February 1st @ 7am
When Sam awoke that morning , it was to the smell of coffee and bacon.
Laying on his stomach, he curled his arms around the pillow under his head, smiling as he slowly crawled his way to consciousness. He could hear the sound of the coffee percolating, and the sizzling of a hot pan downstairs in the kitchen, so he knew if he fumbled around on the other side of the bed he would only find Spencer’s empty spot.
He did it anyways. It never hurt to have another pillow, he mused as he pulled Spencer’s over to him, smushing the side of his face against it and inhaling deeply. The smell of Spencer’s shampoo mingled with the delicious scent of cooking breakfast wafting up the stairs into the loft, and Sam sighed happily.
God, life was good.
Sam had been spending the night more frequently since the beginning of his residency, which was still hard work and long hours, but hardly as nightmarish as before. Spencer had gotten lucky on that front as well, having not been called in on a case in well over two weeks. And while they both appreciated the downtime, and the peace with which slow days at their jobs entailed, the best of it was that Sam had effectively been living at Spencer’s apartment.
It was much simpler to spend the night now. Not needing to hide his nightly rounds, Sam could actually get a decent night’s sleep, and while he was still embarrassed about them, Spencer was great at giving him privacy. Or rather, Spencer was great in general. Just when it came to accepting Sam’s compulsions, he was doubly so.
While he worried at first that he’d be intruding, Spencer was quick to put an end to that. He’d been the one to insist Sam stay over, and after the first few nights of trying to make excuses why he should go, Sam stopped trying. They were making up for lost time while they could, and it wasn’t as though he weren’t enjoying himself. On the contrary, he’d taken to life with Spencer like a duck to water, making himself as useful as he could, tidying up the clutter Spencer would invariably leave scattered around the house and coaxing him into using the actual living areas of his home. With Sam around, they actually sat on the couch and ate meals at the dinner table, instead of just holing up in Spencer’s room like he did when he was alone.
He explained to Sam once that the reason he stayed in his room was because it was his safe space. When he was growing up, when it was only him and his mom in the house, he used to sequester himself in his room while she was having one of her episodes. And while he knew he now lived alone, and that his bedroom didn’t exactly have a door, it was a habit that was hard to break. Being in his bedroom made him feel secure, he said, like Sam’s salt lines and sigils did for him.
He had this lovely habit of relating Sam’s experiences to his to help him feel normal, Sam thought with a smile. One that never went unappreciated.
Outside of their obvious personal issues, it was almost like they were a regular couple. Spencer (when he wasn’t on a case) had a normal 9-5 job, and Sam (when he wasn’t on call) was usually home by 7, 8 at the latest. This meant when he walked in the door, there was usually dinner waiting for him on the kitchen counter, a glass of wine and Spencer curled up on the couch, reading his thirteenth or twentieth book of the day and having rendered Sam’s tidying up moot in the process.
(In an attempt to clear out some of the clutter, Sam had suggested Spencer look into an e-reader, the mere suggestion of which had left Spencer so scandalized Sam swore never to bring it up again)
Such had been the case last night, and while Sam was usually the early riser who managed to get up, go for his morning run and shower before Spencer had so much as moved a muscle, today was different. Groaning softly, Sam pushed himself up onto his knees, his hair falling in front of his face as he attempted to drag himself out of bed. Drawn by the smell of coffee, he tossed back the covers, fishing for his boxers and slipping them on before biting the bullet and climbing onto his feet.
The apartment was warm and he smirked in self-satisfaction, feeling the hot air blowing through the vent on the wall. Since his conversation with Neil, Spencer mentioned his apartment was always a comfortable temperature, and Sam was happy to keep it that way. Especially if it meant he could walk into a sight like this…
The kitchen looked like a tornado had just whipped through it, but that was to be expected when Spencer was doing the cooking. There were stacks of dirty bowls, two cutting boards, a plethora of knives and food scraps scattered about the counter. Spencer’s style of cooking ran the same way his mind did: with a million things on the go at once, scattered and incomprehensible to anyone but him, forming a tangled web that came together into something brilliant at the end. And whatever it was Spencer was cooking (which looked to be at least five different meals), judging by the smell, it was going to be delicious.
But despite what drew him downstairs, food was suddenly the last thing on Sam’s mind. Spencer was standing at the stove, his back to Sam and mismatched striped socks on his feet, in nothing but his boxers and a red hoodie Sam immediately recognized as his own. It was his old Stanford sweater, the same one he’d worn last night while they were marathoning The Wire (Spencer appreciated the abject authenticity of it) and House (Sam liked pointing out that, more often than not, it was lupus). And while it was three sizes too big on him, hanging off Spencer’s slender frame and down to his mid-thigh, he looked so perfect in it that Sam decided he never wanted it back.
In fact, he didn’t want to move from his spot across the room, leaning against the bannister at the foot of the stairs and observing Spencer in his element. He was an excellent cook (“It’s just chemistry, Sam”) and he had no qualms about doing all the cooking for the both of them, thank god. Sam could barely toast bread, and if it were up to him, they would be ordering take out every night or eating cheese sandwiches. Again, Spencer talent stemmed from the two places he gleaned everything: from books, and his mother. Apparently, they used to cook together when she was lucid, trying out new recipes and attempting to recreate the signature dishes of world-famous chefs from memory and logic alone. And on her bad days, Spencer cooked out of necessity, being the only person in the house who was lucid enough to ensure they didn’t starve.
As such, Spencer’s repertoire of dishes was large and varied, from Julia Child’s duck l’orange to green bean casserole, and everything in between. Over the past few weeks Sam had come home to coq au vin, mac and cheese, latkes and pad Thai, and he’d discovered that the lengths Spencer would go to satisfy a craving were immeasurable, as his insistence on making tamales last Friday had illustrated.
If that bodega on 17th didn’t inexplicably have corn husks on hand at ten to midnight, Sam didn’t know what Spence might have done.
Sam didn’t want to take his eyes off him, not even for a second. Spencer was prodding at something in a frying pan, his leg jittering as he bounced the heel of his right foot up and down off the floor. He was humming something under his breath, while every now and then he would abandon the spatula for his mug, and the tune dropped off momentarily as he sipped his coffee. The sunlight that shone unhindered through the picture windows set Spencer’s hair aflame, gleaming across his silky curls and lighting them a beautiful golden brown, and his pale legs cast tall shadows across the floor.
The room was quiet, the air was still and Sam realized with a slow, creeping smile that felt at home here. He was beginning to feel as comfortable in this space as Spencer was, and for once, that didn’t frighten him. On the contrary, he was welcomed by Spencer’s very presence and for the first time in a long time, Sam was beginning to feel less like a nuisance, and more like he belonged.
“The staring is starting to get old,” Spencer called without turning to look at him, too busy flipping the eggs he had sizzling in the pan, “I don’t bite, I promise.”
“That’s a lie and you know it,” Sam said in protest, but he walked across the room anyways, wrapping his arms around Spencer’s waist and pulling his back to his chest. Resting his chin on Spencer’s shoulder, he glanced down at the scrambled eggs in the pan, and while his stomach gave a valiant grumble at the promise of food, Sam was much more inclined to busy himself with the young man in his arms.
“You hardly complain when I do,” Spencer said, his voice cracking a bit when Sam tilted his head to the side and sensually kissed his neck. He doubled down on the eggs, shifting them back and forth across the pan in an effort to stay focused, one that was entirely in vain as Sam began sucking on his earlobe, “Sam.”
Nipping at the shell of his ear, Sam whispered, grinning when the caress of his breath sent a shiver down Spencer’s spine, “Keep cooking, don’t let me bother you.”
“I can’t—” Spencer stammered, his eyes slipping shut as he unconsciously leaned into Sam’s touch. The back of his head hit Sam’s shoulder and it startled him back into focus, though the heavy, glazed look in his eyes suggested he was having trouble staying there, “I can’t concentrate when you—Sam, the eggs are going to burn.”
Sam reached past his hip and turned the burner off, “No, they’re not.”
Groaning in frustration, when Sam returned his hand to his hip, Spencer clasped his own overtop it, canting his hips back and moulding his back to Sam’s chest. He chuckled when Sam dropped his head forwards, his brow resting against Spencer’s shoulder, but Sam wasn’t about to be outdone. Using the hands he had on Spencer’s hips, he spun him around, catching the barest glimpse of Spencer’s shocked expression before Sam lifted him effortlessly and sat him on the counter next to the stove.
Spencer rolled his eyes in a huff, but he pulled Sam in regardless, wrapping his legs around his waist and tugging him closer. With Spencer’s arms around his neck, Sam let his gaze drop to his mouth and, overtaken with the urge to roll his full, pouty lower lip between his teeth, leaned forwards… only to be stopped in his tracks as Spencer snapped up a piece of bacon from a nearby plate and shoved it in his mouth in one bite.
“Really?” Sam asked, to which Spencer replied with a cheeky “Mrrh-hrmph” around his mouthful of bacon.
The grease staining his lips notwithstanding, Spencer looked entirely pleased with himself, smiling as best he could with his mouth full. He chewed slowly, deliberately locking eyes with Sam as he let him stew in his own desire, casually running the high arch of his foot up and down the side of Sam’s thigh.
But Sam was patient… or as patient as he could muster, kissing Spencer’s neck, his jaw, his cheeks, and anywhere else he could reach. He pecked at Spencer’s forehead and slobbered on the tip of his nose, the latter forcing Spencer to clap a hand over his mouth lest he sputter bits of half-chewed bacon in Sam’s face. And when Spencer finally swallowed he ducked forwards, tugging his hand away and kissing him heatedly, laving the taste of coffee and bacon from his sweet lips.
“You’re incorrigible,” Spencer reprimanded breathlessly, their mouths mere inches apart and he spoke in a whisper, his palms sliding over the firm muscle of Sam’s bare chest.
“Hardly,” Sam said, squeezing Spencer’s hips with both hands, and before he had time to think words he never anticipated he’d say so soon out loud tumbled past his lips in a poorly timed rush, “I’m just in love with you.”
Sam felt the wave of tension as it ran through Spencer’s body, his thighs stiffening around his hips and his spine going straight as a board. Spencer pulled his arms against his body and shuffled backwards on the counter, and though his heart ached to keep him close, to explain away his sudden confession, Sam reluctantly stepped back, his mouth opening and closing fruitlessly as he found himself at a loss for words.
He’d only spoken the truth, after all.
“You—” Spencer said abortively, his jaw tensing as he chewed nervously in the inside of his cheek. At least he was looking at him, Sam mused. That was a good sign, but the fear and panic in his eyes were doing nothing for Sam’s ego. He looked less like Sam just confessed that he loved him, and more like he’d cornered him in a dark alley demanding he hand over his wallet, and damn but that hurt.
You put him on the spot, Sam reasoned. You know he’s not good with processing his feelings. Give him a minute.
A minute tipped into two minutes, then four, then seven, all spent in static silence as Sam stood at attention between Spencer’s parted legs, and Spencer sat perched on the counter, so still that Sam was hardly sure he was breathing. He blinked fast, his eyes never left Sam’s and his forehead creased with an indiscernible emotion, like he himself was confounded by what he was feeling.
Sam was basically hovering over him, and after an inordinate amount of time had passed, he decided he should probably back off. Though he was no longer touching him, Sam still had him pinned to the counter, his hands balled into fists on the granite on either side of his thighs, and that certainly couldn’t be helping to settle his nerves. But when Sam dropped his hands to his sides and went to take a step back, Spencer startled him by snapping into motion, grabbing both of Sam’s arms and shouting a panicked, “No!”
Sam blinked owlishly at him, stammering noiselessly and freezing on the spot. “No,” Spencer repeated at a normal volume, his cheeks flushing beet red, “please, you don’t need to go.”
“I was only trying to give you space,” Sam explained, returning to his previous position, relief spilling over him at the sound of Spencer’s voice, “I wasn’t going to leave.”
“I’m sorry,” Spencer blurted out, his shoulders bowing as he looked ashamedly down at his lap. If he’d been unreadable before, he was an open book now, shame, guilt and embarrassment wracking through his frame, crumpling him into a heartbreaking ball of awkward limbs and stiff muscles. He pulled his legs up, his socked feet slipping against the counter top and he snatched his hands back, curling his limbs in towards his chest defensively, and Sam’s heart ached at the sight of him, “I don’t know how…”
Fix it! His mind screamed at him, fuck your feelings, just fix him! Acting on instinct Sam pulled Spencer towards him, still curled into a ball as he was, his knobby knees digging into Sam’s chest as he tucked Spencer’s head against his neck. The instant Sam’s arms looped over his shoulders, Spencer unfurled, choosing to wrap himself around Sam instead like an overgrown koala. It was as though he were trying to touch Sam with every inch of his body, his legs coiling around Sam’s hips to his thighs, and he even went as far as to loop his feet round the front of Sam’s knees. His fingers dug into Sam’s shoulders, his sweater-clad arms pressed from Sam’s back to his sides, and Spencer breathed shakily against his neck, fast and shallow, like he’d been holding his breath the whole time.
“It’s okay,” Sam murmured, stroking his hair soothingly, “you don’t need to say it back.”
“I’m sorry,” Spencer repeated, his voice cracking under the weight of his guilt, and Sam wished he could go back in time to before he stupidly opened his big mouth, not because he didn’t mean what he said, but because seeing Spencer like this was cutting him deeper than his bruised ego, “It’s not that I don’t, but I’ve never—I don’t know, I—”
Sam shushed him, kissing his temple and burying his own wounded pride. “You’ve never been more eloquent, doctor,” he teased, and though his sense of humor was strained at best, it still wrung a half-hearted chuckle from Spencer, who was relaxing more by the second. And when Spencer pulled back, that miserable frown still sat squarely on his lips, Sam blindly groped for a piece of bacon to prod at it with.
Spencer sputtered, opening his mouth to protest and Sam saw that as his chance, shoving the strip of bacon past his lips and jumping backwards, out of the way of Spencer’s flailing hands. Spencer spat it out into his palm, kicking his legs out one after the other at Sam as he retreated, crumpled in on himself as he laughed loudly. “Oh, it’s on,” was Sam’s only warning before Spencer leapt off the counter and darted straight for him, arms outstretched and ready to nab him around the waist.
Barely dodging out of the way, Sam sidestepped him and bolted around the island into the living room, hoping Spencer would give chase. But instead, Spencer ran in the opposite direction, tossing the mangled piece of bacon he still had clutched in hand towards the sink as he stepped up onto the sofa in one stride. He managed to cut Sam off on the other side, and before Sam could run in the opposite direction, Spencer jumped onto his back, his arms and legs winding around Sam so tight and so suddenly he lost his balance, sending them both toppling onto the couch.
Spencer yelped as Sam’s full weight plummeted onto his diaphragm, knocking the air out of him in a wheezing giggle. “Off!” he said, shoving at Sam’s back, “off, you’re so heavy!”
Laughing, Sam did as he was told. He sat up, tugged Spencer down by the hips so he was laying more securely on the sofa, and dropped back down, supporting himself with his elbows on either side of Spencer’s head. “Better?” he asked, glad that their impromptu romp had put a smile on Spencer’s face.
Spencer nodded enthusiastically, his eyes crinkling at the corners and he stretched his arms over his head, arching his back like a cat as he worked out the last vestiges of sleep from his limbs. He glanced over at the clock on the wall, “We’ve got an hour before we should leave.” His stomach gurgled, but when Sam tried to get up, to let him pad off to the kitchen to finish cooking his breakfast, Spencer stopped him in his tracks, lacing his fingers together behind Sam’s neck and turning his head back to face him.
With his thumbs stroking the side of Sam’s throat, Spencer tilted his chin up tentatively, brushing his lips against Sam’s chin, his nights worth of stubble prickling at Spencer’s sensitive skin. He ghosted over Sam’s lips, which parted in anticipation of a kiss that never came, and the barest skim of their flesh had Sam knotting his fingers in the upholstery, before he decided he’d much rather knot them in Spencer’s hair instead.
His eyes glazed over instantly, his eyelids fluttering as Sam tugged on his tresses and a throaty moan tearing from him with mouth. Suddenly flushed, Spencer writhed under the cover of Sam’s body, arching his back into the sensation, his jaw slack with an onslaught of pleasure and Sam found himself falling forwards, sealing his lips over Spencer’s with another well-timed twist of his hair.
Sam slipped his tongue past Spencer’s lips before he knew what he was doing. His brain checked out, abandoning any of the hurt feelings and worry that had seeped into their morning as he was taken aback (as he always was) by how soft Spencer’s lips were, how hot his mouth was, how sweet the sounds he made were when Sam pressed him into the sofa. He tasted like coffee and sugar, and his fingers dug into Sam’s neck, keeping him close as he rolled his whole body against him, moaning around his tongue.
Reaching between them, Sam slipped his fingers under the hem of his sweatshirt, the pad of his forefinger just brushing Spencer’s stomach, when Spencer wriggled to the side, sliding out from under him and climbing to his feet. He didn’t say a word, and Sam watched him curiously, sitting up on the sofa and leaning against the padded backrest as Spencer bit his lip coyly, standing to face Sam and not doing much else. That was until he reached under the hem of his sweater, looping his thumbs under the waistband of his purple boxer-briefs and tugging them down slowly, just low enough that he could shimmy them the rest of the way down his legs to the floor, his hard cock bobbing at attention.
Sam licked his lips and followed suit, lifting his hips so he could slide his boxers down around his ankles without standing up, and kicking them off his feet, all without taking his gaze from the man in front of him. He was hard as iron, and his cock throbbed valiantly as he watched Spencer grab his sweater (his sweater, Sam’s lizard-brain gleefully reminded him) by the hem and tugged upwards, his long, pale torso stretching up with his arms. He pulled it off, only breaking their eye contact when he needed to tug it past his head, and when Spencer was free, dropping it to the ground at the same time as he stepped out of his boxers, Sam’s breath caught in his throat.
“You’re so beautiful,” he breathed, wrapping a loose fist around his erection and stroking purposefully, captivated as Spencer climbed into his lap, one knee at a time. The morning light silhouetted him from behind and his skin glowed angelically as he settled into Sam’s lap, his toes curling under Sam’s thighs. He was amazed he was allowed to touch this person, that Spencer wanted to touch him back. He was immaculate, responsive, giving and he was Sam’s, rocking naked in his lap like he was always meant to be there. Sam wondered idly if that amazement, that sense of incredulity that Spencer wanted to be with him would ever fade, or if he would wake up every morning for the rest of his life in awe that out of all the people in the world, this brilliant man chose him.
“Thank you,” Spencer murmured against his lips.
When they kissed again, it was like throwing gasoline on a bonfire, Sam’s stomach swooping in heady anticipation as his hands surged up to tow Spencer down by his shoulders, to touch every inch of his skin. He wanted to drown in the scent of him, in the sound of his voice as Sam’s tongue drew a path from his lips to his jaw, his breath heaving against his collarbone before he sealed his lips around Spencer’s nipple. He caught his hips as Spencer bucked upwards, the hands in his hair keeping Sam right where he was, though he certainly wasn’t planning on going anywhere. “What about breakfast?” he asked, resting his forehead against Spencer’s sternum so he could watch his muscles twitch as Sam teased his fingers across Spencer’s abdomen.
The back of his hand bumped Spencer’s erection and he hissed, cupping Sam’s cheeks and tilting his head back so he could say, “Fuck breakfast,” before plundering Sam’s mouth once more. He rocked his hips down against Sam’s, grinding against his abs as Sam’s cock slipped between his cheeks, curving perfectly against the swell of his rear. “It can always be dinner,” he amended with a cheeky grin.
“Forever thinking,” Sam said, watching Spencer’s expression crumple in bliss as he pressed his cock against Spencer’s ass with one hand, and wrapped the other around Spencer’s weeping erection. “I meant what I said,” he added, sweeping the pad of his thumb over the head of Spencer’s cock, spreading precome across the crown and feeling it throb heavily in his hand, “You don’t need to say it back, but I do love you.”
“I know,” Spencer said, his eyes hazy with arousal as he kissed the tip of Sam’s nose, and an expression far too sweet for what they were doing came over his face as he repeated, more forcefully this time, “thank you.”
February 1st @ 4pm
They never got a chance to have their breakfast for dinner, as the BAU was called on a case in rural Georgia later that day.