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Chivalry | Smosh 💛

Smosh : Multishot

Spencer Agnew x Reader

Word Count: 10.5k

Warnings: slow burn, friends to lovers, Spencer pining, reader is struggling in LA, poor studio apartment, language towards the end, abusive boyfriend, physical/verbal abuse, big TW for abuse in this one

Request: This just came from my own head 😊

A/N: I am ASTOUNDED at the sheer amount of love and messages I have received over this series. I apologize I have not replied to all, truly it's been so overwhelming and made my Mama Bear heart so happy 😭 please enjoy every morsel of this meal my lovelies

Part 1: The Kickstart

Part 2: Mama Bear

Part 3: Chivalry {You Are Here}

If you or anyone you know is experiencing domestic abuse please contact the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-SAFE (7233) or text "START" to 88788 for 24/7 confidential support.

~~~

Spencer thought he filled the role of best friend rather well.

He frequently invites you over for games and movies, the thought of you in that shabby apartment with only Aaron for company keeping him up at night. But he doesn’t try to sway you too much.

It should be enough that he has you for the night, making you laugh and smile. He’d rather have those memories than spend his time trying to convince you that your boyfriend is an asshole. He drives you back to your apartment afterwards.

Gritting his teeth.

It was just something best friends did.

On some nights, when he was really lucky, you’d pull his arm onto your lap and start to trace his tattoos. It gave your fidgety hands something to do.

Spencer would sit there, slumped into the couch, his arm lazily in your lap. His hand conveniently resting on your lower thigh. He closes his eyes eventually, lulled away by your light fingers.

His own fingers could curl into the crook of your knee. But he resists.

It was just something best friends did.

He starts to bring you a daily soda. Sometimes you’d meet him with a similar can of kickstart.

“Is that from your old gas station?” he’d ask.

You shrug your shoulders, “I wanted to get a maple bar.”

Some days you’d find that Spencer had a clever story rehearsed that made it plausible to drive you home after work. That way it didn’t sound like an inconvenience to him.

“Let me drive you home.”

“Oh, no – that’s all right! I don’t want you to drive out of your way.”

“Actually, I’m heading in that direction anyway. I need to stop by the store on the street over.”

Sometimes the story is a little more farfetched – but you let him tell it anyway.

“Hey! You ready to go?” Spencer appears beside your makeup vanities.

You look surprised, “Are we supposed to be doing something together that I’m not aware of?”

“No, I’m giving you a ride home.”

You roll your eyes, starting to walk away, “Since when?”

“Since you don’t have a car and I’m heading that way anyway.”

“There’s no way you’re going to the store again. Three times in one week, Spence?”

He clears his throat, “No, no… I’m meeting someone.”

“Who?”

“Um… a guy – Shayne.”

You reach the office door and hold it open for him. “Okay, why didn’t you just say Shayne to begin with?”

He shrugs his shoulders, hands in his denim pockets. “I don’t know. It’s a secret.” You give him a deadpanned stare. “Fine, we’re going to the strip club. I was nervous to say anything. Shut up.”

You start to cackle, “There’s no way you’d go to a strip club with Shayne. Both of you would die of embarrassment before fully walking through the door. What kind of lie is that?”

He listens to you laugh, relieved that you’re walking towards his car as you do so. He holds open the passenger door and makes sure the temperature is just right for you.

It was just something best friends did.

Sometimes he would notice little things. Notice the way you wince whenever someone is moving towards you – whenever an arm or hand is in motion by your face.

He notices the little bruises that you try to cover up. A red mark on your cheekbone. More black eyes. Purple splotches on your arms. Little yellow and green spots on your neck.

And he aches for you.

He aches while a fire broils in his gut.

And he tries to patch it by making you laugh and smile. He tries to have you hang out that night. He attempts to sound convincing when he suggests you stay overnight. It’s too late. It’d be easier to stay. He had pancake mix and bacon for breakfast.

But you always decide to go back to that apartment.

And while he makes you his personal mission, the rest of the Smosh office goes along with the banter because they were excited that their introverted, closeted comedian had found someone. Someone he connected with and enjoyed spending time with.

They watch as he bombards you with fun facts and silly explanations about things you both like.

They watch as he fights for excuses to visit you in the art department, being scolded frequently by the crew for distracting you.

They watch as he lets everyone else go home while he waits for you because he wanted to walk with you.

He wants to spend every possible second with you.

It was just something best friends did.

He endures the second hand talk you provide from girls night. Your words recalling Angela’s unfortunate date with a techie; the details of how Courtney and Shayne were planning a second honeymoon; the recounter of Amanda pushing you to take Aaron out for drinks – possibly spark whatever was dwindling between you two.

Spencer would grimace and say, “You don’t even like getting drinks.”

“That’s what I said,” you smile, fingers working overtime on the switch controller.

He would regret continuing the conversation, “Did you go through with it?”

“Yeah, I mean… I knew he’d enjoy it. Came home drunker than usual.” You focus on the tv screen, elbows resting on your knees as you hold the controller. “Tried to have sex with me but passed out before he could get his pants off.”

Spencer’s character immediately dies, “Oh.”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t say it was the most romantic date I’ve been on. Then again… I was kind of relieved.”

He listens to the gossip even though it was torturous to his heart. Because…

It was just something best friends did.

One day, Spencer was helping edit another video for Games. He watches as Chanse tries to maintain a character, “On the other side of the shirt is… still more shirt.”

Shayne looks immensely confused.

But in the background you can hear hysterical laughter. Your laughter.

It makes Spencer smile as he readjusts his headphones and turns the volume up. He listens to your laugh on repeat as he edits some subtitles stating ((Y/N) laughing).

Arasha continues with a Russian accent, “What?”

“On the other side of shirt is still more shirt,” Chanse tries again.

Shayne attempts to help him out, “Tailor lingo.” He side eyes behind the camera and starts to chuckle at the sheer amount of giggles that you are unable to contain. “God damn, (Y/N). That joke landed for literally nobody else.”

“Hey!” Chanse flusters.

You shout out, “That’s what makes it funnier!”

Spencer is so lost hearing your voice as he edits that he jumps when a hand grabs his shoulder. You’re standing behind him, laughing just like you were in the video.

“Locked in there, are you?”

He rips the headphones off, “God, yeah, um… no I’m impervious to being startled. I was just trying to make you feel scary.”

“Right, there’s nothing I want more in life than to be perceived as scary,” you snicker, “You’re needed on set to record some ads.”

“Ah, yes,” Spencer saves his work and starts to walk with you. “The Game of Thrones app.”

“About to be Jon Snow in the flesh,” you bump shoulders with him. “Are you ready for me to make you hot?”

He starts to blink a worrisome amount. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Jon Snow,” you say with your hands in the air, drawing an invisible diagram. “Equals hot and sexy. You are about to be the most attractive you’ve ever been.” You send Spencer to change into his costume while you set up the makeup vanity.

He returns all in black, looking very in character with his usual straight face while he thinks. You have to suck in your lips to keep them from smiling too wide.

You hold up a large fur cloak, “Milord.”

He chuckles, turning around and ducking to give you height. You lay the cloak around his shoulders and turn him toward you, straightening the fur on his frame.

“It makes you look a lot broader.”

“What do you mean?” He starts to puff out his chest. “I’ve always been this big.”

You shake your head, grinning, “Sit in the chair, big boy.”

He bites his tongue, clearing his throat. He becomes incredibly still as you lean over to inspect his complexion.

His eyes might be big and imploring, but the rest of his face gives nothing away. He’s as cool as a cucumber.

You certainly think so. “Got a lot on your mind?” You run a fine-toothed comb through his hair to create a middle part.

He shivers at the touch. “No. Why?”

“You seem a little stony all of the sudden. Like you’re already playing the character,” you say with a smile.

Spencer licks his lips – like he always does when he thinks. “I can assure you, dear madam, that I am no character. I am Jon Snow, protector of the Wall and a proud member of the Night’s Watch.”

“Quite the title,” you say with a laugh. You’re running your hands through his hair, flattening it on either side of his face. He starts to look more like the character.

And he starts to lose focus.

His eyes are trained on you.

His pulse quickens.

His fists clench.

~~~

It had been nearly a year since you started at Smosh. And in all that time, you had become very close to many members of the team. But without a shadow of a doubt, Spencer was the one coworker you had gotten the closest too.

You knew it was dangerous. He already suspected the awful secrets going on in your apartment.

But you didn’t have the heart to tell him.

That would make it too real.

And every time he dropped you off at your apartment, he would say the all too familiar, “Call me if you need anything, okay?”

And you would always respond with, “Yeah, okay.”

But have you ever called him? No. Even when you needed something? Not even then.

That is… until tonight.

You storm out of your apartment, door swinging on its hinges. Well past midnight, the roads were dark and lit with the yellow glow of graffitied streetlamps.

You’re not sure how bad the damage was, but your tongue inspects a split in your lip that tastes metallic and coppery. A headache pulsates above your ear, where your hair feels matted. The spot where he pulled you away.

The air has a slight nighttime chill to it, but nothing unbearable. It didn’t matter. There was no way you’d go back to the apartment to get a coat.

You look down at the socks on your feet.

You wouldn’t go back for shoes either.

Laughter startles you in the distance and you jump to the curb. Looking around like a wild cat, you’re unable to see the merrymakers.

Probably some adolescents having too much fun in the late hour. Quite unlike yourself. You shouldn’t be alone, you think. Without a car and without shoes, you probably shouldn’t be alone.

You reach for the phone in your back pocket. When the screen lights up, you momentarily see the redness beneath your eyes. You quickly try to rub the tears away, dialing the one number you knew you could trust.

But you hesitate.

You see the contact name, “Glasses.” A picture of Spencer wearing a purple party hat on the set of Eat It or Yeet It as his contact picture.

Would he even be awake this late at night?

You decide to find out.

Phone to your ear, you sniffle, free arm wrapping around yourself. The ugly yellow light of a streetlamp directly above you. Unwanted moths and mosquitoes flit and flail beneath the bulb.

“Hello?” his groggy voice says.

“Um… hey Spencer,” you say in as level a tone as you can muster.

There’s a pause where he then sounds very much more alert. “Hey, (Y/N). What’s up? Are you okay?”

You take a second to collect yourself. New tears threaten to swim your vision. “Uh, yeah – I’m fine.”

“(Y/N)?”

“Are you open to meeting me at the skate park down by where I live?”

He must be afraid by the way his voice changes an octave. “Y-Yeah, definitely. Is everything all right?”

You hear shuffling like he’s moving around a lot. Probably getting out of bed.

“I’m sorry,” you sniff again. “I woke you up.”

“No, no – it’s fine. I’m on my way. I’ll be like ten minutes tops.”

You swallow thickly, past the tears. “Okay. Thank you.” And you hang up the phone, sliding it back into your pocket.

You continue to hold yourself, walking towards the skate park down the street. Toward where those kids were laughing and making a ruckus. Maybe they had booze to share.

A sick giggle escapes you, thick with sadness. You wipe your lip, trying to dispel any remnants of blood. Shaky fingers go through your hair to flatten the evidence of a couples dispute. Lifting your arms sent a sharp pain across your side. More places to bruise.

The park isn’t too far ahead, and you can hear the distant laughter of those kids. Behind a tree, you spot them running through the water jets that usually turn off by sunset.

They probably found a way to hijack the system. The power box was probably in plain sight. Maybe one of them volunteered with the city.

The group sees you and starts to whisper profanities at each other. They stumble away from the water feature, wet footprints trailing behind them as they run off.

Loneliness hits you in a different way.

Walking to the jets of water, you stand right on the edge. You watch as they take turns skyrocketing into the air in different patterns and formations. It would be the perfect activity for a hot summer day.

You think painfully of a time when your family went to a water park like this.

Your little arms stuck in a froggy green floatie; bare toes stepping on the jets to see if you were powerful enough to stop the water from coming.

Your hand reaches out and the tips of your fingers make contact with the stream of water. It was cold. It made you feel. Feel something different.

You take a step forward and a rush of water goes up your pant leg. Another soaks the side of your shirt. And another climbs up your back and falls on the top of your head.

It was wet and cold. And something other than sad.

“(Y/N)?” A voice calls from behind you.

You don’t move as Spencer jogs the rest of the way toward you.

“What are you doing? It’s freezing out here!”

You turn your head and see him out of breath. He must’ve jogged from where he was parked.

His hair was adorably wild and curly. He must’ve just rolled out of bed to meet you here.

His eyes roam your face and something sad befalls him.

You don’t like it.

With a quick hand, you splash a stream of water onto him.

“Woah, what the…” he tries to dodge another, but his shirt gets soaked. “What are you doing?”

A smile graces your features – but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “Dance with me.”

He looks flabbergasted, hands out as he shakes the water from his sleeves, “You can’t be serious.”

“Come here, Spencer,” you grab the cuff of his sleeve and yank him into the water jets.

Something high and funny escapes him as the cold water tickles his skin. You giggle, taking the lead to jump around and kick at the streams of water. You ignore the pain that shoots through your ribs. The annoying ache along your jaw.

Spencer watches you for a second, letting the water soak into his clothes.

You’re dancing and weaving through the jets, wet hair heavy and clinging to the sides of your face. Spencer has to readjust his glasses as they slide down the bridge of his nose. But he follows your lead.

With quick ninja hands, he slices through the water, using a side kick just to see if you would laugh.

You do, copying him in attacking the water like they were magical octopus arms. The pair of you make sound effects as you flail about, getting thoroughly drenched.

Finally, you grab onto Spencer’s arm, laughing breathlessly. He does the same, facing you with dark ringlets resting against his forehead.

Breathing hurts you.

His glasses are covered in water droplets.

“It’s a wonder you can see at all,” you mumble, reaching to remove his glasses. He catches the wince you make.

He blinks as the glasses float away in your hands, water making his eyelashes stick together. You think he looks rather sweet.

“Well, I have no chance now,” he says, looking down at you, squinting to make your features clearer.

You’re so close to him it was making odd things happen to his chest. You put the glasses on yourself, “There – now we’re both blind.”

You take his hand and try to spin yourself. He catches on, helping you fly beneath his arm. Water flies from your body as you whip around.

A laugh, or maybe a wheeze, escapes you as you fall into him, his hands falling to your sides. You look at him, unable to make out his expression with the water streaked glasses you wear.

But if you could see him… you’d know that he was terrified. He was holding you. Your hands were on his shoulders. Your faces were so close.

His eyes flit down your face. He looks at your lips. The water droplets making them shine. The split in the corner that he noticed earlier. His head starts to tilt.

He leans in closer. His mouth opens a little to fit perfectly around your own.

And sadly your cheek brushes against his as you pull him into a hug.

Your arms wrap around him, unable to see the look of disbelief on his face.

What the hell just happened?

Was he in disbelief that you avoided a kiss or that he tried to get one in the first place? Could you even notice what he was trying to do with your vision obscured?

“Thanks for meeting me out here.”

Apparently you didn’t notice.

“No problem.” He returns the hug fiercely, trying to be satisfied with just this.

You grit your teeth as pain burns where his arms grip around you. “I hope I didn’t just ruin your night.”

“You could never,” he says, “I’m just glad you called.”

You pull away, unable to bear the pain in your side. “We should probably get out of the water.”

He feels like smacking his head to make his thoughts a little clearer. “Um… yeah, sure.”

With light hands, you return the glasses to his face, pushing them up the bridge of his nose. He starts to smile as you come into focus.

You turn and lead the way to the parking lot, unaware that Spencer was still rooted to the spot. He’s not sure what to do. He wipes the water running down his face. He watches you leave the water feature, arms hugging your torso as if that would bring about some warmth.

He looks down at his own sodden clothes, unable to act on his instinct: to give you the flannel he’s wearing over his pajama shirt.

He should probably get out from under the spray of the water jets.

Spencer jogs toward you, following the wet footsteps you leave behind. He realizes that he can see the outline of your toes in those footprints. He looks for your feet and calls out.

“Did you mean to come out here without shoes?”

You sniff, rubbing away water that tickles your nose. “I sort of left in a hurry.”

He sees you shiver, wet hair stringy against your back. The nighttime chill was getting colder.

“Are you…” he clears his throat, the sight of your busted lip at the forefront of his mind. “Are you wanting to go back to your apartment?”

You stop walking at the edge of the parking lot, toes on the curb. You look up at the moon, focusing on the pretty yellow tinge it gives with the reflection of the sun. It was much more appealing than the yellow streetlamps.

You knew your answer immediately but contemplate how best to give it. Giving up, you whisper, “No.”

Spencer stands beside you, watching you look at the moon. “Well, you can’t wander the streets all weekend.” It was lighthearted and brought a tired smile to your face. That warms his heart. “Would you come back to my place? Finally have that sleepover we always talk about.”

You turn to him with heavy lids and pink cheeks. “I don’t have any dry clothes.”

“That’s okay, I do.”

“I don’t have my toothbrush.”

Spencer makes a funny face, “I have a CVS down my street – definitely a supplier of toothbrushes.”

Your chest starts to swell with gratitude even as you shiver with oncoming frostbite. “I don’t have shoes.”

“I have slippers.” That makes you snort a little and Spencer beams.

“Yeah, but I don’t have a hairbrush…”

“Oh my god, I have a hairbrush! I will brush your fucking hair for you, for Christ’s sake. Let’s just get into my car,” he says with a laugh falling out of his mouth. “I’m freezing my ball off.”

You screw up your lips as you try to hide a similar smile. “Only if you’re sure that…”

“Let’s go,” he’s already jogging for the passenger side of his car, keys in hand. “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go.”

You tiptoe across the parking lot, giggling at his jumpy little steps as he waits by the door. You slide in, running your hands through your hair while Spencer climbs into the other side. He starts the engine and turns the heat on high, pressing the button to turn the seat warmers on.

As per usual, you cower into the nook between the seat and door. Your arms wrap around your damp shirt. It’s an instant battle to ignore the anxiety plaguing your stomach. You truly hated driving.

Spencer turns mild background music on and drives to the nearby CVS. He struggles with keeping his eyes on the road.

Your cheeks and nose are still so pink, whether by the cold or emotion, he wasn’t sure. But it was clear the redness beneath your eyes was from recent tears and the raw split in your lip doesn’t help.

He so desperately wants to hold your hand while he drives. But the social anxiety takes over.

“You can wait out here and warm up,” he says, parking the car. “I’ll leave the engine running. I’ll be in and out.”

You thank him, making sure the car was locked as he leaves. You attempt to take a deep breath, opening the visor to look in the tiny mirror behind it. Your ribs protest to your breathing and moving.

You touch the sensitive skin around your lip. The bleeding had stopped, but the cut was wide and ruby red. Something aches lower on your jaw, and you hope it doesn’t bruise.

You’re grateful Spencer wasn’t interrogating you on the situation. If anything, he’s been incredibly kind and patient. Instincts tell you that Spencer should be quick to emotion and demand answers.

But he doesn’t.

He returns to the car with a full shopping bag with travel sized products. A toothbrush and toothpaste, a little facewash and moisturizer, a small bottle of antibiotic ointment, a hairbrush and some of your favorite treats.

Spencer continues the drive, asking if you’re getting warmer. He pulls into his apartment complex and whisks around the car to be by your side as you get out.

You’re still holding yourself as you climb the stairs. Spencer stands just a step behind you, his hand hovering at the small of your back.

Inside, you immediately pull off the soggy socks making your feet prune. The damp clothes are still giving you grief, locking in a chill within your skin. Your hair feels stringy and uncomfortable.

Spencer notices this and is quick to offer solutions. “How about you change into some dry clothes, and I’ll make a bed on the couch?”

You nod in reply, walking toward the bathroom while Spencer gets the supplies. He returns with a pair of sweatpants and a rock band t-shirt. He puts them on the bathroom counter along with the CVS bag.

“I’ll just uh… be in the living room,” he says quietly, a little unnerved with the absence of your voice.

It’s hard to look at him as you offer a polite smile and shut the door.

You’re quick to change into the clean clothes, hanging your damp ones over the shower curtain to dry. You have to roll the sweats so they didn’t drag on the floor, and you love how the shirt hangs lanky on your frame.

They have the same seaside clean smell with the hint of some kind of spice – it reminds you of Spencer.

You brush your teeth and wash your face, careful to clean the cut to your lip.

But upon further inspection, you realize that the antibiotic ointment and hairbrush were nowhere to be seen. You step out of the bathroom to ask for their whereabouts, only to find Spencer sitting on the couch with the hairbrush in hand and waiting for you expectantly.

The couch was laid with a wrinkled pair of sheets, an extra pillow, and an old blanket probably from Target.

“I was wondering where that went,” you say quietly.

Spencer holds up the hairbrush, “Oh, I wasn’t joking about brushing your hair.” He gestures to the spot on the floor between his legs.

You feel something swell in your chest. How could he make it so easy to want to smile? So easy to want to laugh?

You take a few steps forward, “I am perfectly capable of brushing my own hair.”

“I know you are,” he waits with raised brows. “You are a very capable person.”

You wait for him to offer the brush to you. When he doesn’t, you say, “Then let me have the brush.”

“I said you were capable, not that I would retract my offer.”

“It’s a little silly to brush your best friends hair, right?”

He shrugs his shoulders, “You’ve had a rough night. I think it’s a little kind to brush your best friends hair when they’ve had a lot on their plate. Let me help you.”

You contemplate for a few seconds until he gestures to the ground with a hilarious expression on his face. It actually pulls a giggle from you.

You slowly sit on the rug and scoot back until you can lean against the couch. On either side of you are Spencer’s legs adorning a new set of dry pajama pants. You keep your hands in your lap to refrain from accidentally touching him.

He gently uses one hand to section your hair and softly brushes the ends first before moving up. It was immensely tangled from the riotous festivities with the water jets, and he was careful not to snag the strands too much.

Your head moves with the brush, shoulders rubbing against his legs as he works. From the corner of your vision, you see his free hand giving you the remote.

Without a word you turn on the tv and find an old Scooby-Doo series to watch.

Spencer works through your hair as gently as he can, not wishing to cause you any more anguish tonight. Even after the knots are all smooth, he runs the brush through the hair of your scalp, scratching your head there and hopefully helping to soothe you.

It feels tender and warm and content. There’s no need to talk or make jokes. There’s just you and him.

He rests the hairbrush on the side table and picks up the antibiotic ointment. He puts a small amount on his finger and taps the top of your head.

You hum your reply, leaning your head back until it’s in his lap. You see him tilt his head down to see your face.

He smiles warmly, “This’ll help your lip.” And he slowly moves his hand to hold the side of your face, giving his finger stability in rubbing the cut.

You stare at him. Dark curls hanging off his forehead as he focuses on your mouth. He’s encompassing you – surrounding you. His fingers are on your lips. He’s warm to the touch. He smells like a citrusy seaside.

Your heart starts to hammer against your ribs.

He notices the panic growing in your gaze. He immediately retreats – leaning away and taking his hands off you.

“I’m sorry, are you okay?”

You crawl away, standing by the television set. “Um… yeah – yeah, I’m fine.” You put a hand to your head, “I just feel a little… a little warm.”

Spencer stands and considers you.

Your complexion is a little pale. The redness in your eyes has subsided, but you do look flushed. Spence wants to feel your forehead.

“Do you have a fever?”

You swallow, “I don’t know. I think I just need some sleep.”

“Sure,” he says, still watching your movements. He doesn’t like how quickly you got away from him. “Um… the bed is in here.”

You stand still as he goes to reveal his bedroom.

“Okay…” you say strangely, walking towards the readymade couch.

Spencer retorts, “Uh, yeah no. That’s my spot for the night.”

“Funny because I thought this was your apartment and therefore that is your bed.”

“No, I’m sleeping on the couch,” he says, folding his arms.

You snicker, “Strange that you sleep on the couch when you have a perfectly good bed over there.”

“I’m not fighting with you on this,” he says firmly. “You’re taking the bed tonight.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Sure you can.”

You screw up your lips, trying to look as defiant as possible. “Guests are supposed to crash on the couch, Spence.”

“Who said that was the rule?”

“Common sense.”

“Well, in the Agnew household, the lady gets to take the bed while the dude gets the couch.”

You start to turn down the covers on the couch, fluffing the pillow. Spencer speeds to your side and takes the pillow away.

“Do you ever get tired of rejecting chivalry?”

“There’s not usually chivalry to be had,” you try to get the pillow, and Spencer holds it up in the air.

He frowns, “Then what the hell have I been doing since we met?”

“You’ve been giving me exposure therapy,” you giggle, still trying to reach the pillow. “I’m not used to it yet.” You grimace at the sharpness of pain in your left side. You cease your reaching of the pillow immediately.

“I guess I have to prove it to you,” he says in a huff, throwing the pillow back on the couch and inspecting your pained movements with his wide, searching eyes. “Until you believe that you are worthy of being treated with chivalry and respect.”

You pout, defeated in getting the pillow. He looks at you squarely in the face and says:

“If you don’t let me sleep on this couch, I’m not going to sleep at all.”

“You’re really going to take this to some worrying levels, aren’t you?”

He shrugs his shoulders, “You… you deserve a good nights rest. You need to heal and feel better. You need to feel safe.”

Your brows furrow. Why did that strike a deep chord in your heart? Something beats loudly in your ears.

“You’ll be safe and comfortable in bed, and I’ll sleep out here just in case.”

“Just in case…?” your eyes are suddenly big and sad.

Spencer looks a little drawn. “Just in case he comes looking for you.”

Your nose burns, signaling that tears were not far behind. You swallow hard and shake your head, unable to look at him anymore. “He won’t come looking for me. He’s too drunk to make it past the front door.”

Spence looks terrified as you begin to speak with honesty. He’s never heard you so candid about your boyfriend before. Not about this.

He licks his lips, unsure of how to proceed. “Why did he do it?”

Your lip quivers, fingers twitching at your sides. “He found out… that instead of me being with him the other night… I chose to hang out with you. He was angry. He accused me of cheating. He was calling me… awful things.”

Spencer clenches his jaw, wanting nothing more than to hold you and protect you from that kind of treatment.

“And maybe I deserved it because I should’ve spent the night with my boyfriend. I left him alone to wonder where I was. I was unfair and unkind. I deserved to…”

Spencer removes the space between you two to hold your face in his hands. You’re startled by the gesture, eyes widening as he implores you to listen.

“You do not deserve to be treated like that. You do not deserve to be hit because his feelings were hurt. You do not deserve to be spoken to like that.” Beneath his hands, your skin feels hot. Maybe you were coming down with something.

Dancing barefoot in cold water when you were already feeling poorly was going to bring you the flu.

Your eyes swim with unshed tears. And in reply, you bow your head to reach his shoulder and clutch him in a hug. Spencer returns it gently, noting your side.

“I’m such an idiot,” you say against his shoulder. “I can’t believe I’ve convinced myself that this was okay.”

Spencer holds you to him, “You are not an idiot. It was a mistake, that’s all. And we can fix mistakes.” He rubs his hand up and down your back. “We don’t have to do anything tonight. You need some sleep. We’ll talk about it more in the morning.”

He waits for you to release him, giving you as much of him as you want.

Limply, you slide away, sniffling and avoiding his eyes. You turn and walk towards his bedroom. Spencer stands there, fingers clenching at his sides, watching you shuffle away.

At the door, you close it just enough to show your face. You’re pink when you whisper, “Thank you,” finally looking at him.

His throat bobs. “Yeah,” he says hoarsely.

And when the door shuts, he stands there for another five minutes. He tries to comprehend your confession.

In a moment of weakness, you had been completely open about the goings-on in your apartment. Would you now leave Aaron? Would you regret the words in the morning?

He’s fretful as he climbs under the wrinkled sheets on the couch.

~~~

In the morning you’re awoken by an awful pounding in your head. A rawness scratches down your throat. The back of your neck is slick with sweat even as your arms shiver with goosebumps.

There’s a tenderness to the bust in your lip and some spots to the side of your face. The hope that nothing would bruise after last night quickly vanishes.

Shaky fingers lightly press along your jaw, and you find something sensitive near your chin. There’s another spot by your cheekbone and where your hair was yanked.

You don’t dare lift your left arm; it already hurt to breathe without aggravating your torso more. You were not a stranger to pain like this. You would have to face it sooner or later when you’d inevitably need to use the bathroom.

There wasn’t a digital clock on the nightstand so you gingerly tap a finger on your phone. The screen lights up to reveal “12:38pm” and a background of Aaron holding you close and kissing your temple.

Something sick and vile churns in your stomach, daring to rise into your throat.

He looks so kind without the lines of anger hardening his face. Without the curses spitting from his tongue. Without his hands curled into tight balls.

Even in this screen saver you can see the hint of something purple just under your collar.

In notification bubbles below, you can see an increasingly high number of missed calls and text messages.

You turn and stare at the ceiling, finding that tears had already developed in the outside corners of your eyes. Aaron would be so furious you weren’t home. You left him all alone in his hour of need. He was fighting demons with alcohol and didn’t know how to tell you he loved you.

A weight put a stop to your churning stomach. It sat heavy on your torso.

You should go check on him.

“No, you shouldn’t.” Something incredulous says within your mind.

You feel a dammed tear break free and fall sideways toward your ear. But he might be hurt.

“You are hurt.” The same voice replies quickly.

Aaron didn’t mean it. It’s just what happened when he got sad.

“When he got drunk, you mean.”

People do stupid things when they’re drunk. He still loves you.

“You don’t treat the people you love like that.” It was Spencer’s voice of reason you were hearing in your mind. His intense words of comfort return to you from the night before. “You do not deserve to be treated like that.”

The dam of tears breaks in your other eye. It was hard to control your breathing so it didn’t press against your sore ribs.

He’s sorry for doing it. He always apologizes.

“Only when he thinks you’ll leave him.” You never told Spencer that, but it was still his voice that spoke sense to you.

It was strange, you thought. Usually, your voice of reason is the gentle voice of your mother. It had grown quiet the last many months. You were forgetting what she sounded like.

The lump growing in your throat was helping the scratchiness. Your eyes flicker to the door and notice something peculiar. Shadows were peeking from beneath the door. Someone was standing just beyond it.

Then they walk away. They come back. Back and forth.

They pause at the door again and the wood creaks. Maybe he was pressing a hand to it as he leaned in to listen for your breathing – a sign you were awake.

Spencer.

You sniffle as a laugh tries to escape the bubble in your throat. It sounds like a soft cry. And suddenly the itchy tracks falling from either side of your face flow like salty rivers. It hurts to breathe, to cry.

“(Y/N)?” you hear from behind the door. “Can I come in?”

Your hands fist the blankets, trying to control the painful aches becoming much more apparent with each rib cracking breath.

The shadows fidget and sway as they wait beneath the door. “(Y/N)? Are you okay?” Spencer has one hand on the door handle and his forehead resting against the white wood grain before him. “I’m going to come in, alright?”

The handle turns and you avoid his face. Aaron never liked to see you cry.

Spencer walks over gingerly, but you can see his urgency in the way his arms lay stiff at his sides, and his fingers were restless against his palms.

Aaron would say suck it up. Stop crying. Get over yourself. His life is hard and you don’t see him blubbering, do you?

In a second, Spencer is kneeling at your bedside, hands resting on top of the mattress but not daring to use them. His index finger and thumb just pinch the other fingers to keep them still. “It’s okay.”

You frown, still avoiding his gaze.

He takes the time to look at all your visible injuries. “I know it probably hurts.” He has to pinch his fingers harder to keep them from acting without his permission. “Maybe we should go to the ER.”

“No,” you say hoarsely, but firmly.

Spencer swallows hard, anger rising in him at the swelling and discoloration that had taken up the left side of your face. “Your ribs still hurt? Some of them might be broken.”

You wince at another breath, “I’ll be okay.”

“Don’t they need to take a scan or something to make sure your lungs are okay?”

“I don’t want to,” you say quietly. “I... I shouldn’t have called you. I’ve probably ruined your whole weekend.” You start to inch your way into a sitting position, choosing to look away from the hurt in Spencer’s face.

He goes to touch your rising arm, and you flinch away.

He hesitates. He puts his hand back down. “I’m glad you called me. I want you to be here.”

You concentrate on what movement brought the least amount of pain as you sit stony on the mattress. “I didn’t want to drag you into this.” You finally look at his face and see something warm and imploring in the way he looked at you. “Look... I’ve made you sad.”

He blinks a few times; a quiver in his cheek tells you he’s trying to be quick witted in how he changes his demeanor. “No, you’ve made me feel... happy.” His face goes placid at thinking he’s said the wrong thing, “Maybe not happy, but... grateful. That you chose to call me last night.”

You sigh, looking at him with a surge of endearment.

He still looks fearful he might have messed up. “You don’t have to feel regret over that.”

While having his voice of reason speak to your nonsensical thoughts in your mind, it was much nicer to hear them aloud. “I’m fighting the urge to go back and apologize.”

Something steely hardens Spencer’s eyes for a fraction of a second. He looks like he’s going to say something angry. You’ve never felt fear around Spencer, but you didn’t like the flicker of anxiety that tickles your ribs.

Spencer does something that you’re not used to. He swallows the angry retort and instead takes a deep breath. “I don’t think you should do that. He doesn’t deserve the air you breathe around him.”

Your lips finally quirk upwards in the corners. One of your hands going to wipe away the salty tracks from your face. You’re soft with the tenderness to the left side of your face. “How bad is it?” you ask.

Spencer takes a moment to consider you, like he’s really looking at you. “Just a scratch.”

Your neck creaks when it turns to him, eyes searching for what you knew were the signs of a joke. “Like I said, I don’t need the ER.”

His little quip backfired, “I would rather play it safe and have you checked out. You... your face looks tenderized, (Y/N). Your ribs have got to be just as painful, if not more.”

You start to pull back the covers, and Spencer quickly gets to his feet. “I should probably get up,” you say. “I have to go back eventually.”

Spencer splutters, “I made some, uh – brunch for us. You could stay and eat something. I’ve got something frozen we... we could put against your eye. A-And it is the weekend, and we – we don’t have work.” He watches how you manage to pull the blankets off and start to swing your legs to hang over the side of the bed. “You can stay... you – you should stay. I w-want you to stay.”

Hands keeping you steady against the mattress, you now look at the rambling boy in front of you. He’s still wearing pajamas from last night. He never came into his room to change. You look down and see the rock band t-shirt and the sweats he let you borrow.

“I’ve asked too much of you,” you say as you attempt to stand without aggravating your already screaming ribs. “I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

Spencer looks to be on the edge of being frantic. An edge comes into his voice like when you two were bickering about sleeping arrangements the night before. “I’m telling you, (Y/N), that I want you to be here. I don’t want you to go. You need to rest and I... I want to help.”

You stand crookedly to find the position that hurts the least. “You have helped, Spence. I don’t want to put any more of this on you. I was... I was in a bad place last night. And you came.” You look at him with a heart full of warmth. “Thank you for coming when I called.”

“Always,” he says instantly. “I will always come when you call.”

Something in your heart tells you that he means that. And a small inkling within your heart believes him.

“But I should get back and try to calm the situation. He’ll be worried about where I am.” You walk forward and Spencer, being so afraid of making you feel uncomfortable, steps aside as an unfathomable feeling builds in his veins. You want to go back to Aaron?

What about your little confession last night? You were ashamed to be convinced it was okay to be beaten by the guy.

He hears the bathroom door close and he retreats to the kitchen. There are chocolate chip pancakes warming on a skillet and he has a Lego set sitting on the living room coffee table, a favorite drink of yours resting beside the box. He has a cloth and painkillers on the counter, to alleviate the aches and pains with a frozen bag and medicine. He even has your old clothes from last night in the dryer. His morning started with treating a couple blood spots around the neckline of the shirt.

Why the hell did you want to go back to Aaron? He hears the sink turn on in the bathroom.

Aaron was a piece of shit that somehow manipulated his way into your heart. You were so isolated and abused by this man that you still wanted to go back after breaking bones. Spencer thought any sane person would avoid that at all costs. At least call the cops and get a restraining order. But what did he know about the cycle of abuse.

He tried to talk to Courtney and Shayne about it a couple of times. He trusted them and knew they had similar suspicions like everyone else at Smosh. How could he convince you that Aaron was an abuser and you were caught in his web. How could he tell you without making you feel small and like an idiot – the word you used just last night to describe the situation.

He had texted them earlier that morning to give them heads up that he wouldn’t make it to movie night. You needed him and they were very understanding. No doubt they would be worried about you while they shot pickups at Smosh that day.

You were in denial.

“Hey Spence, where are my clothes?” You were back from the bathroom and noticed the warming pancakes. “Oh, Spencer...”

“They’re in the dryer,” he says quietly, still plagued with the complexities of his thoughts. “You should stay at least until they’re dry. We can eat while we wait.” He goes over to the freezer to grab a frozen bag while you round the kitchen counter, with a soft smile on your bruised face.

Your dad used to make Saturday pancakes.

It was hard to look in the mirror and see a mass of blue and purple. But it was nothing some makeup couldn’t hide. You were quite good at that. As you hold the spatula to slide a pancake onto a waiting plate, Spencer appeared beside you with a frozen bag of vegetables wrapped in a thin cloth.

“Here, hold this to your face. I have some painkillers by your drink in the living room.” He was cautious to trade the spatula for the ice pack, not wanting to touch you if that still made you flinch.

You hold the bag and whisper a ‘thank you’ to him before shuffling towards the couch. Spencer is delighted you finally did something without a retort. He stacks a couple of pancakes onto a plate and covers them in butter and warm buttermilk syrup. He offers them to you and opts to take a seat on the floor beside you, still not wishing to make you uncomfortable.

Your eyes flicker from the Lego set to the back of Spencer’s head as he takes the remote to find something easy to watch in the background.

“How long will the clothes be?” you ask.

Spencer was glad his face was hidden from you. He didn’t like stretching the truth to you. “Maybe a little less than an hour.”

You nod, “Well, maybe we could do Legos until they’re ready.”

“I’d like that,” Spencer says, leaning into the couch with a soft smile.

~~~

Somehow an hour turned into a few more. You were pleasantly distracted by Spencer and the sitcom playing in the background. Your phone of many notifications was still hiding in his bedroom.

It was warm and comfortable and... safe there with Spencer. It was easy. There wasn’t a general air of disdain that put worry in your stomach. Spencer was kind. He was quiet and observant and gentle with you.

That surge of endearment grew within you.

That was until something began pounding on the door.

You jump on the couch as you and Spencer turn to the door. “What in the...?” Spencer begins, but another few knocks pound into his door.

“(Y/N)!”

Something cold turns your insides into lead. “Oh no...” you whisper. You look down and see you’re still in Spencer’s pajamas. “Oh no.” You say louder as you run into the bedroom to grab your phone.

Spencer stands with a mixture of apprehension and fury building inside him. He was not a violent person. He wasn’t even an angry person. But something burned in his chest and made his fingers clench.

He walked to the door to see it visibly bounce against the fist of the shit stain that was on the other side.

Expression calm, Spencer opens the door a couple inches, “Yes.”

A larger man stands before him; shoulders tense and a wrathful look in his face.

“Where is she?” he says lowly.

“Who?” Spencer plays stupidly.

Aaron clenches his jaw, “Are you mocking me?”

He had to be a couple inches taller than Spencer. “I’m calling you rude. You show up like this and think I should be respectful? Ask me a proper question.”

You appear behind him, “It’s okay, Spencer. Just ignore it.”

Aaron immediately shoves open the door with a hand, “I knew it. You think you can...” he spots what you’re wearing. “Holy shit. You’ve been caught right in the fucking act.” He laughs a curt, cold laugh. “You’re not even trying to hide it. I knew you were up to something.” He jabs a finger at your cowered frame. “And this just fucking proves it. Proves what a cheating bitch you are.”

You’re folding in on yourself; your voice the quietest Spencer had ever heard it. “Aaron, baby – it's not what it looks like.”

“The fuck it isn’t!” he says louder. “You run away and don’t answer your phone. What was I supposed to think? I had to drive to that fucking playhouse you call work to find out where you were. You have a fucking location on your phone for a reason. You think you can make some fuck-ass move like turning it off so I wouldn’t know you’re cheating on me?”

He takes a step closer to you and Spencer cuts in front of him. “You need to leave.”

“The hell I do!” Aaron yells, “I’m here to take back what’s mine.”

“It’s okay, Spencer. Just let it go.” You lay a hand on Spencer’s shoulder to nudge him away. “I’ll go with him.”

“She doesn’t have to go with you,” Spencer says firmly. He was starting to visibly shake.

Aaron stared at him with such malice. “You enjoy fucking my girlfriend? You like being with that lying bitch?”

“He didn’t mean it, baby,” you wriggle your way between the two. Your hands are on Aaron’s chest. “Let’s go. I’ll go with you.” Your voice is timid as you plead with him placatingly, “Please, I’m sorry baby. I’m sorry – I know you’ve been worried...”

“Shut up,” he says, grabbing harshly at your wrist, leashing you to him. “I want to hear what the little man has to say.”

Spencer was not prone to anger. But a fury like nothing he had experienced before was making his arms tremble. “Big talk calling me little when you have to resort to hitting your girlfriend to make her stay with you.”

You turn to flash a surprised look at Spencer.

Aaron looks ready to explode. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

The fear that Spencer would be hurt swells inside you. “Everyone is upset, Aaron. We should leave and cool off. See? I’m going with you, just like you want. We can go home. I’ll go with you back home.”

Aaron takes another step forward, one hand keeping a bruising hold on your arm and the other ready to strike. “You think we should leave before I teach this dick a lesson?”

“No, don’t, please,” you say. It breaks Spencer’s heart. “I’ll go with you. You can talk to me. Teach me the lesson.”

Spencer did not like the sound of that. “Leave her alone.”

“What did you say?” Aaron asks.

“I don’t have patience for fucking bullies like you. You don’t deserve an ounce of the care she’s showing you. How fucking dare you lay a fucking finger on her.”

You start to get frantic, “He doesn’t mean it, Aaron. He’s upset just like you. Let’s go and...”

Aaron growls, “I won’t be babied by you!” He throws you behind him, forcing you to smack into the wall beside the door. He turns to Spencer, “I won’t be talked to by some bitch boy who steals another man's girl.”

“She called me, Aaron,” Spencer says to his face. “She called me. And I didn’t have to hit her or shout profanities at her to make her do that. How does that make your fragile ego feel?”

In an instant, Aaron’s fist collided with Spencer’s face, sending him reeling.

“No!” you shriek, taking hold of Aaron’s clenched fist. “No, not to him. Don’t touch him, please. I’ll do whatever you want. You can do it to me. Don’t hurt him, please. Let’s go – let's just go. I want to go with you, baby. Let’s go.” You start to pull on his hand through the open front door, “We can do whatever you want. Whatever you want.”

Aaron allows you to tug him through the door, breathing heavy and flexing the fingers he used as a fist.

Spencer regains his footing and follows you out the door. His face stung but it was nothing compared to the fury in him. He pulls out his phone and dials 911. He tells the dispatcher an assault happened at his home and gave the address.

“You calling the cops now?” Aaron attempts to mock him. “Can’t handle this like a man?”

You freeze on the steps. Spencer was actually calling the police?

“What, you can’t handle the consequences of your actions like a man either?” Spencer retorts, “A womanizer who beats others down to feed their own insecurity? Face it like the so-called man you are, Aaron. Get your shit together and have some self-respect.” A small voice on the phone was trying to give Spencer directions on how to handle the situation.

Aaron was bristling again, “I oughta beat the shit out of you.”

“I fucking dare you,” Spencer says, waving his phone in the air between them. “Gives more evidence.”

“What kind of man doesn’t fight back?” Aaron says, walking towards Spencer again. “You enjoy being beat?”

You try to intervene again. “Let’s all walk away before anyone else gets hurt. Back off for a second,” you look over your shoulder to see the red mark on Spencer’s cheek before addressing Aaron fully.

“God, woman,” Aaron exasperates. “How many times do I have to tell you to shut the hell up when I’m fucking talking?” His arm swings out to force you out of the way. A small cry escapes you as Spencer steps forward to pull you to him and out of the way of Aaron’s hand.

“Sorry,” he mutters with his free hand pushing you behind him. But now that he has a hand on you, he didn’t want to let you go. He wanted to feel you safe and shielded behind him.

You sigh in a sad way, leaning your forehead into his back as he keeps one arm wrapped behind himself and around your waist. Maybe your sigh was a slight sigh of relief. Spencer inches the pair of you backwards toward the house as he relays what just happened into the phone for the dispatcher.

“You son of bitch,” Aaron steps forward to match your retreating figures. “I wasn’t going to hit her. Just smack her around a bit. She got in the line of fire; it’s her own damn fault!”

The police were about two minutes out, the dispatcher says.

“You’re going to stay right there,” Spencer says, still guiding you and himself back towards the house. “You’re going to stay right fucking there.”

“You don’t talk to me like that.” Aaron says, completely over it now.

You hear that snap in his voice. The moment before he really did something awful. Your fingers dig into Spencer’s shoulders, bunching the fabric of his shirt. His hand tightens around you, keeping you pressed into him as he shields you.

“I’ll talk to an abuser however the fuck I want,” Spencer retorts. “You do not have my respect.”

“Like you know the meaning of the word,” Aaron says in his low, menacing tone. He advances the pair of you, hands reaching for the front of Spencer’s shirt.

With an almighty heave, Spencer is thrown to the pavement, phone skittering out of his hand and scraping away on the cement. You shriek as your shield is torn from you.

Aaron straddles Spencer and picks him up by the collar of his shirt, “I beat the shit out of that girl and I like her. Imagine what I would do to you.” And he cocks his fist into the air as you run over, screaming in a way that had Spencer’s heart at attention.

“No, don’t! Stop!” You wrap your hands around Aaron’s arm and pull, but with the momentum of his swig, you’re knocked off balance.

He wails a few punches into Spencer’s face. Spence’s glasses fly off his nose. You crawl to Aaron’s back and start pounding on him. Anything – anything – to distract him or get him to stop. You felt so weak against him.

Spencer finally gathers his wits enough to thrust his knee up into Aaron. There are police sirens blaring in the distance.

Aaron keels over and rolls onto his side. During the momentary weakness, Spencer gains the advantage and straddles Aaron. He gets a fistful of Aaron’s shirt and starts to land punches to the coward's face.

It was fury Spencer had never felt before. He had never felt so angry and feral in his life. He just knew he wanted to incapacitate this man before he could lay another finger on you. He wanted him down, and to stay down.

You’re shocked to see that kind of violence come from Spencer. Your sweet and gentle Spencer. Your hands are over your mouth for a few seconds as the police are right around the corner.

Aaron regains control as his hands fly to Spencer’s throat, choking him and throwing him to the side. He growls like a wounded dog, rising to his knees and crawling to Spencer.

You run at him and try to push him over to no avail. You aim a hard kick to his stomach, but he sees it coming. He catches your ankle reflexively and yanks your feet out from under you. You fall onto your back and smack your head into the pavement.

Your already broken ribs pop around like loose change in your chest, but you can’t cry out with the air knocked from your lungs.

But in another instant, uniformed men and women swarm the trio. Two men pull Aaron off of Spencer and drag him to the curb. A woman runs to you, yelling something about an ambulance in the walkie strapped to her vest.

“Hey there, sweetie,” she says, “Don’t move now, just stay still for a second.” She assesses the way your face is screwed up, trying to breathe.

Spencer is panting, getting to his feet shakily and attempting to reach your side without his glasses. He falls to his knees beside you, “(Y/N)?”

Your eyes burn from the pains of your injuries. “I’m sorry,” you whisper.

The officer woman looks hurt. She could see your past bruising along with the fresh ones. She had her assumptions about what was going on, and it put a painful grimace on her face. “You’ll be all right, (Y/N).” She said your name with kindness, “An ambulance is on the way to get you some more help.”

Spencer was slouched beside you, ignoring the ruckus of profanities and swinging limbs that was Aaron being arrested. “I’m sorry,” he says, “For opening the door before calling the police.”

You raise your hand to find him. He takes your hand and does something he’s never done before. He raises your hand to his mouth and kisses your fingers. Once. Twice. He holds them tightly and rests his chin there as he looks at you blearily.

“I didn’t want you to get hurt,” you say quietly.

“I know,” he says. “But I didn’t want you to get hurt even more.”

You swallow hard, “How did we get into this mess?”

Spencer laughs. It’s thick with emotion. “Well, I think it started when I fell for you.”

The pain in your chest is numbed by something new.

“During those late nights at that gas station.” He doesn’t look at you, just reminices as he looks at your hand between his. “I just took too long. I was too afraid to say anything.”

You wrap your fingers around one of his hands. “You... for that long?”

“Anyone at work could tell you. I wouldn’t shut up about you.”

“Why didn’t you say anything when we became friends?” you ask quietly. The officer had stood up to give you two some space.

“I thought it would be enough... just being friends with you.” He starts to rub his thumb up and down your hand. “I’d rather be friends with you than not have you in my life at all. I was just too late.”

You swallow, waiting for him to look at you. “It’s not too late.”

His blue-gray eyes find you, if not a little unfocused.

“I don’t want it to be too late.”

~~~

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