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TWENTY-TWO / TWENTY-THREE
You join the BAU just a little while after Spencer does—three months, one week, and four days. Spencer counts it during a particularly boring afternoon, after he’s zoomed through most of the files sitting on his desk and has just about nothing else to do. Your desk is across from his and he’s remembered the date you’d joined the team since you waltzed into the offices, so it’s pretty easy to count it out.
He’d joined on July 22nd, 2001, whereas you’d joined on November 2nd of the same year. You’d been only a year younger than he and you proved, rather quickly, that you were among the only people who could keep up with Reid on a consistent basis. The only other people who could really accomplish that were Elle, Gideon, and Hotch, but it served to make yours and Spencers bond stronger as you settled in.
Spencer knew he had a habit for going off on tangents without really meaning to, but unlike the rest of the team, you seemed fairly unbothered by it, and even if you were reading a book or knitting or doing something else when Spencer had started, it was clear to him that you’d been listening by the end.
You’d been Hotchs mentee, so to speak, and your aptness for listening to Spencer when it seemed nobody else was listening was something Hotch picked up on whip quick, bringing it up to you in what feels like both rightly subtle and unconsciously unsubtle as the two of you walk stand in the elevator.
“If you like him and it goes anywhere, you do realize you’ll no longer be able to be partnered up while you’re in the field?” Hotch asks, his voice quiet. “You won’t be eligible for a promotion of any kind, either, as it’s not permitted for bosses to date their subordinates.”
You snort. “It’s not like that,” you say, because right now, it doesn’t feel like it is. “You don’t have to worry, Hotch. I like him, but—platonically. I look at him with such a platonic set of eyes that even the best of friends envy it, I promise.”
“If--and I say if because Gideon has taken to saying when while Spencer and you aren’t in earshot—it does happen, you need to file the appropriate paperwork and ensure that at least Gideon and I are aware as to the goings on.”
You laugh.“It’s not like that,” you repeat. “Spencer doesn’t look at me that way, and I don’t look at him that way, either. Like I said. So platonic it’s envious.”
Hotch cracks a small smile, something you never really see but are glad to nonetheless because it cuts the tension like it’s a freshly sharpened knife.
“Five bucks says he’s gotten you a tea and set it on your desk,” Hotch says. “I don’t make bets, but if I did, I think I’d win that one.”
You glance at the hot chocolate you hold in your right hand, the one that is certainly not for you, but for your coffee-resistant friend with an IQ of 187 and an eidetic memory, and crack a smile.
“I do, too,” you admit. The elevator doors open and the two of you go inside, going your separate ways as Hotch heads for his office and you go to your desk, intending to hit the ground running because you have a long day of paperwork in need of doing.
You set the hot chocolate down on Spencers desk. He doesn’t look up as you sit across from him at your own, but you hear his usual “thank you, Y/N,” as he grabs for it with his left hand, the pen he’s using to fill out the paperwork still in his right.
“Yeah,” you respond, shrugging and catching sight of the tea he’d bought you, sitting right next to the pile of paperwork you intend to spend the next eight hours tackling. “No problem. Are we still on for our Doctor Who marathon tonight?”
“Absolutely,” Spencer confirms as you wheel yourself over to the left corner of your desk. You keep the files there, so that they’re right within your vicinity, and it’s always where Spencer places the tea he gets you so that you can grab it along with the first piece of paperwork on the pile you so meticulously assemble. “Yeah. Picking up from where we left off with doctor number six.”
“Yeah,” you nod. “Thanks for the tea.”
“No problem,” Spencer says. He looks up as you take the first sip, and the smile that comes after is almost contagious to him. “I got the right place?”
The two of you have a thing going on and have had it from the first month after you’d joined the BAU and had learned of each others drink preferences—every single time you got each other a hot chocolate or a tea in the morning, you did it at a different spot. In the three years since you’d joined, you’d gone to dozens of different spots in and around the Quantico area, and both of you had developed favorites.
Yours was Izzies—their London fog lattes were like nothing else, just caffeinated enough to give you the boost you needed throughout the day, and you’d learned that they made an iced London fog that was just as good, if not even better.
Spencers was the one with the cutesy kind of name, something Derek occasionally made fun of him for—I Love You A Latte was the name, and they made a hot chocolate that was super smooth and a lavender tea that could will Spencers body into sleep like just about nothing else was capable. It was run by a sweet old lady from West Virginia who’d known both you and Spencer by name and was occasionally at the tills when you were there to pick up a hot chocolate for Spencer.
“Yeah,” you nod. “Izzies is the best for their tea.”
“I Love You A Latte makes the best hot chocolate on this side of Virginia,” Spencer says. “Thanks again, Y/N.”
“You’re welcome,” you respond. “Thank you, too.”
Spencers response comes in the form of a nod, and that’s the end of your interactions until you’re two minutes out from taking lunch, setting your pen onto your desk and shaking your hands out.
You tend to grip pens, pencils and the like the same way you hold onto a crochet hook or knitting needles—with a grip so tight that your knuckles get a few shades lighter, usually without you even realizing. As a result, you deal with hand pain on a semi frequent basis, and shaking your hands out every time you’re going to lunch is a habitual thing for you now.
“Going to lunch?” Spencer asks, eyes flitting up from his file. You nod.
“My mother sent along some money for my birthday last weekend, which means that I have a date with a box of garlic fingers and an alfredo pasta breadbowl from Antonios,” you grin. “I can never eat the garlic fingers in full, though—they give you what they call half-plates, and I can usually only eat my way through half of the half. I’ll bring it back for you, if you want?” You offer as you grab your bag, stand, and walk over to his desk.
“That’s not necessary,” Spencer says. “I--you don’t have to do that.”
“No fun facts about the passage of germs through food?” You joke, ruffling his hair. “Don’t be ridiculous, Spencer. I’ll bring you what’s left, and I’ll make sure it’s as not-germy as possible.”
Spencer smiles at you in a way that almost makes you want to forget the words you’d told Hotch earlier. You want to be the opposite of platonic, if you’re being honest with yourself, which you have a tough time doing on even your best days.
You leave, heading for your car with an almost gleeful way about you because of the thought of Antonios. You wonder what Spencer is thinking, linger on the idea that he’s thinking about you for three seconds too long before you let it go. Platonic is the best way to be with your coworkers, and despite how much you wish it were different, it’s the best way to be with Spencer, too.
-
A week later, Gideon is leaving the office as Spencer is readying himself for another late night. Gideon stops at Spencers desk just for the sake of checking in, catches him on the tail end of a giddy “thank you!” bubbling up from your lips after Spencer had made you an earl grey tea while he was making himself some hot cocoa.
Gideon smiles knowingly, in a way that almost has Spencer convinced he can see right through him.
“Just thought I’d check in,” he says. “These late nights will do you a lot more harm than good in the long run, Spencer. Are you sure you can handle this?”
Spencer nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Just have a few more files I’d like to get done before my weekend off, is all. Don’t worry about it, Gideon. I’m fine.”
“And you’re totally not here for—other reasons--?” Gideon looks pointedly at you. Spencer follows his gaze on impulse and is completely unsurprised to find you engrossed in a file, using your mug of tea as a paper weight while you fill it out, your non dominant hand clutching the mug like a heat seeking missile.
Spencer shakes his head. “Just want to finish the last of my files so I have less work on Monday,” he answers. “Nothing like that, I swear.”
Gideon shakes his head like he doesn’t believe him, and Spencer has no rebuttal because he’s being completely honest. When Gideon claps him on the shoulder as he moves to leave, Spencer is the closest to relieved he’s ever gotten in a situation that borders on that level of intensity.
“Everything okay, Spence?” You ask, gaze not moving up from the file in front of you.
“Everything’s fine, Y/N/N,” he says. “Gideons just—he's being weird.”
“Hotch has been weird lately, too,” your voice goes soft. “I think it’s just an office old man thing. I dunno—thirty-eight is hardly old, but Gideons climbing up to fifty. He might be going senile a little earlier than what’s written on the docket.”
“Gideon? No,” Spencer laughs. “And, anyway—dementia isn’t commonly developed until the person with the disease is at least 60, although there have been cases of people developing it as early as 30 years old and there’s a case of childhood dementia with one in every 2900 babies globally. I won’t worry about dementia in Gideon until I notice his memory starting to falter or his communication starting to change, or any of the other symptoms, and even then, for his wifes sake, I’ll hope It’s origin can be treated with modern medicine.”
“I thought dementia was an incurable disease?”
“It is,” Spencer nods. “There are treatable causes for it, not that the disease itself can be cured—treatment is always an option. It can stem from a lot of different things, such as diabetes, a traumatic brain injury, or substance abuse.”
You nod. “My grandfather got hit with it from the excessive booze drinking,” you say. “I wasn’t around him a lot—my mother didn’t want me to be, didn’t want me to know a drunk when I was that young. He died when I was fifteen, and in that time, I’d only seen him twice. Dementia is pretty damn heartwrenching, I think.”
Spencer nods, eyes going back to the file in front of him. “Yeah,” he says. “I can’t imagine it. I hate thinking about that sort of thing—the idea of forgetting anything that I’ve learned is enough to scare me into an early grave.”
You laugh. “Okay,” you say, nodding. Spencer knows it's your not-so-subtle way of moving the conversation along, but he's grateful for it because if he talks anymore about dementia he'll probably cry himself to sleep. “In other news, I picked up a stray cat I found in the parking lot of a Joanns the other night.”
Spencers eyes widen, his gaze moving to you. “You found a stray?”
“Yeah,” you nod, eyes meeting his. “I took her to the vet this morning—it's why I was late coming in. She’s got a perfect bill of health, surprisingly, and she likes my apartment a lot. Loves the windowsill.”
“Does this stray have a name yet?”
“I named her Megatron,” you laugh. “She’s so small, and I love ironic names like that. If I ever adopt a Maine Coon, I’ve already decided their name is gonna be Tiny.”
Spencer laughs, and the both of you go back to focusing on your files, and Spencer loves it.
He loves how simplistic things feel between the two of you—conversations can stop and start again after hours without talking, and it just feels easy, inherently, being in your presence. It’s not anything Spencer has ever felt with anyone else, but after three years, it’s one of the few things in his life that he has and actively cherishes.
When he leaves, he doesn’t do so without making you another tea. He uses it as a means of bidding you good night when he knows you’re planning to stay for another hour, at least, and when he hears your shouted “Night, Spence!” as he goes, he dips his head to look at his shoes and barely manages to hide his smile.
TWENTY - FIVE / TWENTY-SIX
“Megatron, I’m home!” You sing-song as you unlock your apartment door and step inside. You’re home from a particularly tough case, and Spencer is with you because it’s just one of those nights and the idea of either of you being alone makes both of you want to suffocate.
Megatron, a cat with brown fur everywhere except her paws and chin, comes running at the sound of your voice, but when she sees Spencer, she bypasses you and runs right up to him. She gets on her hind legs so that she can headbut Spencers hand as he shuffles out of his shoes, and as you take off your coat, you laugh at the sight.
Spencers momentarily distracted as he gives her some of his undivided attention, and it doesn’t surprise you, how quickly Megatron starts purring.
“You’re her favourite person,” you laugh. “One would think, three years gone, it’d be me, but alas, Dr. Spencer Reid takes the cake.”
Spencer shrugs as Megatron lets him do his thing and chooses to approach you instead. “I think we both tie for first in her little brain.”
You bend down to give her some lovins and laugh at the way she aggressively headbuts your forehead, a clear demand for forehead kisses. You give in as Spencer takes off his coat and hangs it on your coat rack, happily doting on her as she always expects you to when you come home after being gone for a few days.
“You want to order some pizza?” You offer as Megatron goes to her food bowl. Spencer crosses through to the dining room, where he unceremoniously sets his messenger bag onto the dining table. “I’m completely biased in saying this, but Antonios makes the best pizza this side of Virginia. I’ve been a regular since I first moved here, right when I was joining the BAU at 19. They’ve got good pasta and bread bowls, too, and it’s fairly cheap, considering.”
Spencer nods. “Pizza sounds nice,” he says. “Could I use your shower, by chance?”
You’re nodding before you can stop to think about it. “There’s a pair of sweats and a shirt you can change into after in the guest room, and towels are in the linen closet.”
Spencer nods, having heard this spiel before. You recite it to him pretty much every time he spends the night at your apartment, first as a just-in-case thing and now as a habit.
As he showers, you turn the kettle on and grab two mugs. Spencer, ever the insomniac, likes himself a little bit of lavender tea in the evenings because it helps him relax when he otherwise wouldn’t be able to, and relaxing helps ease his mind into sleep.
You’ve known that since he first spent the night and asked if you had any, which, thankfully, you did. You’ve made it a habit to have some lavender tea at your apartment since then, just in case, and it hasn’t failed you yet.
You’re more of a chamomile with half a tablespoon of honey kind of person—you've been dealing with insomnia since some unknown cause spurred it on when you were eighteen, and in the seven years since, while not a lot had really helped you get to sleep the chamomile and honey always did. The tea always seemed to work the best when you were coming back from a case, your nerves still pushed all the way over the edge and your body on high alert.
Spencer comes back out into your kitchen after fifteen minutes, his hair towel dry and curly in all of the right spots, but his smile warm. He approaches the dining table and grabs his glasses from it, changing from his contacts to his glasses as you turn on your hotplate and use the back side of a spoon to squeeze most of the water out of the teabags before you chuck them into your compost bin and finish making the teas.
You set the mugs on the hotplate and let them marinate for a few minutes as you call Antonios and order your usual—a large chicken Alfredo pizza, two Alfredo pasta bread bowls, a box of garlic fingers and two cans of iced tea—and Spencer puts his contacts back into their case.
He looks so absurdly good in the glasses that it’s never going to cease to borderline upon mind boggling.
“Hey,” he greets, smiling gently. “Thank you—for letting me use your shower, and everything.”
You shrug. “It’s no problem,” you say as Megatron the cat headbuts the back of your calves until you side step with your right foot and she can worm her way into the gap between your feet. “It’s never been a problem, Spence. Are you feeling okay?”
That case had been a tough one, for both of you. It’d taken you, as many cases do, down to the Florida area. The killer was a 20-something white guy attending the local community college, and he crossed all lines with regards to socioeconomic status, risk, and gender. The guy didn’t have a type, really—at the start of his assaults, he’d killed two high risk victims in the vicinity of three days. The week after he’d gone for medium risk victims and then the third week, at which point you and the team had landed in LA, he’d broken into three separate homes, all low risk victims, like he was climbing down some weird totem pole, and his MO never stayed consistent.
In the end, Derek had almost gotten shot, and you’d wound up with mild bruising on your arms, but thankfully, nobody else had been scathed in the aftermath.
“I’m fine,” Spencer nods. “Yeah--all good. Are you? You’re the one I think I need to worry about, never mind myself.”
You bite your lip. “A little sore but I’m okay,” you respond. Megatron abandons her spot between your feet and jumps up onto the counter instead, eliciting a surprised laugh from Spencer as he eyes her carefully so as to make sure she doesn’t get so close as to be able to step on the hotplate. “The bruises only really hurt when I touch them. I’m not shaken up or anything, I don’t think.”
You turn to grab the milk from your fridge, bending briefly to grab it from the bottom shelf on the side door, careful to avoid the fridge touching any of your bruises as you set the milk on the counter and close the fridge in the process.
You take the mugs off of the hotplate and turn the hotplate off, grabbing Megatron and gently ushering her away from it as you pass the milk to Spencer. You grab the honey and measure out just a tad bit more than half a tablespoon into yours, ever one to measure in the metrics of your heart. You stir the honey with one of the teaspoons that you keep in your cutlery drawer specifically for the occasion of making it, passing one to Spencer as he slides the milk your way.
You add a splash of milk to yours before you put it into the fridge and hear the doorbell. Spencer goes to get it despite your protests, pays for the order because “you’re letting me stay at your apartment, Y/N. I’ll get it this time” and brings it back into the kitchen, sets it on the dining table.
You grab paper plates and eat, the affair mostly silent, even as Megatron sniffs around and tries to get bites at your food.
As is usual whenever you or Spencer stay at each others places and order Antonios, the pizza and garlic fingers wind up unfinished. You set them aside in tupperware containers and label one with Spencers name, as he would do for you if you were at his place. It’s a conscious decision at this point—you order more than you can eat so that you have food to take into the office the next day or to just reheat in your microwave if you get the chance to take the day off.
The two of you migrate to the couch as you drink the teas that, despite your efforts with the hotplate, have gone lukewarm.
“I just—I was just thinking about it on the jet back, is all,” Spencer says. He’s referring to a book you’ve read recently and just cannot, even if it’d save your life as a gun was pressed to your temple, stop thinking about. “Read it the other night, and—yeah. It’s not my usual thing but you do make a few decent points about it.”
“It’s not usually my thing, either,” you confess. “I don’t read young adult and I haven’t much read it since I was one, but it was on a table and I read the back, and—c'mon, Spencer. A book written from the perspective of death itself. How much more intriguing can you get, really?”
Spencer shrugs. “Pretty intriguing, I guess,” he says. “It was a really good book, Y/N. I can see why you’d find it an interesting perspective to read from—death is one of lifes many unanswered questions, and the prose was written really well.”
“Thank you,” you laugh. “You’re the only person I can really talk about books with, if I’m honest. I mean—I like to use books to shut my brain off and you like to use them differently, but—you're the only person who gets it, I think.”
This brings a grin to Spencers face. “Yeah,” he says. “Did you read the book I told you about? The one by--”
“Sir Arthur Conan Doyle,” you nod. “A Study in Scarlet—it was really good, which I did find a little surprising because I’ve always kind of found Sherlock Holmes a little gimmicky. I am the first to admit that I’ve never really liked any of the screen adaptations, but I love the way that he writes. Genuinely some of the better stuff I’ve read from that era, and I’ve read a lot of books from that time.”
“Sherlock is hardly gimmicky,” Spencer rebuts. “I mean—one has to ignore all of the mediums and ways in which it has since been adapted, but—it's not as gimmicky as it could be.”
“’Not as gimmicky as it could be’ implies that you’re acknowledging how gimmicky Sherlock can get,” you retort. “It’s good writing, Spence. As someone who has read and reread several books I haven’t liked in the name of a PhD in lit, it’s really good writing and I enjoyed it thoroughly, but the original version of the work beats out any and all adaptations by default for me because the original version of Sherlocks story is the only one I have so far enjoyed.”
Spencer shrugs, takes a sip of his tea. “You make a point,” he concedes. “You’ve gotta read the other books in that universe, though—I'll lend you my copy of the second book.”
“I can just buy and read it on my Kindle,” you respond.
“I’ll lend you my copy,” Spencer says again. “Digital is crap, and we know it.”
You snort, grabbing your own mug and taking a sip thats bigger than you mean for it to be but fine nonetheless—you love your tea when it’s hot or warm, even, but lukewarm and moving into cold territory is only good when it’s what you’re looking for, and it never is what you’re looking for when you’re drinking your chamomile.
“Fine,” you relent, laughing. “You can lend me your copy.”
Spencers grin turns triumphant, and for half a second you’re sure he’ll start cheering.
“And, for the record,” you say. “Digital is not crap all the time—only with regards to books. I just like my Kindle because it lets me bring four or five books along with me wherever I go, and they’re like, two taps away. It’s easier to have four books on what’s essentially a tablet instead of stuffing four of them into my go bag.”
Spencer shrugs. “You make a fair point,” he says. “This time, anyway. I’ll prove you wrong somehow.”
You laugh, and you catch a very specific look in Spencers eye.
It's there for all of two seconds, tops, and then his smile dims and it’s gone, but for those two seconds, he looks like he’s exactly where he wants to be.
He looks like he’s exactly where he wants to be, sat across from you on your couch with his legs criss-crossed and a lukewarm mug of tea tucked in between his palms.
“You might,” you concede. “For now, though—topic switch! Uh—has Gideon seemed a little off to you, lately? Like he’s thinking about retiring or something?”
“No,” Spencer answers. “I think you’re watching him too closely and overthinking it. He’s fine. So is Hotch, if you’re worried about him.”
You laugh. “I know Hotch is fine,” you retort. “He’d tell me if he weren’t, but I just—I know how much Gideon means to you and I hate the idea of him leaving when he’s the reason you’re here in the first place.”
Spencers face softens up a little, and there it is again—the look in his eyes that was so fleeting that you almost didn’t catch it.
“He might’ve been the one who brought me down to Quantico and helped me get the job I have, but—he's not the reason I’m here here,” Spencer says. “I don’t know what I’m saying, Y/N, but I’m exactly where I want to be right now and Gideon staying or leaving will do absolutely nothing to influence that.”
You grin at him because the words did what they were supposed to by providing reassurance and you can’t think of anything more to say.
Spencer gets to standing. “I’m going to go to bed,” he says. “I’m assuming you’re going to stay out here for another hour, maybe wallow in your anxieties a little bit?”
You laugh. “You, Spencer Walter Reid, know me too deeply.”
He shrugs. “Good night, Y/N,” he says. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
You nod, and it’s only after his back has turned and he’s headed in the direction of your guest room that you have an epiphany.
You look at Megatron as you hear her tiny little footsteps approaching, and when she climbs up onto your lap and headbuts your shoulder, the realization sets in bone deep. It becomes something you can't ignore anymore, not like you have been for the past three years.
“Oh, Meggy,” you whisper as you press your forehead against hers. “I’m in it deep, aren’t I?”
She meows like a kind of confirmation, almost, and the thought sets in, spoken into your mind like a voice through a loudspeaker.
I’m falling for him. I am falling in love with Spencer Reid.
Another thought occurs, just as loud as the first.
Oh, God.
You finish your tea, rush to the kitchen with Megatron on your heels and set your dirty mug in the sink. You go to bed and it takes you a stupid amount of time to fall asleep even though Megatrons loud purring is enough to get you knocked out after a while.
-
Spencer places a London fog onto your desk in an almost wordless manner about a week and a half later. You’re chatting away with Penelope, who’d stopped at your desk to deliver to you two of the carrot muffins she baked and you adored.
You turn your attention from Penelope as Spencer settles back in at his desk, mug of black but still sweeter than fiction coffee in his non dominant hand, pencil already tucked into his dominant one.
“Thank you!” You chirp gratefully. You love any and everything earl grey and it’s been like that since before you started with the BAU.
“You’re welcome,” Spencer responds. Your attention turns back to Penelope and his goes back to the file at hand, and the time passes with ease. Spencer focuses on his files and does so until he’s down to two and you’re down to one.
“I were a bettin’ man,” you start. “I’d say there’s no way you can finish both files before I get my last one done.”
“I have an eidetic memory and can read twenty-thousand words a minute,” Spencer says. “If you made bets, you’d lose this one.”
“Sometimes, you make a bet while knowing you’re probably going to lose it,” you answer. “I mean, shit—When I was sixteen, I bet I wouldn’t live to see my nineteenth birthday. Thought for sure I’d win that one, but on the morning of my nineteenth, I walked to the local bakery, bought half a dozen carrot muffins and stuck a candle in one. I lit it, I blew it out, and I lost the bet I’d made with myself three years prior.”
“You thought you’d win,” Spencer says, ignoring how achy your subtle admission makes his chest feel.
“Well, there have been others,” you laugh. “I was two weeks away from joining up with the BAU and I still thought I’d never do it, let alone at nineteen years old. I made that bet figuring I’d lose it, figuring I’d walk in here on my first day and just know I was where I was meant to be, and I did. I lost that bet knowing I’d wind up losing.”
Spencer shrugs. “All right,” he says. “Game on, Y/N. If I win, you owe me one answer to a question of my choice.”
“Deal,” you respond. “If I win, I want the same but in reverse.”
Spencer nods, and for the next thirty minutes, as Derek occasionally glances up and watches the two of you with a not-so-hidden smirk, all that’s really heard is the sound of pens and pencils on paper.
Spencer winds up winning, and it’s after he wins that Derek decides he’s done for the day and the two of you are the only two in the office.
“You get one question,” you say. “Go on. Out with it.”
Spencer knows a fair bit about you—you were born and raised in Maine, had an IQ on a similar caliber to his own but didn’t really use it the same way he did. He knew you had a past you didn’t really like talking about and he usually didn’t pry, but just this one time, he tells himself, he’ll ask a question that it’s been sitting in the back of his mind since you joined and the tidbits about who you are as a person started coming in.
“What’s the biggest reason you left Maine?” He asks.
You laugh. “You and your tea claims to love me but here you are, asking me a question that I’d only ever willingly answer after nine o’clock. Smart move, Spence,” you say.
Spencer shrugs. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”
“I left Cape Elizabeth for realsies for the last time when I was nineteen,” you answer. “Hotch had been trying to get me to let him mentor me for a few months, and—well, there was this shithead ex boyfriend who just wouldn’t leave me alone for the longest time. I left when Hotch asked me if I’d at least come down for a few days, and I haven’t gone back since.”
Spencer blinks. “That explains a lot,” he says.
“It explains why I don’t really have a social media presence,” you say. “And why the only evidence I’m working in law enforcement is my employment article, which doesn’t even list an active phone number. He never stalked me, and I doubt he’d have the fucking gall to do it even after I’ve been gone for six years, but it still spooks me big freakin’ time. Ask me another question, please.”
Spencer laughs. “Favorite pastry?”
“Pain au chocolat, easy,” you answer. “Next one. Dig deeper this time, Spencer. I’m hopped up on caffeinated tea and will tell you just about anything that’s deeper than surface level.”
“Why do you like crocheting and knitting so much?” Spencer asks.
“It turns my brain off,” you confess. “I hate working with straight needles—don't understand how my grandmother did it for so long but I respect it. I love crocheting because it works as good as my anxiety meds when I don’t have them on hand, and I love knitting because, yeah, it’s more labour intensive and takes longer, but the end product is just gorgeous every single time. Color work is easier in crochet, though. Crochet tapestry is amazing. I tend to use crochet for anxiety and dopamine because it works up whip quick and stuff like cardigans won’t take me 140 hours. Knitting is the kind of thing I do when I want to put that work in, though. I don’t really do it as often as I’d like to but when I do do it, I’m really meticulous about the pattern I use, and the yarn I choose for the project, and—you'll know I give a damn about you when I knit you something.”
“You’ve knitted me a few cardigans,” Spencer says. “A purple one, and a navy blue one recently.”
You grin. “I give a stupid number of damns about you, Reid,” you say. “Also Penelope. I’d knit more for Derek if I thought he’d wear what I made him, but he doesn’t seem the type. Hotch accepts the wall art and stuff I make for him when I can find the time but I doubt he has it displayed anywhere. Hotch is an odd case, though. He cares about me but does so from a kind of distance, almost.”
Spencer shrugs. “Gideons the same way,” he says. “When I was dealing with my addiction, he was like an absent kind of parent—there sometimes, but not often.”
You nod. “Everyone was that way with you,” you say. “Gideon especially so, but—nobody really knew how to address it.”
“You did,” Spencer says. “You’re freakishly good at that kind of thing.”
“Alcoholism runs in the family,” you shrug. “I’ve been to many-a intervention, and I know how to spot the signs of addiction from a thousand miles away point blank. I’ve had to pull myself together and narrowly avoided addiction a few times, though not to anything like Dialaudid.”
“I feel like this is going somewhere deep,” Spencer confesses. “When I asked you about Maine—I wasn’t trying to get you to open up to anyone before you were ready. It was fifteen minutes ago but I was an asshole.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “I was going to have to open up to someone eventually,” you say. “The fact that it was you is incredibly fitting to me.”
Neither of you have any work to do, but you’re not moving to pack up or do anything. You’re using overtime in order to talk with each other when there is absolutely nobody else in the office, even the likes of Hotch and Gideon having gone home.
Spencer shrugs, grabs the mug that has long since been repurposed, switched out from coffee to tea, and takes a sip from it.
“The boyfriend who drove me to leavings name was James DeLuca,” you say. “He was a trust fund kid who thought he beheld all the power in the world in a town where it sometimes felt like everyone knew everyone. We dated for eight months before I broke things off, and he hated me for it. I just—I hate the idea of being some rich white guys trophy spouse, y’know? If I’m going to get married or continue a long term relationship with someone, I’m going to do it because I love them, not because I want their money. I’m marrying someone on the merits of love or I’m not doing it at all, no matter what some idiot trust fund baby thinks about that.”
You sigh, and Spencer tilts his head.
“I think he’s got a wife now, a kid or two?” You say. “I dunno—I get Garcia to check on him every year or two, just to make sure he’s not gone on to do something that’ll wind up in VICAP and to make sure he’s not made his way to Quantico. I feel safer knowing he’s not here, and that’s probably me overestimating him, but he seemed capable of murder last we talked, and it scared the shit out of me.”
“If he does come around here, the team has got your back,” Spencer says. “We’ll protect you as best we can, Y/N, you know that.”
You nod. “I routinely trust you guys with my life and I really wouldn’t have it any other way,” you respond. “I just—I don’t know. It’s a stupid anxiety that’s been keeping me up at night for the last six years. I’m sorry to vent like this, Spence. It’s late, and we really should be getting home, right?”
“Y/N,” he says as you bend to pack your things. “Y/N, stop.”
You’re not listening to him, though. You’re too buzzed, the caffeine in your system and the anxiety making a cocktail that Spencer knows to be an awful, devilish little thing.
He stands and before he can think about it, his hand is on your arm. When you turn to look at him, your eyes are slightly wide but you make no move to ask him to stop or to force him away.
“Spencer?” You ask.
“You don’t need to apologize for venting,” he says. “Seriously--I was paranoid for months after the stuff with Tobias Hankel, and that wasn’t entirely the drugs or the withdrawal. If this guy comes after you, we’ll get to him before he can even so much as look at you the wrong way, and I promise you that.”
You lean forward and it takes all of three seconds for Spencer to register your forehead against his shoulder. He doesn’t hate or feel awkward about the touch, which is surprising given how sudden it seems, but he instead welcomes it.
“I’m sorry,” you say, and Spencer huffs a laugh because he knows it’s habitual. “I mean—well, you know what I mean at this point, right?”
“Yeah,” Spencer nods. “I know what you mean, Y/N. Are you sure you’ll be okay to go home alone tonight?”
You pull away, looking up at him and nodding. “The drive is fifteen minutes, and it’s 9:30. I should be fine til I’m in my apartment, and once I’m there, Megatron and her weird ability to sense when something is off with me will do wonders.”
Spencer smiles softly, and he sees what almost looks like love in your eyes. “Get home safe, Y/N.”
“Are you not leaving?”
Spencer shakes his head, ignoring the sudden burst of unfamiliar fondness that pokes at his chest when he looks your way.
“Nah,” he says. “I figure I’ll be nice, do a file or two of Morgans so that he has less to worry about tomorrow.”
“Do you want Derek to have less of a workload, or do you just want to stay here and think?”
“I always think clearest when I’m at my desk,” Spencer shrugs. “Goodnight, Y/N/N.”
“Night, Spence,” you say, gathering up the last of your things. Spencer walks over to Morgans desk and plucks two files off the top of his paperwork file as you leave the office, settling into his own desk thereafter.
He stares at the unopened manila folder for a long five or so seconds as the reality that he’s been holding off for at least a year and a half truly sets in.
It makes him laugh.
“I’m so screwed,” he says to himself.
Every single time Derek has accused him of being smitten since he was halfway through twenty-four, he’s been right. It only hits him then, and Spencer feels like just as much of an idiot as Derek has claimed him to be.
TWENTY - NINE / THIRTY
As you run through the only abandoned psych ward within a twenty mile radius of Cape Elizabeth, you have a moment wherein you realize just how stupid you really are.
“James DeLuca, I’m Y/N L/N with the BAU!” Like he doesn’t already know your name and place of employment.
Hotch, of course, disagreed with your plan entirely, but you had been so determined and so convincing that he had agreed to it in the end, as long as there was back up for you posted at the front and back entrances at the first sign of trouble, and as long as you caught him while you were within the first four of eight floors total. If he’d gotten anywhere past the fourth you were to chase him back down within range or talk him down and then call for immediate back up, without firing your gun unless he fired his.
All of it—James’ MO, his signature, even the ways in which he behaved, tied back to you. All of his victims looked like you did in the lead up to when you’d left Maine for Virginia. All of them had similar hobbies, but you doubted the victims would’ve been half as dumb as you were being, going after James like you were.
The psych ward was part of his signature—he took his victims to one of the only abandoned psych wards within the entirety of that town and the next. You could remember why vividly.
Back when you’d initially broken up with him a decade prior, you’d, in a moment of frustration, told him he ought to be admitted into a psych ward if he was going to keep acting so fucking insane. He’d threatened to take you to the very one you were running through, gun and flashlight aimed and ready, and kill you in response.
“James DeLuca, drop your weapon and surrender to the police! This is over, okay? It’s done.”
You turn a corner and bump right into him, like he'd been laying in wait for you that entire time.
“I’ll drop my weapon if you drop yours,” he says. “And only after we’ve had it out. I have shit to say to you, Y/N.”
You take six large steps back, fighting your anxiety off as what remains of it is replaced by adrenaline.
“Okay,” you shrug, figuring that keeping your cool is the best thing you can do around him. The minute he senses you’re even slightly off kilter, he’s liable to go completely off the rails. “Say whatever it is you need to say to me, James, but put the weapon down first. I won’t lower my gun until you lower yours.”
He scoffs. “You wouldn’t shoot me,” he says. “Even with all of your FBI training and how long you’ve been doin’ this for, you don’t have what it takes to kill someone.”
“The rule of thumb within all areas of law enforcement is to avoid shooting unless absolutely necessary, and to be frank, I’d prefer to avoid all the paperwork that’ll come my way if I do shoot you, now put the gun down.”
James is a more adult-y version of the one you can remember—he looks vaguely like a young Timothy Olyphant, if Olyphant had jet black hair, a patchy beard, and was on the stockier side in build. James is a little taller than Spencer, standing at an even 6’4, and shit, fuck it all if he’s not just as scary as he used to be.
James, thankfully, relents. He drops his gun. You holster yours.
“Put it down,” James says, his tone gravelly and demanding.
“From what I can remember of my teen years, you had a pickpockets hands and quick reflexes,” you say. “I’m not going to leave myself absent of a weapon when I know, for a fact, that you can have yours in hand, cocked, aimed, and the safety off within eight seconds. No fucking way, James. That is not how this works. You want to have it out, say what you need to and then we’ll see where this goes after all is said and done.”
“Even if I do shoot you, we’re on the third floor,” James says. “I’ve got my escape route planned, Y/N. I rush down the stairs, make it to the tunnels, and I’m a free man until they realize there are tunnels under this place. They don’t show up on any blueprints because they were dug by miners after the building was abandoned, and there are only two ways to get to them in the building, both of which are well hidden secrets for only those brave enough to look to find.”
“The second you shoot, there’ll be FBI agents swarming the place. You won’t even make it to the second floor without being caught.”
“I have a silencer,” James says, patting his pocket. “I’ve planned this one out, Y/N. Waited a decade to do it, after all.”
You breathe in deep, but don’t request back up yet despite your instincts practically demanding it. It, you decide, is too early.
You nod. “Okay, so you have it planned out, Just—talk, please. Before I get sick of your voice, preferably.”
“I loved you, Y/N,” he says. “I’d bought a ring by the time you left. I was going to propose that weekend, you know that?”
“You loved the idea of me, James,” you say. You’re trying to subtly back up towards the open window. The hallway you’re in faces the front entrance, so if you get shot, the team is going to see it and know what’s what. “You didn’t love me for me. You demeaned me all the time and when you weren’t being demeaning, you were being an asshole. You wanted a trophy spouse, not someone with whom you shared a genuine connection. Is that why you married Rachel? She wanted your money and you wanted some decent eye candy to hold onto your arm at all of your bullshit charity galas?”
James, unfortunately, catches onto what you’re doing. He picks up his gun and carries it as he follows you. You redirect, going back the way you came.
“That’s not it!” James shouts insistently. “That’s not it!”
“Yes it is,” you say, turning the same corner you’d turned only minutes before. “Yes it is, James, and you know that. You just wanted a bangmaid at the end of the day, and saying that is being generous.”
“Are you asking to die?”
“Y’know, you’re the second person to accuse me of being suicidal with regards to this case in the past two weeks,” you retort. Being sarcastic is a bad idea. You know that. You should be trying to talk him down. You know that. But you aren’t, and even if it gets you shot, then at least James will have finally gotten to do the one thing he’s been aching to for a decade. “I’m really gettin’ sick of it. Feels like between you and my boss, I’m hearing a lot of people singing the same fucking tune.”
James laughs. “You are asking to die,” he says. “I dunno if I wanna give you this, knowing it’s what you want from me. Are you still with that pipe cleaner? The one who wears his gun weird.”
“Where did you get the idea that I was ever with him?” Maybe it was four years of unrequited love starting to seep through the cracks to a point of noticeability? “No. It’s never been like that, and don’t you dare bring him into this.”
“He’s got a name,” James taunts. “Dr Spencer Reid, a man with at least three PhDs, two BAs, and an absurd amount of education for someone his age. He's as smart as you are, and if how easily you’ll go down is any indication, I feel like I could shoot him a good thirty feet away and still get the aim right.”
“Don’t you dare,” you say it through gritted teeth, the mere idea of Spencers life being on the line enough to scare you well past your wits end. “You’re making a mistake by bringing him into this, James. My team will go down for me if they have to, but Spencer will make it the opposite of easy for you to kill him, and Garcia will drudge up every ounce of online criminal activity she can find on you just to give the judge more charges to add to your bit.”
“Threatening me now?” James asks, grinning wildly. “Yeah. That’s a mistake.”
You watch as he grabs the silencer and equips it. Because of your adamant refusal to shoot first unless necessary—in pursuit of avoiding more paperwork than the absolutely necessary amount—you start running backwards to keep your eyes on him while minding your footing.
“You tryin' to watch me equip the gun that’s gonna kill you?” James laughs. “You’re more sadistic than I thought, Y/N.”
“You do realize what charges come with the murder or attempted murder of a federal officer?” You respond. “James, don’t be stupid. I know you are inherently, but you’re acting abnormally so today. Please just stop.”
He laughs again, and as you, in a moment of admitted idiocy, turn around to sprint the rest of the way down the hall, he aims his gun.
He lands four shots in your torso in the last three seconds before you turn the corner.
“I’ll come and find you in a decade, Y/N,” James calls. “If you’re not dead of blood loss by the end of the day. If you make it out, we’ll repeat this every decade and my aim will get better each time.”
Your knees buckle, and you pull your phone out as you crawl towards a window. You dial Garcias number as you hear James’ heavyweight footing running in the other direction, towards the stairwell that’s farthest from you.
“Garcia, call an ambulance and send them to 9981 Lilibet Grove,” you say. “Tell them—tell them officer down. Four bullets, two to the chest, one to the hip and one to the—ow, fuck—to the lung.”
“Oh--oh my God!” Is Garcias response. “Are you okay? Please tell me he didn’t shoot you! Please, Y/N--oh my God!”
You’re still ambling toward the only open window, and getting to your feet feels almost impossible, but you do it.
“Agent down, I meant,” you correct. “He shot me, Garcia, and—tell Hotch and the others that James DeLuca is running for the tunnels. Tunnels are under the entire building and he’s intending to use them to escape.”
You collapse when you’re two feet away from the window, but you push forward until your fingers can grip the ledge and drag yourself the rest of the way. You hoist yourself up just enough that Spencer can see you, and you see the fear in his eyes in the last second before you scream his name and collapse harshly onto the tiled ground below your waist.
“Spencer!” You scream, Garcia still on the line.
“Okay,” Garcia says. “Calling the ambulance and patching Spencer through in the meantime, okay? You—don't you dare die on me, you idiot!”
“I’ll do my best,” you say as you listen for the sounds of government issued SUV doors slamming shut. When you hear it, a sense of hope dimly registers in your chest. Your team isn’t going to let you die, and they never would.
“Spencer, talk to Y/N while I call 911 and please do your best to keep them awake the meantime,” Garcia says, voice tinged by a sense of anxiety you’re all too familiar with.
“Y/N,” Spencer greets. “You’re covered in blood.”
“You saw me, then,” you grin, pressing your head against the cold tiled flooring. “Two GSWs to the chest, one to the lung and one to my hip. This fucking sucks.”
“Yeah, it would,” Spencer nods. “You were shot.”
“I should’ve woken up today and made better decisions,” you laugh. “Ow--hurts. I’m on the third floor, about fifteen feet from the western stairwell. James headed east, and I remember that the blueprints indicated there was a stairwell that way, which means that he’s headed for it if he’s not already there. Getting shot is exhausting, Spence.”
“Keep talking,” Spencer says urgently. “I need you awake until they get here, okay? Awake awake. Not awake and quiet, awake and babbling like I do whenever you bring up Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Sherlock.”
“What do you want me to talk about?”
“You were complaining about making a blanket out of single crochets before the case started,” Spencer says. “Did you finish it?”
“Yeah,” you laugh. “Again with the laughter—fuck, Spencer. It really fucking hurts.”
“I know,” Spencer says, tone briefly taking on an empathetic underbelly. “The blanket. Tell me about it, tell me anything.”
“Almost every crocheter does it and lives to regret it,” you laugh. “I figured—I've been crocheting since I was nineteen, why haven’t I done it yet? I gotta.”
“Are you relieved that it’s done?”
“So relieved,” you nod. “Yeah. If I ever have to do a foundation chain of the length of a queen sized bed ever again, I need to you to kill me the second I voice the idea.”
“Yeah,” Spencer laughs. “I won’t do that, but I’ll happily talk you out of it. Why did you hate it so much?”
“Single crochets are objectively the easiest stitch—in my heart they’re called single crochets because you only have to yarn over twice counting pulling up a loop but technically once because you only have to yarn over once when you have the two loops on your hook. They’re the smallest crochet stitch next to slip stitches, which I will never ever ever make a blanket out of, unless someone pays me what I make in a year,” you respond. “Imagine doing sixty-inches wide of single crochets and then continuing down until you have 80 inches of single crochets in length. One monotonous step over and over again for a long ass time.”
You hear the stairwell door open. “Also, the Bernat blanket formula is fucking terrible,” you laugh, clutching your side when the same pain kicks up again. “I’m really tired, Spencer.”
“I’m--Y/N, I am thirty feet away from you. Don’t you dare lose consciousness on me.”
“Garcia?” You ask. “Are you back yet?”
“Here and at the ready,” she says. “Ambulances ETA is eight minutes. Was sixteen but you are not allowed to die on me, Y/N, and you certainly aren’t allowed to die on Spencer, so don’t even think about it.”
“You crochet, right?”
“A little,” she says.
“Never make a blanket out of single crochets,” you laugh, clutching your side a bit more intensely in turn. “Ow--I really have to stop doing that.”
“I promise I won’t make a blanket out of single crochets,” Penelope says. “You have my word on that, okay? Which stitch do you recommend?”
“I like granny squares,” you say. “Anything involving a granny stitch? I’m all over it. They’re amazing, Garcia. They’re like the Spencer Reids voice of crochet stitches.”
“You’re losing a lot of blood,” Spencer says.
“That good, hm?” is Penelopes rebuttal. “I’ve seen granny square afghans, and they’re gorgeous, so I don’t blame you for that. Spencer, is Y/N within your line of sight?”
“I’m fifteen feet out,” Spencer says. “I’m going to get off the phone. Keep them awake for the next minute, please.”
“Will do,” Penelope says. “Okay--so—the Spencer Reid comment. Are you in love with him?”
“I am delirious, Penelope Grace Garcia, and that is totally unfair,” you snort. It’s followed by a wince and you don’t even try to mask your grimace. “I have four bullet wounds. Ask me once I’m in the recovery unit, please.”
“When you’re in the recovery unit, you’ll probably be doped up on morphine.”
“I’m going to refuse pain medication.”
“You’ve had—what? Four interactions with this guy in the past two weeks, Y/N, three of which have left your ribs bruised or broken, one of which has left four bullet wounds in you!”
“Your point?”
“You will take the pain medication they give you and you will do it with a smile or so help me--”
You feel Spencers hand on your shoulder. “Spencer is here. Ambulance soon?”
“Quicker than you can say ‘Spencer Reid is probably totally the love of my life’, my dear,” she says. “You hang on for us, okay? I’m sure Hotch is going to give you an earful, but—it's because he cares. Rossi does, too.”
You sigh, letting Spencer turn you to face him. “I’m gonna end the call now,” you say. “Thank you Garcia.”
“I’ll be at the hospital when you wake up!” is how she says her goodbye.
You look at Spencer pitifully. “I’m an idiot,” you mumble.
“Yeah, but you're normally smart so I'll let it go just this once,” Spencer laughs. “You’ve seen better days, Y/N. I’ve gotta lift you so I can get you back downstairs.”
“How mad is Hotch?”
“Angrier at himself than at you,” he says. “Being a bit harsh, but he’s got a pass. Are you okay, everything aside?”
“Its all my fault,” you respond. “Eight families are mourning because I left him a decade ago, and—before you try and tell me it’s not, that this would’ve happened no matter what, that’s just not how it is. I left Maine and I did so without so much as a note, and now, a decade later, he’s killed eight people in three months and their blood is on my hands.”
“Y/N,” Spencer says, his tone cautious. “Their blood is not on your hands—your delirious. We can have this conversation when you’re in the hospital.”
“James--I think he’d been stalking me for a few months and I hadn’t realized,” you responded. “Like, he was that good at it maybe? I dunno. He asked if I was still with you, in a romantic sense and I just thought, for a second, why would we ever?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Spencer asks, moving to gently hoist you into his arms.
“It--I’ve loved you since I was twenty five,” you respond. “Since that night when we were talking about A Study in Scarlett. I realized it after you’d gone to bed. Maybe that’s just when it set in but you looked at me like you were exactly where you wanted to be and it just—when a pretty boy looks at you like that? It’s very hard not to fall in love on the spot. I happened to do so, which is kind of my own fault.”
He lifts you into his arms and you rest your cheek against his shoulder on impulse. “We’ll discuss this at the hospital,” he says. “For the record—it's not unrequited. Just to get that out of the way.”
“I’m really tired, Spence,” you respond. “I just—I just wanna nap. For a minute.”
“Y/N L/N, don’t you dare,” he says sternly. “Nope. No naps allowed. You can sleep in the ambulance, when they’ll actually have the tools to keep you alive if you end up dying.”
“Spencer,” you whine because you’re exhausted and you can’t help yourself. “Please. Just a minute.”
You hear the door open, and then it’s impossible to sleep because of much Spencer is jostling you around as he rushes down the stairs.
“Asshole,” you grumble when you finally reach solid ground and stay on it for longer than the ten seconds it took Spencer to turn from one flight to the next in between floors.
“Sorry for jostling you around,” Spencer says. “Well--not really. Kept you awake, didn’t it?”
You grip the collar of his shirt in your fist and press your forehead against his shoulder. “You’re gonna owe me a lot of Jell-O once I’m in the recovery unit.”
Spencer laughs. “Yeah, yeah,” he says. “Cherry?”
“It’s the best kind,” you respond nonchalantly.
When you hear the wail of the ambulance sirens, you don’t panic. You hold onto Spencer as tightly as you can and it’s only when you feel yourself being transferred from his arms to a gurney that the anxiety sets in.
You reach out blindly, trying to find him as most of your head gets lost in the noise. “Spencer--please come with me! Please don’t go. I need someone I know I can trust. I’m too scared to do this alone.”
You feel Spencers hand gently grasp your arm, then dimly register the sound of his voice as he asks to ride with the paramedics. You hear their agreement, then just as you’re being lifted into the back of the ambulance, it’s lights out. You fall asleep before you can even register that’s what you’re doing, and the last thing you see before the exhaustion takes over is Spencers panicked face, blood staining his shirt and vest.
-
You wind up needing to be put into a coma, and a week later, when Spencer goes to visit you bright and early on his day off, he finds you awake.
It’s been a very long, very tough, week. Not just for him, though—Hotch had been harder on the team as well as himself in the aftermath of your being shot, and even though Rossi tried to help him gently, it ended in a shouting match wherein Rossi outright demanded he go easy on himself and the rest of the team.
Penelope had spent every single day of that week in your hospital room for at least an hour, wanting to be there when you woke up. Derek had gone for long runs before coming into work, and Emily and JJ had both been on edge even while they were filling out paperwork and not in the field.
Spencer was as he always was when he was going through something—sarcastic and snippy as all hell. It got on Hotchs nerves and he and Hotch had yelled at each other a few times that week, but Spencer had forced it to glide off his shoulders. He was there from the minute he got off work til visiting hours were done every single day, and on his day off, he comes in thirty minutes after visiting hours begin to find you awake, an exhausted look on your face as a nurse fills you in on your condition where she’s able.
“Hi, Spencer,” you greet as said nurse goes from explaining the ins and outs to checking your vitals. “Has it been a week? Really?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Garcia is going to be here in half an hour, and I told Hotch I’d call you when you woke up, but—it can wait two minutes.”
“Yeah, it can,” you nod. “How was it? An entire week without me around to bug you for the first time in a decade?”
“Terrible,” Spencer laughs. He approaches you finally, sits on the edge of your bed as the nurse leaves. “I kept getting into fights with Hotch, and it was just—oh my God, please never get shot at like that again. Please never put yourself in that scenario again.”
“I had a thought, as I was running down the hallway on the third floor, about how dumb I was,” you admit. “Even thought about calling for back up but didn’t because it felt a little too early. I promise, Spence, I will never be that stupid again.”
He smiles gently, reaches out and runs his nimble fingers over the scope of your hands. “Good,” he says. “For the record—it was stupid, what you did, but we don’t fault you for it. Emily joked a few days back that she’s made dumber decisions. How’re you feeling?”
“Tired,” you respond. Spencers gaze flits to yours, examining your face without meaning to as he looks at you. “Really sore, honestly. Hungry, too.”
“I’ll call Garcia, ask her to stop at the coffee shop you like so you don’t have to eat hospital food,” he says.
“I love you, Spencer,” you respond in what Spencer knows to be a slip up. Even knowing this, his eyes still widen, fingers stopping in their tracks as he traces one word after the next against the soft skin of your forearm.
“Do you remember what you confessed when you were half dead?” He asks, broaching the subject very, very gently. “Because--I do. I have an eidetic memory and I’ve spent the last week unable to stop thinking about it, Y/N.”
You nod. “I do,” you say. “I’ve been known to have better timing than that. I’m sorry, Spencer.”
“Do you remember what I said?” Spencer asks.
“You said we’d discuss it at the hospital and that—oh my God,” you press one of your palms against your face. “That it wasn’t unrequited. Oh my God, Spencer. We both had terrible timing on that one, didn’t we?”
Spencer laughs, nods wordlessly. “We did,” he says. “You said it was the night we’d been talking about A Study in Scarlet, but for me, it was different. I realized I’d loved you twice but pushed it down the first time, figured it’d be more of an inconvenience.”
“Tell me more,” you say. Spencer resumes his ministrations, tracing letters that’ll form words with a feather light touch to your forearm. “About the first time, and then also the second.”
“The first time I realized, I was twenty four,” he says. “I dunno—you were talking about Jane Austen with Elle, and it just kind of hit me as I happened to look over at you. It’d been building for a few years at that point, bubbling just under the surface. I buried it, buried myself in my paperwork, and eventually, I thought I’d buried it well enough that it didn’t exist anymore.”
“And the second?”
“It was the night you told me about James,” Spencer shrugs. “I can’t pinpoint what spurred it on, honestly, but I know it was that night. I appreciated—still appreciate—how vulnerable you and I were with each other. You left as I grabbed two folders from Dereks desk and as I sat down to do them, it hit all over again and I just thought: yeah. I’m a goner, aren’t I?” and I’ve been like that ever since.”
You grin. “Okay--” you laugh a little. “Hotch warned me when you were twenty-three and I was twenty-two, that we’d have a shit ton of paperwork to fill out if our dynamic ever took this turn. Now, that’s all I can think about.”
Spencer laughs, shakes his head.
He keeps tracing words over your forearm, and when he kisses your forehead, your eyes are on his ministrations.
“We can’t command our love, but we can our actions,” you whisper. “That’s something Sir Arthur Conan Doyle wrote. I can’t remember what it’s from, but--”
“The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes,” Spencer provides, his lips still pressed against your forehead. He kisses it again, and when he pulls away, he sees an unmistakably overjoyed look in your eyes to go with the smile that graces your lips. “I didn’t mean to fall in love with you, but the action I’m going to take is whichever one keeps us together. Even if it means paperwork, or no promotions, or no longer going out into the field together. We’re always better when we tag team geographical profiles, anyway, and your desk will still be across from mine. Only difference now is that when I bring you tea, there might just be a forehead kiss to accompany it, provided Hotch isn’t in the bullpen.”
You grin, and when Spencers phone goes off, you let him answer it.
“Hi!” Penelope greets. “The hospital told me they didn’t have to call you as you’d already shown up and you were the first on their emergency contact list, but I am on the way! I’m bringing everyone else and also bagels. Is Y/Ns favorite place for tea still Izzies?”
“It’s been their favorite spot for ages and I don’t think it’ll ever be subject to change,” he answers. “Is everyone okay?”
“Hotch and Rossi look relieved for the first time in literal days,” Garcia laughs. “But yeah—everyones okay. Is Y/N?”
“Y/N is tired and hungry but otherwise fine,” Spencer says. “Sore, I think, too, but that’s not confirmed, just an assumption.”
“Did you tell them yet?” Penelope asks, and he can practically hear the eyebrow quirks in her question, the smile in her tone.
“That has been discussed to an extent,” Spencer says.
“What kind of extent, boy genius?” Derek calls from somewhere near Penelopes phone.
“We’ll both have some paperwork we'll need to do once they’re back in the office, and we won’t be able to go out into the field anymore or be eligible for promotions, but—worth it. So freakin’ worth it.”
He smiles at you, and you grin in response.
“Yay!” Penelope shouts. “I am going to bring Y/N the biggest London fog I can get from Izzies, as well as bagels and the rest of the team. I’ll see you guys in a bit?”
“See you soon, Penelope.”
He hangs up the phone and looks at you, sees the exhaustion in your eyes as you reach over and press the morphine button.
“What happened to ‘I’m not going to ask for pain meds’?”
“Getting shot in the chest hurts like a motherfucker,” you murmur. “Now--c’mere. Please. You’re so warm and I’m so cold.”
Spencer laughs, watches you scootch over a little in the bed and make room for him.
In the end, Spencers back is on the mattress and you’re curled up, minding the wires and tubes connecting you to an IV and your pain meds, on his right. Your head is against his shoulder and as you fall asleep, your breathing evens out. Spencer doesn’t think he’s ever felt this content in the entire thirty years he’s been alive, doesn’t want to know if it can get any better than it is.
THIRTY - THIRTY-ONE
You're laughing along with a joke Rossi makes, sipping the glass of wine you've been nursing for ages, when you feel Spencers hands on your shoulders.
"Hi," Spencer greets just before he kisses the side of your head. Rossi grins at the display of affection, his smile warm and almost fatherly.
"I didn't know the two of you back when you started," he says. "Hotch did, though, and he told me the other night, he'd seen this coming from a mile away. Was shocked it took you guys so long, but wasn't surprised it happened."
You shrug. "His IQ is 187 and mine is close to it," you say. "That doesn't quite mean we're exempt from our moments of idiocy."
Spencer nods. "Yeah," he says. "Plus, the idea of the extra paperwork was a little daunting, at first." He jokes, kissing your temple again.
"Worth it?" Rossi asks, and both of you nod.
"I wish I'd done it a lot sooner, personally," you admit. "I kind of hate that I told him I loved him while I was half dead, but life gave me a lemon and I made lemonade, so it all worked out."
You let yourself melt into Spencers embrace as Rossi walks away, catches JJ and Will and decides to talk with them for a while. You sip your wine as Spencer shoots off at the mouth about how lemons are man made and were developed through years of creating hybrid citruses, grateful to be standing at that event, in Spencers arms, at all.
-
Spencer grins at the sight as Megatron curls up on your chest. It’s the early hours of the morning and neither of you have work, but Spencer has woken up at 6:30, regardless of the day of the week, since he started working at the BAU.
She’s been extra loving with you since you were shot and wound up in a coma last year, has become somewhat co-dependent but only really displays these traits when it’s after dark or you’re asleep and she’s able to be affectionate without you poking fun at her.
She sprawls out over your chest and somewhat onto your stomach, and when she starts purring, she purrs at the noise level of a freight train, per usual.
“Morning, Meggy,” Spencer greets, running a finger along her chin affectionately. He’s doing anything he can to avoid starting his day because, since you’d started dating and spending the night at each others apartments more regularly, Spencer had discovered how nice it really was to curl up in bed and just kind of waste the morning away. He’d never seen the point in it while he was single or in love with you but doing nothing about it, but since your relationship had started, he loved spending his off days like that.
He, rather begrudgingly, climbs out of bed. He goes to your bathroom and uses the spare toothbrush you keep for him to use whenever he spends the night, tidies up the dining room from the previous nights dinner and washes the dishes used before putting them onto the empty drying rack. He heads back into your bedroom after taking the necessary steps to make your life just a little easier, and when you wake up an hour and a half later, it’s eight thirty and you greet him with an exhausted smile.
“Hi,” you greet. “Anything from Garcia yet?”
“She called me around midnight,” Spencer confesses. “You’d been asleep, and I didn’t want to wake you.”
“What’s the news?”
“James DeLuca was caught in the maritimes, along the Canadian coast,” Spencer says. “They’ve brought him back to the states, and right now it’s looking a lot like he’ll get the death penalty.”
You curl up against him, wrapping your arms around his waist, and Spencer knows it’s because the news feels like a bit of a relief. A year since he’d narrowly evaded arrest, and the man who almost killed you has been caught. It has to feel like a supermassive weight being lifted off your chest, and Spencer himself was relieved to hear the news when Garcia had phoned.
He wraps an arm around your shoulders and presses his lips to your forehead. You’d spent a year looking over your shoulder and yielding no results, but now you never would have to do that again.
“He’s behind bars, Y/N,” he says. “He’s not a threat anymore.”
He feels your smile against his neck and can’t help the shiver that goes down his spine. Megatron, ever observant and attention-seeking, plops herself onto the centre of Spencers chest, to your amusement.
“I never have to worry about him again,” you whisper. “That--that’s wonderful.”
“Mhm,” Spencer says. “Now, I don’t really think either of us need to get out of bed, per se, until the afternoon. I say we just relax for a while, soak it in and maybe give Megatron some tummy rubs.”
You laugh. “I really like that plan,” you say. Spencer kisses your forehead again.
He soaks it in—how good it feels, to be with someone he cherishes so deeply. It feels amazing to not have anything on his plate, not a stressful case or some stupid argument with Derek that he’s overthinking.
It feels amazing to be in your presence, to only really have to worry about how painful it’ll be when Megatron inevitably gets up and puts all her weight into her two front paws when she leans forward and aggressively headbuts Spencers jaw until he gives her what she wants or how, when you take to wanting a forehead kiss or otherwise, you’re liable to press your forehead against his shoulder until he gives in.
It feels amazing because this, right here, in this moment, is exactly where Spencer wants to be. He doesn’t want to be anywhere else, is so happy with you and Megatron that he’s almost drowning in it.
It’s a feeling that, before you’d started dating, rarely came about, but one he’s always going to cherish, no matter the circumstance.