’s okay. It’s okay,” he repeated, more convincingly now. “Let’s turn this water off so we can talk, okay?”
I nodded, but I didn’t move.
He did, yet I could still feel the pressure of his hands around my wrists. Even that contact, done purely out of love, felt like a taking. Perhaps that’s why I raised my hands in surrender.
The sharp squeaking of the faucet broke me from my shameful stupor.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m—“ I started, but he was quick to correct me.
“Shhh, shhhh, it’s okay. It’s okay, you’re not in trouble. I’m not mad. You don’t have to apologize.”
Even that felt so terrifying. I had been waiting years for the other shoe to drop, for the green grass on the other side to wilt and burn, for everything I’d built up to come crumbling back down. I had been carrying the weight for so long that being crushed felt so inevitable.
Spencer raised his palm to my cheek with no violence. I flinched all the same.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he whispered.“Why are you in here?”
“I’m sorry I woke you up. I didn’t meant to, I didn’t want…”
I looked up only to realize that I hadn’t answered the question.
I couldn’t answer the question. I didn’t know the answer.
So, like I’d always done, I begged, “I’m sorry.”
Almost immediately, he answered, “It’s okay. I’m happy to be here.”
“No, you’re not,” I wailed. I tried to turn his words into a lie; I twisted them into the same knots as my stomach but in the end, all I felt was guilt for trying to turn him into something like me.
I choked on the tears and mucus that seemed to be pouring down my throat. The heavy sound was a reminder of how sick this body felt.
Spencer didn’t even flinch as he daintily caught my tears with his thumb. No matter how violently my body moved, his tenderness remained.
“Nothing makes me happier than knowing you don’t have to be alone.”
He’d said it so quietly I almost wondered if he’d meant for me to hear it. Even curiouser was his silence that followed. But the world was still not quiet, even when the sobbing turned to sniffles. Spencer’s slow breathing and the rhythmic, saturnine sound of water droplets dripping from the shower head taught me how to breathe again. The steamy air brought stinging lungs with it, but only enough to remind me that I was still alive.
It had never been like Spencer to wait for me to ask for help. So, I couldn’t be surprised when he saw my shivering figure and reached for a towel before I’d moved at all. And despite the fact he was also dripping, he made sure to dry me off first. He wrapped me with fluffy softness and sighed with relief when he finally got my body to cease its trembling.
He pulled me closer, holding me tightly against his chest and letting his quickened heartbeat speak for him for a moment.
“There, isn’t that better?” he asked as it returned to its normal pace.
I didn’t know how to answer, so at first, I didn’t. But eventually, when I couldn’t help but agree, I nodded against his chest.
That temporary calmness, that eye of the storm, was short lived. Because I knew the question was coming — I knew he had to ask, and this time, I couldn’t lie to him.
I knew the answer. I just knew he wouldn’t like it.
Yet, I didn’t stop him before he asked, “Can you tell me why you’re hurting yourself?”
“I just…” I tried. I failed.
“I just want…” I tried again.
That time, when my lip started trembling and my breathing got heavier, Spencer knew that I was on the brink of a break.
“What?” he begged, and I gave into the demand.
“I want them to see it,” I seethed. “I want everyone to see what I’m feeling so maybe they’ll stop pretending that nothing happened.”
Each word got harder, rougher as it clawed its way through my throat the same way I’d shredded the skin of my thigh. I withheld the burning desire to continue to eviscerate the untouched skin and let my hatred come out through the bitter words.
“Because it did happen. It happened and it’s fucking eating me alive and everyone gets to pretend like I’m fine! But I’m not fine. I can’t even—“
I choked. My body had run out of air, but I kept going between the gasps. I got louder and angrier like it would make clearer the meaning behind the words.
“I can’t even hurt myself because it doesn’t feel like this body belongs to me, Spencer! How fucking stupid is that?”
I am so scared.
“It’s not stupid,” Spencer corrected as soon as he felt he was allowed to, “You’re not stupid.”
But I couldn’t stop myself long enough to listen. I just kept going, kept trying to find a way to explain what monstrous hands were still wrapped around my heart like suffocating, thorned vines.
“It makes me feel sick and alien and like, like maybe I’m playing God by having the audacity to survive,” I said quickly so that I could stop myself. I’d tricked myself into saying what I knew he’d never wanted to hear.
“It makes me feel like maybe I should have just died by now. Maybe I should’ve just died the first time.”
Spencer’s body tensed like the words had wounded him. He clutched me tightly, too tightly for his own comfort. His breath was shaky and uneven, but he tried to stay in control. He tried not to lose himself to the pain of his own thoughts on his lover’s tongue.
“Oh, sweetheart…” he said. He couldn’t say anything else.
In that unfortunate silence, the devils in my mind continued to roam free and take claim to each labored breath.
“I’m broken, Spencer,” I sobbed anew. “There’s nothing left of me and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”
I knew it couldn’t be easy for him. I knew that more often than not, he felt the same way I had. Part of what brought us together was precisely this mutual understanding of what it meant to be broken.
Spencer had just gotten a head start to coming to terms with it.
“Can you please look at me?” he whispered. It was framed as a question but sounded like a beg.
He wouldn’t make me if I didn’t want to. I wanted to, though. I craved the comfort I knew only he could provide after having been forged by the fire himself. I wanted him to magically make me better somehow.
But when I peeked up at him, I was reminded that this path would never be as easy as I’d wanted it to be. It would be suffering at every step.
I just wish my suffering hadn’t hurt him, too.
“Look at me,” he repeated, clearly seeing how badly I’d wanted to divert my attention. “You’re hurt. I’m not going to take that away from you. I’m not.”
Then, with his hands gently cradling my shoulders, Spencer trembled with the force of his words. He turned me to face him so there would be no doubt and no ability to question his conclusions.
“But, sweetheart, you’re not broken,” he cried. The words uttered through force and his tears welling with words he wanted to say but couldn’t. “Y-You’re not dirty, you’re not unlovable, or doomed to suffer, or better off dead, or whatever other bullshit they convinced you to believe.”
Spencer saw the way my nails dug into my palms. He took my hand into his and squeezed it just enough to let me know to let go. He made space for himself between my fingers and filled it immediately.
“Believe me when I say that when I look at you… I don’t see any part of them.”
With my free hand, I frantically wiped tears from my face. I pulled at the skin harder than I had to. Spencer didn’t stop me, then. He just kept going, kept torturing me with all the kindness I’d never felt before.
All the while, I’d tried to convince myself that there wasn’t another hit coming. His sugary, smitten words wouldn’t be followed by bitterness. Spencer wouldn’t resent me for this anywhere near the way I would.
Spencer noticed me slipping away and stubbornly pulled me back. With one hand firmly in mine, he used the other to hold my face steady as it sniffled. He looked at me like what he had to say was the most urgent confession in the universe.
“I love you, and they don’t get to decide how I see you. They don’t get to have that power over me,” he seethed, “I refuse.”
His anger was wielded so differently than theirs. I didn’t want to be afraid of him when his rage was so clearly aimed elsewhere, but I couldn’t help myself. No matter how little he saw them, I would still feel them. I feared I would never rid myself of that wretched feeling.
“I can still feel it,” I tried to explain while looking down at the raw skin on my thighs, “I don’t know how to let it go.”
I’d so desperately wanted him to have the answer, but when he did speak after a moment of silence, the advice that followed seemed so irrelevant.
“Come on. Let’s get you some comfortable clothes and we’re going to put something on these scratches,” he said with a smile.
I stared blankly, struggling to consider how I was meant to care about the next steps when I’d been convinced they wouldn’t come. I stood there, wrapped in a towel and my lover’s arms while I tried to find a future worth living.
“Does that sound okay?” he asked.
I realized that a future was a little too intimidating to be found in the middle of the night with nothing to wield but a towel. I decided that, for now, the baby steps to the bed would be enough.
Spencer’s eyes watered when I nodded. His smile stretched in a baffling way, like I’d given him the great gift by barely moving my head.
By accepting his kindness, I had given Spencer a purpose to make his next move; for him to guide me gently and asking for my permission in excess. With each nod, I found his worry begin to drift away. I thought that I would feel it seeping into my skin as he rubbed a cold cream against open wounds, but I didn’t.
All I felt was the comfort of warm hands working roughened skin. I felt the way he trembled when he moved me like I had been the most fragile thing on this earth.
Spencer held me, softly, without any intention of hurting. He looked at me much the same. There was something in his eyes, something palpable that reached into my chest and loosened the vines without fear of how they would cut him.
“I love taking care of you,” he said when I’d stared a few seconds too long.
I was immediately overcome with guilt. He waved it away immediately .
“You shouldn’t have to do that,” I’d said.
“I don’t have to,” he clarified, “I want to.”
“Why?”
The question hung in the air while Spencer examined the scars on my body. He looked me up and down, always lingering on the areas I hated the most. Not because they were worth less, but because he’d wanted to love them more.
After a moment of quiet contemplation, a solemn smile appeared on his face. He looked back up at me, with a shyness that I hadn’t anticipated.
“Because you deserve it,” he said.
“Spencer—“ I tried to correct him, but his expression became even more stubbornly soft.
“You don’t have to believe me. Just let me try,” he whispered, “Please. Just let me try.”
In that moment, I realized that there was something worthwhile about sticking around. There was something in his eyes from which I could derive some meaning, however fleeting and however temporary. For a brief moment, the future seemed slightly more attainable.
Although the journey would not be easy, and there would be many more nights spent with clichés and band-aids, I was willing to make the first step to finding the future I’d forgotten.
“Okay,” I said.
I had wanted Spencer to tell me how to let it go. In his curious way, he gave me the answer.
Just a little bit of hope. That was the answer.
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Summary: It was like the opposite of waking up from a nightmare, you woke up to a nightmare.
Warnings: Gideon!daughter!reader, two year time jump, references to 2x13 and 2x23, angst, frank breitkopf, kidnapping, being drugged, happy ending (don't worry ♡)
Word count: 2039
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Masterlist
previous part - series masterlist
It was the middle of the night. The sun wouldn’t rise for another 2 hours, yet here you were, awake.
Something had happened to your dad. He couldn’t disclose the details, as it always was when it came to his work, but he was okay, that was the important thing to focus on, and just to be safe, a few agents had been sent your way for protection.
So, that startling phone call was certainly one way to wake up.
Curled up on your couch, you couldn’t just go back to sleep after something like that. It was like the opposite of waking up from a nightmare, you woke up to a nightmare. So lucky for you, your older brother had also had the same pleasure and had promptly called you right afterwards.
“-but, don’t tell me you’re still hung up in library boy,” Stephen fought a yawn on the other end of the line.
“Library boy…” it had been two years and yet you still hadn’t experienced a single day where you hadn’t thought about Spencer, “you make him sound like a superhero.”
“A damn boring superhero,” finding too much amusement in his own joke, he laughed, “what are his powers, the dewy decimal system?”
“Yeah…” you frantically searched your brain to find something to change the subject to. Anything that didn’t make you feel like you might actually die.
Saved by the bell, someone was at your door, knocking on it slowly. Glancing over at the clock, it was still only 4:12, but who knew, maybe the FBI had just consumed a lot of coffee tonight.
“Hey, Stephen, the agents are here, okay?” you got up from the couch and made your way towards the entrance.
“Really? That was quick.”
“Blink and they’ll be at yours as well.”
“Yeah,” he scoffed, “let’s hope. Bye, sis.”
“Bye, love you.”
“Love you too,” was the last thing you heard before ending the call, setting the phone down as you passed the kitchen island and unlocked the heavy front door.
Swinging it open, you came face to face with the unnerving persistent calm smile of the older man on the other side of the threshold.
“Hello.”
“Hi,” you moved to let him pass, closing the door behind him, “I thought there were supposed to be two agents coming.”
“Yes… the other one is down in the car,” he enunciated.
“Alright… so, how’s this gonna work?” you watched him move calmly through your space, “Is your partner gonna stay outside on watch while you stay here or-
Interrupting you coldly, he quickly zoomed in on the photos in your crammed bookcase, “do you love your father?”
Shifting your stance, you blinked, “excuse me?”
“You see,” his long pointer finger ran over one of your framed photos, caressing them as he explained in a monotone voice, “he claims that I do not inhabit the ability to feel love. Not platonic, not romantic, not at all.”
“Sir?” your voice shook slightly as he turned to face you once more. You heard your heartbeat, pounding in your ears clear as day.
What transpired next, happened so fast that you almost didn’t have time to fully register it. Within seconds, the agent scurried toward you, and you felt a sharp sting, then a burning sensation on the side of your neck.
Your vision went blurry, and you just managed to catch the sight of him, still smiling, pulling back a now empty syringe from your skin, before everything went black.
The first thing you perceived as you regained consciousness with a low groan, was how cold your body felt. You felt like you finally understood the little match girl, shivering out in the cold December air, even though in reality it was nowhere near December for you. Next was the tight binds around your body. Both wrists and ankles were wrapped, as well as a few more across, just for good measure. It felt kinda like tape, the way it pulled on your hairs. And lastly was the rough, dust-covered couch underneath your skin, like sandpaper it prickled every pore on your body.
“Look who’s awake,” your body froze up at the sound of his voice, “just in time for the fun part.”
Finally, you managed to blink your heavy lids open and see the man you’d thought was an agent, sitting in a chair beside the couch you’d been dumped on. He popped off the lip on the thin marker he had in his hand as he loomed over you, and you choked out, “who are you? W-where am I?”
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw shredded fabrics resembling what you’d been wearing before, crumbled up on the floor.
“I am Frank,” his face didn’t change, still the same pleased, calm expression as before, “my graces mother is letting us stay in her apartment, isn’t that nice?” he took his eyes off your form for but a second, glancing up towards another room. Screaming out for the elderly woman to come to your aid, he swiftly tore off a piece of duct tape and covered up your cries, “she can’t hear you. She died many many years ago.”
With an exhale, he returned to his ogling of your naked body. What you initially feared was a weapon at the first touch, maybe another needle, turned out to be the green marker, dancing across your skin, drawing precise patterns.
“Now, I haven’t done it like this in a very long time…” he carefully recapped the pen and set it down, “you squirming like this? It’s fun, makes me feel all nostalgic for the time before I had discovered the wonders of ketamine,” whipping out a slender scalpel, the low light caught the metal, reflecting it directly into your wide eyes, “I usually prefer the presession that grants me, but I think this time, with you, I’ll do it the old-fashioned way…” scraping the instrument up your side, just light enough not to nick you, he moved in close, “you’re so pretty…” the scalpel came up to meet your cheek, catching your ever-flowing tears, “if your outsides are this pretty, I can’t wait to see what your insides look like.”
As if being drawn to it, he glanced up to check the time, then promptly reached a hand down in his pocket, “you think you can be good for me?” you felt him slide the tip of the scalpel under a corner of the tape covering your lips, “talk to your daddy for me, ask him to come save you, so that he will return what’s rightfully mine…” giving him the smallest of nods, “play nice,” he warned as he ripped back the tape, stealing most of your peach fuzz with it and held up a silver flip phone.
After a moment of ringing, you heard a voice, not your father’s, emit from the speaker, “this is agent Hotchner.”
“Let me talk to agent Gideon,” he kept his eyes locked with yours, “immediately.”
After only a small moment, a quiet female voice was heard, “yeah?”
“Garcia, get me Jason,” agent Hotchner said, “I have someone who wants to talk to him.”
A muffled, “it’s for you,” was heard before you the sound of your father’s soft voice found your ears.
“Yeah?”
Closing your eyes, you felt the dam of tears burst even more, “dad?”
“Y/n?”
“He wants me to ask you to save me.”
“Honey, everything’s going to be all right,” your father reassured you, seemingly keeping his tone calm in the situation.
“Apartment!” you yelled out before it was too late, “his mother’s apartment-“ before, not just the tape muted you, but also his rough palm, pressing it down over not only your mouth but also your nose, cutting off your air supply.
Clicking the small button to hinder you from hearing any more of the call, Frank lifted the phone up towards his ear, “Jason… shh… Jason. I chose the station because I know how much you love trains. I saw the toys in your apartment.”
And with that, he ended the call, and got up to his feet, “I’ll be right back, you just sit tight. If he won’t give me Jane, then I’ll at least have you to look forward to when I get back. I’ve got a sweet tooth, and you certainly qualify as a dessert.”
With a loud bang, the door to the apartment burst open and within seconds, the room was flooded with armed people. A blonde woman came into view, quickly lowering her gun, she produced a thin crinkly foil blanket and covered up your nude form.
“It’s okay, you’re safe now,” she carefully peeled back the duct tape from your lips, and you gasped for air. “Spence! I found her, she’s okay!”
“Y/n?” you heard a voice you didn’t think you’d ever hear again.
Kneeling down beside your shaking body, you saw none other than Spencer.
Eyes wide in horror, he moved to free you of your binds. His jaw clenched as he saw the surgical guides scribbled across your skin. “Are you okay?” the sound of his voice made all the chaos around you disappear, “did he-…“
Shivering like a leaf, you hazely reached up to touch his cheek, just to be sure you weren’t dreaming. “Spencer…” you slowly sat up, not caring one bit about how the foil fell down to expose you more, although your modesty was quickly saved by the young agent kneeling at your feet, catching it before you could flash too much. “Your hair,” your eyes flicked to take in every little change that had occurred during your time apart, “it’s long… And where are your glasses?” you asked through your clambering teeth, “did they fall off or something?”
“No, they didn’t,” his glossy eyes flicked.
“But,” for some reason, that tiny little detail was what your shocked brain chose to focus on, “you need them to see, w-why-“
“I’m wearing contacts, I can see you just fine, I promise,” searching, he asked once more, “Y/n, are you okay? Did he hurt you?”
Your body fell back against the couch cushions, sending a small dust cloud out around you, “define hurt.”
“It-, um,” he nearly explained, then looked down, “there is an ambulance outside ready to take you to the hospital. Gideon-, your dad, will most likely be there when you arrive. Can you stand?”
Catching his hand, you noticed the plethora of agents beginning to thin out. “Spencer,” you forced his worried eyes to find yours, “I’m sorry.”
“For what? None of this was your fault. You were expecting FBI agents to show up, so-“
“Spencer,” you tuned out your surroundings and squeezed his fingers to hopefully follow suit, “I’m sorry,” you repeated, hoping he would understand. “I’ve regretted it every day for two years.”
Chewing shakily on his bottom lip, he breathed out, “I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you, I’ve missed you,” you nearly collapsed in his direction, wanting so desperately to be close to him once more. Wrapping his arms around you, you buried your face in the crock of his neck, the edge of his kevlar scratching lightly against your cheek, “I’m sorr-“
“I know,” you felt him move to kiss your hairline, “I’m sorry too, I should have fought harder for you to have stayed. Should have made you understand, should have done anything but just stand there and do nothing.” Gently grabbing your face, he lulled it back to look in your eyes, “Y/n…”
Disappearing into his coffee eyes, you felt yourself melt in his arms, feeling safer by the second. He was here. He was finally here. And in that moment, all you could think about was the million fairy tales you had read throughout your life, and how the prince would always sweep in towards the end and cure everything with a true love’s kiss…
“Kiss me,” you uttered softly, and with a small sigh, he didn’t even look around to see if anyone was watching before he pressed his lips gently against yours.
“I love you. I love you so much, I’m so sorry.”
“Y/n,” he breathed deep as you nuzzled your nose against his, “I love you too.”
Summary: Spencer and Reader bake cookies together and learn that they both like to take care of each other.
Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem Reader
Touch Me (I’m Already Yours)
It wasn't too say that Spencer thought that his heart was going to explode, it was more of a matter of when it was going to explode. Despite it being a feat that superseded the laws of physics, Spencer was simply waiting for the moment when Y/N's entire kitchen would be splattered with tiny, gross pieces of his heart.
It was inappropriate to think about such vile and graphic things as Y/N glided around her kitchen wearing a dusting of flour on the bridge of her nose. A scene like that deserved nothing but the most pure and wholesome thoughts. Strangely enough, both dealt with matters of the heart.
Literally and figuratively.
"Snowman or ornaments?" Y/N asked, holding up two cookie cutters. "The ornaments seem simple, but we'll want to be neat with the decorations."
"So snowmen?" Spencer suggested, counting the times his heart, made up of muscle, thumped in his chest. He swore Y/N could hear it too. "You love snowmen."
"You remembered?" Y/N gasped, her eyes wide with disbelief. The entire thing, her nose covered in flour, her eyes beaming up at him, the smell of vanilla and cinnamon coming from the over, was too much for Spencer and his tender heart.
"Of course I remembered, Y/N" Spencer said, attempting to hide the way he ducked his eyes from her line of vision.
"Right." Y/N said, sounding some what disappointed with either the situation or with Spencer himself, he wasn't too sure. "Eidetic memory."
"Ah no. It's not that," He paused taking a breath as his mind churred around and around. He needed away to explain his without ruining what they had together. "It's just, I could have the memory of a chimpanzee and still remember every mundane thing about you."
She wiped the flour from her hands, dusting it all over her Christmas themed apron. The Santa bells jingled as she cleaned them off, puncturing the silence with their festive twinkling sound. She smiled, the flour still on her nose and Spencer decided to take that as a good sign.
"Aren't goldfish the ones with bad memories?" Y/N asked, turning to the rolled out dough. She handed Spencer a snowman cookie cutter, silently instructing him to cut our a couple of his own. He followed her lead, watching as Y/N carefully created snowmen-shaped cookies.
"Well actually, that is a rather wide misconception. Goldfish have pretty impressive memories. There are thousands of studies on memory that feature Goldfish as testing subjects. They are quite fascinating as they are tetrachromatic. Tetrachromacy is a condition where a person, or in this case a fish, has four cone types in their retina."
“Hmm,” Y/N remarked, “that’s fascinating, Spencer. I can’t comprehend a color besides the ones we know.”
Spencer smiled, still trying keep his heart in it’s fleshy container. He watched as Y/N took the bench scraper to slide the cookies from the counter to the cookie sheet. The oven beeped, interrupting the silence that wedged itself between them. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, but a comfortable one. It was soft and sweet, the sugar cookies that baked to a perfect crisp, yet chewy golden brown in the oven.
“Okay, given the thickness of the cookies, the size, and your oven, I’d venture to guess that the cookies need 8 and a half minutes.”
“See,” Y/N commented, taking the cookie sheet off the counter, “you are good at this. I can’t believe you thought you’d be bad at baking.”
Spencer offered a sheepish smile, knowing well enough that claiming that he was a bad baker was nothing, but a lie. The truth, however, was something that Spencer didn’t want to reveal. He was quite too fond of keeping his heart in his chest.
“I’m the oven they go,” Y/N commented. She opened the door, sliding the tray hot oven. “Oh shit!” She cursed. “Ah, I-I burnt my hand.”
“Run it underwater,” Spencer said, rushing over to Y/N’s side to asses the burn. “Here, let me see it.”
Y/N hissed in pain as she ran her hand under the rushing water. He touched her bare skin, think he was the one who has been burnt.
“Ouch,” Y/N whimpered. “It hurts.”
Spencer rubbed her hand, his brows furrowing as he saw the tip of her finger she burnt. “I know, Y/N.” He whispered to her. “Just keep it under the water. Studies show that running it under cool water for ten minutes and the keeping it out of the water to breathe for another ten is the key to preventing pain.”
Y/N side eyed Spencer sheepishly as she winced through the pain, “well you’re the doctor aren’t you,”
She smiled and Spencer felt that old familiar body ache. The one that threatened to unleash his heart from his chest. The one that would cover this kitchen in heart muscle and tissue and blood and all the gross things that help keep him alive. He was barely breathing, as he held Y/N softer hand in his rougher one. Spencer stood so close he could smell the flour and cinnamon on Y/N. It was like the sweetness was oozing from within her.
“Give it a couple more minutes.” Spencer instructed, his hand still on her wrist. “And then you’re going to sit on the chair while I clean up.”
“But—” Y/N started. She was taken aback by Spencer’s forceful interruption.
“No buts,” Spencer said. “You are going to listen to me. So sit.” He said, shutting the water off with finality.
Slightly disgruntled, Y/N listened to him and sat herself down on the kitchen chairs that faced her small kitchen. She winced at the warm, searing pain of her finger tip. Spencer looked at her with concern, but she waved it off with a simple shrug.
“It’s really fine. I’m being a baby.” She explained, watching as Spencer stared the dishes.
“No, you’re not,” Spencer. “Burns really hurt. There was one case where the unsub rigged the house to blaze up with flames. I burned my side leg. I think that hurt more than when I got shot in my leg.”
“Such a brave hero,” Y/N lamented with sarcasm, “It seems wrong to have someone like you doing my dishes after how hard you work.”
Spencer looked over at Y/N, his expression changing from concern to misunderstanding. “You work hard too, Y/N,” Spencer said, sounding genuine as he spoke, “and you deserve someone who will take care of you when you are hurt.”
“So do you, Spence,” Y/N whispered, not meeting Spencer’s eyes. “And I think I’d like being that person for you.” Spencer let the water run, not caring as the dishes and bowls overflowed with hot, sudsy water.
“Oh,” He said, concentrating on the way his heart tightened in his chest, “well that’s good. I mean, I like when you take care of me. And me too. No that’s not right. I just like taking care of you as well.” Spencer shook his head, his eyes never leaving Y/N’s flour covered face, “What I mean to say is that the feeling…the feeling between us, it’s mutual.”
“That’s good. That’s really good,” Y/N said, smiling as she stood up. She walked over to Spencer, grabbing his hand with her good hand. “I think you are pretty great, Spence.”
“Again,” Spencer started, “the feeling is mutual.” Somehow the thumping in his chest subsided. Instead, Spencer felt warm and safe inside. With just their fingertips touching, Spencer felt every fiber in his being tuned into Y/N’s being. He could hear her breathing, feel the heat from her body against his side, and smell the sweetness from the cookies against her skin.
“That’s good. Because I really want to kiss you, but I don’t want to burn these cookies.”
