Work Text:
It’s the first thing Spencer notices when he walks in.
A donut sitting on his desk. More specifically, a chocolate frosted donut with rainbow sprinkles. His favorite.
He immediately begins to scan the bullpen in search of whoever this donut fairy godparent might be. Derek and Emily sit a few desks over, lost in their own conversation and laughing at one another with devilish grins. Not them. Next he sees JJ handing Rossi a stack of files before heading towards Hotch’s office. Not them either. Then Spencer spots Hotch, seated at his desk with the same stoic expression he always wears. Definitely not him. He’s about to land on the one remaining, logical conclusion, Penelope, when she saunters right up to him.
“What, you didn’t bring enough to share with the class?” she asks with a pointed pout, glaring at Spencer’s donut.
Not her, I guess.
“You didn’t give me this?” Spencers asks, despite the fact that he’s already gathered enough evidence to determine that she, in fact, did not bring him this donut.
Penelope’s face lights up at those five little words. “Ooh,” she coos. “I bet I know who did.”
Spencer blinks at her, waiting for her to explain the sudden appearance of this donut that may as well have fallen from the sky.
She stares at him for a moment, clearly hoping he’ll catch on. No such luck. “Y/N, you doofus,” Penelope mock-whispers, much too loudly for Spencer’s liking.
“What?” His head swivels around, his eyes widening as he searches the room. He finds you at your desk on the other side of the bullpen. You must have snuck in. There’s no way he would have missed you.
It doesn’t make sense. Penelope is way off. That’s the only explanation. You’ve only been on the team for a few weeks, why on earth would you be giving him a donut? Just him?
Spencer would understand if you had brought them in for the whole team. Hell, he’d seen you bring in coffee for everyone just last week. It’s just what you do, apparently. It’s one of the many things about you that he has found himself oddly smitten by. You just seem to radiate joy and warmth. He doesn’t know how to explain it, how a human can even have that kind of aura, but you do. He just knows.
None of that explains the donut in his hand. The one that he has yet to even bite into, despite the fact that he desperately wants to.
Penelope seems to realize that you’re approaching the two of them before Spencer does. She throws a wink his way before turning on her heels and scurrying towards Derek. Spencer’s left alone, staring at you like a fool, still holding the damn donut.
“Did I get it wrong?” you ask.
Spencer doesn’t respond right away, too distracted by the way you’re biting your lower lip as you study him. It’s doing something to him, something that is incredibly unfamiliar, and wildly inappropriate. He cannot be thinking about you like this.
He looks away, his gaze snapping to the donut. “Get what wrong?”
“Chocolate frosted with sprinkles, right?”
He can’t help it. He looks back up at you. You’ve stopped biting your lip, which makes Spencer somehow feel both relieved and disappointed. “You got this for me?” he asks. “Why?”
You nod, a lock of hair falling in front of your eyes. Spencer resists the sudden urge to reach out and brush it back. Get a grip. “You graduated this weekend, right? Well, I don’t know if it’s called graduating when it’s your sixth degree, but whatever, it’s the same kind of deal, right?”
Spencer gapes at you. “How’d you know?”
“You told me, silly,” you laugh, saying it like it’s the most casual thing in the world. Like of course you would remember that. Spencer thinks about the fact that he’s known you for all of three weeks, five days, and eleven hours, and somehow you’ve managed to do something none of his other coworkers have ever done.
He’d told them all about it the last time he finished a degree. Honestly, even he wasn’t sure if it was considered graduating at this point. But it was still finishing something, it was still something to celebrate. Or at least he had been told.
But no one had said anything about it the last time. Spencer assumed they had all forgotten, the latest academic endeavors of his falling fairly short on their list of priorities. He didn’t blame them. It made sense. What was the point?
But now? Spencer’s staring at this donut like it’s the greatest gift he’s ever received. And it may very well be.
You pat him on the shoulder, your eyes gleaming as you grin at him. “I’m proud of you.”
Spencer stammers out a thank you, watching you walk back to your desk. His eyes follow you across the bullpen, your words replaying on a loop in his mind.
It was probably nothing to you, he decides. Just another habit of yours that makes you so incredibly endearing. It must just be second nature. No big deal.
To Spencer, though? It is a very big deal.
He finally takes a bite of the donut, a smile spreading across his face despite himself.
It’s the best donut he’s ever had.
*
You’re outside with Spencer on your lunch break.
The two of you have taken to sitting in the park nearby, weather permitting. Spencer’s not quite sure how or why this has become habit, but all he knows is that lunch is now his favorite part of the day.
This coming from the man who used to forget to eat more than one meal a day.
It’s beautiful outside. The sun is shining, the wind is blowing gently, the flowers are in full bloom, but Spencer can’t stop staring at you. He’s certain that you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He’s certain that your smile is brighter than the sun.
He’s brought out of his thoughts when he hears you squeal, jumping up from the bench.
“Look, Spence!” you point. “It’s a grasshopper!”
Spencer turns to look and it is, in fact, a grasshopper. Nothing out of the ordinary, but somehow you make it feel like the most extraordinary thing.
He begins to rattle off grasshopper statistics. He can’t help it, it’s the first thing that comes to mind, and his mouth is always so much faster than his thoughts. You’re staring at him with wide eyes and he cuts himself off mid-sentence, as he almost always does. “Sorry, I-” he starts to say.
You surprise him. You go, “What about bees, though?”
Spencer doesn’t think much about it after that.
Okay, that’s a lie. He thinks about that conversation quite a bit for weeks afterward, the intense way you seemed to listen to him as he told you bumblebee facts seared into his memory. But he doesn’t bring it up again. Once again, he thinks it must just be how you are. Just one more item to add to the list of things he cannot stop thinking about.
Eventually, he almost forgets about the conversation- as much as he can forget about anything.
It’s months later when he’s walking outside at a crime scene. You’re a few yards away, talking to Derek.
Spencer’s discussing something with Hotch when they both hear Derek shriek. They turn to see him swat at something, you standing beside him with a grin.
“It was a bee,” Derek says by way of explanation, glaring at Spencer.
“Did you know that there are over 255 species of bumblebees?” you ask.
Derek turns to direct his glare at you, though he can’t help but smile. You seem to have that effect on everyone.
You’re not done though. “And the largest can grow to be more than an inch and a half long!”
Now Derek looks at Spencer again. “Jesus, man. There are two of you?”
Normally Spencer might be a little offended, might give a little retort to Derek’s good-natured teasing. Right now, though? He can’t stop looking at you. You look so pleased with yourself and your little bee facts.
He’s fairly certain he’s going to think of you every time he sees a bumblebee.
*
He’s bleeding.
It’s nothing. Spencer’s seen a lot worse.
You, however, seem to disagree, your eyes widening as you blatantly look him over from head to toe. The action would normally leave him insanely flustered, but all he can really concentrate on is the blood running down his face.
“Spence, what happened? Do you need me to drive you to the hospital?” you ask, your voice laced with concern.
He shakes his head, wincing despite his best efforts. “No- no, I’m fine. Just got a bit knocked around. But I don’t- I don’t have any of the symptoms of a concussion. And it doesn’t need stitches, it’s certainly not deeper than six and a half millimeters.”
You chuckle, convinced by his spiel that he is indeed his normal, wonderful self. “Okay fine, at least let me clean you up.”
Spencer doesn’t know what you mean by that. He blinks at you as you walk towards the precinct bathroom. You only take a few steps before you realize that he isn’t following.
“Come on.” You grab his hand, pulling him towards you casually, like your hand in his isn’t something that he thinks about every other moment. About what it would feel like, if he could just do it. Just get over his fears and do it- hold your hand in his. You make it seem so simple.
You both enter the tiny bathroom, but you turn abruptly, walking out without a word. He stands there, staring at himself in the mirror, wondering exactly what he’s supposed to do now. Does he go find you? Does he just clean up his face?
His question is answered for him when you return, pulling a metal folding chair in with you. You set it down, motioning to it. “Sit.”
Spencer sits. He’s fairly convinced he would do anything you told him to do. It’s a dangerous feeling.
You grab a paper towel and wet it before turning towards him. “Alright, I’m gonna touch you, just to clean you up,” you murmur. “Is that alright?”
It’s more than alright. Spencer can’t find the words to explain, so he settles for a nod, swallowing the lump in his throat.
He blinks and suddenly your hands are on him, one in his hair, pushing it off of his forehead. The other is holding the paper towel, gingerly wiping the blood from his face. You’re so close to him that he can scarcely breathe, afraid that one wrong movement will break the spell.
There’s a flash of pain as you dab the towel, getting closer to the cut itself. He winces again, letting out a quiet hiss.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Spence.” Your voice is soft and soothing, like honey. Like the greatest medicine you could ever give him. Spencer is sure that he could listen to you speak for the rest of his life and be cured of anything. Everything.
Spencer just shakes his head ever so slightly. “It’s fine.” He can barely speak above a whisper, certain that you will hear the longing laced in his words. He’s not quite sure why he feels like this, why you seem to have this effect on him. All he can think about is your hand in his hair, and how he wants it there forever.
“Almost done,” you say with a bright smile, rummaging through your bag. You pull out a small box with a flourish, your grin somehow growing even wider.
Spencer eyes the brightly colored box warily. “What’s that?”
“Bandaids? Duh.” You pull three out, fanning them in front of you. “Pick one.”
He stares at them. They’re bandages, alright, but they are most certainly not the muted ones that he’s used to. One is covered in rainbows, the second in unicorns, and the third in raindrops.
“Y/N,” he says slowly. “This is going to go on my face.”
You pout at him, and he immediately loses whatever reservations he had. “Your hair will cover it, come on!”
He grumbles just a bit, just because he loves how it makes you laugh, before selecting the unicorn covered bandage.
“Excellent choice!” You take it from him, opening it easily before pushing back his hair once more. Spencer is suddenly aware of the fact that he’s holding his breath, his eyes watching your movements. You lean towards him, tongue stuck out in concentration as you place the bandage on his forehead. “And done!”
Your hands are no longer on him, and Spencer misses them as soon as they’re gone.
When he stands up, you’re ridiculously close to him once again, barely enough space for the two of you. There’s still somehow no air in the room as he stares at you. “Thank you,” he says softly.
“Of course.” You reach your hand up, running it through his hair before coming to rest on his cheek. “Anything for you.”
Spencer stands in the bathroom after you leave, staring at himself in the mirror yet again. His gaze is drawn to the unicorn bandage. You were right, it’s barely noticeable underneath his hair.
But he knows it’s there.
He thinks about that bandage and the feeling of your hands on him for the rest of the day.
*
There’s a classic book festival this weekend.
Spencer knows this because of course he does. He wants to ask you to go with him.
He wants to, but he doesn’t know if he can.
Spencer thinks about all the times he’s asked anyone on the team to go with him to something. The Korean film festival, the Edgar Allan Poe Shadow Puppet Theater, the Phantasmagoria. The looks on their faces, the way they roll their eyes at him. He’s grown used to it by now, it doesn’t really offend him. He understands that they’re just not interested in the things he is.
But if you look at him like that?
He doesn’t think his heart could take it.
He’s still thinking about it, still fighting with himself, when you walk up to his desk. Your grin makes him instinctively smile back despite his internal struggle.
You hold out your hand, two slips of paper in your grasp.
Spencer blinks at you.
“There’s a book festival this weekend,” you say. “I got you a ticket if you want to go with me?”
You say it simply, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like it’s natural, like it’s right. Spencer thinks it might be.
He nods so vehemently that his neck hurts, watching as your eyes light up at his agreement.
During the festival, Spencer smiles so wide that his cheeks ache. He spends more time looking at you than at the books, laughing as you attempt to read ones in foreign languages that you absolutely do not speak. You giggle at your own poor attempts at pronunciation before handing the book to him, begging him to read it to you. He obliges. Of course he does.
The entire time, he resists the urge to reach out. To grab your hand.
If he grabs it, he might never let it go.
*
Someone’s screaming.
Someone’s screaming and there’s a pounding noise somewhere in the distance.
Spencer jolts awake, quickly coming to the realization that he’s the one screaming. The pounding noise is still there, coming from the other side of the hotel door.
He takes a deep breath, wiping his face in a fruitless attempt to hide the panic before opening the door. You’re in the hallway, half asleep with rumpled pajamas and messy hair, a book in your hand.
“Can I come in?” you ask simply.
Spencer nods. It’s all he can muster, his mind still reeling from the nightmares that woke him up. All he knows is he doesn’t want to be alone. Not if he can be with you.
You sit on the bed, motioning for him to sit beside you. The two of you sit in silence for a second before you speak again. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Spencer just shakes his head. He prepares himself for that look of disappointment, the one he always gets that says ‘You need to talk about it. You need to deal with your problems.’
“Okay,” you say instead. “Lay down then.”
He’s confused but he does it anyway. He trusts you, more than he’s ever trusted another human. It’s a strange feeling, an unfamiliar one. He’s not quite used to feeling so safe.
You remain seated, your back against the headboard. You move him gently, until his head is resting in your lap.
Spencer doesn’t know what’s happening. It’s so much, being this close to you. He’d be overwhelmed if he wasn’t so damn exhausted, if you weren’t so comforting, if you didn’t feel so much like home.
Suddenly your hand is in his hair, running through the soft curls. He lets out a sigh on instinct. Your free hand fumbles around for a moment and Spencer wonders briefly what you’re doing.
He hears the rustling of pages and when you open your mouth to speak, he realizes.
The only sound in the room is you reading, your voice low and soft. Although he knows that you’re reading, he barely processes the words that you're speaking. All he can think about is the sudden warmth that he feels, the lull of your voice and your body beside him calming him more than anything else ever could.
His eyelids begin to grow heavy, the exhaustion washing over him.
The last thing he’s aware of before drifting off to sleep is the feel of your fingers in his hair, and the vague sensation of a kiss being pressed to the top of his head.
*
His cardigan is ripped.
It snagged on something on his way to the office. Spencer’s trying to convince himself that it’s fine. He can deal with it later. He’s just being dramatic.
He only wears it for a few minutes before the hole in the sleeve is too much for him to bear. It’s distracting him from the files on his desk and he can’t stop running his hand over it, which he’s sure is just making the hole bigger.
He ends up taking off the cardigan, plopping it onto his chair with a quiet sigh before heading to the breakroom in search of coffee.
Spencer takes his time, making his coffee just the way he likes it, chatting with Emily about her weekend. He’s not really in a rush to get back to his paperwork.
When he makes his way back to his desk, he blinks in confusion. The cardigan is gone. He checks under the desk, although he’s certain it didn’t just fall off the chair.
He spins to look around the bullpen, wondering exactly why someone would steal a ripped cardigan from him. It’s not his favorite one, but he’s still upset by the idea.
Then he spots you. You’re at your desk, your head bent as you work on something with laser focus. He assumes it’s your pile of paperwork that mirrors his.
He heads your way, ready to ask if you may have seen who took his cardigan. He stops a few steps away, his jaw dropping as he realizes what you’re doing.
You have the cardigan in your lap, and you’re holding a needle and thread, tongue stuck out as you sew the hole on the sleeve shut.
Spencer can’t breathe again. He just stands there, watching you.
You finish sewing, snipping off the end of the thread before looking up. You jump a bit, startled by Spencer standing just a few feet away.
“Oh, hey Spence,” you say easily, handing him the cardigan. “I hope you don’t mind! It looked like the hole was bothering you.”
He doesn’t mind. Not at all.
Spencer accepts the cardigan, holding it like it’s the most delicate thing in the world. He studies the stitching where the hole was. It’s barely noticeable, your handiwork easily concealing that there was ever a tear at all.
Spencer knows it was there, though. He runs his hand over the seam every time he wears it, thinking about you sewing it closed. About the easy way you noticed that it was bothering him. The easy way that you noticed him.
It’s his favorite cardigan now.
*
It’s late, but he’s not asleep.
Spencer’s startled when his phone rings, even more so when he sees your name on the screen. “Hello?”
“Um, hello. H-hi, Spence.”
He can tell even through the phone that you’re crying, your sniffling audible as you try to speak. “What wrong?” He’s standing up before he even registers it, fully prepared to drive to wherever you are, to do anything to stop you from crying.
“Can I come over?”
He nods before realizing you can’t see him, rushing to say yes, yes come over. He’d say yes to anything you need, anything you asked of him.
“Good,” you laugh, and despite the sadness tinged in your voice, the sound still warms his heart. “I’m already here.”
Spencer moves toward his door without thinking, opening just as you’re about to knock. The two of you stand there, staring at one another for a moment. Your eyes are red and you’re clearly trying to blink back tears, your hand still hovering in the air.
He steps back wordlessly, motioning for you to come in. The tentative step you take makes him ache. You gaze at him, your arms coming to wrap around yourself.
“Can I hug you?” Spencer finds himself asking.
Your eyes light up instantly, nodding vehemently before rushing towards him. It’s as though that was what you were waiting for, all that you needed.
He wraps his arms around you, and you bury your head in his shoulder, your own arms around him. Spencer once again finds himself thinking that he could stay like this forever.
You’re shaking in his grasp, and he begins to pull away, wondering if there’s something else he should be doing. “No,” you murmur, pulling your arms more tightly around him. He smiles despite himself, his hand coming up to run through your hair. It’s softer than he imagined- and he’s imagined it plenty of times. What it would be like to run his hand through it, to play with it as you laid your head in his lap. He chastises himself for the thought. Now is not the time.
Eventually the two of you find your way to the couch, you still as close to Spencer as physically possible.
“I’m sorry,” you say, your voice small. You’ve finally stopped crying, your breathing growing steady as your head rests on his shoulder.
“Y/N,” he says. The seriousness in just that one word makes you look up. He’s studying you with sincere eyes, trying to understand what’s wrong. “You don’t need to be sorry. I promise.”
You nod minutely, your eyes dropping to your lap.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
He watches as you shake your head, the tears returning to your eyes.
“It’s okay.” His hand reaches for yours, desperate to stop you from crying. To alleviate your pain.
You lace your fingers with his, and he almost swears that his heart stops. The room is quiet, the only sound your hushed breaths. He turns on the television, putting on an old episode of Doctor Who that he knows you love. You don’t say anything, but you squeeze his hand in acknowledgment.
When your head drifts from his shoulder down to his lap, he’s once again convinced that he has stopped breathing. His hand hovers over your head for just an instant before carding through your hair. You let out a sigh, nestling closer to him, your hand coming to rest on his thigh.
The two of you stay like that for what feels like hours, Spencer running his hand through your hair over and over. This must be what heaven feels like, he thinks. Nothing fancy, nothing exquisite. No bells and whistles, no pearly gates and singing angels. Just you and him on this tiny couch late on a Tuesday night, your head on his lap, his hand in your hair.
Heaven. Just you and him.
Spencer thinks you’ve fallen asleep until you turn to look up at him. His hand stops moving, though it remains tangled in your hair.
“Thank you,” you say quietly.
He nods, his thoughts racing with the one question that has been on his mind all night. Before he has the chance to stop himself, he asks, “Why me?” Out of all of the people you could go to when you’re hurting, why did you choose him?
You smile softly, and it finally reaches your eyes. “You always make me feel better.”
Spencer lets out a hum of acknowledgment, unable to form a response. You always seem to turn his thoughts to mush, his endless vocabulary reduced to nothing.
There’s a pause before you turn back towards the television, your hand resting on his thigh again. Silence falls over the room, and he almost thinks that he imagines it when he hears you speak again.
“It’s always been you,” you whisper.
Spencer can’t quite grasp the meaning of your words, can’t quite believe that you’ve just said them. He stares down at you, his hand running through your hair once more. There must be a reasonable explanation for what you just said.
If there is, he doesn’t want to know.
*
You’re on the couch together again.
This time, it’s your couch.
It’s become routine, a habit for the two of you. Just like your lunch breaks together. After work, especially after a particularly hard case, you spend the evening with each other. Usually you watch a mindless movie or read books in silence or even just sit next to one another.
Nothing extraordinary, except it is. For Spencer at least, it’s the most important thing in the world.
Your head is on his shoulder and it’s all he can think about. His hand is in your hair once more, running through it softly. He doesn’t hesitate anymore, doesn’t have to ask. Ever since that one night, that unspoken barrier has disappeared. He just wants to keep touching you, to be as close to you as you’ll allow.
He’s worried you’re going to get sick of him. He keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Your hand is on his chest and it’s distracting him. He can’t watch the movie, can’t even remember what it’s about. All he can think about is this moment, how he doesn’t want it to end. How he wants a million more moments with you.
You say something, but it’s so quiet that he can’t hear the words.
“What?” he asks.
You sit up, your hand reaching for his. “You know I love you, right?”
Spencer hears it this time, but he still doesn’t believe it. He hears you tell Penelope you love her all the time. You must mean it like that. There’s no other explanation.
He swallows before nodding. He can’t meet your eyes. He knows if he does you’ll see the longing in them, the wish that you meant it as something more.
“No,” you say, reaching your hand up to his chin. You turn his face gently towards you and he finally looks you in the eyes.
He still doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t trust himself to speak.
“You know I love you, right?” you repeat, your eyes searching his. “I love you.”
It’s like time stops, like the outside world has ceased to exist.
There’s a pause as he processes your words. Then he smiles, his face lighting up. It makes you laugh, and you rest your hand on his cheek.
“I love you too,” he says.
He says it so simply, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like it’s natural, like it’s right.
It is. He’s never been more sure of anything.
You press the lightest kiss to his lips. It’s soft and sweet, but he wants more. His hands find their way into your hair, pulling you towards him. You smile against his mouth before kissing him back, your own hands holding his face.
You pull away only to pepper his face with little kisses. You kiss his cheeks, his jaw, his nose, his eyelids, his neck. He giggles despite himself, reveling in the feel of your lips on him, of his hands on you.
He could stay just like this forever.
Spencer finally understands.