[23] Sup. I just wanna read some good stuff and recognize authors for their good stuff. I also occasionally write some stuff myself. requests are welcomed :) https://writing-appreciation.tumblr.com/post/185735442883/masterlist
spencer saw how nervous you were to truly express yourself during sex... so he taught you a thing or two
genre: smut
wc: 400
warnings: unprotected piv, clit pinching, established relationship, boyfriend!spencer, reader embarrassed to be heard, spencer forcing her to be loud
a/n: little blurb while i write something actually good<3 inspired by this edit LOL
Your mouth was sewn shut by embarrassment. You feared being too loud and having the entire building learn Spencerâs name.
Your hand came up to cover your parted lips as your boyfriendâs cock rammed into your cervix. Small whimpers were the only sounds you allowed yourself to spill. Something about your guy was that he liked hearing what you were feeling.
His fingers pulled your hand away from your face and pushed it against the sheets. âSpencerââ
âWhat?â he panted.
âIt feels too good, I canâtââ
âLet it out. Please.â You didnât think youâd ever heard him so desperate.
You whined, âI canât.â
His fingers moved to your clit in an instant, pulling a moan from you. Your teeth dug into your bottom lip so hard it hurt.
His other hand grabbed your chin to force your jaw open. Heavy sighs filled the room.
When he started to get impatient, he pinched your clit between his thumb and index finger to force a scream from you. And then came a frustrated huff. âSpencer, please!â you grumbled with your jaw still held open.
He brought his head down to yours and kissed you deep. His tongue pressed against yours while his tip repeatedly found your cervix.
âTell me.â
Your eyes fogged over as you murmured a dead, âwhat?â
âTell me how it feels.â
If you had a better working brain youâd have rolled your eyes.
âYou know,â you slapped his bare shoulder.
âI donât,â Spencer breathed, âtell me.â
âGood,â you whined. âFuck, it feels good.â
He nodded as heavy pants forced their way out of his lungs. âShow me.â
With frustration, you groaned.Â
Again, he roughly toyed with your sensitive clit. And once again, you yelped. You cried out his name loud enough for his neighbors to hear.
âThatâs it, good job.â His words were mostly air at that point. His body ached from the exertion and holding back.
âSpencer, please, Iâm gonna cum.â
As if uttering, âI know,â he nodded and switched to far gentler passes on your throbbing cunt.
Embarrassingly quick, your orgasm hit you. Your legs shook around his waist as his own cum started to drip from your hole.
He crashed against you, lips pressed to your shoulder. âNot so bad, right?â
But Spencer had been looking at you like thatârumpled curls, shirt half-buttoned, a smug little smirk on his stupidly handsome faceâand you had gone full slut. Now it was 7:12 AM, and you were in your bathroom mirror trying to make concealer do what no government-issued forensic cover-up ever could.
Your throat looked ravaged.
You tilted your head and winced. A neat ring of bruises, Spencerâs fingers like little trophies circling your neck in deep plum and ink-blue. And then the hickeysâdear God, the hickeys. He looked like a vampire victim.
You turned back to the bedroom, horrified. âWe cannot go to the office like this.â
He was shirtless, bent over tying his shoes, and it was justâunfair. All lean lines and lanky muscle and a constellation of bruises blooming like wildflowers across his neck and shoulders.
You whistled. âI really went to town on you.â
âYou bit me,â he said, straightening and pointing to a crescent mark just below his collarbone. âYou left dental evidence.â
You shrugged. âIt was a compliment. In the moment.â
He stared at you. âWe have to go to work. With Hotch. And Morgan. And JJ. And Garcia. And we have a case briefing,â he said, rubbing his face like it physically pained him to remember.
You were too busy dabbing concealer onto your neck like a madwoman to look back at him. âYouâre literally the smartest person in the Bureau and you let this happen.â
âExcuse me?â he shot back, slipping on his button-up with a hiss. âYou bit me like I was a chew toy!â
âOnly because you saidââ You stopped yourself. âNever mind.â
He raised a brow. ââOnly because I saidâŚ?â What?â
You muttered something about having a latex allergy and being turned on by fucking raw and kept blending.
You arrived at Quantico seven minutes late, coffee in hand, silently daring the elevator to move faster as you and Spencer stood like statues inside.
You sit down two chairs away from Spencer. Not next to him. Never next to him. You learned that lesson last week when you accidentally let your knees touch under the table and Morgan nearly imploded from curiosity.
Heâs wearing a scarf.
Spencer Reid is wearing a scarf. In July.
JJ arches a brow. Morgan outright snorts. âPretty boy, whatâs with the neckwear? You join a jazz band?â
You immediately shove a too-hot sip of coffee in your mouth to avoid making a noise. Spencer blinks at Morgan like a man choosing violence.
âHad a sore throat this morning,â he says too quickly. âDidnât want it to get worse.â
Garcia, bless her meddling heart, swivels around in her chair. âOh no! Are you sick? Do you need tea? I have lemon ginger in my deskââ
âNo! No. Iâm fine.â Spencer coughs, like heâs trying to make the lie more convincing. âJust⌠precautionary.â
Emilyâs eyes flick from him to you, to the scarf, to your turtleneck, then down to your wrists, where you accidentally forgot to cover one of his bruises with foundation. A ring-shaped imprint from his hand still lingers faintly. Her brow arches. Her mouth twitches.
You pretend not to notice. You focus on the whiteboard.
Hotch walks in, files in hand.
âMorning,â he says. âBriefingâs starting now. Letâs keep it efficient.â
9:12am Post-Brief Coffee
Youâre waiting for coffee when Emily walks in, holding a mug and a smug look.
âNice neck,â she says casually.
You freeze. âExcuse me?â
âYou and Reid are really subtle, you know that?â
You nearly spill your drink. âWeâre notââ
She holds up her hand. âRelax. I donât care. Just⌠maybe cool it with the murdery makeout sessions before team meetings.â
Your face burns. âNoted.â
âAnd FYI,â she adds, stepping past you, âyouâve got a bite mark on your shoulder. Left side. Might wanna rethink the tank top.â You glance down and swear under your breath.
Walking back to your desk, coffee in hand before you collapse into your chair. Spencer sent you a text from across the bullpen:
SPENCER: We are so bad at being secretive.
YOU: I told you not to leave a fingerprint on my neck.
SPENCER: You told me to choke you.
YOU: I was drunk on your nerd dick. That doesnât count.
SPENCER: Fair. Still. We need a new plan.
YOU: New plan: no more fucking before briefings.
SPENCER: Counter-offer: we fuck gently next time.
You met his eyes across the room.
That smug little smile was back. You bit your lip.
the highest highs and the lowest lows of your on-again off-again relationship with spencer reid, tracked through the seasons of a year.
18+ (smut, angst, fluff)
warnings/tags: (spoiler tags at the bottom of post) reader gets drunk a few times, questionable consent (not between Spencer and reader), much codependence, softdom Spencer/sub reader, oral m receiving, finger sucking lol, deep pen piv/intense sex, mention of marks being left, praise tho dw he is soso nice and loves her, fighting/yelling/sex as reconciliation, general toxicity and lots of it DDDNE!! avoidant!reader, panic attacks, joke abt r being high off cough syrup when sheâs sick and Spencer is taking care of her, implied trauma, IM MAKING IT SOUND CRAZY BUT THERE IS A LOT OF STRAIGHT UP FLUFF IN HERE GUYS PLS THEY ARE SO CUTE A BUNCH OF TIMES. wc 23k (!) longest nereid fic ever!also had to squish 167 lines together so the first half is a bit compact I apologize!!
a/n: yeaaaahâŚ. Thanks for being patient w me guys :â)) I miss posting sosososo much and I out genuinely probably days into this fic like once I was writing for 15 hrs straight. So. Yeah. I so so hope u enjoy and I love u miss u MWAH
February 17th
You donât know when you last blinked.Â
Flickering blue and white light washes deep into the backs of your eyes as you stare at some old film without watching it. A knight atop his steed warps and stretches gruesomely under your apathetic observation, and whatever noble speech heâs giving turns to monotone slurry before it hits your earsâold-fashioned English smeared in 1960âs transatlantia. A buzzy drone in iambic pentameter. The sluggish pound and gush, pound and gush, of a failing heart.Â
Spencer said youâd love this movie.
âYou okay?â
The question draws you from your fugue state, and you turn, eyes so dry they sting when you finally blink. Heâs comfortable. Youâve been here for hoursâenough time for his hair to tousle, enough time he decided to trade his contacts for glasses. When you look at him, there is only static.Â
You must be having one of those nights again. Something in your body refuses to succumb to the comfort his presence should offer, regardless of how many hours youâve spent together. Or days, or months.Â
Itâs awful because you fought to be here, sitting on his couch, sharing a blanket. You fought every instinct in your body for so long just to get to this point because you wanted it so badly, and now that you have itânow that youâve had it, this weekend, and last weekend, and every weekend you havenât been out of town on a case for monthsâyou struggle to let it feel good.Â
Spencer is looking at you like he loves you. He doesnât know how to look at you any other way.Â
Sometimes you donât feel like this. Sometimes itâs easy.
That doesnât make the guilt in the pit of your stomach any smaller when itâs not.Â
The only thing you know is that youâll want it again. This is what youâll want tomorrow morning, or in an hour, or the second heâs gone. Youâll want it so badly youâd humiliate yourself for it. And humiliation in front of him is a fate worse than death. So you find ways to want him in the present.Â
This is the right thing.Â
âIâm fine,â you promise. His brow flickers. The knightâs shining armor makes a glare off the lenses of Spencerâs glasses.Â
Before he can say anything, you lean into his side, dropping your head to his shoulder and settling your weight against him. Immediately heâs wrapping an arm around you like you knew he would, because he doesnât have a choice. Not when it comes to you. You donât give yourself time to feel bad about that. Instead, you press your lips to the bit of collarbone visible over the neckline of his shirt. A series of kisses litter the warmth of his throat. You take and take like an invasive species. A hand pushes into his hair.Â
Thereâs hesitance in the way he kisses you back as you sling a leg over his lap. So you take more. You kiss him harder. You need his hands on you, you need him to hold you by your thighs or your hips or your waist like heâs not afraid. At least one of you mustnât be so scared.Â
Spencer only requires a few more moments before his will melts, and he grabs you how you knew he would. Like heâs going to make something of you. Heâs going to make you his. Heâs going to break you and put you back together stronger, and heâs going to tell you what you are. Thatâs all you needâyou just need him to keep trying. This is a promise you need him to keep making.Â
âPause the movie,â you breathe into his waiting mouth.Â
Heâs warm. He keeps you safe.Â
March 9th
The heat in your apartment kicks on with a rumble that seems to shake the whole place. Itâs the first noise in minutes.Â
Spencer is at your little wooden dining table, hair mussed, pajama pants rumpled, staring into a chipped mug half-full of black coffee. You stand in the kitchen, countertop digging into your hip as you watch him. Outside, the sky is still spilled winter ink. The only light comes from a lamp youâd bought with him months ago at an antique shop. The stove clock flicks from 1:31 to 1:32.Â
The ringing silence is killing you.Â
âSpencerââ
âIââ he stops and you watch his throat bob. âI donât understandââ
âI explained it to youââ
âYou explained what? That youâyou donât care about me as much as I care about you, and you want to be together, but you donât want me to think of it as a real relationship, and youâre letting me know out of courtesy? What am I supposed to do with that?â
âDonât twist my words. I do care about you. A lot. I justâwhen we started this a few months ago you knew where I was at with commitment, and we agreed weâd be honest and communicate about what we were feelingâand what Iâm feeling is that Iâm not ready for this to be more than what it is! You knew that was a possibility, I knew that was a possibility. It doesnât mean I donât care about you. It just means Iâm not ready for⌠for labels, or telling the team, orâor putting pressure on ourselves to try and be something we donât have the time to be right now.â
Spencer looks at you with something close to disdain. Itâs sort of like a bullet to a flack-jacketâit wonât kill you, because youâve made sure to protect yourself. But it hurts.Â
âI make the time. Thatâs what you do when you care about someone. I meanâwhere am I, when weâre not on a case? Iâm here. I coordinate my entire life so that I can be here when you want me to be. Do you think I do that because itâs convenient for me? We have the same 24 hours. We have the same job. Itâs not about time. Donât insult me by saying thatâs what this is.â
âIâm not trying to insult you.â The words come out an unsure waverâbut itâs not because you donât believe what youâre saying.Â
I coordinate my entire life so that I can be here when you want me to be.Â
Why? Why would he do that?
Spencer is not gracious in the face of your silence. Maybe he interprets your inability to put words togetherâthe way you froze as soon as he casually admitted something that feels so oppressive and suffocatingâI coordinate my entire life so that I can be here when you want me to beâas your silent way of admitting heâs right, and you donât care about him.Â
But heâs not right. You just canât breathe. Why does he care about you so much?
Someone would have to be looking very closely at you in order to care that much. To think youâre worth the trouble. But youâve taken steps, your whole life, to ensure that nobody will ever be able to see you close enough. If they did, theyâd notice all the structural flaws. The deep cracks and the sagging floorboards and the mold youâve been covering in paint.Â
You feel your throat closing as he stands.Â
Yes. Leave. Get out. Donât look at me.Â
March 13th
âSpencer.â
The name drips from your lips like melted sugar. Like a term of endearment. Just saying it makes you warmer. Itâs maple syrup in your veins. You try to tug your dress down your thighs and stumble in place. The bartender holding your phone twists his wrist to speak into the microphone.Â
âHey, man. Your girlfriend is wasted. Cabs arenât running and you need to come pick her up before she throws up all over my bar or wanders into traffic or some shit.â
âIâm notâIâm not wasted,â you mutter, pushing hair out of your face. Neither of them are listening as the bartender relays your location and assures Spencer that an eye will be kept on you until his arrival. As soon as theyâre done, youâre leaning forward over the bar. âGimme him,â you whisper-shout, making a grabby-hand.Â
The bartender passes you your phone with raised eyebrows. âHeâll be here soon.â
âBut heâsâheâs not on the phone?â You realize, closing your eyes and frowning as the heartbreak processes.Â
âNah. Drink this and sit tight. And donât fuckinâ throw up. Please.â
You sigh and sip on a lemon water, smearing lipgloss all over the rim of the glass and wiping a dribble off your chin after you swallow. âSpencerâs my boyfriend,â you tell the man, dreamily.Â
âSo youâve told me.âÂ
âHeâs so handsome⌠and smart⌠and weâre in theâthe FBI. Can you believe that?â You cackle and slap the bar top. Mr. Bartender only hums an uh-huh as he focuses on making someone else a drink.Â
When Spencer does finally arrive, youâre elated. Glitter courses through your veins. More than that, youâre relievedâyou catch his eye and light up, and when he makes his way through the throng to you, youâre ready to melt all over him. You havenât spoken to him in days.Â
âYouâre here!â You sing, hooking an arm around his back and resting your head on his bicep, looking up at him with big, bleary eyes. Spencer supports you with an arm and doesnât let go even as heâs fishing out his wallet to settle the bill you racked up. âWait, Spenceâwe should have one more drink.â
Heâs not looking at you as he speaks. âAbsolutely not.â And then, to the bartender, âThanks, man.â
âSpencer,â you begin again, savoring his name on your tongue and admiring his profile as he walks you out of the bar. âI told everyone I met tonight that youâre my boyfriend.â
âI heard,â he says simply, scanning the street before you cross. Presumably the wind is whipping at your bare legs, but you donât feel it. âWhyâd you do that?â
âBecauseâŚâ you hum thoughtfully. âBecause I like you so much. And I liked thinking about you being my boyfriend.â
He doesnât respond. Even now, even drunk as you areâa very small part of you knows this is cruel. Just last weekend youâd let him walk out of your apartment precisely because you werenât willing to label things.Â
In the morning, that will still be true. But this is just play-pretend.Â
âAlso, becauseâisnât itâisnât it crazy, that youâre the nicest, prettiest, smartest, best guy ever, and they believed me? I showed them pictures and told them about your degrees and everything and they still believed me. They believedâthey believed when I said youâre my boyfriend. They didnât even question it at all. Like, what? They thought I was good enough to deserve you.â
The sidelong glance he casts you then is like a grappling hook, and you stumble into his side. His brows are knit over eyes that have gone glassy black in the dark, illuminated only by the shifting reflection of each haloed street lamp you pass. Itâs hypnotizing. âYou think youâre not good enough for me?â He asks.Â
You hiccup and clap a hand to your mouth, stickying your palm with remnant gloss. âOops. No. I mean, yes.â
Heâs on the verge of replying when the smell of something fried and sweet has you perking up like a bloodhound. A blinking neon sign behind him catches your eye. âOh my god,â you interrupt. âTheyâreâholy fuck, Spencer. That donut shop across the streetâoh my god. We have to go. Please? Pleasepleasepleaseplease?â
One thing about Spencer you know to be trueâand, perhaps the characteristic of his that defines your entire relationship: he has a profoundly difficult time telling you no.Â
Which is how you end up eating donuts in his bed. The ones you couldnât finish end up in a paper bag on his bedside tableâtomorrowâs hangover remedyâand you end up safely tucked under his comforter, in his shirt, smelling of his bodywash. His touch still burns everywhere, like the paths of his fingertips had etched glowing tributaries into your skin.Â
All of this to say, you couldnât possibly be happier with the way the night unfolded. Â
It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust to the complete black of the room after he flips the bathroom light off on his way out, but you manage to track him nonetheless. You relish in the familiar dip of the mattress under his weight, the careful tug of the blanket as he gets in bed with you. As he pulls you into him, without hesitation, itâs like ecstasy. Everything is okay again.
It doesnât take long for you to get close to sleepâitâs been days since youâve been able to. Just before you go under, Spencer secures you to him. He presses his lips to your temple.Â
âI love you,â you mumble. You want to say it before you canât.Â
He strokes your hip. And then youâre gone.Â
March 26th
âDid you mean it?â
You look up from the transcripts youâd been studyingâthe latest victims both had behavioral issues at school. Spencer is across from you, on the other end of the big glass conference table at the Memphis field office. Binders and notebooks and thick Manila folders form a sort of abstract frame around him as he leans back in his chair, gripping the plastic arms. His eyes are laser-focused on you. How long has he been staring at you, thinking about this?
âDid I mean what?â
âWhen you said you loved me.â
The door is closed and the blinds are shut. You almost wish this were more public so you could reasonably (and urgently) change the subject. Instead, you laugh awkwardly and cast your gaze sideways as if something in your peripheral vision could save you. âWhen did I say that?âÂ
It is very clearly the wrong question to have asked. Spencer blinks and looks down through the table at nothing, brows knitting slightly like heâs accounting for new information and adjusting his frameworks accordingly. You swallow. The trouble is, you remember saying it with perfect clarity. Youâd just been hoping he would let you off the hook for it.Â
âOkay,â he says, after a few eternal moments with only someoneâs ringing landline in the office beyond to bridge the gap of silence.Â
â⌠Okay what?â
He picks up his pencil without making eye contact. Twirls it between nimble fingers. Pulls his chair close to the table like heâs going to settle back into his work. There are times where he is capable of immersing himself in whatever heâs reading completely and immediately, but you know this is not one of those times. The petulant flash of his eyebrows, the chin balanced on his fist to hide his mouth. And that perpetually tapping pencil. For all his genius and every one of his quirks, you know he canât focus on reading and fiddle at the same time. Youâre not a profiler for nothing.Â
âSpencer.â
âWhat?â
The immediacy of it is almost enough to have you wincing.Â
âI⌠I donât know what you want me to say.â
âYou donât have to say anything. I asked you a question and you didnât know what I was talking about, so itâs fine.â
âBut youâre obviously upset.â
âIâm not obviously anything. Youâre reading into it.â
You canât help but roll your eyes. âOh my god. Says you.â
The pencil hits the tableâas does the other hand. Spencer sits up straight and looks you right in the eye. Uh oh.Â
âYou responded to my question with another question to avoid giving me a real answer because you think I wonât like what you have to say. Am I wrong?â
Your face goes hot as your mouth opens and closes uselessly a few times. A moment passes and you hate watching that vindication, that hurt, freezing him over, more solid with each second you donât speak. Mostly you hate that feeling in your throatâitâs either bile or the truth. Youâre not sure which one will come out when you open your mouth. But you have to try. Heâs backed you into a corner. You swallow.Â
âYeah. Yeah, actually, you are.â
Spencer blinks. âOh.â
âOh,â you huff mockingly, averting your eyes to the paper in front of you and strangling your pen as your cheeks positively burn.Â
More buzzing silence.Â
âSorry,â Spencer tries, having softened considerably and now obviously remorseful. âIâm sorry. I didnât mean⌠Iâm sorry. You donât have toâŚÂ say anything before youâre ready. I shouldnât have pushed.â
Still avoiding his gaze, you hum. Itâs a manic, anxious sort of sound. The nail of your thumb wears away between your teeth before you switch to picking at the dead skin on your lip. Your foot bounces as you read the name of the victim over and over again, just to have something to do. Kelly Shelton. Kelly Shelton.Â
You donât realize heâs rolled his chair over to you until thereâs a gentle hand around your wrist.Â
âStop,â he murmurs, not letting go even when you look at him indignantly. He produces chapstick from his pocket, because of course he does, and presses it into your palm. His eyes are so big and so brown and so warm, almost calf-like, that itâs very difficult to stay mad. âIâm sorry. That was unfair of me.â
âYeah. It was.â You drop your eyes to where youâre fiddling with the lip balm. His hand still rests over your wrist. If he wonât let you pick at your lips, youâre at least going to chew on themâespecially with the concession youâre about to make. âBut⌠I mean⌠you held out for a while. I guess Iâd probably be curious too.â
âSo you do remember saying it.â
You look up at him with eyes that you hope effectively say donât push your luck. At this, he has the audacity to smileâsomething smitten and stupid and cute. God, he really is easy on the eyes.
âIf you tell anyone, youâre dead,â you warn, but it comes out all wrong when youâre fighting back a twisty grin of your own. âAnd theyâll never know it was me.â
âNoted.â
âBecause I could really get away with it. Like, really. I know exactly how to throw off an investigation.â
âEasy, tiger. Put that on. Iâm going to get you some water so maybe youâll stop dessicating your lips.â
âWhy are you so worried about my lips?â You ask his retreating back.Â
Spencer barely looks over his shoulder as he clicks his tongue, like you should already know. âVested interest.â
You slink low into your seat and try not to be flustered.Â
April 15th
âThat tastes like lawn clippings.â
You laugh at the face Spencer is pulling as he lets your gelato melt on his tongue. âNo it does not! Itâs so good! You seriously donât like matcha?â
âMatcha is fine.â He points at your cup with his dinky wooden spoon. âThat is grass.â
Itâs the first warm night of spring, and you and Spencer werenât the only ones who had an itch to get out of the house. Bars and restaurants have set up their sidewalk seating. Food trucks seem to dot every corner, and on this street alone there have got to be nearing a hundred people, milling about or seated, all talking and laughing. The two of you are ambling back toward his apartment. Efficiency has not been a priority of the journey.Â
âThe lady said itâs one of their most popular ice cream flavors. It wouldnât sell if it actually tasted like grass. Youâre just delusional.â
âNot ice cream.â
You frown and suck on the wooden end of your spoon, looking up at him through narrow eyes. His hair is getting long. âWhat?â
âItâs not ice cream. Gelato and ice cream are fundamentally different.â
âHow?âÂ
âGelato uses more milk, less cream, and usually doesnât contain eggs. Itâs also meant to be served at a warmer temperature. And they have entirely different regional origins. Thus, not ice cream. If your opinion is going to be wrong, you should at least try to get the facts right.â
Spencer is smiling at his cup when you shove against him. âIf mine is so bad, let me try yours.â
âNo,â he laughs, eating another pitifully small spoonful. âBecause I know if you try mine, youâre going to realize itâs better, and then weâll have to go back.â
âThat is not going to happen. Just let me try! Please? I let you try mine!â
âForced me to,â he mutters, smile still pulling at the corners of his mouth as he slows to a stop in front of a mostly-budded spindly tree. You stand toe to toe on the sidewalk as he scoops a bite for you and holds out the spoon. As soon as you lean forward to taste it, you realize he was completely right. His is infinitely better than yours. Spencerâs lips twist and his eyes sparkle at this recognition, and youâre pissed itâs so visible on your face.Â
âYouâre making me go back, arenât you?â
ââŚÂ No. Yours isnât even good.â
âOh my god,â he laughs. âCome on.â
âMm⌠okay.â
You turn around, and immediately freeze. There, at the edge of the crowd of food-truck goers, you see a distinctly colorful and familiar silhouette. Penelope Garcia is facing away from you, but even from the back youâd never mistake her for someone else. Those metallic green platform heels had very nearly crushed your toes in the elevator just this afternoon.Â
âWe need to go.â
Spencer frowns when you turn right back around and he has to take a few quick steps to catch up when you feel no qualms about leaving him in the dust. âWhat? What happened?â He asks, craning his head to scan the crowd shrinking behind you. âIs that Penelope?â
âAnd Kevin,â you agree.Â
âOh. You donât want to say hi?â
At first you think heâs joking. But when you feel his eyes on the side of your face for a moment too long, you meet his questioning gaze. âNo, I donât wanna say hi.â
A familiar pause. The one that always comes right before he starts a fight with you. âYou donât want them to see us together?â
You sigh. âIâno. You know I donât want the team to know yet. And if Garcia finds out, itâs gonna be the whole team. Theyâll just⌠theyâll make it weird.â
âI think youâre making it weird right now. Weâre allowed to spend time together outside of work. I sincerely doubt that if they had seen us back there Penelopeâs first assumption would be that weâre together.â
Weâre not, you want to sayâbut you bite it back. Because, even if not by name, in effect you are. The only reason to remind him of that at this point would be to hurt his feelings. And youâre not cruel. Or at leastâyou donât try to be.Â
âI justâIâm not ready for that.â
âWe wouldnât have to tell anyone.â
âCan we please just drop it?âÂ
You didnât mean to snap. Luckily your brisk pace has taken you far enough away that the ambient sounds of the city will surely muffle your voices before they reach your coworkers.Â
Spencer is silent. Your gelato hits the bottom of a nearby trash can.Â
Back at his apartment, things remain slightly tense. You donât like itâhis reticence, the physical distance he maintains.Â
Spencerâs getting water in the kitchen when you wordlessly excuse yourself to his bedroom. A few minutes later, you emerge, padding quietly across the antique tile, and he turns aroundâeyes shamelessly scanning you up and down as he notes your lack of shoes. And pants, probably.Â
âI thought you were planning on going home for the night.â He sets the glass down on the counter when you donât stop coming.Â
âDonât feel like driving.â You wrap your arms around his middle and rest your cheek against his chest. âCan I stay?â
Heâs quiet a moment. You donât always reward him with overt, unapologetic affection like this. Especially not after the recurring what are we argument. âYou know you can.â
âThanks.â
After one more moment of hesitation, or reluctance, or somethingâhis arms snake around you. You relax further into him, eyes fluttering shut. âIâm sorry about earlier. With Penelope.â
The thrum of his heart could lull you to sleep.Â
âMe, too,â he murmursâand there is something like grief laced into the words. You pretend not to notice.Â
April 29th
âSorry Iâm late. Crash on the beltway,â you breathe as you blow into the roundtable room one morning, tossing your bag on the table and falling into a seat.Â
JJ nods, leaning back in her chair. âOh, yeah. Spence got delayed, too. Maybe it was the same one.â
You clear your throat and focus on flipping open a file. âYeah. Maybe.â
Spencer is holding back a grin so bright that you can practically hear the crystalline twinkling as it fights to be freed.Â
Later, you corner him by the coffee machine.Â
âYou have to stop doing that,â you mumble.Â
Heâs leaning against the counter, one hand in his suit pocketâyour favorite suit of hisâas he watches you smugly from behind his cup. âDoing what?â
The look you give him then could boil water. He maintains his innocence.Â
âAre you accusing me of something?â
âYeah, asshat. Making us late,â you hiss, only after a proprietary scan to make sure nobodyâs standing close enough to hear.Â
âFriday is statistically the most dangerous day of the week on the beltway in terms of vehicular collisions. But thereâs nothing I can do about that. You look nice today, by the way. Had a good morning?â
The audacity on him. Your face burns as you try to think of a retort, but all the signals have been interceptedâplaying clips from your rather leisurely morning in a hazy highlight reel that is most certainly not appropriate for the work place. But he doesnât let you flounder for long. Instead, heâs pushing off the counter and standing too close, just barely resting a hand on the small of your back as he reaches up to grab your mug from a shelf and you try not get dizzy from the proximity.Â
âIâll bring the coffee to you, sweetheart. Go sit down.â
The words, the gesture, are all too subtle for anyone else to notice. They turn you into a puddle of idiot. Heâs never called you sweetheart. Heâs never condescended to you like that before. Youâre pretty sure youâre not supposed to like it so much.Â
A few minutes later, the mug hits your desk. With ten words, heâd reduced you down to something shy and nervous, and you look up at him as he slides the coffee toward you like he might do something else crazy and unreasonably attractive. âThanks,â you murmur, accepting the drink and exerting excessive willpower in order to turn your attention back to the computer screen.Â
Rossi calls from the catwalk. âYou do deliveries now? Fantastic. Iâll take a cappuccino.â
âYeah. Iâll get right on that,â Spencer mumbles, and makes a beeline for his desk. You hope his face is red. Serves him right.Â
The rest of the day, youâre almostâŚÂ clingy. At lunch, you silently slide your chair over to his and begin eating without a word. Itâs not like you have anything to say, really. You just crave the comfort of his knee against yours. When he fleetingly rests his hand on your thigh under the desk, for the briefest of moments, youâre far too pleased.Â
Soon, JJ joins you, and then Penelope. But you donât mind. Sometimes the nature of your relationship with Spencer and the secrecy of it all is a major source of stress for youâbut today, it feels more like an alliance. Something special between the two of you that nobody else gets to share in.Â
You keep casting glances at him, just for the pleasure of the view. Hoping heâll be looking back. The third time you make eye contact, he shakes his head subtly and smiles down at his salad. You bite back a grin of your own, and try to focus on the story Penelope is telling. Sometimes, keeping secrets is fun.Â
May 3rd
When Garcia said the case was local, you didnât think youâd know the final victim. You didnât think youâd have to watch her die.Â
After the EMTs clear you, Spencer takes you to your apartment. You donât speak a word the entire drive. Not in the parking lot, not in the lobby or the elevator or the hallway. You donât speak in the bathroom when he quietly asks if you want help getting out of your bloodied clothes. Gently, tactfully, he coaxes a nod from you, and then heâs unbuttoning your shirt. Itâs not your blood.Â
The shower is started. Do you want me to come with you?
Another shake of your head. He respects your wish for privacy, but leaves the bathroom door cracked. Youâd never tell him how much you appreciate that.Â
After the shower, after youâre dressed, Spencer brings you tea and sits on the bed with you. At some point he changed from work clothes into pajamas heâd left here, even though he didnât ask if he could sleep over. Youâre grateful. Maybe he noticed that youâd left all the lights off, and he doesnât try to turn them on. Youâre grateful for that, too.Â
âWe donât have to talk about it right now. But we can, okay? We can talk about it whenever youâre ready.â
Another morose nod. You stare into the amber depths of your tea. Not now. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.Â
âI just wanna go to bed,â you whisper. All the screaming has shredded your throat. The words come out like rice paper.Â
Spencer holds you until the room fills with milky grey dawn light. And though neither of you are speaking, he doesnât fall asleep. You can tell from his breathing that heâs staying awake for you.Â
-
Youâre supposed to take a week off, at the least. This is not something you want. Being alone for eight hours a day sounds like itâll be the opposite of helpfulâbut so what. You can handle it. When Spencer calls to tell you thereâs a caseâthatâs when the panic starts to well.Â
You pick at your lip, and then when you remember how heâd scold you for it, switch to pulling a loose thread on your sock, phone poised in your free hand. âIâll come in.â
âYou canât,â he says, voice tinny through the speaker. âYou cannot be in the field right now. You know that.â
You sit up a little straighter, nails biting into the skin of your ankle. âWhat am I supposed to doâjustâjust rot here for however fucking long youâreâyou guys are gone?â
Spencer sighs. âI donât know. I donât want you to be alone. Iâm⌠Iâm considering sitting this one out, too.â
Your blood goes cold. âSpencer.â
A beat. âWhat?â
âYouâre not staying behind for me.â
âIâmââ
âNo. Thatâs notâthatâs not what this is. Thatâs not what we do. Youâre going to go do your job, and Iâm going to stay here.â
âYou just saidââ
âI donât care what I said! Youâre not putting me ahead of the job! Youâre not staying behind to check up on me. Iâm an adult.â
âYou donât need to lash out. Iâm just worried about you.â
âWorry about doing your fucking job. And donât call while youâre gone.â
You hang up and throw your phone at the end of the couch.Â
-
Spencer gets home at the end of the week to find his apartment broken into. The first clue was that the culprit forgot to lock the door after they used their key. The second and third clues were haphazardly untied and dropped in the middle of the living room.Â
He finds you in the dark, curled up on his side of the bed under the blanket. Spencer drops his bag and rounds the bed to you, sitting on the edge and carefully taking your head into his lap, where, as if on cue, you begin to cry. For a long while, he doesnât say anythingâonly pushes your hair out of your face with a gentle hand and fruitlessly wipes away tears. Youâre not sure youâve ever cried like this in front of him.Â
Eventually, you try to breathe, pushing the heel of your palm into your eye as if you could forcibly hold the tears in. âI c-canât believe that sheâs gone,â you gasp.Â
âI know, honey,â Spencer murmurs. âIâm so sorry.â
You sob harder. âIt sounds so s-stupid, but I canâtâI donât underst-stand how sheâs dead! I saw her last week!â
âItâs not stupid. Human brains struggle with loss because we constantly function under the assumption that people are still there even when we canât see them. Your brain is trying to contend with two incompatible realities, and itâs exhausting, and it hurts a lot. I know it does, angel.â
âI justâIÂ saw it happenâI havenât slept, becauseââ A cleaving cry pushes through your sentence, cutting you off. The air in the room is vacuous around your grief.Â
âI know,â Spencer whispers again. His voice is so tender it bruises more than it breaks. âI know. I wish you hadnât. Iâm sorry.â
The fact that you went days without talking or even exchanging a text goes unmentioned. Your outburst goes unmentioned. Still, Spencer wishes you had told him what was going on sooner. He wouldâve come back in a heartbeat. You wish that, too.Â
May 20th
Spencer is sick. Over the phone he insists that you donât come over. So you show up at his door and use your key. What is he going to do? Get up from the sofa and physically remove you? Not likely, in his state.Â
As soon as you enter the apartment, you see his head poke up from the couch. Then he groans, hoarse and congested, and drops back down. âI told you to stay away. Iâm still contagious.â
âI brought you three kinds of soup,â you say, completely ignoring his bid to send you away as you breeze into the living room and sit on the coffee table across from him, paper bag in tow. âBut I think you should start with this one. Itâs chicken noodle with garlic, ginger, and turmeric.â
âAnti-inflammatories.â
You give him a dazzling smile. âExactly. So youâll get better quicker. I looked it up.â Spencer smiles at this too. Despite the sallow skin and the darker-dark circles, the brilliance of it still has the ability to fluster youâso you move right along. âUmâI also gotâI brought honey-herb cough drops, like the ones you keep in your desk. Oh! And this immune-boosting tea. I donât know if it works, but it sounded good. And⌠I brought you orange juice for vitamin Câand, okayâyou donât have to try this, but itâs one of those, like, immune-boosting shots? Itâs just a tiny little bottle of ginger and turmeric juice, I think. Itâll probably taste bad. But I got one for me, too, so we can take them in solidarity. And maybe then I wonât get sick.â
Spencer just watches you for a moment. You smile awkwardly and pick at a thread on your jeans. âSorry, I know this is a lot. Sorry if I overdid it. I can go, if you wantâI just wanted to make sure you hadââ
âStop. This is amazing. Youâre genuinely like an angel. Thank you.â Spencer reaches out and sets a hand on your thigh. The idea that he wants to show you affection but doesnât want to risk your health is so endearing that you canât help yourselfâyou slide to your knees in front of the couch and wrap your arms around him best you can. He chuckles and hooks an arm around your back, rubbing a few short lines over your shirt.Â
After a moment you pull back, and press a fleeting kiss to his warm foreheadâbut you stay kneeling in front of him for a bit longer. Unwisely close, most likely. His eyes are bleary, glazed with illness and watercolor soft on you.Â
âWhat are you gonna tell the team if you get sick?â he murmurs, gaze tracing your face in gentle lines.Â
You hum, wrapping your hand around his forearm. âWe were doing mouth to mouth resuscitation?â
-
Turns out the immunity shots were a gimmick, because the next week, youâre sick as a dog. The team doesnât ask any questionsâitâs completely reasonable that Spencer couldâve infected you without getting his spit in your mouth.Â
âGuess what?â You ask from his couch as soon as he opens the front door, making a beeline for the kitchen to set down his groceries.Â
âWhat?â
âPenelope called me today asking why I wasnât home. Apparently after work she stopped by to bring me soup. I told her I was at the doctorâs, and she was like, at six PM? And I was like, yeah, sheâs a weird naturopathic doctor, and then she started naming all the naturopathic doctors she knows.â
âTechnically you are at the doctorâs,â Spencer reminds you as he comes to sit on the coffee table, much like youâd done last week. âYou still sound congested. Are you feeling any better?â
You lean into his touch when he checks your temperature with a cool hand to your forehead. âA little, maybe.â
Spencer frowns as he brushes his thumb across your febrile cheek, sporting that little worried line between his brows that you find so cute. âYouâre not coughing. Have you been taking that cold medicine?â
âPlenty.â
A slow smile blooms on his face in spite of the concern. âOh. So youâre high.â
âNo!â You giggle, though youâre definitely a little loopy. âAnd heyâeven if I was, thatâs medical malpractice on your part. One, you should never share prescriptions, and two, you should never let the patient administer her own doses when sheâs really sleepy and out of it.â
Spencer lets you grab his hand, running his thumb over your knuckles. âCanât leave you alone for even a day,â he scolds through a grin that oozes affection.Â
âYou know what would make me feel better, Dr. Reid?â
âWhat?â
âA kiss.â
âCanât risk it. The virus could have mutated. It might reinfect me.â
âIt wouldnât do that to me,â you promise. Spencer smiles even wider, squeezes your hand tighter.Â
âYeah? Why not?â
âBecause we go way back. Like to last week when you got sick.â
âRight. Youâre getting cut off the cough syrup, Typhoid Mary.â At that he tries to get up, presumably to go make you dinnerâbut you refuse to let go of his hand.Â
âHey, wait.â
Spencer, now standing and still holding your hand, looks down at you expectantly. Your head lolls on the pillow as you blink up at him. âLove you.â
He smiles, softer now, and kisses your wrist, right where the feverish blood flows closest to the surface. âI love you.â
After that, itâs hard to feel too bad.Â
June 6th
âCan you slow down?â Spencer follows you into the bedroom where you immediately begin yanking open drawers and shoving clothes into your duffel bag.Â
âNo, because youâre going to try and fix it, and I already told you I donât wantââ
âJesus ChristâIâm asking you to stop for one fucking second so we can talk about this.â
âI donât want to talk about it.â
âBut I do. There are two of us in this relationship, and I want to talk about it.â
âAnd I just said IÂ donât.â Half the clothes youâve accrued here are on his floor because they wouldnât fit into the bag. Both of you stomp carelessly over them toward the bathroom. Youâre grabbing products at blind from the medicine cabinet.Â
âYou are unbelievable. How many more times are you going to do this? How many times are we going to break up because youââ
You whip around, brandishing a toothbrush. âWeâre not breaking up. Weâve never broken up because we have never been together. Thatâs the fucking problemâyou always think everything means more than it does. Youâre obsessive and clingy and smothering and so fucking exhausting to be around. If you want to talk about it, there. Thatâs why this is happening.â You shove past him and he tails you down the hall.Â
âYouâre pathetic,â he calls. âTruly. This is pathetic.â
âStop talking to me.â
âYou know what your problem is? You know why we keep doing this? Youâre a coward.â
âOh my god. Great, yeah, this again. Letâs have this conversation again, please.â
âIf you donât like it maybe you should fucking listen to me this time!âÂ
The yell rings. It might be hard for the average person to get him this angry. To you, it comes naturally. It comes like switching the shower water from hot to room temperature, washing cool down your neck and shoulders.Â
âGoodbye.â Youâre making for the door, and you get so far as to open itâbut then, Spencer has his hand in a vice grip around your wrist, and heâs slamming the door shut. You startle, almost jumping back into him and then whirling around. Heâs so close you can see the freckle in his iris. âWhat the fuck is your problem?â you shoutâwhen he goes low, you go lower. âLet go.â
âI am not going to keep doing this with you,â he breathes, and his eyes are so dark, so full of gravity and swirling with angerâthat for the first time, you actually sort of believe him. âI will say this one last time.â Your heart is pounding as his tongue darts over his lips. Youâre frozen. Battered silence hangs all around, waiting to be broken and put back together for the umpteenth time this week. But he keeps his voice low. âI have been patient with you. You were taught that the people closest to you are going to let you down and hurt you. It is not your fault that those lessons are biologically ingrained into your nervous system. I understand that sometimes it doesnât feel safe to let someone in, and youâre just doing what you think you have to do. But you are an adult. Iâm done letting you use me as a scapegoat for your own attachment issues. I love you, and I care about you, and Iâm never going to punish you for caring about me. Iâm not going to hurt you for it, ever. But I am not your doormat. So I need you to understand that the smokescreens and the manipulation tactics are not going to work anymore. If you leave, itâs going to be because you are afraid. Not because Iâm clingy or obsessive or exhausting to be around. Youâre going to take accountability for what this is.â
Your wrist flexes in his hold. The words are like searing fire in your veins, in your whole bodyâburning you clean from the inside out. This is the worst thing he could have said to you. The worst thing he couldâve done while he made you look into his eyes like this. Youâd rather be stabbed. If you could, youâd play dead. But you have a terrible feeling that heâs ready to stand here, watching you, for hours. For as long as it takes you to move again.Â
âYou need to let go of me,â you whisper.Â
And he does. For a moment, you stand there, afraid to move, watching him wearily like heâs going to grab you and drag you deeper into some caveâsomewhere he can wrap you in a web and keep you there to poke at forever. But he doesnât. Not when your fingers twitch at the doorknob. Not when you twist it open. Nobody chases you down the hallway.Â
He simply lets you go.Â
June 11th
The team doesnât know about your most recent split with Spencer. They never do. No matter how many times it happens, no matter how many brutal arguments you get into, no matter how many disgusting things are said, no matter how many of his dishes you shatterâalways, without fail, the two of you will go to work the next morning, stand peaceably next to each other in the elevator, and your coworkers will remain none the wiser. How could they possibly suspect a breakup when they never knew you were together?
It makes you feel insane. Itâs like the relationship is a shared hallucination, and the only person whoâd assure you that you youâre not going crazy is the one person you donât want to talk to. And, of course, it puts you into situations like this. You and Spencer have been tasked with going to the medical examiner. Just the two of you. Aside from the hum of the wheels spinning against the wide road and the purr of the engine, the SUV is silent.Â
âTake a left up here,â Spencer eventually says.Â
You shoot him an irritated glance from the driverâs seat that he does not reciprocate. âThe GPS is on, Reid.â
âYeah, but you have it on silent. You keep missing turns. Itâs rerouted three times.â
You grimace, glancing between the road and the mapping system several times. âWhâand you didnât think to tell me?â
Spencer doesnât respond. Itâs probably for the best.Â
Fifteen minutes later, car doors are slamming in almost-unison. LA is hot todayâwhite sunlight bleaches the sidewalk and beams off the shiny car in death rays. You flip your sunglasses down over your eyes and breathe in the wind coming off the ocean, ruffling the towering palm trees and your shirt. You donât wait for Spencer. All you can think about when you look at him is what heâd said to you against his doorâhow heâd laid out the truth bare and in turn made you feel stripped and humiliated. Little more than a specimen, belly up, for him to sink his scalpel into.Â
âHold on,â he calls from behind. For decencyâs sake, you do. After all, he is your co-worker. You donât take your hand off the knob as you watch him coming up behind you in the doorâs paned reflection against a wide, aggressively cerulean sky. Heâs got sunglasses on, tooâtoo many layers of glass between your eyes and his. You wait for him to speak. He takes his sweet time. âWe need to be functional.â
âWe are.â
âWe need to be more functional. No more avoiding talking on the job.â
You open the door, baptizing yourself in the freezing rush of lobby AC. âThat was a you problem. I would have vastly preferred if you hadnât spent the first five minutes of the drive not telling me that I was going the wrong way.â
âI know,â Spencer agrees, holding the door open above your head. âSorry. Youâre just⌠kind of scary, sometimes.â
A probable understatement. The corner of your mouth twitches as you flash your badge to the receptionist, and she picks up the phone to alert the examiner of your arrival.Â
June 30th
The elevator door was sliding shut as you and JJ chatted about where the two of you were going for dinnerâperhaps that new Mediterranean spot with the nice outdoor seatingâand then, there was a hand. The door stopped and slid back open. Spencer clearly wasnât anticipating that itâd be you and JJ, but only the briefest flash of hesitation is visible before heâs plastering on an awkward smile and stepping in.Â
âOh, Spence! We were just talking about going out to dinnerâdo you have plans?â
You bite your tongue at JJâs invitation and stare at the glowing panel of buttons. Spencer faltersâyou can feel his eyes on you.Â
âUhâtonightâs not a great night for me, actually.â
âAre you sure? You cancelled on me last month. And the three of us havenât gone out in a long time.â
Thatâs how you end up at a smooth wooden table in a stucco courtyard under a big blue umbrella, serenaded by the burbling of a central tiled fountain and some bouncy stringed instrument coming through a wall mounted speaker with JJ and Spencer. And then, because of course, JJ gets a call from Willâsomething about the kids throwing upâapologizes profusely, and then leaves. Leaves the two of you alone. Together. At a restaurant.Â
Silence hangs from the umbrella. You get impatient under the pressure of it. âWow. Weâre already having so much fun.â
The sarcasm does not go over Spencerâs head. âIn my defense, I tried not to come.â
You sigh, cheek squished against fist and studying the way sunlight bounces off the splashing water as you slurp forlornly from a straw. âNot your fault.â
âShould we go?â
You turn your attention back to him, squinting and nibbling at the end of your straw. âI donât know. We already ordered.â
âSo⌠you wanna wait?â
A shrug. âIt probably wonât be that long.â
And with that, a silent treaty is signed.Â
âYou know,â you begin, fishing a strawberry from your glass, âJJ was right. I canât remember the last time the three of us hung out.â
âSeptember 24th.â
You nod. âWow. So, like⌠eight months. We kind of suck.â
The reason youâd stopped going out as a group was as much the changing of seasons as it was the shifting in your dynamic with Spencer. Around that time youâd started to see him one on one a lot more. This truth goes clearly acknowledged, but unspoken, as he tracks a drip of condensation down your glass and then regards you with a cool sort of curiosity.Â
âEight months is quite a while, huh?â
You eye him right back and lean down to your straw. âBasically forever.â
Later, easy chit-chat dots the short walk to your vehicleâitâs been hours, and you havenât run out of things to say. You could keep going, you realize once youâre standing next to your car. A month without his company, and youâre brimming over with stories and anecdotes youâd been saving for him. Heâs the first person you think about when you hear a funny joke or learn something new. That doesnât just go away when if youâre not on good terms. It simmers. Waits for inevitable release.Â
The sky is a gorgeous cocktail of pink and purple and yellow. You tilt your head back and close your eyes, just briefly, breathing in, letting the setting sun soak through your skin.Â
âBeautiful,â you observe once your eyes flutter open again, tracing the wispy edges of rose-colored clouds.Â
âVery.â
You sigh, taking in just a bit more vitamin Dâand then youâre looking back at Spencer. Heâs already looking at you, gilded in the heavy aureate light. Studying, in that way of his.
âAre we good?â He asks, after a moment.Â
You blink. And then you offer him a small smile. âWeâre good.â
July 13th
The trouble of being friends with Spencer is this: once you allow yourself a taste, no matter how small, no matter how innocentâyouâre overcome with the desire to bite down. You want him between your teeth and on the back of your tongue. Messy, starving, gnashing, you donât care. You want and want and want.Â
Victim number one of your relapse: the coat tree. It clatters to the ground and spills everything everywhere when Spencer stumbles against it, trying to walk backwards into the apartment after you blindly lock the door. Of course, he couldnât see where he was goingâhe was too busy tracing the seam of your bottom lip with his tongue.Â
âShit,â he breathes, nearly tripping again as winter coats and scarves, dormant for summer, wrap around his ankles and threaten to pull him down. You giggle breathlessly, slipping off your own shoes as he kicks at the heavy fabrics like theyâre going to bite. Then heâs pulling you back into him, deeper into the apartment, tongues clashing. Itâs been a long time, and heâs demanding. Not that you mindânot at all. Though, when he pulls you the opposite direction of his bedroomâtoward his desk, in factâyouâre certainly confused.
âBed?â You whisper against his mouth.Â
âCanât. Rebinding books, theyâre laid out on the bed while the glue dries.â
Okay. âCouch?â
Reluctantly, Spencer pulls away. You yelp in surprise when he grabs your hair and uses it as a handle to direct your attention toward the sofa. Also covered in books. Itâs amazing, actually, the sheer volume of them when theyâre not neatly tucked into the shelf. And heâs got them all memorized. You look back at him, a wave of renewed awe washing through your veins. Heâs so fucking strange. You missed him awfully.Â
Pressing close enough is impossible, then, as you kiss him hard. There is a blatant, unapologetic hunger in his touch which completely ignores the border that the hem of your short dress presents, grabbing the back of your thigh in a bruising grip. Your breath catches against his mouth at the way his fingers dig into you like youâre wet clay and he knows best, he knows how to make you into something better, as the slow ache crawls up the back of your neck and furrows your brow. Spencerâs not afraid to touch you. He knows exactly how to make sure heâs got all your attention.
Nobody else has ever been able to do that. From other hands, when youâre forced to go begging for the cheap version of what you really want, itâs little more than untrained violence. Spencer knows how to make it feel righteous. Nobody is ever him. That hand comes to slide up the front of your thigh, thumb skimming the hem of your underwear while he dives back into your mouth and you let yourself be completely washed out in the riptide of his desperate affections. All that youâd been missing for monthsâyou want it now. You want to show him how much you missed him.Â
âSpencerââ you gasp between kisses. He hums against your mouth, and you let your hand slide down his stomach to hook in his belt. âSpence, can Iâplease, babyââ
âYou donât have to beg me, honey. Iâm gonna give you whatever you want.â Lips against your warm cheek, your forehead, as he lilts sweetly, breathily. âAnything.â
So youâre nodding, dizzy in your anticipation and your desire, wordlessly pleading for more of his mouth on yours while you take off a belt youâre intimately familiar with. The clinking metal wakes up a part of you thatâs been asleep since the last time youâd had him like this. When you drop to your knees, he seems vaguely surprised, eyes soft and all love on you.Â
âReally?â he croons, hand already at your temple, already smoothing baby hairs. Already being the person you want him to be, because heâs been waiting, because itâs natural. Your nod, your eyes, the way your hands find his legsâitâs all enough for him. You get what you want.Â
The hardwood presses against your knees, shifting and squeaking beneath you. Spencer takes his time pushing your hair out of your face, gathering it between his fingers and holding it to the crown of your head with an impossible kind of tenderness as you move. He strokes your cheek, brushes his thumb feather-light over the soft line of your lashes, once, twice. The fabric of his trousers bunches in your hands where they rest on his legsâheâs so kind to you that it hurts, it makes you want to cry, it makes you want to stay here forever just so heâll keep looking at you like that, so you never forget how his pinky feels against the nape of your neck or the heel of his palm feels against your temple as he plays and plays with your hair, as even when youâre the one on your knees, he worships you. Christens you his own little angel, angel, angelâwhispered like he really believes it, like youâre a miracle. Spencer loves in a way that feels like soothing, that feels like an apology for all the bad things that have ever happened to you and a nullifying of all the bad things you have ever done.Â
Afterward you press your forehead against his thigh, mostly to hide the welling of your eyes when thereâs no longer any good excuseâpartially as a kind of supplication. Never let me go again. Please. No matter what I say. Iâm sorry.Â
Spencer fixes himself, crouches to your level, drops your hair just to push it out of your face and make you look at him. Your chest rises and falls rapidly as your glossy eyes dart between his. But you donât look away. You donât want to. When a tear rolls down your cheek, he sees it, and thereâs nothing you can do. And you realize youâre not sure youâd want to hide it after all.Â
âHey, itâs okay,â he murmurs. âWeâre okay. What do you need? What can I give you, sweetheart? Do you want to be done? Want me to move the books so we can sit down?â
âNo, noâI donât wanna be done. I just missed you so much. I was dumb before. Iâm sorry.â
He softens impossibly at this, to the point where heâs hazy around the edges, melting into the warm ambient light. âYou werenât. You werenât dumb. Come here, stand up. Youâre never dumbâhere, is this okay?â Heâs sat you on his desk, shoving things aside to make roomâcasualties for a later considerationâand heâs already littering kisses over your neck. âI missed you too. I think about you all the time, angel, you donât need to apologize, just⌠god, I missed you. Please let me touch you. Please.â
Itâs hard to say no to thatâwhat with the begging, and the pull of your lip between his teeth, and the heat of his breath fogging your brain. Thereâs not a lot of room to work with, but you manage to lean enough of your weight back that he can tug your underwear down your thighs. They end up on the floor, and you feel his hand sliding beneath your dress again, where youâre bare for him, and he doesnât make you wait.Â
âOh my god, youâre perfect,â he mutters upon discovering just how ready for him you are. You hiss as he slips past the initial resistance. Spencer responds with his lips pressed to your head, but he shows no mercy with the slow rock of his hand, the drag against where youâre softest and where you need him the most, the exact right place to touch you. Your arching, squirming, whimpering, doesnât deter him in the slightest. When your thighs clamp shut and you shift back, he follows you. When you look up at him, brow furrowed, lips partedâin disbelief but without the words to say itâheâs already looking at you. âI know,â he assures you. âThatâs it, huh? Right here?â
Rapidly you nod. His exhale is almost one of relief. âYeah,â he sighs, knowingly. Melting closer to kiss you again.Â
It doesnât bother him when your nails dig into his flexing forearm as you cum. Judging by the groan, you think he might like it.Â
Youâre barely recovered by the time heâs lining himself up to you, but you find your bearings quickly. Itâs a slow, bated burn, when he finally does it. Youâre both silent, tense, hardly breathing in anticipation. What has at times been a slip feels now more like an endless pushâit is its own kind of back-arching, toe curling, deep-in-your-spine ecstasy, as he breaks you open slow. Your legs part wider for him, and your hips yearn to push against his.
His words burst forth with the same expelling of pressure, at the same time, as your first sudden cry. âFuck, angel. Jesus.â
Thereâs a stinging point of light inside you that heâs pushing against. You close your eyes and watch it flash and spark. âFeels so good,â you promise, nothing more than a whisper. Whatever this is, this pain and pleasure, itâs landed you in some divine plane. You never want it to end.Â
âRelax for me, honey. Let go a little.â
âI am, I am,â you defend on a quick exhale, looking down when he stops fighting to get in. âPleaseâwhyâd you stop? Pleaseââ
âYouâre not ready.â
âYes, I am, fuck, please, Spencer!â
Something in you is desperate and starving and you need it nowâyouâve needed it for a long timeâbut he doesnât capitulate. Instead, he kisses you. Softly. Slow and sweet, like you have all the time in the world. You have no choice but to drown in it. Itâs a short-circuit in your body when after a minute of this, after he senses the way youâve dissolved, suddenly his hips are flush with yours. You gasp and a pencil cup clatters to the ground in your search for purchase. Youâre little more than a pulsing, glowing star, lightheaded at the depth and the pressure and the way that band of resistance heâd pushed past aches around him in time with the pound of your heart. Spencer is leaning against you, gripping the edge of the desk behind you hard and breathing heavily against your neck.Â
Words have every opportunity to pass from your dropped jaw, but youâre actually speechless. Your heartbeat is a white flashing in your eyes. The only verbal expression at your disposal: âSpencer.â
For a moment time suspends like that, and you wonder how the fuck you could ever have made any decision that would take you away from him, away from this. This is so obviously the only right answer.Â
Slowly, he draws out, and you stop breathing. Come back. Come back. Your legs spell it out as they wrap around his hips. Itâs just as slow on the uptake, and you loose a shuddering, rattling breath. Your body tenses and shifts, trying to pull you up and away from the feelingâbut not because it hurts. Itâs just so mind-numbingly fucking deep. Everywhere. The base of your spine, the tips of your fingers. Out. While you have a fleeting moment of sentience, you whisper his name a few times in quick succession. This successfully draws his attention and he lifts his head from your shoulder, pupils blown to hell as heâs already dragging back in. A too-honest, too-raw cry pulls from your soul, turns half disbelieving laugh as he presses against your deepest part and black spots dance in your vision.Â
His eye darts to the way your knee pulls up, clearly beyond your controlâthe way your body tries to make sense of him, tries to respond to what heâs doing to you. You watch as it happensâthat flash in his eyes. That shift into a kind of determination that always ends with you dead asleep on his pillow, face streaked with dried tears borne of sheer overwhelm. Spencer fits his arm around you and pulls you flush to him, the other hooking under your knee and holding you open. He sets a new pace, and it doesnât take long to get you gripping at the back of his shirt and tearing up on his shoulder, making due with gasping sips of air and having completely given up on holding in the keens and the pleases and the occasional sob that to the trained ear sounds much like his name.Â
You feel it comingâthe searing heat, the pound of your heart, the drop of your stomach. It hits as hard as you knew it would.Â
Usually heâs a little more talkativeâbut that comes later. With you pushed over his desk, and his arm around your chest, and his lips pressed to your ear. Blindly you reach back for himâyou need him, you need somethingâand without question he catches your hand, pressing it hard into the dark surface of the wood. His thumb strokes at your hand, his fingers curl with yours, and Spencer continues with those murmurings, like spellsâthings nobody who knew him would ever imagine him saying. Things that have you making promises, breathing uh-huhâs, telling him you love him. Things that have your vision going black and your throat tightening around choked moans. Heâs never had you this vulnerable before. Youâre dizzy, drunk on it. This time when the end comes, itâs a heavy crash. It pulls you under. It does whatever the fuck it wants with you and tumbles you in its current forever because heâs not stopping, still slowly closing in on his own peak. There are moments where it goes beyond good. Itâs just complete and utter sensation, on all frontsâthoughts come as colors and textures instead of words. You donât even feel tethered to your body anymore, your grip on reality tenuous at best.Â
Eventually all the crashing does end, and you whine brokenly, and he shushes you softly, and finally, finally, stills inside of you.Â
Slowly, you come back to yourself. Itâs dark outside, now. You can hear weekend traffic on the streets below. His apartment is clean (aside from the shit that got knocked over and the books on the couch) and itâs sticky summer warm, and it smells like home. Itâs safe. And everything is okay. You donât know if youâve ever felt so okay in your life.Â
Spencer adjusts his hold on you when your weight signals that you want to lie flat on the desk, face pressed against your forearm, catching your breath in the wood-lacquer darkness. He follows you down, arms braced on either side of your head. His weight on your back is a comfort, as are his lips at the nape of your neck.Â
âOkay?â he murmurs. Two gentle syllables, marked with exertion. You nod against your arm. âNot ready to talk?â Another nod. Another okay.Â
For a stretch of time, heâs pressed his face against the back of your shoulder. Youâre still seeing dancing colors behind your lids.Â
The twinkly laughter comes as a surprise. âI donât know where to put you, baby. All the places for lying down are covered in antique books.â
Thereâs not much air in your lungs. You spend it on laughter.
August 3rd
Spencer corners you outside the bathroom.Â
âWho was that?â He demands, eyes worrisomely clear on you, voice alarmingly steady. You glance around to see if any of your coworkers can see the way heâs practically got you up against the wall down the dark passageway. The way heâs looking at you. Like he owns you.Â
âWho was who?â
âIâm not willing to play stupid with you right now. Answer me.â
Itâs easier to hurt your feelings these days. Theyâre closer to the surface. Sometimes it makes things feel really, really good. Sometimes your eyes sting at the smallest of provocationsâthings you wouldâve brushed off without a second thought a year ago. You meet his eyes and swallow. âYouâre being a fucking dick.â
Spencer is unfazed. His response is whip-fast and too loud, even among the chatter and laughter and music and clinking glasses. âDid you sleep with him?â
âWhat? What is your problem?â you hiss, pushing Spencer just hard enough to get some breathing room.Â
âWhy wonât you answer the question?â
âGod, are youâyou know what? No. You are so fucking out of line right now. Fuck off.â
You leave Spencer in the hallway and emerge into the bar. Itâs bustling tonight. The whole BAU is here, scattered around, but suddenly, you feel aimless. Your nervous system is rattled after being accosted as soon as you left the bathroom, on what had previously been a good night. So you stand there, looking around and fiddling with your bracelet.Â
Itâs one Spencer recently gifted to you. A simple, delicate chain, but clearly well-crafted. The clasp is the only real ornamentationâtwo interlocking circles of equivalent circumference. There is no tail of wider chain loops to create an adjustable sizeâit is exactly what it is, and it fits you perfectly. To some, itâd be an underwhelming gift. No lavish stones, no poetic engraving, no garish costume-jewelry gold. But it means more to you than you could ever explain to somebody else. More than youâd ever feel comfortable explaining to somebody else. Spencer knows that. Two interlocking circles.Â
When he gave it to you, you had a panic attack. Jewelry felt like a big step. But you didnât do your usual thing where you start a huge fight and then dump him, and he didnât take offense to your overwhelm. He only comforted you, and when all was said and done, you held out your wrist, and he put the bracelet on for you, and kissed the back of your hand. You havenât taken it off since. Itâs quickly become something of a talismanâyou worry at it when you donât know what to do with your hands. Even now. When you feel like punching him in the face.Â
Did you sleep with him? What an asshole. What a fucking asshole. Spencer grovels and simpers and promises heâll never hurt you, and then he goes and does something like that. The him in questionâthe one who recognized you when you were ordering a drink, and who held you up for maybe five minutesâis nowhere to be seen. Thatâs for the best. The recognition was not reciprocal. But rather than humiliate yourself in front of this man who knew your name by admitting you couldnât place his face, youâd played along. Laughed awkwardly at his jokes like you knew who he was.
You donât get why Spencer is so angry. Heâs not the type to get jealous just because you spoke to another man. Sure, the man was perhaps a little over-familiar with you. He was flirty.
But Spencer is so overreacting.Â
Before you can stop yourself, youâre looking back in his direction.Â
Heâs still in the dimly lit hallway. Heâs watching you, hands in suit packets, and for all that youâve seen his face, all the times youâd swore to commit every bit of it to memoryâyou canât read his expression.Â
That only pisses you off worse.Â
You pointedly turn away, carving a path through the Friday night patrons toward the jukebox.Â
The machine takes your quarter, but thereâs something of a queue, and you realize youâre in too much of a bad mood to stand around getting jostled by drunk people who are having way more fun than you are.Â
Thatâs how you end up out front, letting the rough stone wall bite into your bare arm and watching the cars go by, surrounded by patrons whoâd stepped out for a smoke.Â
Maybe you shouldnât let Spencer ruin your entire night because of some stupid outburst. But you canât shake it.Â
Is that what he thinks of you? That you sleep around? That you cheat? Sure, the two of you havenât explicitly had the commitment talk. But you thought it was pretty fucking implied.Â
The moon is a bright white spotlight overhead. Despite the season, a breeze nips at all your exposed skin, and you cross your arms against the chill. Earlier, in your classy-enough white minidress and blue pumps, youâd felt beautiful. Now you just feel gross.Â
Spencer comes out a few minutes later.Â
âTheyâre playing your song.â
You can tell by the way he stops a few feet away that his tail is between his legs. Your head rolls toward him.Â
âI can hear.â
Itâs trueâthe buzzy, bouncy twang is distinctive even through a wall, and every drum beat is clear as day. So is the cheer that goes around as a bunch of drunk Generation X-ers and millennials recognize the synth riff.Â
Spencer narrows his eyes and searches for the words. âI canât help but feeling itâs slightly⌠pointed.â
What? Playing a song called Love Will Tear Us Apart?Â
Pointed?Â
Surely not.Â
You donât bother using your wordsâthe exaggerated faux-bafflement on your face gets the message across.Â
Spencer nods, looking appropriately contrite as he steps closer. You let him.Â
âYou were right,â he murmurs, speaking just for you now. âI was out of line.â
âOh, really? Thanks for telling me. I hadnât noticed.â
He says your name gently. You shut up and cast your glare sideways, watching a crumpled plastic cup make its way down the sidewalk.Â
âIâm sorry. I justâI know youâre beautiful. I know people notice you. But weâre not usually in environments where I have to watch it happen. Or⌠or maybe it just goes over my head. Thatâs entirely possible. Either way, Iâm not used to seeing you get hit on, and I couldnât tell if you knew the guy, or if⌠maybe you were just hitting it off, andâIâI panicked, because weâve never really had that talk before. I know what you are to me. But Iâve never clarified what I am to you. Iâm not going to push you on the labels thing. You know Iâm not. We should be on the same page about this, though.â
You sigh. Fiddle with your bracelet and watch it glint. âSpencer, I swear that guyââ
âI donât care about that guy. It wasnât about him. Iâm sorry. I just want you to know that regardless of what we call it, it matters to me that weâre not doing this with anyone else.â His voice takes on that intimate toneâjust barely more than a whisper. You look down as he grabs your hand, and drags it back up to his heart. Your breath catches. âYou are my person, and I need that to be clear. Is that okay with you?â
His sincerity has stunned you speechless, and the proximity isnât helping either, so you can only let your fingers catch on his lapel and nodâquick, eager little dips of your head. Yes, yes, you think. I canât say it like you can. But yes. Please. Thatâs what I want.Â
âYeah?â he asks quietly, mirroring your nod and fondness twitching at the corners of his mouth.Â
What you want to say is, oh, god, I love you. I love you so much it hurts. It burns inside of me, all the time, and I donât know what to do with it all. I love you I love you I love you.Â
Instead, you say, in your smallest voice, âYeah. Yes.â
The way he slips his hand behind your neck and kisses you against that wall, under the full August moon and between clouds of cigarette smoke, cools your blood. Itâs the only thing that works.Â
Later in bed, you watch him sleep, that same moonlight casting silver through his hair as you comb your fingers through it, again and again.Â
Before heâd fallen asleep, youâd asked him a question that had been on your mind since the bar.Â
Spencer?
Hm?
What am I to you?
Itâd caught him off guard. He held your hand, pressed the circles of your bracelet just to your racing pulse on the underside of your wrist, and mapped your face with darting eyes, with an intellect that canât read minds no matter how much he wishes it could.Â
Do you actually want me to answer that question?
Youâd nodded.Â
Is the answer going to freak you out?
At this youâd shaken your head noâwhich was an assurance made in haste. But you were too curious. You needed to know.Â
Spencer weighed something internally for a long moment.Â
Youâre like⌠a lens I see the entire world through. I canât do anything, or make any choice, without thinking about you. Iâm always thinking about you. When weâre not together, it feels like Iâm waiting for my life to start again. Nothing really counts unless youâre there to experience it with me, you know? I think of you as⌠I donât know. Everything. Youâre why I know itâs all real. Why it matters.Â
It was so much, you had to hide in the curve of his neck. It made you nervous. The bigger it is, the harder it falls.Â
But, because it mattered so much to youâbecause he matters so muchâyou found the courage to whisper against his neck: Me, too.
It was a really scary thing to admit. Scarier than when you tell him you love him. He kissed you for your bravery.Â
Now, heâs asleep.Â
You trace the moon-glow line of his cheek.Â
Spencer lies sleeping next to you like a Renaissance angel as hot tears burn a scar down the bridge of your nose, and you bargain with god. Let me be good enough for him. Let me be someone else. Anything. Iâll do anything, justâplease. Take this feeling away. Make me into a girl who deserves this kind of love.Â
God does not answer.Â
August 19th
Something is off.Â
It started when you and Spencer didnât take the same car to the airfield.Â
Of course, thatâs not unheard ofâbut it is uncommon. If itâs at all possible, heâll slide in next to you. Today he didnât even waitâgot engrossed in a debate with Emily and followed her right into an almost-full SUV.Â
So you stood there, blinked, and climbed into the other car next to Rossi. You didnât say a word for the whole fifteen minute drive, watching the muddy fields and warehouses roll by beyond the window.Â
Spencer isnât doing anything wrong.Â
Itâs just that itâs been nearly a week since youâve spent a night with him. And itâs starting to make you feel restless. There have been crack of dawn doctorâs appointments, and nights where one or both of you are too tired to drive to the otherâs place, and preexisting plans with other people. All valid reasons to raincheck.Â
But youâre not used to sleeping alone anymore. Itâs not what you do. It feels like a really big deal to you that you havenât had a sleepover for so long, and he hasnât mentioned it, or given any hint that itâs bothering him the way itâs bothering you.Â
God, when was the last time you spent more than two or three nights apart?
The last time you broke up, you realize.Â
That is a sobering thought.Â
On the jet, itâs not much better. Again, Spencer doesnât wait for you before boarding. Youâre slamming the car door, and heâs already walking up the steps in animated conversation with JJ.Â
There is an old, familiar pang in your chest.Â
No. No, pleaseâIâm past this. Iâm too grown-up for this.Â
He loves me.Â
But thereâs that old paradox, again. If nobody except Spencer knows that youâre dating Spencerâand heâs not acknowledging itâare you really even together?
By the time you get on, heâs at the table. The three seats around him have been filled. You eye each of your coworkers and try not to feel burning rage, because they didnât do anything wrong.Â
Instead, you sit on the far end of the couch, and you pick your nails.Â
The whole first day at the precinct is pretty much the same story, though youâre able to engross yourself deeply enough into the job that it doesnât bother you so much.Â
Itâs only when the day is over, and youâre showered, and youâre sitting on your perfectly made hotel queen bed, that loneliness turns into gnawing, tearing panic.Â
You catch your breath as it hits youâas the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and dread washes out the shell of your body. Itâs bad. Worse than you wouldâve imagined.Â
What is wrong with you?
Why canât you ever just be alright?
You donât know if the solution here is to go to Spencer or to remain locked in your room like a psych-patient in a padded cell.Â
Panic makes you unreasonable, you think. Pushing off the bed to pace. Moving helps. Moving tells your body that youâre evading the threat, and the panic attack ends sooner.Â
Something youâd learned from Spencer, of course.Â
Spencer.Â
Unreasonable, right. Youâre not entirely dependent on him for your mental stability. You have developed implicit expectations, sureâyouâre used to being alone with him every night, so you can talk about your days and drink tea and be close. Thatâs not a bad thing. Itâs a routine youâve developed, and one youâve come to rely on. Surely itâd be disregulating for anyone if it suddenly changed without warning. Itâs not because youâre obsessive, or sick, or overly-needy. And itâs normal for couples to take a few days apart.Â
Not obsessive, not sick, not needy. Itâs normal. This is normal.Â
This becomes your mantra as you pace the patterned carpet, eyes closed, lips moving, like if you stop the panic is going to catch you and swallow you whole.Â
For a few minutes, it works.Â
Then, for no apparent reasonâit stops working.Â
And itâs like watching a dam explode from the valley below.Â
For a second you donât know if you should run to the bathroom and throw up or go to Spencerâs door, and then youâre questioning if itâs late enough to go to his room, if maybe someone on the team might be out in the hallwayâbut your brain is screaming, if you do not go see Spencer, you are going to die. Who gives a fuck about your fucking coworkers.Â
You tap lightly at his door.Â
He doesnât answer right away, and the brightly lit hallway seems to stretch on forever. Youâre so profoundly anxious that there is a moment of hysterical, perverse humor. Look at you. About to die in a hotel hallway, barefoot and in pajama shorts, if he doesnât open this fucking door. And of course. Of course heâs not going to open it. This is great stuff. Really, awesome material. Perfect.Â
Just as youâre gripping the door frame to stop the building from spinning, just as youâre really, seriously about to pass outâthe lock clicks. The door opens.Â
Glasses. Sweatshirt. Spencer.Â
âHey! I was just about toââ he stops. Perhaps notices your slumped posture, how youâre white-knuckling the door. Maybe the sheen of sweat on your face. âHey, okayâcome here.â
Spencer wraps an arm around you and helps you in, closing the door and then leading you to his bed.Â
âYou look like youâre gonna pass out,â he mutters, laying you down carefullyâideally to get the blood flow back to your head. You blink.Â
âUh-huh.â
âAre you okay? Did something happen?â
âIâm fine.â
You say it because youâre embarrassed. Spencer says your name with an edge that wants the truth.Â
âIt was just a panic attack.â
This doesnât satisfy him.Â
âDo you often pass out from panic attacks?â
âUm⌠not never.â
Your vision clears. Your ears stop ringing, and you push yourself up to sit against the headboard. Spencer has a bottle of water locked and loaded, holding it out for you as soon as youâre settled.Â
The way heâs watching you as you drink, with so much unabashed and scrutinizing concern in that knit brow, is almost too much. You look away and screw the lid back on.Â
âWhat triggered it?â He asks.Â
âI donât know, I was just sitting thereâI was literally just sitting there, and suddenly my brain was like, by the way, you have five minutes to live, andâand I donât know. I tried walking it off and breathing and stuff. Iâm sorry I came here. Itâs not your problem.â
âYouâre not a problem. This isnât a problem. You shouldâve come before it got this bad.â
When he sets his hand on your knee, you close your eyes and try not to let it feel like medicine.Â
Itâs not his job to fix you. Thatâs not what heâs for.Â
âYeah,â is all you say.Â
A pause.Â
âWhy didnât you come sooner?â
Itâs clear heâs putting the pieces together. You sigh and fiddle with the bottle cap. Untwist. Twist. Untwist.Â
âI⌠donât know. I was overthinking.â
âOverthinking what?â
You flash him a look, because he knows heâs pushing youâbut heâs unrelenting.Â
Spencerâs hair is a corona of unruly curls. He hasnât shaved in a few days. You donât want to have this conversationâyou want to put your head in his lap and fall asleep to the hotel TV.Â
âItâs stupid. It doesnât make sense. I justâI donât know, we didnât talk all day, andââ
You take a quick, shuddering inhale, and close your mouth. Because you realize youâre about to cry. And now you canât even soften the blow of your insanityâyou canât tell him, I know Iâm being crazy, I know nothing is wrong, I know itâs okay for us to not talk for a day or to spend a few nights apart and it doesnât mean you hate me.Â
But you canât say any of that. It wouldnât be true, anyways. You donât know any of those things.Â
Spencer is observing you and you canât tell what heâs thinking. You look down at your folded legs to hide your wobbling chin.Â
Thereâs no hiding the plunk of a fat tear as it hits the mattress, or the subsequent bloom of saltwater grey turning the sheet into a ghostly, sad little garden. You wipe your face with a furious, punishing hand, and speak hoarsely. âSorry.â
Spencer catches your wrist before you can take out your own eye. âStop.â
âIâm fine,â you insist, snatching your hand away though you desperately crave the contact. âI donât even know why Iâm crying. I donât knowâI donât know whatâs wrong with me. Everything is fine.â
âDonât say that. Donâtâyou need to stop doing that. Minimizing everything all the time. If everything was fine, you wouldnât have had a panic attack and you wouldnât be crying now.â
âEverything is fine,â you assert. Angerânot at himâbegins seeping through your tone, burning you at the edges. âEverything is fine, but Iâm obviously not, and Iâm sick of getting so fucking upset about nothing all the time.â
âTell me why youâre upset.â
âBecause Iâm crazy! Because we havenât been together all week, and you didnât sit next to me in the car today, or on the jet, andâand ever since I actually stopped holding you at armâs length, Iâm so fucking involved, and I care so much, and I knew this would happen. Before, it wouldnât have mattered if we didnât spend the night together for a week, because I wasnât all in, and I knew if I was always giving you just a little less than you were giving me that the dynamic would be in my favor, and I would never have to feel like I was the unwanted one. But I canât do that anymore, becauseââcause I let myself care all the way, and I was so afraid of this happening, and itâs happening. I donât have any fucking control over myself anymore. Iâm so worried, all the timeâitâs like, I have a doomsday clock inside of me, but instead of the end of the world itâs measuring how close you are to breaking up with me at any moment. Which is fucked, I know itâs fucked. I know I canât read your mind, but I donât have any perspective anymore. And the worst part is that itâs like a self-fulfilling prophecy. I know the more insane and hyper-vigilant and codependent I get, the likelier you are to actually break up with me. It was never a problem before. It was never this scary because if I was the one who kept breaking up with you it meant I was in control, but I donât wanna break up with you at all. Iâm terrified of it. But itâitâs like my karma, Iââ
âOkay. Slow down.â Your head snaps upâwide, teary eyes on Spencer. You almost forgot he was there. âBreathe. Justâtake a deep breath.â
Fuck. You drag your hands to your face, fully prepared to curl in on yourself and die rather than face your own humiliation.Â
âNo, noâlook at me. Come on.â
âIâm going insane,â you sniffle as he peels your hands away and forces you to look at him. âI c-canât say anything that will make me sound less crazy.â
âYouâre not crazy. Your nervous system is just shot, and youâre probably exhausted. Did you eat? I didnât see you have dinner.â
Guilty, you shake your head. You didnât realize he was paying attention.Â
âIâll call room service,â he decides.Â
âIâm really not hungry.â
Spencer ignores this and picks up the phone anyway. You sit back against the headboard and hug your knees to your chest, staring at nothing as he orders something youâll like. Waiting for the click of the phone back in its cradle.Â
When the call is over, there is tremulous silence. A tension youâre not sure how to go about breaking.Â
Spencer does it for youâfinding your ankle and carefully pulling your leg straight, so he can run the length of it back and forth with his hand. You watch it go, like waves rolling in and falling back on sand.Â
âIâm sorry we didnât get to spend enough time together this week. I missed you, too. I absolutely do not want to break up. Not one part of me wants that.â
âI should be able to know that without you telling me.â
âBut you arenât, yet. Youâre going to learn.â
âButâuntil I doâyouâre gonna have toâto reassure me constantly. Iâm going to be exhausting and irritating and youâre going to get sick of me.â
He regards you.Â
âIt makes me really sad that you feel that way. I think you severely underestimate how much I like you.â
âWhy, though?â Immediately youâre rolling your eyes and throwing your hands up. âSee? Fucking right there. Already. Iâm already doing it.â
Spencer is holding back a smile when you look at him. You shrink.Â
âNo, noââ he laughs, leaning in. âIâm sorry. Iâm sorry, Iâm not laughing at you.â
You end up nearly lying down, with him over you. Breathing in his mint and eucalyptus bedtime smell. The smile fades slowly, as he thumbs over your cheek, your lips. Your lids flutter at the relief of it all.Â
âIâm hoping⌠weâll never have to do a week like that again. I didnât like it very much, either.â
You lean into his palm, and donât speak for a long while.Â
âSpencer?â
âHm?â
âCanââ you swallow involuntarily. Youâre scared to ask. But you know what the answer will be. âCan we⌠I know Iâve messed up a bunch of times, butâcan I be your girlfriend? We donât have to tell anyone, I just⌠I want to be your real girlfriend.â
The slow blossom of his smile is like a swell in your favorite song as he grins down at you.Â
âYouâve been my real girlfriend for a while.â
âI know, but⌠I want you to tell me thatâs what I am. I want to know that when you think of me, youâre thinking about your real-life serious girlfriend.â
He hums.Â
âAnd am I allowed to tell other people that youâre my real-life serious girlfriend?â
You chew your lip. âSome of them.â
âWhich ones?â
Heâs angling for something, and you know what, but youâre not sure youâre ready for that particular step.Â
âI donât know. Weâll find some.â
âI have a few in mind.â
âWe canât,â you murmur, hugging his arm to your chest. âNot yet. Theyâllâitâll change things. But⌠but maybe we donât have to hide it quite as much.â
âLike⌠no running away when we see someone we know in public?â
You nod. âAnd I have a rule.â
He strokes your hair.Â
âWhatâs that?â
âYou have to always save a seat for me in the cars and on the jet. Always. Capiche?â
âYes, maâam.â
You tilt your chin up. He kisses you.Â
Now that youâve got him, youâre not going to let go.Â
âFor wondering why you had to stay three hours late at work to review one interview transcript you couldâve done during lunch?â
Spencer drops his bag onto a chair and rounds the counter, pushing a hand through his hair. You remain leaning against the back of the couch, arms crossed.
âIt is not that simple.â He insists. âYouâre being paranoid and unreasonable. Again.â
âOr youâre being defensive.â
Spencerâs eyes narrow, like heâs just now seeing you for the first time since he got home. That is to sayâhis home.Â
âAm I being accused of something?â
Words catch in your throat. Normally youâd hurl a ridiculous indictment as a matter of anything being possibleâbut not this time. It would be abjectly absurd to accuse him of cheating at anything other than cards.Â
âNo,â you huff after a weighty moment.Â
âSo what? Whatâs the point of this? I come home after staying at work three hours late listening to a man recounting in excruciating detail how he killed and ate an entire family because nobody else wanted to do it, and as soon as I walk through my own front door you start a fucking fight with me? Over nothing?â
The sudden slope in volume is startling as it rings off the walls like a gunshot. Rarely does he raise his voice before you have the chance to.Â
For the few moments youâre stunned into silence, you take note of a few things you hadnât before. The pound of his heart in his throat and just beneath his eye. Exhaustion evident in the strain of his voice and the mess of his hair, hanging over his face limp in some places and frazzled in others. The fragile glaze over his eyes, even as they widen and crackle with heat. It takes a lot out of a person to sit and listen to what he listened to for as long as he did. Even Spencerâeven a man who can intellectualize and pathologize any human atrocity into microscopic pulses of electricity coursing through grey matter.Â
It gets to him like it gets to everyone. You know that.Â
Fuck.Â
The most embarrassing part is that you started this fight because you missed him, and you still havenât quite figured out how to not be afraid of that feeling. Sometimes when you miss him it feels like a threat to your autonomy, and by extension, your safety. You sure as hell donât know how to just admit this to him.Â
So instead you pick fights. Not as much, anymore, but sometimes when youâre in need of comfort and just canât ask for it, youâll start pushing your luck with inflammatory comments. Youâll trigger a meaningless argument. Spencer will eventually whittle your fighting words down to a simple, familiar truth. He will realize that this is your way of telling him you need something, and then you get the sweet after: where he rewards you for nothing, where he tries to apologize for a conflict youâd created with gentle touches and murmured words of comfort. Sun after a storm. Itâs easy to accept affection and tenderness if youâve intentionally scratched open all your old woundsâif youâve earned it through trial by blood.Â
Tonight, heâs not having it. You sense no reality where this ends with a sweet kiss and whispers so soft you can hardly hear them.Â
Which means you need to backtrack.Â
So you swallow your pride and your shame and your fear. Choke on it, really. But the words come out all the same.Â
âIâm sorry.â
Spencerâs chest is still rising and falling quickly. The purple paisley silk of his tie catches your eye. Itâs all astray. You want to fix it. He could breathe better if you took it off. And thereâs no way heâs not bothered by his hair falling over his face.Â
How can you make this go away?
Could it go in the other direction these quarrels sometimes do? Maybe it could end with you achey and tired in his arms, after he kisses the marks around your wrists, the little purple splotches on your hips and the starburst clusters of broken blood vessels on your thighs. Here, too, heâll end up being sanguineâthereâll just be more steps in between.Â
Just as youâre running scenarios in your mind, calculating outcomes and trying to chart the best plan of action, his tongue darts over his lips. Itâs enough to stop you in your tracks.Â
Why hasnât his brow relaxed? Those eyes, still darting over your face with a kind of urgencyâis that hunger or dissatisfaction with what he sees?
âYou should go.â
A beat.Â
This does not process instantaneously. You blink and shake your head as if you could clear it that way.Â
âWhat?â
Spencerâs eyes are a forge on you, but he diverts them to the wall. Sparing you from the edge of a glowing sword. You donât know how youâd prefer itâcool to the touch and sharp enough to cut, or soft and burning and prolonged. Heâs probably decided heâs being civil. Doesnât realize it lasts so much longer this way.Â
âI think you should go home for the weekend.â
âWhy?â It bursts from you, trembling and affronted.Â
âBecause I canâtââ he stops himself. Shutters his eyes and takes a deep breath that doesnât seem to do much of anything. âI am not in the right headspace for this. I need you out of here.â
âWhat do you mean, this?â
âYou. This thing you always do. I do not have it in me to make you feel better about yourself right now.â
It wouldâve been quicker to just kick you in the stomach.Â
For a moment youâre too stunned to speak as he blurs through a thick cloud of tears.Â
âYou are such a fucking asshole.â
The words come out too hurt, too quiet.
Spencer is unfazedâleans in closer as if to make sure you understand. Lowers his voice, and the tremor there is not the kind that comes from hurt feelings. You donât know what it is.Â
âGo. Home.â
Itâs the kind of quiet that youâre afraid will culminate in a burst eardrum or something worse. Heâs not like that, you know heâs not. Even at his worst. Even when you push him to his absolute witâs end. But you can already hear it. Feel it. Ghost echos that have been rattling around in your head for years.Â
A part of youâa rather large partâwants to cover her ears hard and sink to the ground, or otherwise apologize and beg him to love you again.Â
But you are an adult. Heâs asked you to leave.Â
So you do. With an awful pulling in your gut and a hollowing in your chest like a sinkhole falling into itself.Â
The static starts outside his door. The raking breaths. That awful warmth on the back of your neck and the greying of your vision.Â
You stumble to the stairs and cover your face, letting the waves of panic wash over your shoulders.Â
Was that a breakup? Does he still love you? Did he ever? If love can be so quickly taken away, was it ever really there? See, this is whyâthis is exactly why youâve done what youâve done, why youâve been the way you have and treated him the way you did for so long. Because of this inevitability. Because of your nature, and what happens when a child tells himself he can enjoy a broken toy just the same as a regular one, until he keeps playing with it, and it keeps breaking worse and worse until itâs completely unusable.Â
Something snaps inside of you. Gears grind and groan. The static doesnât go away, it only gets louder, and it sounds a whole lot like his name over and over againâso youâll just have to drown it out.Â
-
Itâs hot in this place, and itâs loudâso loud you can feel the throbbing techno beat in your teeth. The flashing lights wash over you like a tide of blood, rising and falling, filling your lungs.Â
Whatever is coursing through your veins is not enough to dull the ache. In the middle of the dance floor, and youâre still thinking of Spencer. Spencer. Spencer. With every beat of your heart. Not enough alcohol. Not enough anything.Â
Itâs so hot in hereâsweat drips down your spine and the room is spinning, but all the writhing, shadowed bodies prop you up as you stumble toward the bar. No chance in hell the bartender would keep serving you in the state youâre in, so you find someone to buy the drinks for you.Â
And you fall, fall, fallâchasing some wicked, Cheshire gleam at the bottom of that glass, and the next, and the next.Â
That gleam is, of course, an illusion. It will shine so brightly you can taste it. It will convince you to reach just a little further. And it will wink at you from the impossible end of a bottomless pit.Â
You donât care. You tip over the edge and let the darkness swallow you whole.
Nothing but stardust, now.Â
You blow across the silent black ether.Â
September 5th
Youâre practically dripping from Spencer as he locks your door.
âHelp me out, a little?â he grunts as you make no effort to support your own body weight.Â
âSorry sorry sorry. Iâm up.â
He breathes a laugh and walks you deeper into the apartment. Itâs a slow process.Â
âIf I set you down on the couch⌠are you going to be able to get back up?â
âI donât know,â you sing-song, stumbling, giggling, and grabbing onto him tighter. âLetâs find out.â
Your ankles threaten to buckle all the way across the room, but he holds you fast.Â
âEasy,â he murmurs as you slip your arms from around his neck and drop heavily to the cushions. You blink at him, exhausted, admiring the view. At some point, youâd managed to pull off his tie and undo the first few buttons on his shirt before heâd caught your hands and given you a warning look. Looking at him now, you have absolutely no regrets.
Spencer kneels in front of you, undoing the delicate ankle strap on your shoe. Your blood is pleasantly warmed as you let your head loll to your shoulderâwarmer with every sweet way he handles you. Carefully. Like itâs an honor.Â
After he slips the heels off, he presses a kiss to the top of each knee. You lace a hand through his hair. âExcellent view.â
Thereâs a lazy sort of smirk on his face when he tilts his head back up toward you.Â
âIâm sure. Donât get any ideas.â
You grin.Â
âToo late.â
Spencer slides a gratuitous hand up your leg, fingertips just brushing the short hem of your dress, and raises his other. âHow many fingers am I holding up?â
âEasy. Six.â
He snorts, pressing his face against your thigh, and you melt into a puddle of giggles.Â
âIâm kidding, Iâm kidding! It was three. Seeâhey, you can make me say my ABCâs backwards, and Iâll walk in a straight lineââ
âIâm not sleeping with you.â
Even that sweet, placating kiss to your thigh isnât enough to temper the immediate and profound disappointment you feel at his proclamation. âWhat? Why?â
âOhâwhy am I not going to sleep with a woman who couldnât get up the stairs on her own?â
âNonono, Iâm dead sober. Please?â
He pushes off the ground, towering above you once more, and leans down to press a kiss to your lips. âSorry. Youâll have to go find someone just as drunk as you.â
You linger there, your head tilted up, so he hangs in your silence, suspended less than an inch above you.Â
âWhat?â
It comes out thin, with the crane of your neck. Quiet because your blood is frozen in your veins.Â
Spencer pauses only briefly and then drops one more kiss to your mouth. At the contact your eyes flutter, in spite of yourself.Â
âNothing, baby. It was a joke.â
Then heâs up again, moving toward the kitchen.Â
âWhy would you joke about that?â
Spencer stops at the end of the couch and gives you an odd look. âDid it bother you?â
âYes. Donâtâyou canât say stuff like that.â
Why are you breathing so quickly?
Now youâve really got his attention. He turns fully back toward you, slipping his hands into his pockets.
Spencer doesnât say a word. His eyes narrow almost imperceptibly.Â
Thereâs a long stretch of silence. You can hear a faucet dripping and try to match your inhales to each plunk of water.Â
âWhatâs wrong?â
One blink of hesitation and you realize your name is halfway signed on your own death sentence.Â
âNothing.â
âDonât say nothing, you clearlyââ
âOh my god, I said itâs nothing. Just let it go. Jesus.â
And that final utterance, that subtle roll of your eyes, was practically a flourish of the pen.Â
You havenât gone the offense-as-defense route in a while.Â
Immediately, something about Spencerâs demeanor goes cold.Â
âDid something happen?â
The question is quiet enough to chill your bones and dry your throat.Â
âNothing. What? Nothing happened. I just donât think itâs funny to joke about stuff like that.â
Fuck. Fuck. There may as well be a giant blinking sign over your head that says Iâm lying.Â
You watch it wash over him.Â
The worst part is that he doesnât say anything. He stands there for a momentâand then he turns, walking toward the kitchen again. For a moment, youâre frozen. Then you panic.Â
âSpencer,â you call, and it breaks down the middle as you try to get up and sit right back down. He will not want to be followed. You take in a deep, grating breath, digging your nails hard into the sides of your legs and staring at the ground, willing the room to stop spinning. Willing your lungs to fill with air.Â
Your entire body waits in suspense, taut like a steel guitar string, for shattering glass, or splintering drywall, or a slamming door, or something. It doesnât come. Heâs still here. You know he hasnât left.Â
But heâs going to.Â
This is it.Â
The unforgivable thing.Â
Maybe five minutes later, you hear movement. When he reenters the living room, you keep your head down, tracking him only with your eyes. A yawning chasm seems to open up between your spot on the couch and where he stands, across the room.Â
For a moment, neither of you speakâand then both of you try at once. More silence follows. You cover your face with your hands.
âWe werenât together,â you mumble into the cup of them.Â
âWhat did you say?âÂ
His tone bites.Â
âWe werenât together.â
âIn your mind we were never together, so I donât really know what you mean by that.â
âNo, weâwe got in a really big fightââ
âWhen?â
You swallow. Because you work together, you should be familiar with this part of himâthis relentless part, this I-will-run-you-into-the-ground part. But youâre not.Â
âSpencerâŚâ
Spencer recognizes this type of quiet. This quiet which means things can only be worse than they seem. The punishing anger is quickly slashed and bled until you feel it swirling around at your feet like water waiting to be swallowed down the drain. Displaced by massive grief, so heavy that you hear the break. The word is small. Too small to be a real questionâit is a plea for mercy on a dying breath.Â
âWhen?âÂ
You try to inhale and choke on it.Â
âIâm sorry. Iâm sorry, I didnât think we were togetherââ
He snaps. âWe are always together. You know exactly what we are. Take some fucking responsibility.â
âI didnât mean to,â you whisper, desolate. âIÂ didnât.â
A tremulous pause. Your skin is crawling and you canât get out of it.Â
âWhat does that mean? What do you mean, you didnât mean to?â
Snippets come from a reel youâve been working hard to bury. The blisters on your palms burn. There is blood and dirt caked into the half-moons of your nails, too heavy and too fresh.Â
A phantom ache has taken up residence in your bones. It throbs.Â
You only shake your head. Â
Spencer comes to you again. Gets on his knees for the second time this evening, sets his hands over your legs again in some backwards sort of supplication. Some bastardized retelling of a sweeter story from a few minutes ago. Like heâs pleading with you to recant, rewriteâto fix it so he doesnât have to leave.Â
âWhat do you mean? Just tell me what happened,â he begs.Â
âI canât,â you whisper.
âWhy?â
The pain in his voice pounds at the base of your skull.Â
Words dance on the tip of your tongue. Because there is too much I donât remember.Â
But something deeper in your gut keeps them tethered. Pulls hard. Shame, perhaps. There is no excuse for what you did. There is no explaining it away. No circumstance in which you are innocent. A girl goes dancing. Looking for something. She gets drunk. She chases the thing sheâs looking for into dark corners and down alleyways. She needs to know what it is sheâs chasingâshe needs to hold it by the throat and squeeze, thumb against hammering pulse, until it doesnât have so much power over her. Â
She wakes up in a strangerâs bed. Thatâs the part of the story that matters.Â
âI just canât.â
The words are too quiet, but he hears. Your lungs burn in the pulsing silence that follows.Â
No solution.Â
He gives you a few minutes in the dark living room to change your mind, to say the right thing. It doesnât come.Â
So he gets up.Â
âWait, wait waitââ your heart is pounding as you stumble off the couch and follow him, barely avoiding tripping over your own feet. Heâs at the door. How did he get there so quickly? You catch the wall just behind him. âSpencer, wait.â
The tear in your voice is desperate enough you flinch.Â
But it gets him to turn around.Â
He looks exhausted.Â
The pallor of his skinâthe shadows exaggerating where his cheeks sink in and where the troughs beneath each eye get darker in purple half moons.
You fucked up so badly.Â
How much more of you can he handle?
Is this the one thing to push him over the edge, for good?Â
âIâm sorry,â you breathe. âIâm so sorry. It wasnâtâI canât explain it, but it wasnât rightâI didnâtââ heat wells behind your eyes as you flounder and dig your grave helplessly, flexing and clenching your hands. âIâm never, ever gonna do that again. Something wasâI wasnât myself that night, and itâs not going to happen again, I donât know why I did it. I was stupid, and I love you so much, andâplease. Please, donât go. I really need you not to go.â
Spencer regards you, gaze flickering up and down, swallowing. His eyes are all foggy and waterlogged. It makes you feel sicker.
âI know youâre sorry.â
Your chin wobbles.Â
Thereâs nothing to fight with in his words. Thereâs nothing to scratch or kick or bite or cling to.Â
âYouâre gonna leave?â
A beat.Â
âYeah.â
âAre you gonna come back?â
It hangs in the air between you for a very long time.Â
September 12th
When you see him at your door a week later, youâre not sure what to say. Spencer has hardly spoken to you at work. Itâs not that heâs been cruel, he just⌠heâs been distant. Understandably so.Â
This lack of words, you realize very quickly, is not going to be much of a problem.Â
What he wants to do with you does not require a lot of speaking.Â
In fact, you start to suspect he doesnât want to hear you talk at all. It would be hard to form words when heâs kissing you like this.
But you have to try, donât you?
âSpencerââ
He pulls away, leaves you reeling and head sparkling with fresh oxygen. Disoriented. Desperate to have him in any way you can. A thumb presses against the seam of your lips and you open for him without hesitance.Â
He has you against the back of your door, locking it with one hand and pushing down on your tongue with the other thumb. You wish you could do more than let it happen. Do anything but suckle like a lamb. Make him talk to you. Fix it while you can.Â
But for the first time in a week heâs close and heâs looking at you like he wants you and you could cry.Â
âHereâs what weâre going to do,â he whispers, eyes darting rapidly over your face like heâs hungry for the sight of you. âYou are going to listen to me. If I ask you a question, you can say yes, or you can say no. If we need to stop, or if something doesnât feel right, you tell me. Otherwise, you donât talk. Do you understand me?â
Your delirious nod is not enough for him as he slips his thumb from your mouth and grips your jaw, angling you carefully upward so as to look right at him through shuttered eyes.Â
âDo you understand me?â He repeats lowly, and your breath catches.Â
âYes.â
Those eyes slow, taking you in, that gaze dripping from you like honey. Just barely, he strokes the line of your jaw. He ducks to kiss you again and this time it is not so urgent.Â
âDo you want this?â Spencer asks just shy of your own mouth, soft without warning.Â
The fabric of his coat bunches in your fist.Â
Only if you still love me, you want to say. But you know why he doesnât want you to talk. So you canât say things like that. So he doesnât have to tell you of course I do. Please spare me the humiliation of admitting it.Â
âPlease,â you whisper. A trembling breath. More than a plead for sex. You are asking that he be kind. Perhaps itâs more than you deserve, but you canât do this if he doesnât touch you like he loves you. Not with him.Â
You are asking for him to fix something big, something thus far unspoken and which you donât totally understand yourself. Itâs too complicated. He shouldnât have to do this for you. He doesnât owe you anything.Â
Erase it, you want to say. Make this feeling I canât talk about go away. I know you love me enough to do it.Â
All this, with one please.Â
Spencer exhales. And he kisses you again.Â
Of course, Spencerâs not good with enforcing rules. Not when youâre opening up to him in this way. Even now he looks at you like youâre a marvel. Touches you like youâre a miracle. As soft and as careful as you couldâve asked for if youâd used the wordsâhe may as well be tracing love letters into your skin.Â
All you can do is try and respect his wishes. You hurt him, badly, you know you did. Donât add salt to those wounds. He needs you to be predictable right now. No sudden movements. No derailments. To the best of your ability, you are quiet and good and gracious and docile.Â
But you are only human. Those times you gasp his name under your breath, he just holds your hand tighter. A plead or two are lost against his skin or into the sheets. He takes pity on youâmurmurs gentle questions just to give you an outlet. Kisses your teary cheeks as you give your shaky answers.Â
He loves me, you think, in absence of the words, over and over, until you feel it, until your whole body is buzzing with it. Until youâre buoyant and nothing is hard anymore.Â
Afterwards, his stillness is what draws you back. His heart pounds against yours, heâs exactly the weight and the pressure you need. But heâs still. The momentum of the passion is wearing off, and you can sense it.Â
So you allow yourself one quiet, distressed little chirp. One nervous bid for reassurance. Spencer comes to his senses and quells you with a chaste kiss.Â
And then heâs out of bed. The weight of all the air in the room, the heavy cold, comes crashing downâpressing into your skin, your stomach, all at once. Â
Suddenly youâre paralyzed, unable to look away from the ceiling as he dresses, grabs the glass from your nightstand and disappears into the bathroom. A few moments later he returns bearing a cloth and a full cup. The cup hits the nightstand. The edge of the bed dips. He slides one hand up your calf like always, and you acquiesce, letting the weight of your leg fall against him. A warm washcloth finds your inner thigh.Â
Your mind is screaming, deafening static.Â
âYou okay?â Spencer asks gingerly after a few beats of silence. There is a hesitance, there. A feigned lightness, like heâs afraid of asking. Afraid of opening up this line of conversation and too good not to.Â
Your tongue is heavy in your mouth as he cleans up any evidence of his having been here.Â
âYou got up pretty quick.â
More static. Something fights its way up your throat and you swallow it down.Â
âYeah. An old professor of mine is town. We have dinner plans.â
You donât know what to say to that as he retrieves a few things from your dresser and returns. Normally heâd slide underwear up your thighs for you and pull a shirt over your head, but today youâre grabbing the garments from him before he has a chance.Â
âI can do it,â you mutter, hurrying to yank the clothes on under his measuring gaze. Under other circumstances he might take offense to this. Might at least ask you about it. Now he only stands to give you space and pockets his hands.Â
Because he knows. He knew the whole time.Â
Heâs not sticking around.Â
âIâm sorry,â he finally says. Dust particles swirl through thick beams of molasses light, pouring in from the windows and warming rumpled sheets. How long was he here?
You hug your bare legs to your chest and settle your chin over folded arms, mapping dust like stars in a galaxy. âWhyâd you even come?â you murmur. Â
The world quiets down. Waits with you, holding its breath for his answer.Â
âI donât know.â
Light glares off the floor in a blinding white pool. Sends shooting pains into the back of your eyes as you fiddle with your own shirtsleeve.Â
âWere you trying toâŚÂ hurt me back, or something?â
âNo.â The answer is firm and immediate. âNo, I am not trying to hurt you.â
You say nothing. Wood creaks under shifting weight, but youâre not looking at him as he sighs.Â
âYou have to give me some time.â Your name on his tongue is reprimand, a thing he shouldnât have to tell you. âItâs been a week. I donât have any of this figured out. Iâm not thinking straight.â
âYou were thinking straight enough to drive over here and tell me not to talk while you fucked me.â
âIââ he sighs. At a perpetual loss with you. âI told you it wasnât well thought out. Iâve been spiraling. All week. Iâm not sleeping, Iâm not making good choices. I meanâyouâyou fucked me over!â The words burst out, the way they do when he curses. âI havenât had anybody to talk to about this. You are the only person. Do you see why that would be difficult? You hurt me so much and I miss you and Iâm furious and youâre the only one I can talk to about any of it. Thatâs insane, right? I think you owe me some grace.â
âDid I owe you that, too?â
You gesture toward the unmade sheets and then bury your face against your arms once more.Â
Humiliated. Like usual.Â
Spencer is stunned into silence for a moment.Â
âNo. No, you didnât. Did Iâdid I make you feel that way? If that didnât feel rightââ
âNo,â you assuage tearfully. âI just wish you t-told me you werenât going to stay, âcause I wouldnât haveâI just canât do that with you.â
âCanât do what?â he asks, sitting on the bedside once more, hand twitching but ultimately leaving you be.Â
âI canât have sex with you if youâre gonna leave after. Iâm sorry, I know you didnât know that. But, likeâyou are the one person who canâtâI just really really canât do that with you, becauseââ you stop yourself and change course with a shuddering breath, pressing your palms to weeping eyes. âIâm sorry. I know this is literally all my fault. I donât get to ask for things. I know that.â
Fireworks dance against the back of your lids. Spencer is quiet.Â
Then there are hands around your wrists. A thumb smoothing the delicate skin under your palm. You hiccup a gasping cry and melt toward him. It might be the most you get from Spencer, so you focus on the small touch until it burns. His voice is softâa balm you donât deserve.Â
âIâm sorry. I didnât realize.â
âDonât apologize to me,â you sniffle, hands falling an inch, then two, as you go lax under his touch. âYou donât owe me an apology. JustâI canât do that with you again until⌠until we have things figured out.â
The stroking thumb stops, and then restarts.Â
âOkay.â
Finally, you open your eyes. Canât make sense of the neutrality on his face.
âWhat?â
He only shakes his head. Nothing.Â
Too tired to push him, you let your hands fall to your lap, and he keeps hold on your wrists. Sweeping. The lines he makes entrance you.Â
âIâm sorry I put you in this position,â you whisper.Â
No response. Back and forth.Â
âI know youâre mad at me. You really, really have the right to be mad at me. Iâm sorry for making you be nice to me. Thatâs so stupid, Iâm sorry. Iâm sorry forââ
âAngel.â
You bite your tongue and sink your gaze. What a ridiculous petname it is, now. How terrible of him to keep using it.Â
âSorry.â
Afraid to tell him he can leave, and too ashamed to let yourself enjoy his presence while it lasts, you remain in limbo. His silence does not tell you exactly how much he hates being here, but you think if the tables were turned, you wouldnât be able to stomach it. Is it really better, his lingering, if itâs not because he loves you? With each pass of his thumb, you imagine him hating you more. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not.Â
âIâm not going to do this again,â he murmurs, jarring you from your obsessive contemplation.Â
Now, when you look up, heâs focused on your wrist.Â
â⌠I know.â
âNo, honey. I mean⌠it needs to end.â
This sinks in slowly, with a heat in your face and the back of your neck and a sick tide rising in your stomach.Â
The first thing you feel is panic. Drops of adrenaline in your bloodstream like youâve just realized youâll need to run for your life.Â
âWhy? Becauseâif this is because I said I canât sleep with you untilââ
âThat was completely appropriate. You were right. Itâs not good for either of us.â
âSo why does that mean we canât try again? I meanâI know you need time. You can have it. You can. We always do this, and then we get back together and itâs better. I already did the worst thing I could doâweâll get better.â
The breath he takes is quiet, uneven and pronounced. The kind of breath you take when something hurts more than you thought it would.Â
âYouâre asking me to get over something I havenât even fully wrapped my mind around.â
You falter.Â
âNo, IâmâIâm just telling you Iâm going to wait, and you can have as long as you needââ
âStop,â he says, more sad than angry. âYou need to stop.â
âI canât stop,â you whisper, closer to forlorn every second as you tear up and spill all over again. âI have to try.â
Spencerâs voice shakes as he speaks. âDo not do this to yourself. There is nothing you can say, alright? This needs to be over, so itâs going to be over. Itâs not good for us.â
âButâbut⌠you canât just say itâs over, Spencer, we put so muchâIâve been trying so hard. I know I keep messing up, Iâm sorry, Iâm trying so hard. I donât know what happened, IâmâI can do more, I know I can.â
âYou canâtâthis isnât going to work. You canât fix it.â
âBut I love you. I want to be with you. I did it all for you, all the hard stuff, not for me, I justâI love you. I want you.â
You donât realize youâre sobbing until heâs wrenching your hands from your face once more and pulling you into him.Â
âI know you love me. I wish we were better for each other, angel, I do. But itâs not supposed to feel like this.â
Itâs not supposed to feel like this.Â
You shudder a cry.Â
âIâm sorry. I really didnât mean to hurt you, really. Iâm so sorry. I didnât want that. You d-didnât deserve it. Iâm so, so sorry, Spencer, I ruined everything, Iââ
âShh. Just⌠Iâll stay for a little bit longer, okay? Just a while.â
And he does. Until the room goes dark, and the stars watch silently from above.
October 29th
Itâs not going to be warm enough to enjoy the outdoors for much longerâbut today, the beams of sun are still thick through the turning leaves, still gold when you close your eyes, and the sweet smell of autumn is enough to keep you out criss-cross on Rossiâs swing.Â
The seal on the glass door suctions open and then slides shut again, and Penelope is joining you. You accept the mug of apple cider, holding it carefully in your lap.Â
âWhat a gorgeous day,â she sighs, and you hum in agreement. âProbably one of the last good ones. I saw rain on the forecast later this week.â
âIt begins,â you mutter.Â
âYeah. And I havenât even found a suitable mate to hibernate with yet.â
Your brow knits. âYouâre not withââ
She pauses mid-sip as you turn to look at her. Rightâyou werenât supposed to have seen her with Kevin last spring. Your face warms and you try to play it off. âOh, right. You guys broke up forever ago.â
To her credit, she doesnât actually confirm or deny. Instead, a quiet settles. Orâa sort of quiet. Down the yard, in grass that is still lush and green, JJ and Spencer are playing some sort of game with Henry and Michael. One that seems to invoke a lot of delighted screeches from the young boys as they run around and fall over and get back up.Â
âWhat about you?â Penelope asks.Â
Apple and clove melt on your tongue and warm your throat.Â
âWhat about me?â
âAre you hunkering down with anybody?â
âNo,â you admit without fanfare. Garcia doesnât respondâprobably hoping to get more information out of you. You hesitate, and then go on. âI meanâI was seeing a guy. But it ended a little while ago.â
She speaks her pity gently, in a tone like the velveteen undersides of flower petals.Â
âYou didnât tell me.â
You shrug.Â
âIt wasnât⌠official.â
âHow long were you seeing him for?â
âIt wouldâve been a year next month.â
This time, sheâs silent for too long.Â
When you finally glance over at her, sheâs not looking at you, as you wouldâve expected.Â
Sheâs⌠looking at your feet.Â
You glance down, ready to be very confusedâand then you see the problem.Â
Your jeans have ridden up. One sock is striped purple and green. The other, brown, dotted with horseshoes and cacti. Theyâre visibly too big for you.Â
Quickly you try to tuck them further under yourself. But youâre sure itâs too late.Â
You could explain this. You could say you forgot to bring socks on a case, and Spencer let you borrow a pair.Â
Before you can, she speaks.Â
âI worried that maybe you guys had split up.â
You flash her an alarmed look. âWhat?â
Penelope glances toward the house to make sure nobodyâs about to come outside.Â
âI mean⌠honey, you guys werenât very subtle. I donât think anyone who lacks my perceptive genius and emotional intelligence would have noticed, but I noticed. Like, I really noticed.â
You swallow, opening your mouth before youâve decided your plan of action. Deny?Â
âWhen?â
âWell, everyone always knew that you liked each other. But there was this one timeâand this was a total invasion of privacy, and I will never do it again unless I have toâwhere, you know, you⌠werenât answering your phone about a case, and I got worried, because no offense, but this team kind of has a track record when it comes to going missing, and so⌠I checked your location⌠and it pinged at Spencerâs apartment⌠who had just told me he didnât know where you were. And then you both showed up. Iâm so sorry, but in my defense, I was not trying to snoopââ
âPenelope, itâs fine.â
âWellâokayâand thereâs this other thing that I havenât told you about because it wouldâve been mutually assured destruction, so I kind of donât ask donât telled it, which was⌠me and Kevin saw you guys on a date last spring. And me and Kevin were not supposed to be on a date. And you were not supposed to be sharing spoonsâspooning, if you willâwith Spencer. But I did see it. And I didnât tell you and I felt really squicky about it for a long time and Iâm sorry.â
You blink. Try to process.Â
âYou didnât tell anyone else?â
âNo! God, no! I like to gossip, I donât like to ruin peopleâs relationships.â
âWhoâs ruining whose relationships?â JJ asks breathlessly, carrying a tuckered out Michael on her hip and holding Henryâs hand as she approaches. Your head snaps up. Spencer is trailing a few feet behind her, eyeing you.Â
Heat blooms in your cheeks.Â
âTheoretical conversation,â Penelope supplies quickly. âAre we finally ready to harass Rossi about dinner?â
JJ looks anything but convincedâand in typical fashion, lets it go.Â
âI think we are. What do you think Michaelâpizza?â
âPizza!â
Everyone cheers at thatâaside from you and Spencer. Penelope hurries inside after JJ and the boys. Spencer lingers. You quickly try to get your shoes back on before he can tell that youâre wearing hisâ
âNice socks.â
You sigh, pausing just a moment before you finish pulling your boot on.Â
âSorry. I need to do laundry.â
You stand, and Spencer opens the door for you. âWhat socks you choose to wear are none of my business.â
Halfway inside, you pause, glancing up at him. âDo you want them back?â
He narrows his eyes thoughtfully.Â
âThatâs okay. I have a pair just like them at home.â
This is the first time youâve exchanged more than a few work-related sentences since he ended things for good.Â
Itâs sort of ridiculous, after all the melodrama.Â
Itâs sort of a relief.Â
January 1st
Garciaâs New Yearâs party was a success. Thereâd been the most FBI agents youâve ever seen crammed into her apartment at once. There was a chocolate fountain, three kinds of champagne, and an elaborate charcuterie setup spanning nearly the entire counter. At midnight, youâd popped a confetti gun and blew into a noise maker and cheered and jumped around and hugged your friends.Â
An hour and a half later, youâve taken over as impromptu hostâPenelope is decidedly out of commission, snoring atop her bed, still in heels and sequins.Â
âBye, guys! Happy new year!â
You wave as the last stragglers head out the door.
When you close it, and turn around: âHoly shit.âYou wade through confetti and streamers and napkins, kicking a few balloons out of your way. Any flat surface is covered in sparkly plastic cups and champagne flutes. âWe trashed the place.â
From the kitchen, Spencer chuckles. âItâs pretty bad.â
You frown when you notice him stacking plates. âHey, you donât have to do that. I told Garcia Iâd handle clean up.â
He checks his watch.Â
âThe odds of being involved in a fatal car accident are up 208% percent right now, and they wonât be going down for a few hours. Plus, my own blood alcohol content is probably hovering around point zero four, which is well under the legal limit to drive, but Iâd prefer for it to be zero flat.â
You shrug and make your way over to the record player, which had finished up A Night At The Opera a while ago. âIf you want to ring in the new year by helping me clean, I wonât stop you. Blue or Abbey Road?â
âNeither?â
âBoring,â you accuse, and put on Coltrane. The jazz comes slow and crackly and warm through the speakers.Â
Spencer steps aside as you enter the kitchen and hunt for trash bags under the sinkâcompostable, because itâs Garcia.Â
When you stand back up, youâre unprepared for how close heâs going to beâbarely an inch separates you and you stumble on your quest to pop backward. âWhoopââ instinctively, he reaches out and steadies you. You grasp onto his arms, eyes flickering up to his and laughing nervously. âHey.â
Spencerâs gaze is warm and easy on you as he pulls a little smile of his own. âHi.â
A stuttering inhale.Â
A moment that is just too long.Â
His fingers seem to relax against your arms, just fractionally, for just a split second. Like he could hold you. Like you could stay this way.Â
âSorry,â you breathe, releasing your grip on him and stepping back.Â
âYouâre okay.â
A lazy sax solo traces its golden fingers around your thrumming heart until your skin is buzzing. His eyes are the same color as the music. Just as soft. Just as leisurely as they vamp the distance between your own.Â
Bio-derived plastic dampens under your fingers as you flee to the living room.Â
The next fifteen minutes are spent kneeling in front of the coffee table, cleaning drips of chocolate and splashes of champagne, and trying not to think about the way his eyes caught on your lips.Â
Spencer doesnât miss you. Not like you miss him. Apparently he even went on a date a few weeks ago.Â
And with the way things ended, youâre lucky that he doesnât despise you. Being on decent terms should be enough. Letting your perpetually smoldering want trail its smoke under his nose isnât fair. Not to you, not to him, and certainly not to his mystery girl. Heâs trying to move on, and you donât have the right to drag him down. Â
But, justâthat one little moment. One touch, and youâre totally thrown off your game. Now, youâre reading into the silence. Youâre wondering what heâs thinking about you. If heâs thinking about you.Â
Laterâmuch laterâthe living room has been mostly cleaned. Youâre taking the final trash bag to the kitchen when you notice something on the ceiling fan and pause, frowning up at it.Â
âSpencer?â
âYeah?â
âCan you come here?â
He appears. âWhatâs up?â
You point at the fan.Â
âI think somebody put a cup up there.â
Spencer makes a face and reaches up to grab it. He reads the name Sharpieâd on the side and snorts, before showing it to you.Â
Kevin, scrawled next to the worst smiley face youâve ever seen.Â
âHow do you mess up a smiley face?â you laugh.Â
âIâm sure heâd be able to tell you.â
You suck your teeth. âGodâdo you think theyâre together again?â
âKevin and Penelope?â
The trash bag drops to the ground as you flop onto the couch, exhausted. Spencer crushes the cup and tosses it in, standing just in front of you, studying you as he thinks. âI donât know. Wouldnât entirely surprise me. Theyâre pretty good at remaining inconspicuous.â
You hum, slinking lower in the faux-leather. Maybe some friendly chit-chat is in order. Friends ask each other questions, donât they? âSpeaking of inconspicuous relationships⌠I heard you went on a date.â
He slides his hands into his pockets and picks his words in silence for a momentâyou hate that. You hate feeling excluded from whatever internal conversation heâs having. Knowing that heâs measuring how much truth heâll dole out to you.Â
âWhoâd you hear that from?â
You track him with your eyes as he takes a seat next to you.Â
âDid you?â you ask, ignoring the questionâmore focused on the stubbled line of his jaw.Â
Spencer considers his answer for a moment, head reclined on the back of the couch, charting the glittery paper stars suspended from the ceiling.Â
âI did. Two, actually.â
Two dates? With the same person?
âHowâs that going?â
He approximates a smile.Â
âYouâre not being very subtle.â
âIâm just curious. You donât have to answer.â
Spencer meets your eyes. Studies them in turns, like thereâs a secret language etched into the fractals of pigment. Â
âI like her,â he decides. And your stomach sours.Â
âBut you didnât bring her tonight?â
Spencer rolls his head back toward the ceilingâand very nearly his eyes, as he dryly reminds you, âWeâve been on two dates.â
âIf you like her, you shouldâve brought here. You couldâve kissed her at midnight and sealed the deal.â
A ditch in the conversation. The perfect depth and width for hiding a body, as something in the air changes. Drops a degree or two. Thickens.Â
âWhat are you doing?â he murmurs, looking back at you and finally putting an end to your game. Your face gets warm. Oops. Too far, maybe.Â
âIâm being supportive.â
âNo, youâre not.â
âYes, IÂ am. Is that allowed?â
âYouâre sure itâs not surveillance?â
âYes!â
Even to you, you sound overly defensive.Â
âFine.â A moment passes. Heâs staring at you, in this lazy sort of way. âWhat about you?â
âWhat about me?â
âYou didnât bring anyone either.â
âWell⌠Iâm not seeing anyone.â
Itâs embarrassing to admit. You pinch at the fabric of your skirt, worrying the glitter sewn into black like drops of silver. Stars, or beads of rainwater.Â
âWhy not?â
âDo I need an excuse to be single?â
âJust curious. Is that allowed?â
Evidently the look you cast him then is not as withering as youâd it to be. Not if heâs so unfazed. Still reading you like a familiar book.Â
âGod, this is frustrating,â he mutters, as if to himself, tongue darting over his lips and frowning like youâre a question he doesnât have the answer to. Your own brow pinches, ready to be offended.Â
âWhat is?â
âI just⌠I thought Iâd stop wanting to kiss you by now.â
Behind the safety of a bone cage, tucked where he canât see, your heart does a somersault. It probably shows in the way your spine straightens, the catch of your breath.Â
âOh. Iâm⌠Iâm⌠sorry.â
Spencer cracks a dry smile.Â
âYouâre sorry? Why are you sorry?â
âWellâI donât know. Because⌠I donât know. it just seems like⌠the wrong thing to want. You have a girlfriend.â
The softening of his eyes, the tilt of his head, all spell pity. Like youâre naive.Â
âThatâs not what she is, honey.â
Honey. You try to remember to breathe. To think.
âThen what is she?â
He hums.Â
âNot you. As much as I tried to tell myself that was for the best.â
Scratch somersault. Back handspring. Or maybe a round-off. You swallow. Pick at your nails.Â
Did you think this into existence? Was all your desire really so loud?
âSpencerâŚâ
âWhat?â
âThatâs⌠thatâs not fair.â
His eyes are melting glass on yours, voice lowered in a way youâve sorely missed. âHow so?â
It takes you a moment to remember yourself. âBecause IâmâIâm trying to be better. Iâm really trying. I donât want anyone to get hurt âcause of me. So if this girl likes youââ
âAngel. Nobodyâs getting hurt. She knew I had someone else on my mind.â
âYou canât call me that,â you whisper brokenly. But heâs close enough you can feel his breath. You donât know how he got close like thisâwhen you gravitated toward him, charmed as a snake by a flute. When the inevitable outcome limited itself to brilliant, disastrous collision. âWe canât do this.â
âWhy not?â
âBecause⌠because weâre not together.â
âWhen has that ever stopped us?â
All your air comes out at once. âThis is so stupid.â
âYouâre so pretty.â Delicately he cups your jaw. Strokes the tips of his fingers along the hollow of your cheek. âI was thinking about it all night. Noticed the glitter as soon as I saw you. Did Penelope do it?â
âSpencer, please.â Breathless. Pathetic. Desperate for him to put you out of your misery, one way or another.Â
His throat bobs. âCome here.â
So you do. You lean in, one hand balanced on his knee, the other on his shoulder, and your lips brush so softly it canât even be called a kiss. Still it sends a high-voltage shock through your whole body. He tastes like champagne as you kiss him deeper, as his hand wanders to the back of your thigh and hoists you across his lap. The other roots in your hair and your head spins.Â
âMissed you so much,â he breathes into your mouth, not even bothering to pull away, or even to stop kissing you really. Mellow ivory and brass do a good job of concealing your soft breaths. Less so the undignified noise you make when Spencer shifts you roughly on his lap to pull you closer.Â
âThis isnât a nice thing to be doing on âNelopeâs couch,â you gasp between kisses, gripping at the front of his shirt like someoneâs going to try taking him away from you. He alters his course from your mouth to trail down your neck. Lets fingers dip just beneath the hemline of your skirt until you shudder.Â
âThen weâll stop.â
Your jaw drops in a silent squeak as he nips at a delicate spot on your throat.Â
The problem is that with the two of you, there is never any stopping. Not definitively. Never permanently. You can say it as emphatically as youâd like. You can even sort of mean it. But the cosmos has other plans.Â
Outside, silent snow falls from a blue-black sky. There is nothing but the headlight glare from the occasional passing car. The popping and crackling of distant fireworks set off by the over-imbibed, ringing twelve oâclock in hours after the bloom of the new year. It must be midnight somewhere, you suppose.Â
Itâs just like you and Spencer, to be in the wrong place at the right time. Itâs like you to slip through time-space cracks until you find each other in the accordion folds of the universe.Â
Itâs basically tradition.
spoilers: reader kinda cheats on Spencer but the consent there is questionable seeing as she was incredibly intoxicated
if u read this far WOW ily I hope u liked it :D I put blood sweat and tears into this bad boy. also shout-out @aliteralsemicolon for helping me so much with this fic she is a very helpful and willing consultant I think this never would've seen the light of day without her!!! ALSO THIS FIC WAS INSPIRED BY LIZZY MCALPINEâS SONG OF THE SAME NAME and each line corresponds to one of the dates of the scene!!! Read that here!!
A quiet sigh escapes your lips. Something is not right. You can't quite pin point it, but you feel unsteady. Not unwell, but not right. You can almost hear Spencer's voice in the back of your mind, reminding you of your own anxiety. But no. Something isn't right, you're sure of it.
By the time you're dipping into thoughts of having a genuine medical emergency, you feel it. The slight cramping in your abdomen, the tense hold on your lower back. That icky sensation from your stomach to the back of your throat. Your period.
After you've taken care of yourself to the best of your ability, you hear a shift in the living room. Keys, a bag, a coat hanging up. You softly rub your abdomen as you pad quietly from the bedroom, catching site of his curls, short from his recent haircut. He stands upright, eyes landing on you, the softening of his expression matching his voice as he softly calls, "Hey."
It melts through you. You blink a few times, "Hi." Then, your feet propel you forward, floating until you land in his arms, relaxing fully against him in a way that makes him chuckle, tightening his hold on you lest you fall.
"I missed you, too." He chuckles, and you nuzzle into him, mind quickly growing tired now that it's surrounded by his scent, his warmth. He tracks the cycle in his head, already privy to the signs over the last few days. It takes one warm swipe of his hand along your lower back to pull a soft sigh from your lips, and he chuckles again, lifting you up and carrying you back to bed.
Cuddled together, he presses a soft kiss to your forehead, smooths a hand over your arm, and ponders how lucky he is to be the one you seek out during these tiring days.
I mean the whole damn point of the Nativity story is that the supposed son of God (interpret Jesus how you fucking want, of course) was born to a couple of poor, exhausted peasants in the stable for the inn, and his first bed was a feeding trough for animals. That would nowadays be like a poor couple where the mother gives birth in a parking garage behind the motel because they couldnât find a better place and nobody else would take them in. Itâs a pretty gritty setting, and the idea is that God was reborn in some of the rock-bottom lowest circumstances. The only thing majestic was all the angels and shit, and of course motherly love
I get that a lot of the art portraying Madonna and Child as fabulously wealthy europeans in splendid robes and golden light was meant to glorify God + whichever nobility was sponsoring the artist, and while of course itâs genuinely beautiful art, it just always struck me as horribly missing the point, which is that the supposed son of God started in incredibly humble circumstances, among the kind of people that everyone else looks down on
âMassacre des Innocentsâ by Leon CogniĂŠt, 1824. Although the Feast of the Holy Innocents is in a couple of days time, this painting is still really relevant in that it portrays Mary as how She really was: a scared refugee mum, so fearful that Her son was going to be one of the Innocents killed by King Herod.
Summary: The BAU team begins to notice Spencer Reidâs sudden upgrade in accessoriesâan expensive watch, a designer satchelâsparking curiosity. When Garcia delivers a package containing a luxury tie and a note signed Love, Y/N, the truth unravels: Spencer has a mystery benefactorâhis wealthy girlfriend. The team demands answers, and the next day, you arrive at the office, effortlessly charming everyone. Over dinner, they interrogate you about your wealth, teasing Spencer mercilessly. Despite his embarrassment, itâs clearâheâs completely smitten, and you have every intention of spoiling him for a long time.
Pairing: Reader/Spencer Reid
The first time the team noticed something was different about Spencer, it was subtle. A new watchâsleek, expensive-looking, but nothing too flashy. Derek Morgan had squinted at it during a briefing, noting how it gleamed under the fluorescent lights.
âNew watch, pretty boy?â Morgan teased, nudging Spencerâs arm.
Spencer, who had been flipping through a case file, blinked and quickly tucked his wrist under the table. âUh, yeah. Just something Iâuhâpicked up.â
JJ raised an eyebrow. âPicked up? Since when do you shop for anything that isnât books?â
Spencer hesitated. He wasnât exactly great at lying, so he just hummed noncommittally and went back to his papers. The team shared a look but let it go.
Then came the new leather satchel, replacing the beat-up messenger bag he had used since his first year at the BAU.
Emily eyed it curiously. âIs that⌠designer?â
Spencer looked down at the smooth, high-quality leather and gulped. âI⌠I donât know.â
Morgan let out a low whistle. âKid, that bag costs at least a thousand bucks.â
âThatâs⌠thatâs a lot, huh?â Spencer winced.
âReid, where the hell are you getting all this stuff?â Rossi asked, giving him a knowing look. âDid you finally take my advice and start playing poker again?â
Hotch, though focused on his paperwork, raised an eyebrow at that. Spencer shook his head rapidly. âNo! No gambling.â
More murmurs from the team. The mystery of Spencerâs sudden upgrade in accessories continued.
But it wasnât until Garcia waltzed in holding a package that things got even more suspicious.
âOoooh, my genius bean, something arrived for you!â she sang, setting a box on the table in front of him. It was wrapped elegantly, the brand logo discreet but expensive.
The team practically hovered as Spencer hesitated before peeling the wrapping away. Inside was a stunning silk tie in deep purple, along with a handwritten note.
Wear this tonight. Miss you. - Love, Y/N
Spencerâs ears went red.
Morgan snatched the note before Spencer could react. His eyebrows shot up. âWho the hell is Y/N?â
Emily leaned in. âAre we missing something? A girlfriend, maybe?â
The room went silent.
Spencer, realizing he was very much caught, fidgeted. âUhâŚâ
The team exploded.
âYOU HAVE A GIRLFRIEND?!â
âHow did we not know this?!â
âWait, wait, wait. Sheâs the one buying you all this fancy stuff?!â
Spencer cleared his throat. âShe⌠she enjoys treating me, yeah.â
Morgan shook his head, amused. âDamn, pretty boy. Youâve been holding out on us. Who is this mysterious sugar mama?â
Spencer groaned, hiding his face behind his hands. âSheâs not a sugar mama. Sheâs just⌠well-off.â
âHow well-off?â Rossi asked, smirking.
Spencer hesitated before mumbling, âVery.â
âOhhh, we need to meet her,â Garcia grinned.
Spencer sighed, already regretting everything.
***
The BAU team didnât have to wait long. The very next day, as they wrapped up their morning meeting, an unexpected visitor strolled into the bullpen.
You walked in confidently, dressed sharply, carrying a small bag in your hand. The team barely had time to react before Spencer spotted you, his eyes going wide.
You smiled as you reached Spencerâs desk. âHey, handsome,â you greeted, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his cheek.
Morganâs jaw dropped. âNo. Way.â
Spencer coughed, his entire face heating up. âUm. Guys. This is⌠uh, this is my girlfriend, Y/N.â
âGirlfriend?â Rossi repeated with amusement. âMore like mystery benefactor.â
You chuckled, holding up the bag. âActually, I just came to drop off his lunch. He left it at home.â
Hotch, who had been observing with a rare smirk, finally spoke. âSo, Y/N, should we be expecting more luxury deliveries for Dr. Reid?â
You grinned. âI do like spoiling him.â
Morgan shook his head in disbelief. âI gotta askâhow did you two even meet?â
Spencer sighed, resigning himself to the inevitable. âWe met at a lecture I was giving a year ago. Sheââ
âI thought he was adorable,â you finished for him, smiling. âSo I asked him out.â
JJ looked between the two of you, impressed. âAnd let me guessâhe said no at first?â
You laughed. âOh, absolutely. But I was persistent.â
Rossi raised an eyebrow. âPersistent and wealthy. Kid, you hit the jackpot.â
Spencer groaned, covering his face again.
Emily leaned back in her chair. âAlright, Y/N, I think itâs time for the real question. Just how well-off are we talking?â
You glanced at Spencer, who gave you a pleading look. Smiling mischievously, you reached into your bag and pulled out a set of keys, tossing them to Morgan.
He caught them and stared. âWait. This isâŚâ His eyes flicked to you in shock. âYou drive an Aston Martin?â
You winked. âOne of them.â
The team erupted into laughter and disbelief, while Spencer simply sighed in surrender.
***
That evening, the team insisted on taking you out for dinner to âinterrogateâ you properly. They chose a fancy restaurant, much to Spencerâs dismay.
Garcia, grinning, leaned in the moment you sat down. âSo, Y/N, I have to knowâwhat is it about our dear Spencer that caught your attention?â
You smiled at your boyfriend, who was already looking like he wanted to disappear into his seat. âOh, thatâs easy. Heâs brilliant, kind, and the most fascinating man Iâve ever met.â
Spencer coughed. âIâuh, wellââ
Morgan smirked. âAnd the fact that he looks like a model in a lab coat?â
You laughed. âThat doesnât hurt.â
Hotch, ever the observer, finally spoke up. âSpencer mentioned you were⌠very well-off.â
You sipped your drink before nodding. âThatâs true.â
Emily raised an eyebrow. âLike âcomfortableâ well-off, or âprivate jetâ well-off?â
You gave Spencer a knowing look before shrugging. âSomewhere in between.â
Morgan whistled. âDamn, pretty boy, you really did win the lottery.â
Spencer groaned again as the team laughed.
As the night went on, you fit right in with the BAU family. They teased Spencer mercilessly, but you could tell they adored him just as much as you did. And despite his embarrassment, he couldnât stop sneaking little glances at you, his expression soft with affection.
By the end of the evening, Garcia threw her arms around you. âYouâre officially one of us now, sugar mama.â
Spencer groaned. âSheâs not a sugar mama!â
Morgan grinned. âRight, right. Just a very generous, very wealthy girlfriend who buys our boy luxury gifts.â
You squeezed Spencerâs hand under the table, smiling. âAnd I plan to keep spoiling him for a long time.â
The team cheered, Spencer turned bright red, and you knew this wouldnât be the last time they teased him about you.
Summary: No one at the BAU knew you were an expert in hand-to-hand combatâuntil you save Spencer from an unsub in the field.
Pairing: Reader/Spencer Reid
The BAU was a well-oiled machine, a team built on trust, intelligence, and skill. Everyone had their strengthsâMorgan had his strength and tactical expertise, Emily had her experience in undercover work, JJ had her natural empathy, Garcia had her tech skills, Rossi had his wisdom, and Hotch⌠well, he was Hotch.
And then there was you.
You werenât the fastest, the strongest, or the most experienced. You werenât a profiler like Spencer or a former cop like Morgan. If anything, most of the team saw you as the quiet one, always diligent, always dependable, but never the one kicking down doors.
And that was fine with you.
You had spent years training in silence, perfecting skills you never really had the opportunityâor desireâto showcase. There was no reason to. Your job didnât require it. Until, of course, everything went to hell.
The team had been tracking a particularly brutal unsub, one who had already left three victims in his wake. Young women, all taken in broad daylight, all showing signs of restraint and violent struggle before they were ultimately left to die.
The BAU had narrowed the suspect list down to one man: Kyle Turner. Mid-40s, former military, dishonorably discharged, and exceptionally dangerous.
That was how you found yourself in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town, the air thick with dust and the scent of rusting metal.
Spencer had gone in first. It was supposed to be a simple reconnaissance mission, but the second he stepped inside, his comms cut out.
And then, all hell broke loose.
âWhere the hell is Reid?â Morgan growled, scanning the area with his gun raised.
Static buzzed in everyoneâs earpieces before Garciaâs panicked voice came through. âGuys! Reidâs comm just went dead! I lost his location!â
Your stomach dropped.
âIâm going in,â you said immediately, already moving.
Morgan grabbed your arm. âNo way. We donât know whatâs in thereââ
âI donât care,â you snapped, shaking him off. âSpencerâs in trouble.â
You barely heard Hotch giving orders as you darted forward, your gun steady as you entered the warehouse. The dim lighting and eerie silence made your skin crawl.
Then you heard itâa struggle.
A grunt of pain. Spencer.
You ran.
The sight made rage burn through you like wildfire.
Spencer was pinned against the wall, his gun knocked to the ground as Kyle Turnerâa man twice his sizeâwrapped a thick arm around his throat. Spencer clawed at the manâs grip, struggling for air, his face already red.
Turner was going to kill him.
Your gun was still raised, but you knew you couldnât risk taking the shotânot with Spencer in the line of fire.
So, you did the only thing you could.
You attacked.
In three swift strides, you closed the distance, grabbing Turnerâs wrist and twisting it hard. He barely had time to react before you drove your elbow into his ribs and swept his legs out from under him in one fluid motion.
Turner hit the ground hard, releasing Spencer as he gasped for breath.
But you werenât done.
The unsub lunged for his knife, but you were faster. You pivoted, blocking his arm before delivering a sharp, brutal strike to his throat. He choked, eyes wide with shock, just before you drove your knee into his stomach and knocked him completely unconscious.
Silence.
Heavy breathing.
Thenâ
âWhat the actual hell?â
You turned to see Spencer, still leaning against the wall, staring at you like he had never seen you before in his life.
ââŚAre you okay?â you asked, breathless.
Spencer blinked. âIâyeahâI mean, yes. But what was that?!â
Before you could answer, the rest of the team burst into the warehouse.
Morgan had his gun raised, eyes scanning for threats, while Hotch, JJ, and Emily moved in behind him.
And then they all saw you.
Standing over an unconscious suspect.
And Spencerâwho looked like he had just watched a Marvel fight scene in real life.
âWhat the hell happened?â Hotch demanded, taking in the scene.
Morgan looked at Turner, out cold on the floor. âDid you do this?â
You hesitated. âUm⌠yes?â
Silence.
Thenâ
âSince when can you do that?!â Emily exclaimed, stepping forward.
You shifted uncomfortably. âItâs⌠not a big deal.â
âNot a big deal?!â Morgan repeated, pointing at the very unconscious unsub. âPretty sure this dude would say otherwise.â
Spencer, still looking dazed, gestured toward you. âShe justâsheâshe literally took him down in seconds. I was about to black out, and then she came in like some kind ofâninja.â
You winced. âIâm not a ninja.â
âYou might as well be!â
Hotch, ever the professional, folded his arms. âHow long have you been trained in hand-to-hand combat?â
You exhaled. ââŚA while.â
Morgan narrowed his eyes. âHow long, exactly?â
You shrugged. âSince I was⌠fifteen?â
Everyone blinked.
âFIFTEEN?â Garciaâs voice shrieked through the comms.
You winced again. âI, uh⌠kind of grew up around people who taught me. I kept training over the years. Itâs just⌠never come up.â
Morgan ran a hand down his face. âOh my God, weâve been bringing you on cases this whole time and didnât know you were a secret weapon?â
Spencer was still staring at you, completely in awe.
You felt self-conscious under all their gazes. âIâI donât like showing off. I just wanted to help.â
Hotch studied you for a long moment before nodding. âYou did good,â he said simply.
That alone made the tension leave your shoulders.
But Morgan? Morgan was never letting this go.
âOh, trust me, sweetheart,â he said, shaking his head with a smirk. âYou are never living this down.â
You groaned.
And Spencer?
He just smiled at you, something soft and completely enamored in his expression.
Yeah, this case definitely changed things.
Back at the BAU, you were the talk of the team.
Morgan had officially nicknamed you "BAUâs Secret Weapon." Emily kept reenacting your takedown move in the bullpen. Rossi, to your horror, started placing bets on how fast you could take someone down in training.
Spencer, on the other hand, was still looking at you like you had personally rewritten the laws of physics.
âYou okay?â you asked him later, nudging his arm.
Spencer blinked. âI think Iâm in love with you.â
You choked on your coffee. âIâwhat?â
Spencer immediately went red. âIâI meanânot that I wasnât before! But now Iâm justâwow.â
You bit your lip to hide a grin. âSo⌠me knowing how to fight is attractive?â
Spencer pushed his hair back, still flustered. âI mean⌠yes? Statistically speaking, a partner who is both intelligent and physically capable isââ
You cut him off with a kiss on the cheek. âGood to know.â
Spencer blinked, stunned into silence.
Morgan whistled from across the bullpen. âDamn, Reid, youâre having a great day, huh?â
Spencer just smiled, his hand slipping into yours under the desk.
Summary: You and Spencer stay up till sunrise talking about anything and everything, and the both of you suffer the consequences with the teams teasingâŚ
A/N: songs are really my inspiration atm, also can be read as any season Spencer. Xoxox
BYR(b4 u Reid): BAU!Reader, light teasing, fluff
Youâre curled on his couch, your feet tucked beneath you, and half empty glasses of wine that had been forgotten about hours ago nearby.
Spencer sits next to you, just a little too close but you donât mind it. His arm lays resting on the back of the couch occasionally his soft fingers touching you lightly without him even realizing but you donât mind again because itâs comforting, and because itâs him.
âI donât know, I still think the whole concept of time is ridiculous.â You say, half grinning. âWho decided we needed minutes and hours anyway?â
Spencerâs eyes light up, the way they always do when a debate begins. âWell, the Babylonians first divided the day into twenty-four hours, based on their sexagesimal system. And technically, is a human construct, but itâs a necessary one.â
You scoff, leaning just a little bit closer. âNecessary for what? Stress? Deadlines?â
âOr catching serial killers.â He says, arching an eyebrow.
âI guess.â
The warmth of his smile lingers, and for a moment neither of you speak, both lost in each other.
It was a soft charged stillness, the kind that makes your heart beat a little faster. Itâs also not the first time the air between you two has been like this, but it is the first time neither of you have pulled away.
Instead of acknowledging it, Spencer breaks the silence with a grin. âWhatâs something entirely useless that you know?â
You grin back, ready. âOctopuses have three hearts, and their blood is blue because it contains copper instead of Iron.â
His laugh is soft and genuine, your chest feels a little tighter hearing the sounds leave his mouth. âThatâs fascinating.â
âAnd that sea otters hold hands when they sleep so they donât drift apart.â You continued.
âRight? Imagine just two little otters floating around holding hands.â You demonstrate grabbing onto his hand, locking them together. âJust like this.â You say, the both of you smiling at your interlaced hands.
âHonestly, I think I could stay up all night listening to you.â He murmurs, his voice softer. It hangs in the air like a confession. Your cheeks flush.
âGood. Because Iâm not tired yet.â
And just like that, the night stretches on. You talk about everything and nothing.
Favorite books, embarrassing stories, the most ridiculous statistics he can pull from memory.
Every so often, you catch the way Spencerâs gaze flickers to your lips, or the way his knee rests against yours. The teasing grows bolder, and the laughter louder.
âHmm, are you flirting with me Dr. Reid?â You call him out, a grin tugging at your lips.
âStatistically speaking.â He replies, his smile downright mischievous. âThereâs a high probability that I am.â
You laugh, but you donât deny how much you like the way heâs looking at you.
And then, before you realize it, the soft hue of the sun rising seeps through the windows. Spencer glances at the clock on the wall.
His eyes widen âoh no.â
âWhat?â
âItâs six.â He says, your stomach drops. âSix?! Oh my god, weâre supposed to be at work in two hours.â
âTwo hours and thirty minutes.â Spencer corrects, his voice is filled with panic but also amusement as he teases you.
You get up from the couch, grabbing your shoes with a curse. âI canât believe we actually stayed up all night.â You say shaking your head with a small laugh
Spencer stands up too, running his hand through his messy hair, somehow that makes him more attractive. âMe neither.â He admits.
He walks you to the door, and you quickly slip on your coat. âThank you, Spencer. This was fun.â you smile
He smiles back, the corners of his mouth curving upward in that shy, boyish way. âYeah, it was.â Then, after a brief pause, he adds. âCan I walk you to your car?â
âAs much as Iâd love that, I think you should start getting ready.â You say gently, nodding toward the clock. âItâll only take a couple minutes.â He insists.
âItâs alright, I got it.â You assure him with a small smile. His eyes search yours, like he wants to say something more, but he only nods.
âBye Spence. See you in a bit.â
âBye y/n.â
Neither of you move right away. The silence hangs between you, comfortable but also heavy, like something unspoken is lingering in the air. After a moment you give him a small wave and turn toward the door. Spencer watches as you disappear down the hall, the echo of your footsteps fading.
As the door closes, he finds himself smiling because talking to you all night felt like the easiest thing in the world.
Ëŕ¨ŕ§âď˝ĄË â
By the time you sit in your chair at your desk, coffee in hand and sleep deprivation weighing heavily on you, itâs clear youâre not the only one suffering.
Spencer drags himself in, his hair slightly damp, his tie just a little crooked.
âPretty boy.â Derek drawls, grinning as he approaches Spencer. âLate night?â
âNot really.â Spencer replies too quickly, clearing his throat. âI, uh, just lost track of time.â
Derekâs grin widens. âLost track of time? What were you doing? Reading quantum physics journals under the covers with a flashlight?â
âSomething like that.â Spencer mutters, already regretting every decision that led him here.
Meanwhile, across the bullpen not to far from the guys, youâre not doing any better. Emily and JJ found you quickly and are now being relentless.
âGuys.â You groan, sinking into your chair. âIt wasnât like that.â
âMm-hmm.â
âDefinitely not like that.â
Before you could even attempt to change the subject, Penelope joins. âI have a theory.â She says with a grin plastered on her face.
You brace yourself. âOh no.â
âOh yes.â She continues. âTwo of my favorite nerds, who just so happen to look like theyâve been hit by the sleep deprivation express waltz in all disheveled and miserable. And yetâŚâ she pauses for effect. âYou both were fine yesterday. Did you guys have a hangout without us?â
JJ perks up. âSo neither of you got any sleep?â
âFunny coincidence.â Emily muses, shooting you a pointed look. âWere you guysâŚtogether?â
Penelopeâs eyes widen. âDid you guys-â
âNo!â You and Spencer both exclaim in unison, far too loud to sound convincing.
You could feel the heat crawling up your neck as Derek bursts into laughter. âWell, that wasnât suspicious at all.â
âI mean.â Emily grins. âWe are profilers.â
âYeah, and Iâm profiling a whole lot of guilt right now.â JJ adds, her arms crossed.
Spencer, who is now a permanent shade of pink attempts a weak defense. âWell maybe you guys should rethink your position because we were just talking.â
Derek snorts. âRight.â
âYes, talking.â You glare. âYou know, people do that sometimes.â
âAll night?â
âWith no sleep?â
Before you or Spencer can defend yourself, Hotchâs voice cuts through the room. âAs long as you both are awake enough to do your jobs, I and the rest of the team shouldn't care what you both were doing last night.â
The girls giggle, Derek shakes his head, clearly savoring every moment, and Rossi who had been silently observing from the sidelines, lets out a low chuckle.
âYoung love.â He mutters under his breath, not trying to hide his amusement either.
âNot helping.â You glare.
But as the laughter lingers, you sneak a glance at Spencer. Heâs already looking at you, lips twitching in that barely-there smile of his. And despite the embarrassment and exhaustion, you canât help but smile back.
Because truthfully, you wouldnât trade last night for anything. . .
Hi guys! Hopefully you love this! Thank you to all who comment, reblog, and heart! It is greatly appreciated.
I will try getting all requests out this week so if you sent one in it should be out by the end of the week, thanks for your patience <3
Summary: Spencer has a habit of leaving handwritten notes in the books you borrow from his personal collection. One day, you finally write back.
Pairing: Reader/Spencer Reid
Spencer Reidâs personal library was nothing short of magnificent. Towering shelves filled with well-loved books lined the walls of his apartment, their spines worn from years of eager reading. When you had first started borrowing from his collection, you had done so carefully, treating each volume like a fragile artifact. But what you hadn't expected to findâhidden between passages and proseâwere his words.
The first time it happened, you had borrowed Pride and Prejudice. Nestled in the margins, in neat, slightly slanted handwriting, was a comment next to Elizabeth Bennetâs sharp-witted retort to Mr. Darcy.
âYou remind me of Elizabethâsharp, observant, and far too intelligent for the company you keep.â
You had stared at the note for minutes, heart pounding. Spencer had written this long before you borrowed the book, hadnât he? It wasnât meant for you, was it? The thought of confronting him about it seemed daunting. Instead, you traced his words with your fingertips, feeling a warmth bloom in your chest.
That discovery led to another. And another.
In The Picture of Dorian Gray:
âYou would never be swayed by vanity. Your soul is too kind.â
In Jane Eyre:
âIf I were Rochester, I wouldnât have kept secrets from you.â
Each annotation, each carefully placed comment, felt personal. They werenât just general observations; they were thoughtful, tailored to you.
Days passed before you gathered the courage to respond. You chose one of the books Spencer often rereadâThe Great Gatsby. As you turned the familiar pages, you found a passage underlined in Spencerâs careful hand:
âHe had been full of the idea so long, dreamed it right through to the end, waited with his teeth set, so to speak, at an inconceivable pitch of intensity.â
And next to it, in his delicate handwriting:
âLonging is a difficult thing to master.â
You exhaled deeply, running your fingers over the ink. If Spencer had been leaving these notes for you, maybe he had been waiting for a response, just as you had been waiting for a sign. With a rush of courage, you picked up a pen and, in the same margin, wrote:
âI wouldnât need a green light. Youâve always been within reach.â
When you returned the book, carefully placing it back on his desk at the BAU, you felt the weight of your silent confession settle in your chest. What if he never noticed? What if he saw it and said nothing? The uncertainty gnawed at you, but it was too late to take it back now.
The next day, Spencer found you in the bullpen, book in hand, his expression unreadable. Your heart leapt into your throat.
âYouâŚâ he started, voice soft, reverent almost, as he flipped open The Great Gatsby to the exact page where your response was written. His fingers traced your words like they were delicate, precious.
âIââ you faltered. âWas that okay?â
His eyes locked onto yours, something unspoken passing between you. Then, he smiled. Not just any smileâone of those rare, genuine smiles that lit up his entire face, the kind of smile that made your stomach flip.
âYou wrote back.â His voice was breathless, in awe.
You swallowed hard. âI was wondering when youâd notice.â
For a long moment, Spencer simply stared at you, the book clutched to his chest. It was as if he was processing every possibility at once, and you could almost see the thoughts racing in his brilliant mind. Then, before you could panic, he took a step closer.
âIââ He hesitated, clearing his throat. âIâve been leaving those notes for you.â
Your breath caught. âYou have?â
Spencer gave a short, nervous laugh. âFor a while now. I didnât know if youâd ever see them or if youâdââ
âI saw them,â you interrupted, a smile tugging at your lips. âAnd I loved them.â
His shoulders relaxed, relief washing over his face. âReally?â
You nodded, warmth spreading through you. âReally.â
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then, Spencer exhaled, flipping the book open once more. âSo⌠does this mean I can keep writing to you?â
You tilted your head playfully. âOnly if I can write back.â
His smile widened, his fingers brushing against yours over the worn edges of the book. âIâd like that.â
From that day forward, every book exchanged between you contained more than just stories. Between the lines of famous literature, nestled in the margins of classic texts, you found something even more precious:
Love letters in ink, waiting to be read.
The notes continued, hidden within the pages of literature both of you adored. A stolen thought in Wuthering Heights, a whispered confession in Les MisĂŠrables. Each time Spencer handed you a book, your fingers would brush, lingering longer than necessary, and his eyes would search yours for recognition.
Then, one evening, as you flipped through Anna Karenina, you found a note in the final pages, underlining a passage about fate.
âSometimes, love is written long before we even know it exists.â
And below it, in a nervous, yet determined script, Spencer had added:
âI think Iâve been in love with you longer than I realized.â
Your breath caught, your heart hammering against your ribs. This wasnât just a passing thought, an intellectual observation. It was real.
Without hesitation, you reached for a pen and, with steady fingers, wrote beneath his words:
âThen itâs about time we stop reading between the lines.â
That night, when Spencer saw your response, he didnât just smile.
He kissed you.
And for the first time, there were no more words left unwritten.
The notes continued, but they became something different nowâlove notes, secret confessions, playful teases. You wrote to him in the margins of history books, and he replied with riddles in the pages of mystery novels. The space between you had once been filled with unspoken words, but now it was a novel of its own, each sentence a promise, each underline a touch.
One day, Spencer handed you a book without a title on its cover. Puzzled, you flipped it open to the first page, where a single line was scrawled in his familiar handwriting:
âEvery great love story deserves to be written.â
summary: What starts as a simple bookstore date turns into something far more meaningful when you discover Spencerâs handwritten annotations in the margins of the book he chose for youâtiny love notes hidden between the lines, each one more heartfelt than the last.
w/c: 2,500
a/n: the only warning is the potential risk of heart melting with how sappy the story is. I literally loved writing this, enjoy!!
The first thing you notice is warmth. The kind that seeps into your skin and settles in your bones, the kind that makes the thought of leaving the bed absolutely unbearable. The second thing you notice is the weight of Spencerâs arm draped over your waist, his fingers tracing lazy, absentminded patterns on your bare shoulder.
Youâre still teetering on the edge of sleep, wrapped in the soft cocoon of early morning drowsiness, but thereâs an awareness nowâa quiet, unspoken knowledge that you are being watched. Not in a scrutinizing way, not even in the way he watches people when heâs profiling, but in a way that feels reverent, like heâs memorizing every detail of this moment as if heâs afraid it might slip through his fingers.
You blink your eyes open slowly, adjusting to the soft golden light filtering through the curtains. And there he isâSpencer, his head propped on his hand, his curls a mess from sleep, hazel eyes filled with something impossibly tender.
âHow did I get so lucky?â he murmurs, voice still thick with sleep. The words slip past his lips like a secret, as though he hadnât meant to say them aloud.
A slow smile tugs at your lips. âI was about to ask you the same thing.â
His fingers pause for the briefest moment before resuming their slow, meandering path over your skin, mapping the curve of your shoulder, the length of your arm, the delicate dip of your wrist. Itâs an unconscious habit of hisâalways touching, always grounding himself in the reality of you.
âI mean it,â he says, his voice quieter this time, like heâs still caught between dreaming and waking. âSometimes I think about all the things that had to happen for us to end up here, in this bed, on this morning⌠and it doesnât feel real.â
You shift slightly, rolling onto your side to face him more fully. His face is so open in this moment, so unguarded. You reach up, brushing a few stray curls away from his forehead, letting your fingers linger against his temple.
âItâs real,â you whisper, watching the way his eyes soften even more. âWeâre real.â
His lips part like he wants to say something else, but instead, he just leans in, pressing a kiss to your forehead. Then another, this time against your cheek, then your nose, until heâs finally pressing the softest, sleepiest kiss against your lips.
You sigh into him, your hands slipping into his hair, and he makes a content sound against your mouth, like he could stay in this moment forever. And honestly? You could, too.
⸝
After that the day begins the way all the best ones doâslow, unhurried, wrapped in the soft golden glow of morning.
Spencer is still warm beside you, tangled in the sheets, half-awake but unwilling to leave the comfort of bed just yet. You trace lazy patterns against his skin, mirroring the way he had done to you earlier. He hums in response, his arm tightening around your waist, anchoring you to him.
âYouâre still here,â he murmurs, voice thick with sleep.
You laugh softly, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose. âWhere else would I be?â
His lips curve into a smile against your skin as he pulls you even closer, as if heâs afraid youâll slip away despite your words. âStay forever?â
Itâs a question he asks sometimes, though always in the quiet moments, always when he thinks you wonât remember. But you do. You always do.
âIâm not going anywhere,â you whisper, threading your fingers through his curls. âNot today. Not ever.â
His arms tighten around you, and for a long time, the two of you just exist like thatâwrapped up in each other, breathing in sync.
Itâs nearly noon when you finally untangle yourselves from the sheets, reluctantly leaving the warmth of your shared cocoon. Over coffee, Spencer proposes the idea of a bookstore date, his eyes lighting up the way they always do when he talks about books.
âThereâs a place I think youâd love,â he says, setting his mug down. âItâs small, but it has the most incredible selection. And the owner always lets me browse for as long as I want without judging me.â
You smile, reaching across the table to take his hand. âLetâs go.â
⸝
The bookstore is exactly what youâd imaginedâa quiet little shop tucked away between two taller buildings, with ivy creeping up its brick facade and large, floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing a glimpse of the magic inside.
Spencer holds the door open for you, a small, unconscious gesture that makes your heart swell. The moment you step inside, youâre surrounded by the scent of old paper and warm wood, the soft sound of pages turning mingling with the faint hum of classical music playing from a record player in the corner.
Spencer practically vibrates with excitement as he leads you through the aisles, his fingers grazing book spines as he murmurs their titles under his breath.
âThis place is heaven,â you say, running your fingers along a row of well-worn classics.
Spencer grins. âI know.â
You could spend hours here, lost in the quiet magic of it all, but then an idea strikes you.
âWe should pick books for each other,â you suggest, watching as Spencerâs eyes flick to yours, bright with curiosity.
âYou mean, I pick something for you, and you pick something for me?â
You nod, smiling. âSomething that reminds us of each other.â
Spencerâs lips part slightly, as if heâs about to argue that no book could ever truly capture the depth of his feelings for you. But then he just nods, a slow, thoughtful smile creeping across his face.
âI love this idea.â
And just like that, you separate, disappearing into different sections of the store.
You take your time, searching for something that feels like Spencerâsomething with heart, with depth, with words that carry the weight of all the things he feels but doesnât always say. You find yourself drawn to a book of poetry, the kind filled with quiet longing and aching tenderness. It reminds you of the way he looks at you when he thinks you arenât watching, of the way he leaves love pressed into the spaces between your fingers every time he holds your hand.
When you return to the front of the store, Spencer is already waiting for you, cradling a book in his hands like itâs something precious.
âI think I found the perfect one,â he says softly, glancing down at the cover before passing it to you.
You exchange books, fingers brushing in the process, and his gaze lingers on you for a moment longer than necessary.
âReady to go?â he asks, voice barely above a whisper.
You nod, but you already know you wonât be able to wait until you get home to start reading.
⸝
That night, curled up in bed with the book Spencer chose for you, you find something you hadnât expectedâtiny, handwritten annotations in the margins.
Your breath catches as you tilt the book toward the warm glow of the bedside lamp, scanning over the careful scrawl of his handwriting.
I thought youâd like this passage. It reminds me of the way you see the worldâsoft and full of wonder.
You run your fingers over the ink, your heart aching in the most beautiful way.
A few pages later, another note:
This line made me think of you immediately. Itâs the way I feel every time you look at me like Iâm something special.
You blink rapidly against the sudden sting of tears, flipping through the pages more urgently now, searching for more.
And theyâre everywhere. Tiny, thoughtful notes hidden between lines of text, some analytical, some teasing, but most of them impossibly tender.
This part made me stop reading for a second because it felt too much like us.
I love the way this author describes loveâit reminds me of how I feel when Iâm with you.
You press a hand to your chest, trying to contain the warmth blooming there.
And then, near the very last page, you find the one that undoes you completely.
I chose this book because itâs about love in its purest formâquiet, unwavering, and life-changing. The kind of love I feel for you.
The book slips from your hands as you inhale sharply, overwhelmed.
You donât think. You donât hesitate. You simply set the book aside and reach for Spencer, curling into his warmth without a word.
He makes a soft, sleepy sound of surprise, his arms instinctively wrapping around you.
âYou found them,â he murmurs against your hair, already knowing.
You nod against his chest. âSpencerâŚâ
His hand finds yours under the sheets, his fingers lacing through yours. âDid you like them?â
Tears prick at your eyes as you lift your head, pressing a lingering kiss to his jaw. âI loved them. I love you.â
His breath catches, and then heâs kissing youâslow and reverent, like heâs pouring every unsaid word into the space between you. When he pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheek.
âI meant every word,â he whispers. âEvery single one.â
And in that moment, wrapped in his arms, with the weight of his love pressed into your skin like ink on a page, you knowâthis is the greatest story you will ever be a part of.
summary: Spencer shows his love through small, everyday acts of serviceâmaking your coffee just right, folding your laundry, stocking your favorite snacksâall quiet ways of saying âI love youâ without needing the words.
warnings: Fluff, Slice of Life, acts of service, reader getting sick, Spencer being dreamy
Living with Spencer Reid meant noticing the details.
Not the dramatic onesâthe sweeping romantic gestures, the overly flowery confessions, or the movie-style declarations of love. That wasnât his style. What was his style was quieter. Simpler. And, honestly? So much better.
You saw it first in the small things.
Every morning, when you stumbled into the kitchen barely awake, your travel mug was already fullâcoffee, two sugars, a splash of oat milk. Spencer never asked. He just remembered.
You used to make a joke about it. âAre you reading my mind again, Dr. Reid?â
He would smile softly, always with that slightly bashful look, and say, âNo, I just⌠pay attention.â
You never had to ask him to do the laundry. Not because it was his choreâthere was never any scorekeepingâbut because he always noticed when you were exhausted after a long day at the Bureau. Heâd quietly sort it after dinner, folding your favorite sleep shirt last so it stayed warm when he handed it to you.
He even did it the right wayâsleeves tucked in, tags folded so they wouldnât itch your skin.
Once, after a particularly hard case, you came home and found that he had already stocked the fridge with your comfort food. Mac and cheese, those overpriced ginger sodas you liked, your favorite chocolate from that specialty store two blocks over.
âDonât tell me you profiled me at the grocery store,â you teased, collapsing onto the couch with a tired sigh.
He smiled, setting a bowl in front of you. âYou donât have to be a profiler to know what someone needs when you love them.â
You melted on the spot.
He always made sure your phone charger was plugged in before bed, even if youâd tossed it somewhere during the day. He bookmarked your latest reads so you never lost your place. He even color-coded your shared calendarâpurple for your work, blue for his, green for nights off together.
The first time you got sick while living together, you tried to brush it off. âItâs just a cold, Spence. Iâm fine.â
But he didnât buy it. Heâd already rearranged his schedule, made a thermos of lemon tea, and queued up your favorite comfort show on the TV.
âYou need to rest,â he said simply, sitting beside you with a tissue box and a book in hand. âIâll be right here.â
And he was.
All day.
You werenât even surprised when he showed up at work with a second umbrella because he checked the forecast and knew youâd forget yours. Or when your car mysteriously got new windshield wipers after you casually mentioned they were squeaky.
One night, you were both curled up on the couch, the quiet hum of the city outside your window, and he was rubbing small circles into your back without even realizing it. You turned to him and asked, âWhy do you always do so much for me?â
He blinked, like it was a strange question. âBecause you matter to me.â
You stared at him, heart full. âYou know, you donât have to do any of this.â
He smiled againâsoft, sure, a little sheepish. âI know. Thatâs why I want to.â
It hit you then. His love wasnât loud. It was consistent. Reliable. Woven into the rhythm of your daily life in ways you didnât always notice until you paused long enough to look.
Spencerâs love language wasnât about words or gifts or grand gestures. It was about checking the tires on your car before a long drive. About picking up your prescription on the way home. About learning how you like your eggs even though he never eats breakfast.
It was acts of service. Every day. Quietly. Faithfully.
And every time he refilled your water bottle without being asked or plugged in your curling iron because you were running late or made sure you never ran out of the lavender lotion you liked⌠you fell a little more in love with him.
Ok but I think you hit on something in âin the dead of nightâ about how Spencer leans into his mammalian instincts. Imagine him angry and tense after a rough day and needing that and then talking you through the motions of it and why it makes him feel better because of the science and chemicals behind it all
i absolutely love this!! thank you for requesting:)
also experimenting with a new short and sweet format for blurbs/request! feedback is always appreciated<3
wc 800
warnings: fem!reader, very suggestive, d/s dynamics
âI donâtâSpencerââ
Something in your mouth keeps you from finishing the sentence. Namely: your boyfriendâs tongue. You gasp into him as he tugs your jacket off, arching your back against the wall heâs pressed you to so that the fabric can hit the ground with a thick thud.
âSpence, please,â you manage, barely, as his hand cups your jaw and his thumb presses under your chin, encouraging you to angle your head up and make room for his lips. Itâs not that you donât want thisâyou told him he could be rough with you and you meant itâbut youâre slightly overwhelmed by this uncharacteristic display of nearing aggressive passion.
âWhat, baby?â he breathes, nipping at the sensitive skin of your neck while his hands snake under your shirt. Focused on the feeling of his hand pressed against your waist, you allow your eyes to flutter shut.
âYouâre acting⌠different.â
A pauseâhis head drops against your shoulder as he reigns himself in.
âDo you want me to stop?â
âNoâyou donât need to stop, I just⌠it might make me feel better if I knew what this was about.â
He sucks in a breath.
âYou want to hear about my day?â
The way his fingers trail downward over your skin is so gentle it feels almost dangerous.
â⌠Yeah.â But you donât at all sound sure of yourself. A hum from him seems to rattle your skull as he drags his lips up your neck and over your jaw, kissing you with a softness that is almost certainly deceptive.
âYou know what, angel? I donât actually really feel like talking about that right now. Does that tell youââ he bites your lip, and it doesnât really hurt, but you whine anyway, âwhat kind of day I had?â
No words are forming for you anymore, so you make do with an airy âmhm.â
The first button at the bottom of your shirt is undone before you even realize he was unbuttoning it.
âHave you ever heard of the ventrolateral ventromedial hypothalamus?â Spencer murmurs, undoing the buttons on your shirt with a practiced expertise that is hard to keep up withâespecially when he keeps teasing your lips with his like this. It doesnât even matter if youâve heard of that or not; all the information youâve ever retained is gone from the stores of your brain. If it doesnât have anything to do with Spencer, it feels deeply unimportant. You shake your head no. âThe hypothalamus does a lot. It regulates our appetites, our body temperatures, hormonesâŚâ
Why is this so sexy.
âIt also has a lot to do with how we express our emotions. And that tiny part of the hypothalamusâthe one I just mentionedâitâs where we process two really big feelings.â He undoes the last button, gently pushing your open shirt from your shoulders. âAnger.â Hands creep around your hips, blindly unzipping your skirt. âAnd arousal.â
Oh!
âIn a disregulated brain, that can be a dangerous combination. But,â he tugs the straps of your bra down, âif you understand it, you can use it to your advantage.â
Your breath is bated as you do the work of kicking off your shoes, and he unclasps your bra.
âThe human brain is fallible in so many ways. At the end of the day, weâre delicate, and vulnerable, and convolutedâbut weâre also pretty simple creatures, motivated by a few basic instincts. Anger and sex are intrinsic to who we are as animals. For most of history, theyâve defined us. And theyâre so closely related. Do you follow?â
Your response comes as a gasp when you realize you havenât been breathing for a long moment now.
âYes.â Does it matter if you understand? You just want him to touch you.
âGood.â His lowered voice gets even quieter as he continues, brushing hair behind your ear carefully. âYou know I would never, ever hurt you, right?â
âI know.â
You donât remember how all your clothes ended up on the kitchen floor, but theyâre certainly not on you anymore as he presses flush against your bare skin.
âI will always take care of you and keep you safe. That being saidâsometimes the best thing you can do when youâre having a really big feeling is to follow that basic animal instinct. Itâs why sprinting can help when youâre having a panic attack. Your body is in fight or flight and it will relax if you follow the instinct to run.â
Spencerâs fingers slip under the waistband of your underwear.
âIâve been having some of those really big feelings today. Do you know whatâs going to make me feel better?â
You whimper. Fabric slips past your hips and falls to the ground as Spencer begins closing the small distance between your mouthsâbut not before uttering a word that has your heart racing.
âYou.â
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