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amijulesenough · 8 days ago

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STRAWBERRY PICNIC - S.R

pairing = touchy!bf!spencer + gf!reader

summary = A sunny picnic turns into soft kisses, tangled limbs, and quiet laughter under the trees. Later, it’s warm sheets and wandering hands, breathless moments and one too many philosophical tangents. Spencer’s mind races, yours melts, and somehow it’s perfect anyway.

content warning = MAKING OUTTTT, lots of touches all in bed. No actual smut!! They're very close and cute.

A/N = My account is legit flopping please interact and check out my other posts.. 🙏

The blanket is too big for just two people, but Spencer insists on unfolding the whole thing anyway.

“It’s better this way,” he mumbles as he smooths the corners down against the grass. “That way, if we roll around or if the wind picks up nothing gets dirty.”

You laugh softly, sitting cross legged near the middle while he fusses over the edges. His hair is curling at the ends from the summer air. Warmth clings to his cheeks in a pinkish hue, the same one that always shows up when he’s proud of something or nervous about being close to you.

The park is quiet, just after noon. A few families in the distance. A dog barking happily near the trees. But here, under the shade of a tree Spencer claimed was “statistically the safest place to avoid sunstroke,” it feels like you’re in your own little world.

He finally sits beside you, close but not quite touching, until you lean your shoulder against his.

“You okay?” you ask.

He nods once.

Then, after a pause, his voice softens. “I just… really like this. Being here with you.”

Your chest warms. You glance at the basket between you, filled with things he packed, half of which are way too specific to ever come from a regular grocery run.

You pull out a small container of strawberries. They’re perfectly red and neatly sliced.

“You cut these?”

Spencer shrugs, but his lips curve up.

“I read they taste sweeter if you chill them and slice them in halves before serving. Something about the surface area and sugar exposure. I” He catches your expression and stops himself, cheeks flushing again. “Sorry. That wasn’t very romantic.”

You rest your head on his shoulder.

“It was,” you say.

A beat of silence. Then another.

He lets out a breath. Relaxing into you.

You feel the weight of his hand settle gently over yours where it rests on your knee. His fingers play lightly with your skin, tracing tiny, absentminded patterns. The kind of touch that says I love you without needing words.

A breeze moves through the branches above, ruffling his hair. You reach up to brush it from his eyes. He closes them for a moment under your touch, like it’s something holy.

Then his voice, soft like the July wind.

“I used to think quiet meant lonely.”

You glance up at him. He’s still looking down at your hand.

“But now…” he trails off.

“Now?” you whisper.

He finally lifts his eyes to yours. There’s something shy in his gaze. Something reverent.

“Now I think it can mean safe.”

You lean in and kiss his cheek.

He leans into it like he’s trying to remember how it feels forever.

Later, after the strawberries are gone and the air grows a little heavier with heat, Spencer shifts behind you and fluffs the pillow he brought from home. You didn’t even realize he’d packed it, but of course he did. Of course he thought ahead.

You tilt your head with a smile. “You planned this like a stakeout.”

He gives you that small, crooked grin, the one that melts just beneath his eyes.

“Technically, I planned it like a field operation. Optimal shade, low noise exposure, ideal visibility, a soft perimeter for comfort.”

You crawl back toward him and sink down between his legs, letting your back rest against his chest. His arms come around you right away, warm and secure. He exhales like you just completed something.

“A soft perimeter?” you echo, eyebrows raised. “Are you talking about the blanket?”

“Yes,” he replies immediately. “And also your body. You’re very soft.”

You snort. “Did you just call me a human perimeter?”

He rests his chin on your shoulder, smug now. “An exceptionally cuddly one. Top-tier defense system.”

You reach back and swat lightly at his thigh. “You’re such a nerd.”

He leans in and kisses your cheek. “And yet, here you are. Sitting in my lap. Voluntarily.”

“Stockholm Syndrome.”

“Mmm. Classic deflection. Also, by the way, I packed three flavors of jam. I don’t know if you noticed. But that’s love.”

You blink. “Did you just equate emotional commitment with a jam variety?”

“I’m not saying all love can be measured by jam,” he says, pausing for effect. “But it doesn’t hurt.”

You tilt your head back against him and laugh, full and real. His arms squeeze a little tighter.

“You’re impossible,” you say, still smiling.

He grins into your hair. “You like me.”

“Unfortunately.”

“You love me,” he sings, the words muffled against your shoulder.

“Tragically.”

“Say it.”

“Nope.”

He drops his head with a dramatic sigh. “I bring you shade, strawberries, structural support, and jam. And still. No verbal validation.”

You twist around a little in his arms until you can meet his eyes. They’re soft and golden and way too proud of themselves.

You kiss him. Light at first. Then slower.

When you pull away, he’s flushed and smiling.

“That was validation,” you murmur.

He kisses you again. Just because he can. Then he tucks his chin over your shoulder and speaks into your ear.

“You’re my favorite human perimeter.”

You groan. “Stop. I’m never letting you plan another date again.”

“Yes you are.”

You sigh. “Yeah. I am."

You lean into his face pressing another kiss on his cheek before closing your eyes and letting the sun wash over you both.

After a while when the heat isn't as strong, the wind gets stronger, you both know you slowly have to make your way back home.

But for now you’re still nestled between Spencer’s legs, your back to his chest and his arms looped lazily around your waist. The sun’s shifted now, light dappling through the branches above. There’s a half-empty bottle of lemonade rolling around somewhere to the side, but neither of you moves.

You’re too deep in it now.

Not the cuddling. The conversation.

“I just think Kant had this way of moralizing action that kind of overlooks how… fundamentally irrational people are,” you say, twisting the edge of the blanket between your fingers. “Like, duty and obligation? Sure. But people don’t really behave based on abstract reason. Not consistently. Not unless there’s something primal anchoring them to it.”

You pause, turning your head slightly like you’re waiting for a challenge.

Silence.

No rebuttal.

You glance up at him.

Spencer is just staring at you.

Eyes wide. Lips slightly parted. Like he’s witnessing a solar eclipse.

“What..?” you ask, squinting. “What is that face.”

He blinks. Once. Twice. His voice comes out quiet.

“You’re talking about Kant. While sitting in my lap. In a park. Eating strawberries. And you’re actually criticizing him correctly. With nuance. And passion.”

You blink.

“Okay, but you taught me half of this stuff.”

“Still,” he breathes, brushing his fingers slowly along your arm like he’s grounding himself. “Hearing you say it. Like that. I think my entire central nervous system just short-circuited.”

You grin.

He doesn’t.

“I’m serious,” he says, eyes still fixed on you. “This is very attractive behavior.”

You laugh. “Did you just say my philosophical rant turns you on?”

He doesn’t even flinch. “Yes. It genuinely does. Please continue. Possibly slower. Possibly with a bibliography.”

You roll your eyes and reach back to flick his leg, but he catches your hand and kisses the knuckle.

“I mean it,” he says more softly, voice lower now. “You know how rare this is? To feel understood like this? You didn’t just read what I gave you. You… you felt it.”

You rest your head back on his shoulder again. His lips press into your hairline.

“You are unbelievably cheesy,” you murmur, grinning.

“And you are unbelievably hot when you quote Kant in a tank top.”

You gasp. “You can’t say that! That’s not even a sexy philosopher!”

“It is now.”

You both break into laughter, tangled up in each other, arms wrapped around limbs and sun-warmed skin. His fingers toy with the hem of your shirt absentmindedly, more like he’s grounding himself than anything else. He’s still smiling when he speaks again, this time quieter.

“You’ve got a little bit of me inside you,” he whispers.

You blink.

“Okay that sounded-”

“Yup,” you cut in.

“Intellectually,” he clarifies, laughing through the embarrassment. “That’s what I meant.”

You laugh too. “Sure, genius. We’ll go with that.”

He wraps his arms tighter around your waist.

And you stay like that. Under the trees. Philosophers and fruit and flawed humanity.

And two people who have never felt more perfectly understood.

—–-

It starts the way all the best things do, slow and unassuming.

You’re lying in bed now, after the park, after the leftover jam sticky fingers and forehead kisses and the slow walk home. The golden hour melted into dusk. The bedroom glows faintly with it. The windows are cracked, the fan hums low, and Spencer is under the sheets with you.

You’re curled into him again. Familiar. Warm.

But it’s different now.

You shift slightly, fitting your leg between his, and you feel it. The tension in his muscles. The sharp inhale. The way his hands, always hesitant, always soft, suddenly press into your back like he’s anchoring himself to you.

You don’t say anything.

You just move again. Slower this time. Deliberate.

That’s all it takes.

His lips are on yours a second later.

It starts soft. Lingering. Like he’s still trying to figure out if he’s dreaming.

But then you open your mouth to him.

And his brain shuts off completely.

He rolls you onto your back gently but firmly, kissing you deeper now, hands sliding under the hem of your shirt, fingers pressing into your waist like he needs to memorize the feel of you. You arch into him without thinking, and he makes a quiet, broken sound in his throat like he can’t quite believe it.

You tangle your hands in his hair, tug just slightly.

He groans.

His mouth drops to your neck, then your collarbone, and you feel him there, flushed and solid above you, and everything starts unraveling fast.

His hand slides up your side, fingers grazing over your ribs. His other hand is tangled in yours. Your legs shift, opening slightly under his. His hips press down, just enough to make your breath catch.

“Spence.” you whisper.

He kisses you again, open mouthed, desperate now, one hand dipping to the waistband of your shorts. His fingertips slide beneath the fabric. He’s just about to-

“Wait,” he breathes.

You freeze. “What?” You're just about to ask if something's wrong. If you touched him in the wrong place or if he wants to go further.

But he doesn't let your thoughts linger any longer with his lips still on your neck when he says it, voice muffled.

“This is exactly what Kant warned about.”

You blink up at the ceiling.

“No.”

He lifts his head, flushed, dazed, breathing hard. “I’m serious. The blurring of rational thought in the face of human desire. He was terrified of this.”

“Spencer." you say, completely deadpan. “You were literally about to take my pants off.”

He looks down at your shorts. Then up at you. Then at your shorts again.

“I still am." he says, leaning down to kiss you again before giving you a cheeky smile and grinning in your face as if he didn't just turn the moment into a philosophical talk.

You pull back a fraction. “Not until you promise to stop quoting dead philosophers while you’re on top of me.”

“But it’s relevant.." he whispers into your ear. “Kant would be losing his mind right now.”

You shove his shoulder and laugh, and he drops his forehead to yours, still grinning, still out of breath.

You cup his face with both hands.

“Tell Kant to wait his turn.”

Spencer kisses you again, slower this time, deeper.

“He’s going to be so mad at me.”

“Good,” you whisper against his lips. “He deserves it.”

And then you’re kissing again, tangled limbs and warm sheets and laughter between every breath. His hands never stop moving. Neither do yours.

"And I deserve you right now" You softly mumble against his lips.

He smiles at that, soft boba eyes looking down into yours, admiring your face, your eyes. Admiring you.

And just then, somewhere in the back of your mind, you swear you hear Spencer whisper:

“God, you’re such a beautiful moral contradiction.”

And you fall in love with him all over again.

master list

#obsessed oh my god #fic recs #spencer reid my beloved

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amijulesenough · 8 days ago

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Questionable Theories

Inspired by this request!

Summary: You end up in a couple of tight situations with Spencer, and he decides that the body language you're displaying is an obvious sign of claustrophobia rather than a desperately horrible case of sexual attraction.

Warnings: smut, 18+, shower sex, unprotected sex, sexual frustration, fingering, minimal foreplay etc.

Masterlist

Spencer Reid was a budding anthropologist.

To be clear, he was very much a physicist, a mathematician, an engineer, a Supervisory Special Agent, and many other things. But he reasoned that a Bachelor’s Degree in a subject only cleared him to be someone who dabbled in anthropology.

And anthropology told him that you were hiding something. He had studied human behavior for years, and he had some qualms about using his knowledge as a profiler against his friends and colleagues - it wasn’t nice to psychoanalyse each other, he had been told many a time - he felt that certain scientific observations needed some further study.

Take, for example, the observation of societal reactions to small or tight spaces. While Spencer knew for a fact that many people had a fear of small, enclosed spaces, also known as claustrophobia, he knew you were not one of those people.

And yet, here you were, squashed against his side in a packed elevator, displaying a heightened heart rate, higher body temperature, and flashes of discomfort only otherwise present in those with the fear.

You’d gotten onto the elevator happily enough, he’d noted. There was no trepidation or avoidance. You hadn’t once suggested taking the stairs instead. But on the second floor, a crowd of people had gotten in, and you’d been left pressed so tightly against Spencer’s chest that he could measure your pulse no problem.

Struggling to find something to comfort you in your distress, Spencer settled for a hand on your back, wrapping it around you to keep you from bumping into any more people. Morgan had already told him that elevator death statistics rarely comforted those stuck in and/or using them, and he didn’t want to alert the elevator full of FBI agents that you were in any form of distress.

Touching you, however, almost made it worse. He noted a second spike in your pulse, before you began measuring your breathing slightly more so it would calm down.

He wanted to help; he surely did, but there was only one more floor before you both reached the BAU, and before he could think of anything truly comforting to say, you’d pushed through the crowd of people and started walking to your desk as if nothing in the world was wrong.

He almost missed the beat of your heart as you walked away.

From that day on, Spencer made it his mission to figure out if you were struggling with claustrophobia or rather with something more akin to enochlophobia, a fear of crowds.

It was rather lucky then that after a few days again, you found yourselves both back in an elevator, though this one was much less crowded. Spencer was almost disappointed that he couldn’t test both variables at once to repeat the pattern of the first observation, but luck was on his side when, after all the other inhabitants of the elevator alighted on their work floors, the elevator decided to break down with only the two of you left on it.

“You have got to be kidding me,” you said, shutting your eyes in silent defeat as the elevator lights switched themselves off.

“I guess the power just went out,” Spencer said, moving a step or two closer to you to buzz the alarm, and noting the way you flattened your back against the wall to avoid him further.

After notifying the building maintenance again, he stopped and stayed near you.

“Statistically, this won’t take too long, the-”

“Spencer, if you start telling me facts about elevator breakdowns, I’m going to have a breakdown myself.”

Nodding quickly, he wisely shut his mouth, but he didn’t attempt to move back. As the next floor doors were pried open by firefighters a few moments later (the perks of a job at Quantico, expedited rescues), he stepped further into your personal space.

You couldn’t escape him without completely obviously swerving to the opposite side of the elevator, which might be dangerous considering the quick repair work that was happening on it, so you instead tried your best to hold your breath and die.

It was better than letting your mind run away with the thought - the tempting, very detailed, and somewhat scary thought - of Spencer pinning you against the wall and doing whatever the hell he wanted with your body.

There was a certain level of detail your mind went to after the boundary of personal space had been crossed, and unluckily for you, Spencer was crossing it a lot these days. You were left feeling absolutely, devastatingly horny, with an aftertaste of guilt from thinking these things about your coworker.

“Could you-” you coughed, trying to free your voice from any squeaks. “Could you step back a bit?”

The Spencer in your horny brain would’ve pinned your hands above your head and asked you if you really meant that, which of course you didn’t, you wanted to feel his hands all over you.

The real Spencer seemed to take this instead as confirmation of your fear, and backed up immediately, staying as still as a wildlife rescuer trying to calm a shaking abandoned puppy.

If only you were shaking in fear and not months of accidental sexual tension turned up to the max.

You were surprised that Spencer himself hadn’t noticed how you desired him carnally. You couldn’t hold his eye contact, and you wouldn’t even let yourself brush against him in fear that you would say something embarrassingly true. You thought these to be pretty easily defined as measures of one with unwanted sexual desires.

Spencer, however, went with enochlophobia.

“You two good down there?” Emily yelled from her perch on the floor just above you, comfortably situated between the firefighters who were currently putting a hold in the door to help you shimmy out of it.

“We need you two to get out of there quickly. We have a case in Atlanta. Wheels up in 30,” she said, reaching a hand down for your bags as the firefighters urged you to grab onto them so they could lift you.

A sudden wave of relief washed over you. Work! Real, true, and honest work to distract yourself with. A case where you could escape impure thoughts for the time being would be perfect.

You must’ve enjoyed the moment a second too long, though, as Spencer once again flooded your senses.

With a hand on your hip, chaste and purely platonic from anyone else's perspective, Spencer encouraged you forward, to meet the reach of the team of firefighters.

“It’s okay,” he said, his voice low and hot in your ear. He was probably giving himself a pat on the back for comforting you. “You’re doing great, just hang in there.”

Helping to send your bags up to Emily, he reached around you, his chest hitting your back, his entire body crowding yours once again near the edge of the space.

Every touch felt electric, and you wished to god it did not. You let the team of firefighters drag you out of the hole you were physically in, even as you sank further into the one you were in mentally.

After confirming his suspicions, Spencer took it upon himself to be your silent protector. If you’d had any clue that was what he was doing, you’d have definitely thought it cute.

Instead, you were just on edge whenever he so much as breathed in your direction.

He sat next to you on the jet, going so far as to ask you if you had any problem with turbulence even though you’d been working with him for the last year and he’d travelled in a plane with you. When he leaned over you to open the blinds to the window, you twitched away from his hand, so sure that it was about to land somewhere inappropriate.

He sat in the back of the van beside you when you landed, getting strange looks from every other member of the team because he was usually very serious about sitting front and centre. The stares only got more intense when he tried to put your seatbelt on for you.

“Spencer,” you whispered sharply as he stretched across you for the second time that day. “I’ve got it.”

He quickly retreated into his seat and even seemed a little disappointed in himself.

Spencer wasn’t entirely sure why he was being so intense either. He’d found out about your so-called weakness, and it was like some part of him leaped into protector mode. He wanted to be closer, to study every reaction, to make things easier for you.

He really couldn’t help it when he volunteered to room with you.

With three rooms available with the company card, Rossi took the initiative and booked his own private suite, leaving Emily and JJ, Hotch and Morgan, and of course yourself and Spencer to cosy up in twin rooms.

“I’ll grab that,” Spencer said, grabbing your bag for you and climbing up the stairs, notably avoiding the elevator either out of deference to you, or because he was similarly freaked out about the morning’s elevator accident.

“Spencer, I’ve got it,” you sighed, half exasperated, half dreamy. But he was already out of sight and unlocking the door to your room, walking in to inspect it.

You trailed along quickly, noting that he’d stopped rather suddenly at the door.

“Oh,” he said, staring into the room and lowering the bags he’d commandeered to the floor.

Of course, you’d been left without a twin room. You’d been left a standard double. With, of course, a single double bed.

For Spencer, he saw this as a scientific chance to keep exploring his own theories. Was it all people you were uncomfortable with? Would the close proximity of sharing a space highlight any discomfort you had with people in general? Would you refuse the room entirely, and leave, or would you push yourself through it?

You similarly had many plaguing thoughts: how the fuck were you going to get through the night without an embarrassingly horny wet dream, or at least some kind of Nyquil to knock you out cold before you could harass the man any further?

Neither of you had the chance to discuss your new living arrangements, as you were quickly - blissfully - called into the precinct to begin your case.

Twelve hours of traipsing around crime scenes and pulling longer hours than you had in months - purposefully - you were almost glad to be heading back to sleep.

Not that you were looking forward to discussing the sleeping arrangements, but because you’d had a few more strange encounters with Spencer across the day that you absolutely needed to be unconscious to fully avoid.

First, he’d taken it upon himself to angle himself between you and any other detectives you met on the case, which actually hindered your chance to ask about evidence and the facts of the case for a few hours, until Hotch had sent Spencer on an errand.

When he’d come back, he’d pulled you aside to talk, which was normal enough, except he’d pulled you into a storage closet to talk, and though he kept the topic strictly on the case, your brain had overloaded the second he’d pressed his hand against the wall beside your head and you’d sprinted back out of the closet, avoiding eye contact with anyone who you thought may have witnessed the entire exchange.

And then he’d insisted - insisted - on driving you home alone, turning down all the offers from the local PD to get you an escort so you didn’t have to worry about the unfamiliar roads.

Spencer patted himself on the back for seeing to your needs so well.

You wanted nothing more than to fall straight into bed and never get back out again, dumping your bag, and walking straight into the attached bathroom, as you began to undress so you could take a shower.

��Don’t mind me,” Spencer said as you popped a second button, sending you jumping across the already very small room.

Leaving you stood there in shock, clutching your shirt to your chest, though you were still more or less covered, he reached around you and placed his toiletries on the counter, practically pinning you (once again) to the sink.

You weren’t cognizant of your brain making the decision, but you felt your hands pushing up against Spencer’s chest, and shoving just deliberately enough to pin him to the solid shower stall door, turning the tables on him.

“What are you doing, Spencer?” you asked, shocked both at how professional you sounded and that your hands had yet to travel from his chest to any other part of his body.

“I’m dropping my toiletries bag off,” he said, the picture of nonchalance.

“I was about to get in the shower. I told you as much before walking in here. I was undressing.”

“Yes, but-”

“You pulled me into a closet earlier, you acted strange in the elevator, frankly, you’ve been entirely too helpful today, and I know you’re a kind person, but Jesus Christ, Spencer, there’s only so much I can take!”

“I know,” he said soothingly, a soft smile playing on his lips, and if you weren’t so frustrated, you might have swooned at the way he looked at you.

“You know what?”

“That…that this is hard for you, right? It’s totally normal to-”

“Oh god,” you whispered. He knew.

“No, it’s okay, really, it happens to a lot of people, this kind of thing is just a natural part of society, and-”

“Spencer, for the love of god, please shut up!” you nearly screamed, trying your best to keep your shattered emotions in tow.

“I just want us to be able to communicate clearly about this,” he said, and with that, he raised a hand to your face, brushing a hair aside quickly and tucking it behind your ear.

No longer in control of your actions, you had no choice but to let your body push closer to his and join your lips to his, suffocating his helpful smile.

You felt his shock, but then you felt his hands grip you a little bit closer, pulling you into him and pressing his lips back into yours with the same pressure.

You gasped for air, but he pulled you in closer still, turning you around to press you against the shower door, nearly tripping inside as you tugged and pulled at one another, needing to be closer, to be close at once.

“Fuck, Spencer-” you said as you drew away, pressing kisses along his chin and down his neck as he held you propped up against the wall.

He had been incorrect, he had been absolutely incorrect in the best way, and now his cock was throbbing in his pants and you were wrapping your legs around him as you moaned into his ear with every kiss, and he was so happy that he was incorrect.

His hands fumbled against the buttons of your shirt as you similarly worked against the zipper of his pants, desperate to get him free, to feel him inside you. But you both absolutely refused to detach from one another, lips once again finding each other as you stumbled blindly around the shower stall.

Another stumble was all it took for the, luckily hot, water of the shower to pour down on you, and you detached quickly to rid yourselves of now wet clothing before colliding again.

It was quick - possibly the quickest you’d ever consummated a relationship - and near silent, no spoken communication besides moans and nods, and the fingers that had been desperately gripping your waist instead moving to spread your legs. He stroked along your clit as your hands found his cock, pumping it once, twice, and once again before you begged in a single desperate moan, and he lined himself up with your aching hole, and pressed himself in.

Blissful is how he would describe it. You were lost for words, so you wouldn’t be able to even come up with anything that could do it justice.

Neither of you lasted long, you from the months of pining, and Spencer because he’d been entirely overwhelmed in the last twenty minutes, and he usually liked time to prepare for these things.

He continued stroking you through your release, and you panted, holding yourself up against a wall as he pulled out and stroked himself to completion.

Silently, and rather awkwardly, you turned off the shower and stared at one another for a beat before you both wordlessly stepped out of the shower and got yourselves ready for sleep.

After redressing yourselves in dry nightwear, you both sat at the edge of the bed, waiting for the other to say something.

“Just… out of interest, you’re not.. Claustrophobic, are you?” Spencer asked.

“No, why?” you replied, almost confused, before he grabbed and kissed you again. A distraction from revealing his monumental fuck up.

“No reason,” he said, pushing you down into the bed and slowly pressing his lips to your skin again, having enough time now to truly think out how he could treat you well.

#oh my fuckkk this is incredible #fic recs

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amijulesenough · 20 days ago

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amijulesenough · 20 days ago

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guys i fear enough has been on repeat for a few hours now

#michael clifford #sidequest #its too relatable too boppy too good

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amijulesenough · 20 days ago

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#YAYYY I LOVE NINTENDOGS SO MUCHHH

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amijulesenough · 20 days ago

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im gonna PUKE wdym people are going to get michael's clothes and im not one of them

#its so unfair i wish I were in la for the next week

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amijulesenough · 21 days ago

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could I please request July prompt #8 with my bby boy Spencer 👀

⁸⁾ a toxicology report

Thanks for requesting!

cw: roofies (it's unknown and unmentioned whether sa has occurred or not, so please be careful with yourself if that ambiguity could be upsetting for you), memory loss, guilt associated with drinking, hospital setting

Spencer Reid x fem!reader ♡ 1.2k words

Spencer thinks that you might be cold. You keep curling yourself up tighter, knees pulling in underneath the papery sheets of your hospital bed and cheek smushing into your shoulder like you’re seeking your own warmth. Even asleep, there’s a tension around your mouth that speaks to unease. He decides to risk waking you up to try doing something about it.

“Hey.” He puts a hand on your shoulder. You are cold, he can feel it through the sheets. Spencer gives you a gentle nudge. “Y/n?”

You make a low, resistant sound, so quiet he can barely hear you. He prods you a little more, until you inhale deeply and your lashes peel apart. You wake like the mere act of being conscious is punishing; the tension around your mouth spreads upward, into a scrunch around your nose and between your brows, your eyes squinting against the light. When they fixate on Spencer, he’s pleased to see at least a bit of that seep away.

“Do you want to put on my sweater?” he asks. His voice comes out soft, by some instinct of nighttime or the fragile state of you or perhaps both.

You blink slowly. “Spencer?”

“Yeah?” You look at him for a few drawn out seconds, still blinking as though trying to clear a film from your eyes. He tries again, “Aren’t you cold?”

You make a quiet hum of complaisance. Like you’re not sure what you are, but you’ll consent to having his sweater anyway. It’s good enough for Spencer.

He leans forward in his chair to help you sit up, getting one arm and then the other through the sleeves of his worn old cardigan. Your concentration doesn’t seem much better than it has been since he arrived here to find you. Any time Spencer’s not prompting you to look so you can help him guide your hand into a sleeve, your eyes are on him. Drowsy, muddled. Transfixed.

Eventually, he asks, sitting back with all the buttons dutifully affixed, “What is it?”

“You’re here,” you breathe. As soft as if your exhalation might blow him away.

Spencer’s heart breaks.

“Yeah.” He intertwines your fingers, giving you a small smile. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

That seems to be your one prevailing worry. This isn’t the first time you’ve woken; you’re invariably confused, with questions about what happened and how you got here, and you require lots of reassurance that Spencer really, really isn’t going to leave the second you close your eyes again. For whatever other concerns you might have, that’s what you’ve asked for the most.

“How’d you get here?” you mumble.

Spencer knows you’re not asking whether he took a taxi or the metro. He runs his thumb over the side of your hand. “You called me, sweetheart.”

Your brows cinch. “When?”

“A few hours ago,” he answers simply.

It was a heart-seizing sort of call. You’d been at your apartment—that, at least, you were crystal clear on—but slurring your words so badly Spencer could barely make out what you were saying. He’s not sure if you knew, either. Hanging up on you to call 911 was one of the hardest things he’s done, but putting his trust in the emergency responders was rewarded; by the time Spencer got to your apartment, you’d already been picked up by an ambulance, and he had to turn straight around to meet you at the hospital.

But you don’t remember any of that, and it’s not the time yet to revisit it. Spencer attempts to redirect you. “How are you feeling?”

You frown. He catches himself mirroring it unconsciously. “Tired,” you say.

Spencer hums.

“My head hurts.”

“Yeah?” You look bothered by the hopeful pitch in his voice, and so he hurries to explain, “That might actually be a good thing. It means your trigeminal nerve has been activated and your vasodilator neuropeptides are being released.”

“Spencer.” You say his name in a whine he’s heard before. It means you need him to stop speaking textbook, as you call it, and it’s so familiar Spencer smiles a little despite himself.

“It means any depressants are leaving your system.” He squeezes your fingers lightly. “You should start feeling better in the next few hours.”

This news clearly is not as cheering to you as Spencer hoped. You slump down onto your pillow with a punched-out sigh. “I didn’t…I didn’t think I drank that much.”

There’s a painful tug in Spencer’s middle. “I don’t think you did, either,” he says softly. “We’re not sure what happened.”

Your head turns sideways, your face full of questions and something that looks worryingly like guilt. “I’m not sure how much I had. I only remember one, but I…” You search Spencer’s gaze like he knows something you don’t. “I felt like I was fine then. Maybe I forgot?”

“I don’t know,” Spencer murmurs, hating how the admission tastes in his mouth. “The doctors are going to do their best to find out, okay? But I don’t think this was something you did.”

“No?”

“No.” He swallows. Your eyes track the movement. You bring your joined hands to Spencer’s face, pressing your knuckles to his cheek like he’s the one who needs someone to lean on. He has to clear his voice again to speak. “I’m going to call the nurse in here, okay?”

Instantly, your fingers tighten on his. “Wait.”

“I’m not leaving,” he reassures you. “I’m just calling for them.” He presses the button attached to the side of your bed. This is the longest you’ve been awake yet, and really Spencer knows he should have called someone sooner. He isn’t immune to lapses of selfishness. “They’re going to want to run a toxicology report.”

You don’t know what this means, but the doctor explains rather succinctly when he comes in. They’re going to test your blood for drugs, alcohol, and other chemicals. It will reveal what’s in your system as well as approximate concentration levels, so it should tell them what you took to make you so out of it.

“She didn’t take anything,” says Spencer. More clipped than he’d normally be, perhaps, but you’re confused and too unsure at the moment to advocate for yourself. “She was given something. Do you know how much reported use of benzodiazepines has increased in the last ten years?”

You say Spencer’s name in that whining voice, tugging on his hand. The doctor blinks before answering, “No.”

“Nine times.” Spencer holds his gaze. “It’s reported nine times as much.”

“Spence,” you mumble. Spencer turns to devote his attention to you. You’re giving him a pleading look, pained lines still etched between your brows.

“Sorry,” he says, just to you.

You both listen to the doctor explain what’s going to happen next without further interruptions. He’s more careful with his words, cutting Spencer a look every now and then as though to ensure he hasn’t offended anyone before continuing. A nurse will come take your blood in a few minutes. When the doctor leaves, Spencer turns to find you already watching him.

“Will you stay with me?” you ask, almost sheepish.

“Where do you think I’m going to go?” Spencer asks genuinely.

“I don’t know. Please?”

“You don’t have to say please.” He bends to rest his cheek on your knee. You watch him, eyes red and tired but wholly trusting. “I’m not going anywhere.”

#fic recs #spencer reid my beloved

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