professor spencer in my fic never having control over anything in his life, bullied by classmates and dismissed at work.. he just can't help but enjoy the power he has over the younger reader despite feeling guilty about it.. yep..
tags & warnings: MDNI, hangover, dry humping, palming, M masturbation, no penetration, angst, s2!Spencer
summary: Spencer's attempt at doing his duty of being a helpful teammate puts him under her cruel punishment of breaking his professional discipline.
w/c: 9.2k
a/n: This chapter is loosely based on Fear and Loathing (2x16). I yearn for the day Spencer catches a break (and gets her back good). But for now I think they'll stick with picking each other apart.
+ thank you to the beautiful @hotchnerss for being the judge of this :)
Spencer walked with quick long strides into the office 30 minutes late, hoping that the team hadn’t started reviewing today’s case that Hotch called him about 15 minutes ago.
He noticed that the team was already gathered around the round table, the screen that Penelope was controlling was already filled with a bunch of victims’ images.
Spencer stepped in, speaking breathily before passing the threshold of the door, “Sorry I’m late-”
Hotch turned his chair towards the door, pointing at Spencer, and speaking sternly, “Reid. We’re leaving in 30. I need you to go to Locke’s place right now. She’s not answering.”
“What do you mean, she’s not here?” Spencer’s brows furrowed in concern.
“She hasn’t come in and she’s not answering any of our calls,” Hotch said, his voice clipped and flat.
“We’ve got a double homicide in an affluent suburb in New York. It is believed to be the third in a series of hate crimes and the media is already all over it. We don’t have time for a missing agent today, Reid. Now, go.”
Spencer swallowed hard, nodding quickly, “I’ll go get her.” he grabbed a file, stuffed it in his satchel and turned on his feet, immediately leaving.
To his luck, he used his car this morning instead of the metro, so the job of driving to her apartment and checking on her isn’t anyone else’s.
He knows she was breaking down last night. He knows she was fragile. And a sharp spike of guilt tugged in his chest—Did she do something because I kicked her out?
He quickly found himself in the parking lot of her apartment complex, he looked at the time, they still had twenty minutes to get back on time. He hoped Hotch would understand and lend them a few extra minutes to catch up, especially if she wasn’t doing very well.
Spencer firmly knocked on her door, “Locke?” he called out.
No answer.
His hand immediately went to the knob, twisting it with a desperate hope that it might be unlocked, despite how dangerous that would be.
He huffed, worry starting to crowd his senses.
His eyes darted to the ground before he stepped back and kneeled to look for a key under the small rug by the door, but nothing was there.
He thoroughly searched his satchel, finding a ballpoint pen—something he was not too sure could pick a lock like hers.
He kneeled down, his long fingers frantically working to dismantle the pen.
His face was buried close to the lock as his large hands worked with precision, using the ink cartridge as a tension wrench—holding it at the bottom of the keyhole while simultaneously inserting the pen clip, turning with slight pressure until he got the perfect angle and managed to unlock the door after a few long tries.
He was in.
No lights were turned on, but the light peaking through the blinds of the living room was enough to make everything semi-visible.
Spencer took slow, careful steps into the apartment, glancing to the open kitchen area where an empty bottle laid on the floor next to the fridge.
He called out her name, his voice not too loud to scare her, but enough to reach all corners of the empty apartment. He stepped further into her place, taking in how everything seemed so lived in.
He cautiously pushed her bedroom door that was ajar, taking in the perfectly made bed, the navy sheets laying neatly on the bed with no trace of anyone’s recent presence.
Some light was bleeding from underneath the bathroom door in her room.
Spencer didn’t hesitate to barge into the bathroom, already expecting a sight of pure horror.
She was unconscious and curled up tightly in the corner of the empty, dry bathtub. She was only in her underwear, her skin and hair damp as she shivered with her knees tucked against her chest, almost as if she was trying to fight against the freezing porcelain. But he was met with her in her underwear, her skin and hair damp as she shivered against the white tub.
Spencer crossed the small bathroom in two long strides, dropping onto his knees right beside the edge of the tub.
“Locke,” he breathed out, his voice almost cracking as his hands went to her bare shoulders. Her skin was covered in goosebumps, her teeth chattering violently. “Locke, wake up. Hey, look at me,” his trembling hand wiped the strands of hair that stuck to her forehead.
The touch—the sudden invasion of reality—hit her system like an electric shock, making her eyes snap open.
She scrambled backward against the curved wall of the tub, her hands flying up to strike whatever it was in front of her.
His large hands moved quickly to catch her wrists, pinning her erratic movements before she could hurt herself, “It’s me,” his voice was a quiet, soft whisper. He moved his face close to hers, his hazel eyes wide, trying to lock her gaze onto his, “It’s Spencer. You’re safe, okay? It’s just me.”
The name—Spencer—and the warmth of his touch against her freezing skin finally pierced through the fog in her brain.
She froze, her eyes frantically darting all over his face. Her chest rose and fell in ragged, shallow pants, the strong scent of alcohol filling the space between them. The blurred lines of his face were finally sharpening in focus, making reality slam right into her head.
She was stripped down to her underwear, trapped in a bathtub, unconscious and shivering, reeking of alcohol, and completely exposed.
Spencer’s hand gently reached toward her head, “Hey, I-”
She swatted his hand away, “What the fuck, Reid! How did you get in?”
“You- you weren’t answering anyone. I- I had to pick the lock-”
“You picked the lock? Why the fuck would you pick the lock!” her voice was rising, her hands frantically wiping her damp skin, wishing nothing more than stripping out of her own skin right now.
“Because I thought something bad happened to you!” Spencer snapped back, his voice cracking under the weight of the fear that had been fueling him for the last forty minutes.
His chest heaved as he stared down at her, his hands remaining braced on the edge of the tub, not knowing if he should back away or not.
“Hotch called a briefing. You didn’t show up and you weren’t answering your phone. After last night, I-I thought you did something stupid,”
The accusation hung heavily in the humid bathroom air.
“Get out.” she choked out, “Get the fuck out of my bathroom, Reid. I just need ten minutes to shower-”
“You’re not going.” He said flatly.
She blinked a few times at him, “What?”
“We’re not going on this case. I’m calling Hotch right now and telling him that you have a bad fever and that I’m staying to take you to the hospital.”
Her voice quivered, tears welling up in her eyes before quickly spilling down her already-damp cheeks, “No.. no please Spencer, you can’t do this to me.” her fingers clawed at his biceps, clinging onto his shirt, wrinkling it with her wet hands, “I need to go. Please don’t call him. I need this case-” she looked up at him with those glassy, pleading eyes, her own cry interrupting her.
He moved closer to her, not minding that his clothes were getting wet.
He gave her more access to hold onto his arms, while his hands slightly hovered over the backs of her arms, “You’re hungover, Locke. If we do go, Hotch will sideline you and send you back home-“
She quickly shook her head, her clammy hands going to his face, holding onto him, bringing him closer to her face as if that would get her words across better—convince him better, “please, Spencer, I’ll be fine,” she sniffled, her lips fighting against another cry that was crawling up her throat, “please.”
Spencer’s lips parted, torn between standing his ground because he knows she’s not fine and giving in because he recognised the desperate look in her eyes.
He closed his eyes for a brief second.
“We’re not going,” he said, his voice dropping to an even softer whisper.
Her fingers tightened on his jaw, a gasp of pure defeat leaving her mouth, “Spencer, please-”
“Listen to me,” he interrupted firmly, his hands sliding down her arms to gently grip her wrists, leaving her hands on his burning face and feeling how violently her pulse was racing, “We’re not going now. I won’t let you leave like this; you can’t even stand on your own.”
She blinked through her tears, the word now giving her hope.
“I’m gonna to call Hotch,” he continued slowly, forcing his eyes to be steady and lock with her glassy ones so she couldn’t look away, “I’m gonna tell him that you only need a few hours to get back on your feet and I’ll book us a flight to New York in a few hours.”
He paused, his eyes scanning over her shivering frame before coming back up to her flushed face, “Does that sound okay?” he slightly tilted his face into her palm.
Her fingers twitched against his cheeks before she slowly let her hands drop from his face.
She nodded. “Yeah,” she whispered, her voice incredibly small, “Yeah, okay.” she looked down at herself.
Spencer’s face moved slightly away from her, his eyes following her own, “do you want any help?”
Want.
He didn’t want her to think that he implied that she needed him in any way right now.
He knew his presence alone was making her feel small—exposed in a way that risked him being bit by her as usual.
“No, just..” her voice cracked, her eyes remaining fixed on the drain of the tub, “just give me twenty minutes and I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”
Spencer swallowed the lump in his throat, his hands dropping from the edge of the tub.
“Okay,” he whispered.
He stood up, his joints aching from the hard floor, his eyes kept on the tiles away from her before he turned to leave and close the door behind him.
Spencer stood in her room for a moment, taking in a long breath to steady the hammering in his chest before walking out.
To his left was the kitchen.
His eyes fell to the bottle that was still lying next to the fridge, a bit of vodka pooling around the tip before picking it up.
He opened the cabinet beneath her sink, found a trash can, and gently placed the bottle inside.
He dampened a small paper towel and wiped the residue from the floor before using a dish towel to give the counters a few quick wipes for good measure.
He looked into the sink, a few dirty plates and spoons were sitting there, and they looked like they'd been there for a day or two but not longer. He rolled up his sleeves to keep them from getting any more wet, washed the dishes, then placed them on a small wire rack out to dry.
He used a few napkins to dry his hands and forearms before throwing them in the trash can.
He immediately headed toward the living room to his right.
Books were scattered on the coffee table in front of the red couch that sat in the middle of the room. Some books were open, others were not, but he could tell that she definitely wasn’t reading any.
Without a second thought, Spencer immediately sat on the couch, his hands gently closing the splayed pages, and stacking the books on top of each other in two groups of six.
He would put them back into the empty slots in the book shelf next to the window, but he couldn’t tell how she organized her books. They weren’t in any clear, particular order, so he chose to not risk messing up whatever personal system she had.
He neatly aligned the two stacks in the middle of the dark wood. He reached for his phone that was in his pocket, deciding to call Hotch and tell him that they’ll be taking a flight in a few hours to catch up with the team in Westchester.
After getting off the phone with Hotch, he walked back into the kitchen, deciding to make her some breakfast with whatever he could find in her fridge.
A part of him worried that this would deem him too vulnerable, too willing to bend to her whims. He didn’t want to look desperate for her approval, or worse—be genuinely nice to her.
He figured that if he made her food without her permission, she’d have no choice but to eat it.
He found some eggs and an almost-finished bag of toast in her fridge, so he opted for a simple choice that he hoped she would eat.
He scrambled two eggs and toasted two pieces of bread before covering the plate of food with a tissue and leaving it on the counter.
He reached into his satchel, pulling out the case file he’d managed to snag before leaving the bullpen, starting to work on the case, helping in any way he could until she was ready to leave her room.
A while later, he heard her bedroom door creak open before she appeared in a fitted, crisp white shirt and deep brown slacks that hung low on her hips.
Her hair was wet and held up in a loose pony tail with the shorter strands falling around her face.
Her bloodshot eyes weren’t looking at him—they weren’t looking anywhere in particular really.
Her eyes wandered for a few moments, looking for something to busy herself with and not talk to Spencer.
“I called Hotch. He said Garcia will send us our tickets for a flight at 2 pm today.”
A pause.
“Did you clean my kitchen?”
“Yeah, I just threw some things out.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“I know.”
“Thanks,”
He pressed his lips into a tight line, giving her a small smile. “You should eat.”
“I’m not hungry,”
Of course she’s not.
“I already made you something to eat. I also found some ibuprofen, you can take one after you eat if you need it. It’ll help with the headache.”
“So you snooped in my place.”
“It was on the counter. I didn’t have to snoop.”
Tension wasn’t foreign between the two. It was always there, filling the empty space between them, softening at times, then amplifying when the lack of friction caught up to them.
But this was different. This was clinging onto her insides, wrapping around her ribs and lungs, pulling them down and weighing down her feet. He saw her in a state that made it impossible for her to brush off his penetrating gaze right now. Impossible to kick him out. And impossible to be who she usually chose to be with him.
Whatever was filling the space between them had wrapped around her hands, stripping her of all the control she thought she had.
She silently walked to the counter, finding the plate he had made for her.
“What’s the case?” she brought the plate with her to the couch, sitting next to Spencer.
He didn’t think she would ignore everything else, but she was right, there was nothing to be said about what happened earlier.
Spencer cleared his throat, grateful for the familiar anchor of the case to pull them out of the suffocating stillness.
She brought a piece of toast to her mouth, finally realizing that she was in fact starving.
He opened the folder that was shoved by his side, placing it between them for her to see, “Two victims—Sandra Davis and her on-again, off-again boyfriend Ken Newcomb. Their bodies were found in a park near the male victim’s car in Groton, an affluent mostly white suburb of New York City in Westchester County. It’s the third of three killings believed to be a series of hate crimes.”
Her brows furrowed, “Hate crimes?”
She turned to sit sideways on the couch, now facing him as she took rhythmic, mechanical bites of her food.
“The first two victims were Keisha Andrews, 15, and Vickie Williams, 17. Their bodies were found in a wooded area in the southern part of the county, near the city. Strangled. Beaten. Stabbed.”
He paused, looking at her face and giving her time to take a look at the file in front of her.
“And this was painted on their faces.” he pointed at a few images of the victims.
“What about this couple? How are they part of it?”
“There’s nothing in the file about this, but Hotch and Penelope should be updating us with everything they’ve got.”
“So we’re just useless for now?”
“I’m not. I’ve already figured out that this message-” he pointed at the attached piece of paper on the inner cover of the file, “-was certainly written by an adolescent female and notified the team. But yeah, you are useless for now.”
Somehow, Spencer’s jab was the best thing he could’ve done at that moment.
The familiar friction of his words relieved some of the pressure on her ribs.
A very small ghost of a smirk formed on her face, “yeah,” her eyes flicked to his hands for a brief moment almost seeming unguarded, and almost a little convinced that she’s not the most useful she could be—for now of course, “for now. Enjoy the head start while you have it, Reid.”
“We have a few hours before we need to head to the airport. I suggest you try and sleep. Real sleep, not-”
“I know,” she mildly snapped before he could complete that sentence, “but I don’t need to sleep right now. All I need is to keep up, okay?”
“Okay,” he muttered, the word leaving his lips with soft compliance.
He didn’t argue. He just looked at her, focusing on her stubborn set of eyes that were studying the details in the file even though they weren’t enough to make them as efficient as the rest of the team.
“Can I have your notepad?”
“My notepad..” he trailed off as he reached for the object in his bag, “yeah, why?”
She plucked it from his delicate fingers, “None of your business,” she tucked her knees into her chest, propping the legal pad on her thighs, close to her face.
She reached for a pen from the table next to her, clicking it, and immediately began scratching down sharp words.
He waited for a few seconds, expecting her to show him what she’s written, figuring it was case-related, but she didn’t.
Instead, she shielded the yellow paper with her palm, making it impossible for him to sneak a glance.
“Are you.. gonna show me that?” he asked softly.
She didn’t even look up from the page, the pen continuing its rapid, consistent rhythm on the paper, “No.”
“Well, can you give it back?”
She finally looked up at him, “Are you gonna use it?”
“No, but it’s mine and I-”
“Then, no.” she buried her face back into the page on her knees.
“You’re actually impossible,” he stared at her in disbelief.
The three hours they had before leaving for the airport were spent in heavy silence that oscillated between suffocating and comforting—the two existing in the same circle with little to no friction.
They both did separate things, and she was nice enough to let him read one of her new books that she had never touched before under the condition that he wouldn’t say a word about it.
——
She decided to completely shut down as soon as they left her apartment and headed to the airport in Spencer’s car.
She gathered all the scraps of energy she could find in her body and chose to utilize them in keeping her sanity until they got to New York.
This was one of the days where she desperately needed to step out of her brain and be a passenger in her own skin, waiting for the next stop.
She was grateful for her intentional dissociation, the smooth process at the airport, the white noise of the airport filling her ears, and the quick one hour flight.
——
The moment they stepped into the police station, she could tell that Hotch’s focus was on them, but specifically her.
The local PD was buzzing with overwhelming noise and chaos.
Spencer was vibrating with nervous energy by her side, making it impossible to breathe comfortably without being painfully aware of the weight of his presence.
It made her skin crawl.
She hated how much space they took up together, hated the invisible wire that tied to Reid after the morning they’d had.
She pushed down the nauseating wave of anxiety rising in her throat, stepping closer to where the team was, each of them busy with officers or papers between their hands; they weren’t free enough to ask where she’d been all morning.
She walked to the massive board that was set up against the smooth wall of the cramped conference room the team had been given to work on the case. Her eyes studied the crime scene images more intently than she had in her apartment, desperate to lose herself in the brutality of the case.
“A fever, Locke?” Hotch asked with simple directness.
He had stepped next to her without a sound.
“Yes, sir.” she kept her eyes focused on the victims’ pictures hung on the board in front of her.
“Are you feeling better?”
“Yes. A lot better,” she nodded, giving him a small smile to thank him for asking, but she could tell his concern was laced with suspicion. The quiet sharpness in his eyes made her stomach drop, making her wonder what he was thinking.
“Good,” he placed a hand on her shoulder for a brief moment, before walking away.
She shifted her gaze away from the board, locking eyes with Spencer who was already staring at her, but he quickly looked down at the table in front of him without looking at any specific paper.
She slightly shook her head and let out a long sigh before returning her focus to the case, ignoring the thumping migraine that was relentlessly eating away at her brain.
Within half an hour, the bullpen filled to the brim with officers either holding notepads, ready to write down important details, or listening intently with nothing in their hands.
Hotch took his spot at the top of the room, facing everyone, his authoritative voice bouncing off the walls, “The suspect we’re looking for is a black male statistically between the ages of twenty and thirty five. We know he’s black because of his victims. Sexually motivated killers almost always kill within their own race. His victims are all low-risk. This guy’s a smooth talker. A hustler. He may not have a lot of education, but he knows how to trick young girls.”
Morgan took over, stepping next to Hotch, “We know the unsub has a vehicle. Big enough to transport a body, it’s clean and it’s not too old, nice enough to make a girl feel comfortable inside but not flashy. Probably a large, dark sedan.”
She sat on the edge of a cluttered desk next to Emily, dangling her foot off the table, not able to peel her focus off the lines of tension etched deep into everyone’s faces.
JJ walked to detective Rick Ware, “We recommend putting this profile on the news, the paper, anywhere it might be seen by the people in this county. This guy’s ruse didn’t work on everybody. Somewhere out there is at least one woman who didn’t fall for his game and that’s who we need to find.”
“The key to this unsub’s psychology is the souvenir he takes. We don’t know what it is, yet, but we know that once he has it, his victim then becomes disposable. And that’s when he kills her. The unsub’s ritual was interrupted when he killed Sandra Davis.”
Ware seemed uneasy, his eyes flicking to the far front doors of the station, where the press was waiting for more details about the case.
“What’s the problem?” Derek asked.
“Well, the problem is I would have to be crazy to release this profile to the public,” said detective Ware.
She was listening to the conversation from a few feet away, only stepping closer after she heard Ware speak, “What are you talking about?” she interjected.
“Reverend Williams has already stirred up enough trouble by choosing to make this town a soapbox for his anti-racism campaign.”
He tipped his head down, trying to keep his voice in the inner circle, “What do you think is gonna happen if I go to the press and tell them the killer is black?”
“Hey, the best way to stop all this is to find the killer.” she took a step closer, her tone unusually brittle, “We just gave you the best we to do that.”
“Right, by telling everyone to look out for an anonymous black man? They’re gonna say that’s racial profiling.” he turned his palms up in question.
She furrowed her brows then glared up at Ware, “It’s not racial profiling. We gave you a complete profile which includes race.”
He huffed, obviously stressing, “Alright, look, the point is I’ve never even heard of a serial black killer.”
“You can believe in black serial killers or not. But the fact is they do exist and it’s only a matter of time before he kills another girl.” her tone was too harsh. She was boiling inside—thinking about nothing but how close the unsub could be to his next victim.
“Detective Ware,” Hotch said, stepping behind Locke, “The profile stands. Whether you choose to utilize it or not, that’s your administrative decision. Now if you’ll excuse us for a moment.” He nudged her shoulder, gesturing for her to step back, but he didn’t speak to her.
Instead, he turned his head, his eyes locking onto Spencer’s, “Reid.” he called out.
Spencer immediately jumped from his seat, quickly walking to Hotch, his fingers holding onto the leather strap of his satchel.
Hotch didn’t look at Locke who was standing behind him. He slightly tilted his head back as he spoke, “Take her and go to Marriott hotel, I already sent you the location. I only want you two back here at 6 am sharp tomorrow. Am I clear?”
She furrowed her brows and stomped to stand in front of Hotch, “Hotch, I’m fine. I’m in the middle of-”
“I am not asking you, Agent. This is an order.”
His words and harsh look made her fall silent. They made her feel small, so she didn’t say anything else. She just stared at him through her eyebrows as he gave her one last, warning look before turning on his heel and returning to his work.
She peeled her eyes off Hotch and onto Spencer.
He stared at her for a few moments, able to read her enough to expect a few possible responses, but she only turned away, beelining through the chaos to the door, finding her way to the exit.
He quickly grabbed a file in case he’d want to work during his free time later tonight and hurried out the door, following her.
She was standing by the passenger’s door of the SUV with her arms crossed, staring at nothing, her jaw clenching and unclenching at a rapid pace.
She didn’t want to drive today.
That was new.
When they both settled into their seats and locked the doors she couldn’t keep her mouth shut anymore, Spencer could sense it.
“He thinks I can’t do my fucking job?! I was working just as good as everybody in there! He profiled me the second we walked into that bullpen and he sent you to watch me like a child who can’t be trusted enough to be left alone!”
Spencer let out a long breath, “He didn’t need to profile you to conclude that you’re not entirely present, Locke. I mean come on, you just let a detective bait you into losing your temper.”
“I didn’t lose my temper.”
“You-”
“Reid, I didn’t lose my fucking temper!”
“You were basically yelling! And- and you are now,” his voice spiked, making him stutter as his eyes kept darting to her.
She flexed her jaw as she leaned back in her seat, crossed her arms, “I had the situation under control. I was regulated and I was not yelling, Reid. Hotch did have to profile me to make this stupid order. You’re pinning it on the last interaction I had with Ware and I don’t know why—since it’s certainly not to protect my feelings from being hurt.” She was practically panting by the end of her long string of words.
Spencer put his hand slightly up next to the steering wheel, “Okay.. are you done?”
“Fuck you,” she rolled her eyes at his underwhelming response and turned to face the window.
It felt like an eternity had passed by the time they pulled up to the hotel’s parking lot.
She quickly left the car the moment Spencer stopped the car, leaving him staring at her seat for a few moments before quickly following her movements out of the car.
He was taking more time to take his bag from the trunk, trying to slow down to match her pace.
She swung her go-bag on her shoulder, glanced up at him, then turned her eyes back to the car and shut the trunk.
“Are you okay?” he finally broke the silence, his voice high-pitched, and his brows slightly furrowed.
How could he ask her such a stupid question.
She brushed her palms against each other, not looking at him, “Why would I not be okay.” it sounded like a statement.
She looked up at him, “are you okay?” she raised her eyebrows, holding his gaze for a moment to mirror the absurdity of his question.
“I didn’t risk my job because of a severe hangover, so yes, I’m fine.”
“I didn’t risk my job, Reid.” she glared at him, their feet were now in sync, quickly walking into the lobby
“Then I’m sure you’re fine too.” he nodded, “You clearly have enough energy to be defensive, so I’ll see you at 6 am for another exciting round of solving this fun case.”
He turned to the front desk, getting their key cards.
She took a few steps to stand closely behind him, not very aware of how close she was actually standing.
She couldn’t tell if the invisible pull was nothing but a basic need for human proximity regardless of the source, or if it had something to do with Spencer—and she desperately hoped it was the former.
He turned around and handed her the card.
112. That was her room number. Her thumb brushed over the red ink on the back of her keycard.
113. That, of course, was Spencer’s room.
——
She opened the door of her room, paused for a moment, wishing that something would physically stop her from stepping into the deep emptiness of the cold room, but she heard Spencer’s door shut with a sharp click behind her.
She filled her lungs to the fullest with the warm air of the hall before taking a small step into the icy room, the low temperature sending shivers down her spine.
Her first instinct wasn’t to change into comfy clothes, or to go to bed. Instead, she took slow, aimless steps around the room, circling it over and over again until she wore herself down to nothing.
She reached onto the neatly tucked, white sheets grabbing her keycard and sliding it into the back pocket of her slacks before leaving the room.
She was faced with the metal numbers 113 on the wooden door, making three firm knocks.
The door was gently opened and she was met by his peaceful face.
“You’re supposed to be sleeping,” he said, his voice a quiet, raspy whisper.
“I don’t want to sleep,” she snapped, stepping closer, slowly invading the small space between them. Something about his pure gentleness was not something she was able to find in herself, something that was tucked so deep in her soul that seeing it in Spencer compelled her to subconsciously want to be close. But that only made her angrier with herself.
Why was she acting like this?
“But Hotch said-”
She stepped past him, making him step back and make space for her to come through.
“What, you gonna tell Hotch that I’m refusing to sleep?” she mocked.
The door shut behind her, locking in the coldness of his room that was somehow much more comforting than hers even though they were identical.
“I could if I wanted to,” he crossed his arms over his thumping heart, figuring that this stance would make him seem less affected by her presence.
“And do you want to, Reid?” the corner of her lip twitched, obviously enjoying his palpable nerves that were seeping out of his pores.
His eyes dropped to her mouth, to the faint, raw swelling on her bottom lip.
He shook his head, forcing himself to peel his eyes off her lips and up to her eyes, but her gaze only stripped away whatever composure he had left, “I don’t want to, but I might have to if you don’t go to sleep.”
“Come on, then. Call him.” she furrowed her brows, urging him to take his phone out of his pocket as she stepped closer.
His fingers twitched against the pocket of his gray sweatpants as he stuttered, “No I dont-”
“Why don’t you wanna call him? huh?” she tilted her head to the side, teasing him as she kept getting closer, and neither of them knew how to stop the space from shrinking.
“Just go to sleep, Locke.”
“I won’t.” she simply replied, shrugging, “Come on call him. What are you waiting for?”
Spencer’s chest heaved, his back now pressed flat against next to the doorframe as he looked down at her.
“You really want me to call him?”
“I’m waiting,” she murmured, tilting her face up to him, “pull out the phone, Reid.”
“Stop,” he warned.
“Stop what?”
“Locke, you’re.. you’re too close,” he whispered, his shaky, warm breath hitting her face instantly.
“And?” her eyes followed his, trying to catch his gaze—something he’s obviously fighting to avoid, “does that make making a phone call too hard for you?”
“Yes,” he blurted out before thinking twice.
“What?” her brows crinkled and her smirk slightly faltered for a moment, his answer catching both of them off guard.
Spencer’s breath was getting heavier, rattling unsteadily in his chest—the sound travelling to her ears and vibrating through her chest.
“I..” he attempted to speak, wanting to say anything that’ll save him from her burning closeness.
“Are you okay?” she raised her eyebrows, her eyes flicking down to his lips.
She noticed how his lips were parted, letting more breath in and out of his lungs as his lower lip trembled with the sheer weight of restraint.
He murmured a string of shaky, sudden words, “I know you believe we don’t trust you on this team, and that you take out your anger on me,” his innocently-knitted brows twitched at the last word.
She didn’t back away. His breathless rambling echoed in her head—showing her how deeply she was getting to him and how she had lost herself and let him get to her in a way she swore no one ever would.
She looked up into his hazel eyes, wide and stripped of the defense she walked in with.
And for a ruinous second they were completely exposed to one another.
The silence between them stretched so thin till it finally snapped the last thread of his sanity.
A quiet, defeated sound caught in the back of his throat as both of his hands flew from his sides to hold her face and slam his mouth onto hers.
The clash of their teeth pulled a gasp out of her, making her eyes fly wide open at the sudden force and friction against her bruised lips. She was unable to pull away—unable to fight the force between them—so she chose to grant herself the terrifying grace of feeling and giving into her senseless, impulsive desires.
She was never one to let go and free her soul from the tight cage of her ribs.
But his kiss was sucking these emotions right out of her mouth, giving space for more air in her chest instead of the rotting weight she believed would always be a part of her.
Her fingers found their way to grip Spencer’s cotton tee shirt, dragging him down closer until there was no air left between them.
Her knuckles turned white as she tightened her fist on the fabric. Her other hand went straight to the back of his head, her fingers carded through his soft curls, tugging on them as she pressed herself closer to his body.
Her tightening grip on his hair pulled a soft whimper that vibrated from his mouth and into her throat, somehow making it feel like the air was reaching places it never did in her body.
His hands were shaky yet firm around her face, each palm covering an entire cheek with so much force as if she was slowly disappearing and he couldn’t let go.
She caught his lower lip between her teeth, sucking on it to reclaim parts of her control. He grunted into her mouth, his hands slowly softening on her jaw before sliding down to her sides. The thin fabric of her shirt didn’t protect her from his searing fingertips.
She moved one leg between his unsteady thighs, feeling the growing bulge pressed firmly against her pelvis.
The contact made his torso lean forward, letting her lock him in place. His face was already a deep shade of crimson, both of their mouths working restlessly at eating one another, her tongue finding its place deep in his mouth.
He kept his mouth open, widening it whenever her tongue pushed for more access, letting her suck the quiet moans out of his throat, making them grow louder.
“Still want me to go to sleep?” she pressed her leg harder against his aching erection.
He whined as his long fingers splayed out on her back over the fabric that covered her goosebumps.
Spencer couldn’t even form a coherent word. His hips twitched against her as his mouth momentarily stopped moving; unable to keep up with her mouth against his, her pressing the heavy pressure between his thighs, and her hands that seemed to dissolve every thought from his brain by simply tugging on the strands at the nape of his neck.
She shifted her hips to turn his body back and into the room, making him stumble back until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed. His slender fingers instinctively loosened their grip on her waist so she wouldn’t fall on top of him. He thought that if her entirety fell on top of him, he would explode in no time. He could barely handle the flames that her touch was already igniting on his fragile skin.
She stood between his legs as he plopped down to sit on the mattress.
She looked down at him completely at her mercy—a disgustingly beautiful sight that made her guts twist with a sick sort of pleasure.
Her hands instinctively went up to his face, cradling his flushed cheeks between her cold hands.
He didn’t move, only staring up at her with patience and curiosity of what she wanted to do next.
Her brows scrunched as her eyes looked at every part of his face, slowly moving her gaze from his lips to his finely carved nose then to his wide, doe eyes that were desperately searching hers then to his soft eyebrows that framed his eyes perfectly. She knew that if she were to look away she would snap back to clarity, and she didn’t want that.
She didn’t want the so-called ‘responsible’ her to pull her out of this haze.
She didn’t want her brain to take over like it always did.
Please, just let me have this. She told herself as she stared down at Spencer.
His face tilted up, needing to reach her and feel her lips on his own again—they were the softest part he’d ever seen of her, yet the part that hurt the most.
How could such a pretty mouth spit so much venom?
She didn’t make him chase her, because she too needed to feel his lips while she still could.
She took a slow, shaky breath, her face leaning down to meet his.
The moment their lips met, she pressed his jaw with one hand, making him completely open his mouth to her, his lack of resistance making the corners of her lips turn up into a predatory smirk.
Her other hand gently pulled his hair backward to give herself more access into his mouth as she leaned her full weight forward, pushing her thighs flush against his lap.
Spencer let out a muffled moan against her mouth, his hands sliding frantically sliding under her shirt, pressing his palms against the bare, sensitive skin of her back that arched into him at the touch.
“Tell me to leave, Spencer..” she breathed against his lips, “didn’t you want me to go?”
He only whined, his lips trying to catch hers and keep them from talking because he couldn’t answer her questions right now.
“Tell me to go to my room and sleep, just like Hotch ordered.” her tongue swirled in his mouth, catching the grunt that came with her knee pressing against his pulsing length, “Tell me to follow Hotch’s orders, Spencer.. and I’ll do it” she teased.
He didn’t want her to leave.
The sheer humiliation of his absolute surrender was burning through his veins but he couldn’t fight it.
He shook his head as he pulled her whole body closer to his, “don’t go,” his eyes were filled with pure desire that cost him every last drop of his dignity.
His raw vulnerability tightened the already existing knot in the pit of her stomach, compelling her to move her legs over his lap, fully straddling him, “Shouldn’t I be in my room?” she grinded her core against his hips, deepening the friction and rubbing right where she needed it most.
His hips bucked up, chasing the frustrating heat as a loud moan escaped his lips, making him bite down on her lower lip before flattening his tongue against her raw lip in a silent, soft apology.
He furrowed his brows, his hands tightening on her hips, begging her to undo him, “I really hate it when you do this,”
“Do what?”
“Turn everything into a twisted game,” he rasped, his hips helplessly twitching beneath hers.
“This isn’t a game, Spencer.” she slightly pulled back to look down at his glistening face.
The corners of her lips turned into that familiar, sharp smirk as her eyes dropped to his trembling lips, “It’s not my fault you’re so easy and desperate,”
“You came to my room,”
“I might have walked through the door, Spencer, but you’re the one begging me not to leave. Look how little it took for you to forget about Hotch..” her lips pressed against his jaw, “and the case..” another kiss behind his earlobe, “and every precious protocol..” she whispered directly into his ear, feeling him shiver at the vibration of her voice.
His hands that held onto her hips slid to her thighs, his long fingers splaying out to hold her tight as he slightly parted his own legs a fraction wider, letting her sink deeper against his hips.
Her pelvis tilted forward, burying his aching length directly into her center, making her inner walls clench as heat spread through her stomach.
Her body betrayed her and her mind went blank as need flooded though her flesh and she moaned against his jaw, pulling his head closer to her by his hair.
She tore one hand from his curls and slid it down between their bodies.
A small smile curved her lips that were working against his as her fingers brushed against the strain of his pants.
She flattened her palm directly over the hard throb of his erection through his clothes.
She could tell he’s big and that made the heavy heat already pooling between her thighs ache.
“You’re not gonna come in your pants, are you?” she teased.
“N-no,”
She kept her palm flat and firm against him, sliding the heel of her hand slowly down his rigid length, pressing into his twitching cock again and again. He dropped his sweaty forehead in the crook of her neck, his mouth sucking on the closest spot of her skin, leaving a wet, gasping hitch against her exposed collarbone--a slick trail of his saliva cooling her skin.
Suddenly, she stopped, withdrawing her hand and cutting off the friction entirely.
Spencer picked up his head with a helpless whine at the loss of contact, his eyes searching hers in question.
A wicked grin returned to her bitten lips as she looked down at his ruined state, “I think I should go to sleep. We have to be at the station at 6 am, did you forget?”
As much as she wanted to be the cruel director of this play, the pure need pumping through her veins made walking away feel like absolute punishment.
She untangled herself from his body, giving into her arousal to grind her covered pussy against his length one last time, hearing him gasp before she stood up.
“Oh my god, you’re evil,” he muttered as he looked up at her with confusion and humiliation at her mocking him, deciding to follow orders only when it meant denying his wishes.
“I just want to get enough sleep and be energized for work tomorrow,” she faked an innocent smile that didn’t match her eyes.
She was drunk on the power that came with depriving him of what he wanted most, especially after he’d attempted to cross the line, peek into her mind, and read the contents of her head. And she knew that this want was blinding, that it would convince him of the illusion that he hadn’t seen anything of her, that she was never weak or broken in front of his bare eyes.
She knew that a person can be blindfolded by sheer desire and desperation and be led to believe that they were in control of nothing.
She’s always had a complicated relationship with desire.
Her relationship with desire wasn’t linear, and it wasn’t a cause and effect equation that she could easily calculate and alter her actions around.
There was no action and reaction to how she dealt with desire and how desire dealt with her.
There was no pattern to recognize.
There were no variables to control.
There was nothing to distinguish.
There was nothing she could fix, even though she believed there was a lot that needed to be fixed.
She’s dealt with the kind of intense want that led to obsession—the kind that only pulled her cravings closer to her. It turned her thoughts to reality and made her feel on top of the world.
But desire usually punished her without warning, amplifying her obsession and strangling her heart till she got so close, till there was nothing left in her hands to control. And that’s when reality would hit her. That's when she wouldn’t get what she wanted.
It wasn’t that she wasn’t worthy of her desires; she wasn’t worthy of desire itself, and something told her that Spencer wasn’t so worthy of that tonight.
She fixed her now wrinkled shirt, covering the red skin of her collarbone.
Spencer stayed still on the edge of the bed, his hands hopelessly dropped on the mattress on either side of him, not making an effort to cover the prominent erection that tented his pants, showing her exactly what she’s managed to do to him.
“Goodnight.” she turned around, taking measured, deliberate steps out of his room, leaving him with the stifling air of the untouched room.
Spencer’s eyes were fixated on the door she’d just shut at his face until his head dropped into the heat of his palms, covering his entire face and rubbing his eyes harshly.
Her intoxicating touch still lingered on his skin, the feeling wrapping around his head like cool, delicate silk—so comforting, so unlike her.
He quickly tore himself out of his head by rushing to the bathroom, deciding to take a cold shower to wash off all her poison.
He quickly stripped his clothes off of his glistening body, turning on the cold shower and holding his hand out under the running water to cool his skin before stepping under it.
He filled his lungs with the crisp air of the bathroom, letting his eyelids rest under the water.
He leaned his forehead against the cold tile, the freezing stream hitting the back of his neck, but it did nothing to cool the pulsing heat between his thighs.
The image of her, sitting on top of him, looking down at him with that predatory, all-consuming stare, was burned into the back of his eyelids.
He couldn't fight against the growing desperation of release, the ache only growing by the second. His hand moved down his lean stomach, his long fingers trembling as they wrapped around his pulsing length.
A ragged, choked gasp left his throat as she began to stroke himself, giving himself the ultimate friction he couldn’t get from her. His mind went back to her, trapping him beneath her weight, her core pulling him in with every roll of her hips.
His lips parted at the thought, fighting against a broken moan as his fingers tightened their grip around his dick, not caring enough to give his tip much attention or care. He quickened the pace of his hand, his hips helplessly twitching against his hand, nothing holding his body back from pleasure except for the humiliation blooming in his chest at the thought of her.
She had dismantled his dignity, showed him how easily she could reduce him to nothing but a pathetic mess in front of her.
With a final, frantic roll of his hips against his palm, the tight tension coiled in his guts finally shattered. A long defeated moan left his lips, his jaw hanging wide open as the blinding release ripped through him. His body pulsed at the force of his orgasm, spilling thick, white-ish load onto the wet tiles.
The rushing water washed away all the evidence of his intense orgasm and his total surrender to the wicked arousal.
He pressed his forehead further into the slick tiles, his chest heaving as the adrenaline-filled blood slowed in his veins.
He was entirely spent and hollowed out.
But that emptiness was quickly filled with immense guilt for failing to stand his ground and for breaking the very rules he believed were never to be interfered with.
He grabbed the new paper-wrapped bar of soap next to the shower, quickly unwrapping it to wash his body with it. He rewashed his skin thrice for good measure, hoping that his scrubbing would strip away the memory of her touch.
Finally he turned off the shower head, the sudden silence of the bathroom deafening against his ears.
He wrapped a thick, white towel around his waist and stared at his reflection in the mirror for a few long seconds before turning around and leaving the small bathroom.
He walked back into the bedroom, not giving himself much time to sit with his thoughts as he quickly pulled on a clean shirt and a new pair of boxers before climbing into the fluffy yet stiff sheets of the hotel bed.
He dropped his head onto the white, cloudy pillow, letting out a deep breath as he remembered tomorrow. At 5:45 am, he would have to look the creator of his ruin right in the eye, and her eyes would eat him raw even if she didn’t know all the details of the wrecked state she had left him in last night.
He shut his eyes gently, letting the pitch-black emptiness of the room swallow him and the lingering shame whole into unconsciousness.
At 4:00 am, the harsh ringtone of his phone pierced through the dead silence of his room.
Hotch.
His hand shot up to snatch the phone from the nightstand, pressing it against his ear, “Reid.”
Hotch didn’t give him a chance to speak, “We caught the unsub—Terrance Wakeland—outside the A&L recording studio with his new victim. Morgan and Prentiss took him into custody.”
Spencer blinked in the darkness before rubbing his eyes, “It’s over?”
“It’s over. JJ’s gonna handle the press conference in two hours. I don’t need you and Locke at the station, just head straight to the airport, we’ll catch up with you then.”
“Okay, understood.”
The line went dead.
The case was solved, and they barely contributed to any part of it.
Not only was he entirely useless, he had been locked in this suffocating room, letting himself be unraveled by a woman who couldn’t care less about the rules or the duties she was stripped of during this case.
Spencer relaxed his heavy limbs, wanting to dive back into his slumber, but he couldn’t. His body drowned into complete stillness, but the gears in his head were restless, holding him hostage until the clock hit 5:40 am.
He shot up, beginning his morning routine that felt so unnatural due to the lack of sleep he got, making the morning feel like a long extension of the previous night.
He grabbed his go-bag and left to knock on the door of room 112. The door swung open a few moments later, not making him wait much, and there she was.
“Good morning,”
“Morning,” she said flatly, not moving any part of her face.
“Hotch called-”
“I know.” she interrupted, “he texted me. I’ll be at the lobby in a minute,” she swung the door shut, not waiting for a response.
Spencer stood frozen in the hallway, staring at the black wood in front of him. He couldn’t find an answer to what his brain was questioning at the moment, so he just walked off with his belongings to the elevator.
If he thought she was ignoring him at the hotel, it was ten times worse on the way to the airport.
She existed next to him, utterly indifferent to his presence.
Her eyes didn’t even accidentally glance at him once.
He was completely invisible to her, while his senses were heightened, magnifying everything she did in his mind.
He couldn’t wait to be around the team again.
He usually didn’t mind being away from them for a while, but this one, single day made him desperate for their presence to save him from her.
it strikes simon now that he hasnt told anybody about you. your or your new born. his new born.
he looks down at Bella riley and shrugs his shoulders. "found it," he replies and she babbles, clapping her hand. a lot more chatty than her father.
"who does it belong to?" johnny asks him.
simon shrugs his shoulders. "dunno," he says and gives her his finger to hold.
Bella wasn't supposed with her dad. but you were sick and you just needed a night to yourself. so simon has her strapped to his chest. one of her shoes is already missing, her sock threatening to follow.
and he looks content in a way the boys haven't seen.
"she yours?" kyle asks.
simon picks Bella up from her carrier. he observes her, as if hes trying to work it out. "think so," he says and puts her back.
she laughs and claps, legs kicking as she reaches for her uncle soap. oh yeah, this is simons kid all right
Simon Riley really delving into his oral fixation.
See, you'd asked Simon to stop smoking after reading that it would damage his sperm. Trying for a baby apparently meant he needed to give up his vice.
But you were his missus, and he'd learned a long time ago—don't fucking argue with the missus.
Already by day three Simon was buying multiple packs of gum a day. Grumbling around base and the house. But he wouldn't take it out on you, never on you.
Your tits? Different story.
Simon had been sucking on your tits for almost an hour, switching between your now swollen and spit slick nipples. Yes, it felt fantastic—but Jesus Christ what was his obsession tonight?
"Simon." You murmur, tugging at his hair to pull him up. "You're usually inside me by now."
Simon grumbled, licking his lips. "You had me quit smokin' my fucking mouth needs to be doin' somethin'"
After that confession, Simon was always on you.
He comes home from work, and he pushes your shirt up while you read some book on the couch. His mouth immediately locking around your nipple. The tension built throughout the day leaving his body.
He'd suck on your tits of a morning instead of going for his usual smoke. Though you point out that he spends a lot longer on your nipples than he ever did his cigarettes.
You can't even take your shirt off around him without Simon pawing at your tits and sucking on you for at least five minutes before you finally batt him off to go cook dinner.
After a long weekend though, you went to work with sore tits. Your coworkers getting excited after hearing you'd been trying for a baby and now you were adjusting your bra all day.
Simon only chuckled when you complained to him that afternoon, letting you frustratedly throw your bra at him. "Just tell them that your husbands helping you practice for when you're actually breastfeeding."
| Heart with your name on it ♡ You miss Spencer while he's away on a case. When he gets back he shows you just how much he missed you too.
more to be added... ★
series ⤼
| The hours between ♡ Spencer, a 31 year old, former FBI agent, moved into a small town to escape his cruel lifestyle and a list of problems that never ends. He was just fine with his solitude, getting used to the new state of things... that was until he got a bit too smitten with a stranger girl from the train station.
more to be added... ★
ᯓ★ Aaron Hotchner
one shots ⤼
| Would you do this if you knew? [WIP] ♡ You and your boss get sent on a secret mission in an isolated from the world mansion. Everything goes as planned until you find a strange case file in his bag. It's about... you? But the dates haven't even happened yet?
more to be added... ★
| professor Spencer Reid x college student reader series
I like the night. Without the dark, we'd never see the stars.
Spencer, a 31 year old, former FBI agent, moved into a small town to escape his cruel lifestyle and a list of problems that never ends. He was just fine with his solitude, getting used to the new state of things... that was until he got a bit too smitten with a stranger girl from the train station.
It couldn't be worse, right? Soon enough he discovers that it in fact can be worse when the beautiful girl walks into his first class in the new place. As one of the students.
Yet, he can't bring himself to turn away.
tags: age gap, older spencer, more to be added with next parts ! (epxected angst, smut and at least slight toxicity)
| The last train ☆ Every night you get off your train and see the same intriguing man, sitting alone only with a sketchbook in his hands. You never interacted - until one day you did and it changed everything.
pairing: professor!spencer x college student!reader
tags: age gap (31 x 21), glasses spencer, kind of an au - spencer left the bau and picked up work at reader's college, small town, more to add in the next parts !!
word count: 1,3k
summary: Every night you get off your train and see the same intriguing man, sitting alone only with a sketchbook in his hands. You never interacted - until one day you did and it changed everything.
a/n: wrote this in under an hour because i missed spence and felt like writing a series. take it as an intro to it! spencer has a lot of canon issues in this one but id like to try and keep his old personality w it (only a bit more mature/confident)
first part of the hours between
masterlist
reblogs and thoughts on it in replies would be really appreciated<3 as always disclaimer: english isnt my language!
thank you my lovely @reidloverr and @tthedriversseat for checking this for me and pointing me into more ideas!
You didn't realize you were looking out for the messy, brown hair until you caught yourself doing it.
Your train was nearing the station, the last one of the night. It was late as always - 10 pm, you were there and so was the mysterious man you kept seeing everyday without fail.
You weren't sure when it started but everytime you got off the train after finishing a day of classes, there he was, sitting on a bench across from the rail, headphones on his head and a sketchbook in his hands.
He looked older than you and not recognising him from your lectures - or from anywhere, really - only made you more sure of the fact he wasn’t a student or even local. Sometimes he'd look up and your gazes met, exchanging silent recognition. You two worked out a routine together without meaning to.
You fixed the bag strap on your shoulder and tried to keep steady on your feet as the train began stopping. When it did, you pushed the door open and carefully stepped out onto the platform, wind messing with your hair. You looked around - you were the only passenger here. That was the case most of the time due to the hour and your destination being a small town.
Well, the only person except him. You never heard his name, or his voice in general but something about him always kept you intrigued. You wanted to say hi or ask why he is here every night yet you never dared to. He looked content alone and with no one bothering him.
With a small sigh you rubbed your hands together for a little warmth and began your walk home.
—---
The next evening went as similar as any other, with one small difference: the wind was stronger today. You didn't expect him to still show up but for some reason he did. You grew increasingly curious and at this point prayed for an excuse to talk to him. You considered making up a lie but you felt like he'd see right through you. Like there was some sort of connection between you two that would make him know you better than anyone else in your life, despite never exchanging a word. You found your own thoughts silly.
But to your surprise the Gods listened to you and the wind blew one of the loose pages in his sketchbook from him right to your feet. His mouth went agape in alarm but it was too late to stop the course of events. Looking back, he was glad it was the case.
You bent your knees to pick the paper up with the intention to give it back to him, but something - probably that nearly unhealthy curiosity with this man you've never properly met - made you look at it first. Oh, how surprised were you when your own, drawn eyes stared right back at you.
The drawing was neat and incredibly well done, with attention to details even you wouldn't be able to give off or remember about yourself. In short, it was incredible. And weird. But you didn't mind one bit.
You looked up from the drawing to find the guy covering his face in his hands, blushing to the tips of his ears. You let out a chuckle, as you walked up to him. You sat on the bench.
“Hi. There you go.” You handed him the drawing back with a friendly smile on your face, but a very clear teasing glint in your eyes, too. “That's a nice one. Who's this cutie?”
“Stop it.” He grumbled in response, avoiding eye contact and gripping the page he took from your hand. “I'm.. sorry. I didn't mean to be weird. I just…” You rushed to reassure him.
“No. I don't think it's weird, I like it.” You said quickly. “Okay, no. I mean, yeah it's weird but so what? I don't mind personally.”
He looked up at you with a mix of confusion, surprise and skepticism. “Really? You don't think I'm a creep?”
“Not at all” you nodded vigorously. “In fact, I love it. What's your name? I see you here everyday.”
“Spencer. Spencer Reid.” He ran a hand through his hair in a nervous gesture. “That's embarrassing. I drew you before even learning your name.”
You grinned, sensing the opportunity. “How about this: I'll tell you my name if you walk me home? It's not far.”
Spencer shook his head with amusement but nodded, standing up and giving you a hand. “Deal.”
The wind has slowed down by now, as if retreating after finishing the mission of bringing you two to finally interact. You walked hand in hand with Spencer, looking up at the stars every now and then.
“So, what brings you there everyday at this hour?” You asked finally, glancing at the man beside you. He seemed both nervous and happy to be there. “Are you from around here?”
He hesitated before answering. “Yeah. I moved in lately not far from the station.” He thought about your question for a while. “I suppose I just like looking at people and trying to figure out their lives from this. Thinking about why this person is in a rush, why this one isn't and what are their stories… It relaxes me in a way. Lets me focus on the simplicity of life instead of worrying about things. Does that make sense?”
You nodded in reply. “It does. Do you draw all of them too?” You couldn't help but add a teasing remark.
Spencer just groaned. “You just can't let this go, can you?”
“Never.”
He shot you a look. “No, I don't.” After that silence fell between you and you could feel Spencer tense beside you. You caught a glimpse of him fidgeting with his hands before he blurted out: “Did you know that more than 600 railroads operate in the United States?”
“I didn't.” You were taken aback for a second with the random fact but accepted it regardless with interest. “Really?”
“Huh?” You stopped to look at him. He seemed genuinely displeased with himself and his mood was getting seemingly worse with each “embarrassing” event of the day. “I don't mind. It's nice to know. I mean it.”
You tried to sound as sincere and honest as possible but he didn't seem to buy it. You had a feeling he was shut down often with his sharing before and it made you feel sad for him. But you wouldn't do that. “Share some more with me? What are those classes you were speaking of?” You inquired in an attempt to encourage him and the smile slowly breaking out on his face was everything you needed.
The walk home felt much shorter than usual much to your disapproval, and soon enough you were standing before your front door, turning to look at Spencer.
“Thank you for walking me home. It was nice meeting you properly.” You smiled and your eyes found his behind the crooked glasses. Without thinking you reached out to fix them. “There you go.”
Spencer couldn't utter a word, that one action from you paralyzing him. Not from discomfort, that for sure, but his brain short-circuited and cheeks reddened. You started to love how easy he was to fluster. You chuckled. “Wait here for a second, okay?” You rushed inside.
A minute later you emerged back outside and handed him a pink slip of paper. Spencer - after having the minute to pull himself together - glanced at it and back at you, a clear question in his eyes. He took it and looked down. Your name, as promised, and a string of numbers beneath it.
“Call me sometime, if you want to?” You flashed another grin and waved before disappearing inside your house for good this time, leaving Spencer on the street staring like a deer in the headlights.
He let out a shaky breath, looking at the paper again, as if to analyze it. Your number. Unmistakably. You wanted him to call you. You wanted to see him outside the train station again. His heart might’ve been just about to burst.
But life would be too easy if it didn't come with complications.
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