Chapter Text
Under Bright Lights
Spencer didn’t really know what he was doing there, closing in on four in the morning.
Maybe he just couldn’t sleep. The last case had ended badly enough that Hotch had asked him to take some leave. And when there were no cases, he didn’t sleep. Couldn’t really make out enough details other than a thrumming pulse in the string lights strung ‘round the naked rafters of a bar really trying to attract hipsters. It was working well enough—Spencer had seen groups of girls watching their drinks like hawks between bouts of dancing that might even make Derek Morgan blush. They had on their stacks of fake silver rings turning their fingers green, caked from chin to forehead in makeup that didn’t move when they smiled. There was so much to see, and even the cloying scent of vape smoke couldn’t deter him from watching. Maybe he could spot someone to help. Someone that needed him.
He pushed the tiny white espresso cup in a circle using its delicate handle. He’d watched the bartender shrug, dip into the back, and return with a still-damp mug. Probably it’d been dusty—who in the world ordered espresso at what was functionally a night club? Uppers and downers didn’t mix well, uppers and downers could go very well together…
He wondered if there was anyone here that could get him the right downer. Of course it was on his mind. Not a day went by when he didn’t think about Tobias, shooting up, and dying. Not exactly in that order. He’d flirted with the idea for a long time. Especially after Maeve. God. The way he’d used. Again and again and again, until he had whole hallucinated conversations with JJ during withdrawal. Until he was vomiting blood in his toilet, praying to a god he didn’t believe in.
His eyes flicked up from the dark surface of his cooling espresso. Caught on someone raising something white to their lips. Ah. So he wasn’t the only one with a little cup. Careful not to put his elbow in any foreign liquids, he rested his chin in his palm, watching. In his delirium, he struggled to make out the finer details of you. Some profiler he was. You were dressed for somewhere else, just like him. Where that somewhere was, he couldn’t exactly say. A date? Your shoulders were hunched, and you kept twisting the ring on your right thumb while you thought. Your face had this painterly quality—like you belonged to a drying masterpiece but couldn’t stand to stay still forever.
He shook himself.
What a sentimental load of garbage.
He straightened and ran a hand through grown out, curly hair. Then he walked past the intoxicated and the lonely, and stopped in front of the damned. You met his eyes with a mischievous sense of curiosity tilting your lips up at the corners. Your mouth had this little divot—the cupid’s bow—that made him all too hungry. He held up his espresso cup with an awkward grimace.
“Looks like we’re the odd ones out,” he said.
You leaned in, and he repeated himself with a terrible voice crack. He cringed, and you smiled.
“So we are,” you replied, eyes smudged with liquified mascara. “What’s a classy guy like you doing here?”
He looked at himself, then back to you, incredulous. “Classy?”
You half-smiled. “Well, I mean. You’ve got that whole professor look going on.”
He huffed out an awkward laugh. “I guess you’re right.”
You tilted your head and leaned back into the bar. Your shirt stretched up, and there was your midsection. Soft skin that he found himself hungry for. Never in his life had he contended with such strong attraction on sight. He found himself memorizing every detail. The way your hair shone in the light. The shade of your eyes. The length of your fingers. Small things. Things he’d be thinking about when—
“If you don’t mind me asking, what’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?”
He cleared his throat. “Well,” he said, “I’ve been having trouble sleeping lately.”
Your eyes crinkled in recognition. “I knew it.”
The spark in his chest bloomed. He hated himself for the warmth. He should be cold. Maeve must hate him—“How did you know?”
Someone bumped into him, and Spencer full on flinched.
You slipped down from the bar, gulped down the rest of your espresso, and gently took his away. By some miracle, your fingers didn’t brush. By his jacket sleeve, you led him from the press of bodies and sweet tainted air to a place that made him think of work. A darkened street. Orange street lights bleeding haze into the night. Intoxicated couples—some lone women—stumbling home, a trail of ants. Some of them disappeared into cabs. Was he the last person to see one of these people?
“Hey,” you said, and he tried not to look at you. He knew that gentle tone. You waited.
He met your eyes. Felt the negligible space between you. “Hey,” he said, hating the weakness in his voice.
You crossed your arms, and remnant glitter strewn across your skin caught in the golden light. “What’s your name?” Your breath smelled of coffee. He’d liked tea before the BAU. Before the nightmares. Now only the strongest, blackest motor oil made a difference. And he was always tired. They all were.
He told you, mumbling the syllables the way he had as a child.
“Hello Spencer,” you said, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. “Do you smoke?”
He shook his head. “I don’t. I, uh, try to stick with just caffeine.”
You side-eyed him. He’d been studied for years by the best in the business, but your casual observations made him feel naked. “Is it alright if I do? I won’t mind if you say no.”
He dipped his head. “I’d like that, actually. Reminds me of home.”
You hummed as you began your little ritual, plucking a cig from an old pack you clearly couldn’t bear to get rid of from the way it was taped together and falling apart at the seams. You lit up with a scratched up lighter, a hint of smudged-away lipstick becoming visible when fire blossomed for a quick moment. Once you’d taken a long, indulgent, drag, you asked him the question you’d been turning over for fifteen seconds, “And where’s home, Spencer.”
“Vegas,” he exhaled.
You nodded, didn’t comment. Just thought. Turned it over.
“How long have you been an insomniac?” he asked you.
You laughed—sudden and choked, spewing smoke. “God, you’re good. Usually pretty boys don’t get a read on me for at least a few years.” You leveled him with a searching look. “Or maybe like calls to like.”
He shrugged, savoring the smoke as it twined ‘round the pair of you. “You think I’m pretty?”
You half-smiled. “Who wouldn’t think so?”
He laughed, self-deprecation creeping in. “A lot of people, actually.”
You shook your head. “They’re fucking stupid.”
He changed the subject, fighting off a blush. “What’re you running from tonight?”
You blew out a long stream of smoke. Acrid and terrible. The countless explosions he’d been witness to filtered through his head. Demanding their due. Their turn to be the nightmare. “Lots of stuff,” you said. “Be more specific.”
He turned to look at you more fully. Red-tinged eyes from hours of crying, lines ‘round your mouth that were premature—stress induced, the hint of a tattoo trying to crawl onto your neck. You lifted your chin, ready for the blow.
“Like I said,” he began, treading carefully, “I think you haven’t slept in a long time. Maybe because you’re missing someone that died. A boyfriend? Family member? Whoever it was, they gave you that pack of cigarettes you’re trying to preserve.” He pressed his lips together. “Grief. That’s my guess.”
You let out a shaky breath. “Who are you?”
He laughed, trying to hide behind his hair. “You won’t believe me, but I actually work for the FBI.”
“Fuck off,” you said, mouth open a little. He reached into his jacket pocket for his credentials. “I’ll be damned.”
“I catch serial killers,” he said, voice low like a confession. “Child abductions. Other high profile cases. I like to help people.”
You finished your cigarette and stubbed it out with your boot heel. “Cool.”
He smiled. “Usually people like to ask about what I do—how many people I’ve killed, the killers I’ve caught. Not you, though.”
You shrugged, touched the pack in your shirt pocket as though you were scared it would disappear. “I’m interested in you. Your job is one part of it, sure. But I’d like to know what you’re running from tonight.”
Spencer sighed. “Like calls to like.”
You both sat with the weight of it for a few seconds. Death had taken so many people right in front of him. He’d killed some of them. Watched Maeve die. All while the obvious stood right in front of him. Her stalker had been a woman. With access. She’d never been safe.
“I’ve never asked a guy this,” you said, “but I don’t think there are guys like you. Come back to my place? I don’t want to have sex—I’m just…tired. It’s been a while since I’ve slept for three consecutive hours.”
He cocked his head. “You think I’ll help with that?”
You made a vague gesture. “I don’t know. I’m not really the touching type. Something about you feels right, though.”
He fidgeted with his credentials. Thinking of all the killers that used ruses just like this. “How far away do you live?” Did he care if he died?
You shrugged. “Ten minutes away on foot? Guess we could call a cab, but I like walking.”
He knew better. He should say no. Maeve would want him to say no.
You took his hesitation as a rejection. “Sorry—I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m the worst. Just, uh. Have a good night.”
He caught your arm as you tried to spin away. You both stiffened, your smudged eyes widening. His muscles locked. You both froze. Watched each other through paralyzed eyes. Then you relaxed into his hand, and his hand relaxed on your arm. Skin to skin, hearts meeting, pulses brushing. A much more intimate greeting than hello.
“I want to sleep with you,” he said. And then, “Like, actually—you know—”
You roused a smile from the shock of physical contact. “Really?”
“I’m, uh,” he swallowed. “Not really the touching type either. But. I’m getting tired, too.”
You tugged your arm free, and his hand stung with the lack of you. “Here,” you said, offering your hand. “We can go together.”
Spencer had been shot, stabbed, and bruised. But never had he felt something so mind-bending as when you pressed your hand to his, and he threaded your fingers together.
“Did you know that humans engage in pheromone signaling?” he asked.
You shook your head, earrings flashing in the light. “No?”
“Testosterone drops significantly when a female sheds tears in front of a male.”
“Huh,” you said. “That’s really interesting.”
He shook himself. “Sorry I’m probably boring you—”
“No,” you said. “I’ve just…never heard anything like that before.”
Buildings passed like faerie mounds. Undisturbed by time and unheeding of the natural laws of entropy. The street smelled of piss. But cities everywhere smelled like that. The truth was, you could be anywhere. You didn’t have to be in DC. You could be in the quiet part of Vegas, maybe. If he pretended. A hot night in August varied from coast to coast, but Spencer wasn’t a bad sport. He could bleed the details together, so that as you were taking him home, murmuring in low tones, he was also taking you home. To the city he grew up in. Molding himself into a man that deserved you. A man that could let himself want you without the innate betrayal of it.
You said his name. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m usually more attentive.”
You squeezed his hand. “We’re tired. I can tell we’re both getting warmer.”
He raised his brows as you waited for a car to pass.
“Didn’t you know?” You smiled, and he wanted to taste smoke. “When you get sleepy, your body heats up.”
“I’ve never noticed,” he confessed.
You made a mad dash across faded lines, refusing to let go of each other. The light was red. It brimmed with astigmatism like an angel’s halo. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the lurid red. Like fresh blood. He saw people strewn out like trash, limbs severed, genitals mutilated. He held it all in his mind.
“We’re not far,” you huffed. He didn’t realize you were both still running. Some kind of urgency filled your voice. “You’re getting to the bad part of sleep deprivation. I don’t want you to have a panic attack out on the street.”
“What—I’m not—” Tobias Hankel switched in front of him. Gabriel loomed from the depths of their soul. His veins ached for dilaudid. His skull cried out for reprieve.
Then you were unlocking a door, metal on metal scratching as he tried not to hyperventilate. Stopped breathing entirely. And he was inside a small mudroom that led up into what looked like an apartment. You helped him down onto the floor, knees to chest, tucked up beside him.
“Can you tell me what you need?”
“Water,” he croaked.
You disappeared upstairs with a tight nod, light feet barely making a sound on the steps. When you came back, he had more of a handle on his breathing. He took the cool glass you offered without spilling anything—his hands were steady enough to be useful, at least. Each sip brought him a step closer towards equilibrium. The neutral sense of calm that allowed him to do his job.
“Wow,” he said. “I haven’t lost it like that in a long time.”
You patted his knee, sat cross-legged in front of him. “Happens to the best of us.”
He shook his head. “Not to people like me. I’ve compartmentalized everything that’s ever happened to me my entire life. That’s the only way I can even do my job.”
You let out a sigh to the effect of what can you do. “I don’t know when you last slept properly, but it looks like months. Don’t beat yourself up. You’re running on empty.”
“That’s never mattered before.”
You took the empty glass and set it down out of the way of the door. “Wrong. You’ve just had the strength of will to push through it. Come on Spencer. Let’s go to bed.”
He tipped his head back and let out a soft sound of relief. “That sounds too good to be true.”
You held out your hand, and he took it. Like to like, trusting without reason. Up the stairs, he found a cluttered two room apartment complete with a shitty view. Ah, city life. You pulled him into your room without a word, and in the soft darkness that didn’t need words, you changed into a sleep shirt and shorts. He didn’t know what to do. Not when he could smell you—the inescapable allure of a scent unique to you, and a layer of some indefinable cinnamon sweetness. Almost like you’d been baking. You rustled close to him and put a sleep-warm hand on his neck. He didn’t flinch.
Spencer closed his eyes.
“Are you uncomfortable?”
“No,” he whispered.
“I have some clothes that should fit you. My brother…”
“I know,” he told you, cupping your hand with his. “It’s okay.”
He felt your breath on his skin, and barely managed not to shiver. “I’ll be right back.”
“Alright,” he said, and his skin mourned the loss of you.
You handed him a shirt and shorts that barely fit, but they were soft and worn and a balm on his aching skin. Sometimes he thought he must be more scar tissue than man. He’d been at this job so long, and nothing in his life had really changed. Still the kid on a team that had families and lost them, all while he stayed the same. The closest he’d come was to a girl he’d never met before she died. Never kissed. JJ had two sons. And what did Spencer have? Ghosts and an addiction? A habit of not sleeping? Godsons that he loved, a team that he loved, and a mother that wouldn’t know him in a year. If he was lucky.
He stood there in the clothes of a dead man you’d loved, and felt out of place.
Somehow, you read him like a book. “I’m not someone that believes in fate,” you said. “But this is as close as I’ve ever come.”
“I’m sorry, I’ve just. I’ve never…”
You grabbed him by the loose fabric of his shirt, gently tugging him forward until his legs met the edge of the bed. He clambered awkwardly into a soft, plush sensory exhibit of you. The blanket textures you favored. Old pillows you couldn’t get rid of. He felt a small imprint in the center, and imagined you laying there for hours at a time, trying to drift off. It was like the blueprint of the soul.
“Is this too much?” you asked. “I don’t exactly have much of an idea of how to do this either.”
“It’s not,” he said, meaning it.
You both laid down, shoulder to shoulder. Arm to arm. It was a shocking amount of intimacy with someone he didn’t know. He felt every pore, every inch of your skin that met. He reached over to your wrist and felt your pulse. Relaxed beats echoed back at him. You weren’t scared of him. And god, he wanted to close his eyes. He wanted to be closer.
Without a word, he made a few careful moves to open up the space in front of his chest.
“Come here,” he whispered.
And there you were, back to his heart. His arms found a comfortable way to hold you close. The warmth of you against the coldness of him. He knew he was too thin. Not eating enough. But the way your body heat leached into him was euphoric. He’d do anything to feel this again. To be this close every night. He nosed at the nape of your neck, and you gasped in surprise. This was where the scent lived. He’d only gotten the barest hint of it before. Now he could barely think, overwhelmed with a sense of rightness he’d only managed to find in drugs. Only dilaudid had made him feel anything like this.
There wasn’t even time enough to say goodnight.
You were both just gone.