Chapter Text
Spencer woke to the sound of his phone buzzing, and he groaned aloud. Serial killers really couldn’t just take one day off. Not even on Christmas Eve.
He rolled over and squinted at the alarm clock reading 1:58am. So technically, not even on Christmas Day. He snatched his phone from the nightstand. “Yeah,” he huffed.
“Oh, I’m—” The voice on the other end of the phone was decidedly not Hotch. There was some shuffling and then a muttered curse before the voice returned, whispering, “Jesus Christ— I’m sorry. I didn’t realize what time it was. Goodnight, Merry Christmas.”
The line went dead and Spencer pulled the phone away to stare at the call screen. He flopped back onto the bed, now certain that sleep would be out of the question. Especially now that he could hear the distinct clanging of pots and pans through the thin walls of his apartment.
He sighed and sat up, running a hand over his tired face. He stood and shuffled across his bedroom, grabbing a sweatshirt and pulling it over his bare chest on his way to the living room. Stuffing his feet into his house shoes, he unlocked the dead bolt and stepped out into the hallway, pulling the door closed behind him.
He walked the fifteen steps to her door and knocked, stifling a yawn behind his hand. By the way the movement inside continued uninterrupted, he knew she hadn’t heard him. He knocked again. The clanging stopped, and he heard her pad across the apartment. After a moment, the dead bolt clicked, and she opened the door with a sheepish grimace.
“I’m so sorry, Spencer. I didn’t mean to wake you up.”
It took his brain a moment to catch up with his mouth. “It’s fine,” he mumbled. His eyes tracked over his neighbor— flannel pajamas, disheveled hair, flushed cheeks, and a dusting of flour on her nose. Something about the simple domesticity had him frazzled, and he stuttered out, “I, um—I was awake anyway.”
She laughed at that. “Your hair tells a very different story.” She leaned up and ran her hand over his disorderly curls, smoothing a few back into place. Her eyes moved from where they were focused on the task to meet his own, and he swallowed audibly. She pulled back quickly, cheeks flushing a deeper red. “Um. Well. Since you’re already awake…”
He shrugged, trying to stay as nonchalant as possible. “With all that banging around, there’s no way I’ll be able to fall back asleep anyway.”
She clapped her hands together. “That’s the spirit!” She grabbed his hand and pulled him over the threshold, closing the door behind him. “I need your help.”
The kitchen was a disaster. Over the past three months, they’d spent many an evening together in their respective kitchens. Y/N’s was always a little less orderly than his own, but he’d never seen it quite like this. “What are you making?” he asked hesitantly.
“Okay so, we all have to bring something to family Christmas. I usually do store bought because—well, you know why,” she laughed. “But I thought since my cooking skills have improved over the last year, I’d at least try to make something from scratch.” She swiped her arm over her face, smearing a little bit of chocolate batter across her forehead. “The only problem is, I got assigned dessert. And baking is not the same as cooking.”
She was right, of course. Baking was, quite literally, measured. Precise. Rigid. Baking verged on scientific, which is why Spencer was so good at it. It was all rule following and staying in the lines, and he liked it that way.
Cooking required creative interpretation and improvisation, two things that Spencer had never considered himself to be very skilled at. He balked when a recipe called for a dash of salt, or asked him to season to taste while stirring occasionally. If he had to make a substitution, well then, he just wouldn’t be making the dish at all.
That was, until he started cooking with Y/N. Admittedly not a very good cook either, she was much more open to taking risks or trying something new. He really, really liked that about her. What he liked more, however, was that she encouraged him to take risks, too.
She had quickly transitioned from neighbor to friend. And sometimes, in his quiet moments alone, he thought about what it might be like if she became something more. Especially when she was looking at him like that, eyes soft and lips curved into a playful smile. Staring at him and waiting for him to respond, he realized.
“Sorry, what?”
She laughed, and the sound wrapped around his heart and tugged it close. “It’s okay. Your crazy neighbor woke you up at 2:00am to help her make a yule log. The confusion is warranted.”
He tapped his hands on his thighs over his sweatpants and couldn’t stop the smile from blooming. “A yule log?”
“A bûche de Noël, actually.”
“Ah, yes. Did you know that the yule log cake stretches all the way back to Europe’s Iron Age?” At her curious smile, he gestured with his hands and continued, “The Celtic Brits, Gaelic Europeans, and Scandinavian Norse all gathered to celebrate the winter solstice at the end of December. They held feasts and burned large logs to welcome spring, with the logs sometimes taking twelve days to burn. While we don’t actually know when the first yule log cake was baked, based on the ingredients, it could have been as early as the 1600s.”
She shook her head. “I know I’ve said this before, but it’s just— it’s actually amazing how much you know.”
He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks, so he moved to the sink to wash his hands and hide his face. “Lucky for you, I’ve actually baked a bûche de Noël before.”
“Of course you have,” she laughed. “My luck just doesn’t quit, it seems. Not since I met you.”
He wiped his hands on the dish towel and turned to face her. “Maybe it’s a Christmas miracle.”
She hummed. “I’m agnostic, so I’ve always been more partial to a little Christmas magic.” She ran an absentminded hand through her hair, only serving to drag more flour through it. His lips twitched as she gestured to the mess in front of them. “And I think you’re going to need an actual wand to fix this.”
“Well, I guess your luck really doesn’t quit, because I’ve also been known to do a little magic on the side.”
Her flour covered smile tugged on the rope that her laugh had tied a few minutes earlier, squeezing his heart in the most peculiar way— and he couldn’t help but feel that something wonderful was about to happen.
“First you’re a genius, then a modern day Holmes, and now a regular Houdini who’s also skilled in the art of French desserts? Remind me again why you’re spending Christmas helping your annoying neighbor?”
He pushed up the sleeves on his sweatshirt and busied himself with sorting the necessary ingredients from the mess on her counter. “Probably because I find her to be incredibly charming, generous, interesting, and brilliant.” He shrugged as nonchalantly as possible, pulling a large mixing bowl toward him and flipping open the egg carton.
“Oh. Well. Ditto.”
He cleared his throat. “I’m not actually Houdini though. More of a Harry Anderson, really.”
After a pause, she admitted, “I have no idea who that is.”
Spencer laughed, bright and loud, and she smiled at him. “It’s not important. Just know that I’m going to need your hands in a bit to help fold in the dry ingredients.”
“You’re helping me make a fucking yule log at two in the morning, Spencer.” She gave him a pointed look. “You can have whatever you want.”
He was sure she had no idea what she’d just agreed to.