#REID FROM CRIMINAL MINDS

[arionaleilani]

i feel like the characters i relate to most in media should say something about me but i can’t figure out what it says

[miedei]

terrible profilers

(aka the team meets early seasons!spence's not-so-secret girlfriend)

a/n: this came to me in my dream last night and i cannot get over it, pls send asks/requests and tell me what you thought! (look at '#mystery girl!au' on my blog to see more musings about them <3)

cw: USE OF Y/N IM SORRY reader has she/her pronouns, the team is nosy, reader is a phd student, my niche personal headcanons of how i think spencer would text, probably more tech inaccuracies

wc: 3.5k

part one | part three | mlist

(reblogs are the only way to promote fics on tumblr! please reblog if you enjoyed it :) )

The moment Spencer walks into the bullpen, he knows something’s up. Garcia never replied to the text he’d sent on Friday night, and he’d hoped she was just busy on their first weekend off in a while, but it’s clear there’s more. Clutching the strap of his satchel, he walks to his desk, observing the strange tension blanketing the room.

For one, Hotch and Gideon are in the bullpen, standing in the corner speaking in hushed tones. Weird. They usually go to one of their offices to talk, and either way, they usually are stuck in their offices until lunchtime when they don’t have cases.

Another thing. JJ and Penelope are standing around Elle’s desk, which isn’t out of the ordinary, but they’ve swivelled around to stare at Spencer like he’s an alien (which they do on occasion, but Spencer is pretty sure he hasn’t been strange yet. He just walked in!).

Derek is sitting on Elle’s desk, leaning over to huddle with the three girls, but he’s frozen with his mouth open, like he just shut up for some reason.

“Uh… Good morning.” Spencer furrows his brows, but tries to shrug it off, more interested in the smell of coffee emanating from the kitchenette. Setting down his bag, he quickly busies himself with pouring his signature overly-sweet (according to you) coffee.

It’s like his movements snap a thread that has been holding his colleagues together, and they suddenly start bustling around the bullpen again. Derek sidles up beside him as he’s stirring in sugar, and Spencer braces himself for some Morgan-esque prod. But what he says has Spencer confused.

“Kid. You know you can tell me anything, right?”

Ok, something is going on. Spencer has worked with Derek since he was 22, and they’ve fallen into a very comfortable dynamic ever since. But neither of them have ever felt the need to reassure the other of their closeness.

“What’s up, Morgan? No jabs today?”

Derek stiffens, like he’s been caught in a lie, and scrambles to reply.

“Well… We- Um, Garcia worried about you on Friday. What was up with you leaving so suddenly?”

Spencer has to bite back a smile, memories of you, coming to O’ Keefe’s just to see him, flooding into his mind. But he answers as smoothly as possible, still turned away from Derek as he elaborates.

“Oh, I felt a bit sick. It was probably the drinking and travelling back and forth from the more arid parts of the country that did it. Did you know, travelling between warmer and colder climates makes you more susceptible to contracting viruses because it strains your immune and musculoskeletal systems, causing the feedback loop of homeostasis to-” Derek puts a hand on his arm, and Spencer quiets.

“Okay, okay, pretty boy, I get it.”

With that, he walks off, and Spencer is left at the kitchenette, stirring his coffee, confused. It’s not like it was a lie, he was feeling nauseous in the bar, so you insisted that you go home. He recovered that same night over a cup of tea, Metropolis on the television, and you cuddled up on the couch next to him.

When he walks back to his desk, mug in hand, he calls out to JJ, still standing by Elle’s desk.

“JJ, no cases today? …JJ?” The blonde is looking at him, but his words seem to fly right over her head, until Elle pokes her shoulder.

“Oh! No, the cases I’m being called about are still pending, we’re probably not leaving on anything until tomorrow.” Spencer smiles softly, glad to have at least one more night sleeping at home this week. Because of his reverie, he doesn’t notice the way JJ, Penelope and Elle are staring at him, befuddled expressions on their faces.

The day continues to be a little weird, much to Spencer’s chagrin. Around 1pm, Gideon emerges from his office again. This, already, is out of the blue. Gideon only leaves his office an average of 3.78 times a day, mainly to go to Hotch’s office, or to go home. This time, however, Gideon marches to Spencer’s desk.

Gideon comes to a stop next to Spencer’s desk chair, and it’s all he can do to muster a blank face and look into his mentor’s eyes.

“Hey, Gideon. What’s… What’s going on?”

The older man sighs wearily, looking down his nose at Spencer, looking uncannily like Spencer’s highschool Calculus teacher when she got irritated at him for being a ‘13 year old know-it-all’.

“Spencer. You weren’t sick on Friday, were you?” What is happening? Spencer doesn’t lie, he’s never told Gideon something untrue, so this is incredibly out of the blue.

“Huh? No, what’s wrong? I felt nauseous, which could’ve technically been a symptom for an inner ear problem, inflammatory bowel disease, gastroenteritis…” Spencer continues to rattle off a list of things he could have had, not noticing the uncharacteristically soft, paternal gaze that Gideon has trained on him.

“...and even a brain tumour, but it was probably because I drank more than I usually do. Why do you think that’s not true?” Spencer finishes his little speech, looking up at Gideon with a confused expression. There’s nothing else the older man can do but sigh, patting his shoulder softly.

“Okay, Reid. Glad you’re feeling better now.” With that, the experienced profiler walks away, not bothering to reply to Spencer’s continued questioning:

“Gideon! What’s wrong? Why are you-” Gideon’s office door slams shut.

Unfortunately, Spencer cannot ignore the rest of the signs, spending the rest of the day in a state of coiled anxiety. Something is going on, but he can’t get anyone to tell him.

Derek and Elle are constantly glancing over at him, unreadable expressions on their faces. Penelope keeps finding excuses to go to Spencer’s desk, and even if Spencer wasn’t a profiler, he’d be able to see the words bubbling up in her throat, but she never says anything.

JJ doesn’t come talk to him at all, which is strange. Instead, she shoots him knowing looks whenever she’s in the bullpen, sending Spencer into a spiral every time she doesn’t say anything about why they’re all acting weird.

He’s even caught Hotch and Gideon peeking through the blinds over their office windows to look at Spencer, with the analytical looks they get when they’re observing a crime scene on their faces. It’s driving Spencer crazy, and he has to tell someone.

You’re leaving your desk when your phone buzzes.

SPENCE <3: Hi. I looked normal when I left the house, right?

Your brow furrows at the text. Normally Spencer isn’t a fan of texting while he’s at work, and you’d told him multiple times how handsome he looked when he left the apartment this morning. He’s wearing his striped white button down and the purple tie you bought him for his birthday last year, he looks pretty. And you made sure to tell him so.

YOU: hi <3

YOU: no spence you look pretty i told you this morning didnt i?

SPENCE <3: You did, thank you. Everyone’s acting weird at work, and I can’t think of what it could be.

YOU: maybe its something with a case?

SPENCE <3: They would tell me if it was that, right?

YOU: ur right

YOU: if you cant think of it with that big beautiful brain its probably something to do with them

There’s a solid minute of silence before he texts you back, and you grin to yourself as you walk through the halls. You can see the flush growing over his face in your mind’s eye, the way he does every time you pay him a cheesy compliment.

SPENCE <3: I guess so. They won’t tell me anything about it, which is strange.

You frown a little, imagining his frustration at being out of the loop. Spencer has expressed his love for his coworkers to you many times, but he’s also told you about his struggles feeling like the ‘baby’ of the office, and the way it makes him feel isolated at times. Racking your brain to think of a way to cheer him up, you check the time on your watch (the twin of which is settled on Spencer’s wrist).

YOU: its nearly 6

YOU: if i leave my building now i can make it to your office in 30mins

YOU: i can pick you up and we could get thai for dinner

YOU: ?

The reply is instantaneous, and you smile, looking forward to seeing him earlier than you’d expected today.

SPENCE <3: That sounds great. I’m finishing up here but text me when you’re in the lobby and I’ll come down.

SPENCE <3: I need to go, I’ve been texting you from the bathroom.

SPENCE <3: See you soon :-)

The last half hour of Spencer’s workday flies by, unlike the way the clock had crawled previously. He finishes up the consults he was working on for the day, and begins packing up the moment the clock hits 18:27.

Derek and Elle are still sneaking glances at him, but Spencer couldn’t care less at this point. As he closes the flap of his satchel, his phone buzzes in his breast pocket. He can’t help but whip out his phone immediately, missing the bewildered looks that pass between his fellow profilers as he smiles down at the screen.

Y/N L/N: in the lobby now!

Y/N L/N: i forgot how fancy it is here i feel underdressed

He doesn’t bother replying, instead opting to leave the bullpen through the glass doors, nodding at Derek and Elle, and pressing the elevator button immediately. He’s so engrossed in his thoughts as he stares at the closed doors, that he realises far too late what’s happening behind him.

He can hear the sounds of shuffling feet, a squeak of surprise (Penelope), hissed insult (Elle to Derek), and a firm clearing of a throat (Hotch). After sighing rather petulantly, Spencer turns on his heels to find the entire BAU team standing there, faces just as confusing as they’ve been all day.

“I’d ask you what’s wrong, but none of you gave me an answer the last 23 times I asked, so.”

There’s a beat of silence, before Hotch, of all people, says, “Reid, we need to… ask you something. About last Friday.” That’s strange. Spencer cocks his head in confusion.

“What about it? I already told Morgan and Gideon, I was feeling sick, but it turns out it was just that I’d just drank more than I was used to.”

Penelope looks like she’s about to burst, and finally, she blurts it out, voice slightly shrill. “Reid! Who is she?”

“Who is who?”

Derek butts in, a hand on Penelope’s shoulder. “Kid, that girl. The girl you were… close to, on Friday. At the bar?” Oh. That’s what they’re talking about?

“That was Y/N. My girlfriend. Are you mad I didn’t introduce you guys? I thought you were all busy.”

Spencer sees six sets of jaws drop. There’s more silence, before JJ croaks out, “Girlfriend?”

It’s a bit of a sight, to be honest. Penelope has clutched on to Derek, and Derek on to Elle. JJ looks gobsmacked, eyes bulging out of their sockets. Even Hotch and Gideon look the most shocked Spencer has ever seen them. But why?

“Uh, yeah. She came to see me because we’d had plans before we decided to go out. Then when she found out I felt sick we went home.”

Gideon looks a little green, and when no one makes a sound, Hotch speaks, his normally stoic voice coming out a little shaky. “Reid, we didn't- We didn’t know you were seeing anybody.”

What? Now they’re being even weirder. Spencer can hear the elevator doors open behind him, but he doesn’t bother. This is something he has to get to the bottom of.

“How did you not know? I’m sure I’ve mentioned having plans with her multiple times. Elle, I told you about the time I went to the movies in New York with her, when we were on that case.” Elle looks more shocked, if that’s possible, but doesn’t say a word.

“Garcia, I asked you to help me find florists that have Gibraltar campions in Vegas that one time.” Penelope jolts, muttering under her breath about ‘idiot geniuses and their mothers’.

“Gideon, I asked you for advice on how to ask her out!” Gideon stiffens, remembering the time Spencer had asked him about his ex-wife. Was that Spencer asking for advice?

“I ran into you, JJ and Morgan, when I was with her, don’t you remember? She was in the aisle over” Derek distinctly remembers a time at the bookstore, they’d seen Spencer, but not noticed anyone with him. JJ shamefully recalls being too busy making fun of Spencer’s heart-studded tie to look around.

Spencer looks bewildered, eyes bouncing between the different members of his team.

“Hotch, I literally told you about her! When I added her to my emergency contacts?” At this, Hotch pales. A year ago, Spencer had come to him with a request to change his 1st emergency contact from his mother to a Y/N L/N. How he never registered that this was a girlfriend, Hotch would never know, but he stares fixedly at his shoes as he contemplates quitting his job as a profiler.

Spencer looks at them, mystified. How did they not know? It’s not like he was ever hiding you! Of course, Spencer wanted to keep you to himself, so he didn’t talk about you that much, but they were profilers. He assumed they’d known, and just didn't want to embarrass him.

His phone buzzes three times, and he pulls it out to see more texts from you.

Y/N L/N: spence are you coming

Y/N L/N: a guy in a suit is eyeing me weird

Y/N L/N: he knows i dont belong come save me

A happy sigh leaves him, before he remembers the people standing in front of him, still gobsmacked. He scrubs a hand down his face wearily, and mutters slowly, as if he’s not sure if he wants to do this.

“She’s downstairs right now, we were going to take the metro home together. Do you… Do you guys want to meet her?” Penelope brightens up, and the rest of the team seem in higher spirits, despite their continued disappointment in themselves. Warily, Spencer opens the elevator door with a press of a button, and they all file in obediently.

“Please don’t be weird.”

“My good doctor, I would never!” He eyes Garcia with a fearful expression, but presses the ground floor button anyway. As the doors close, a strangled shout leaves JJ’s mouth.

“Wait, you live together?”

You are sitting on a bench inside the lobby of the FBI Headquarters. No matter how many times you drop Spencer off or pick him up, this will always be surreal to you. And, right now, it’s not just surreal, it’s a little scary.

A real Danny Ocean type guy is sitting on a bench across the room, talking on the phone and eyeing you. Clearly, you don’t exactly look like an agent, you know that. Dressed in the uniform of a PhD student, jeans and an oversized Doctor Who t-shirt (Spencer’s), you know that you look out of place.

You’re just hoping Spencer walks out of the elevator before you get escorted out on suspicions that you’re a spy or something.

Like some deity has heard your words, you look up at the ding of the elevator to see Spencer… and a whole gaggle of people behind him, slapping at his shoulders and barraging him with questions. He looks harried, a line between his pretty eyes.

The line disappears, though, when he locks eyes with you. His eyes light up, and his steps grow in length, before he's left his entourage behind, at least for a couple of seconds.

He uses this time to explain to you: “Hi, hello, I'm so glad you're here and I need to tell you something-” As if on instinct, your hands come up to rest on his upper arms, thumbs moving in circles soothingly as he continues to ramble, only catching the tail end of his sentence.

“-and well, they didn't know about you somehow? Which is crazy to me because you know I don't hide you so I don't know where they got that from but either way they were acting crazy, so I suggested they come meet you, and…” The group of people you now recognize to be the BAU have caught up to him, eyes darting between your face and Spencer's. His shoulders slump, and the agitated look returns, if a little less intense.

“Well, here they are.” He motions to the group behind him. “These are my coworkers, Jennifer Jareau, Elle Greenaway, Penelope Garcia, Aaron Hotchner, Jason Gideon, and Derek Morgan. Guys, this is my girlfriend, Y/N.”

Rising on your toes to see over his shoulder, you wave with a smile, eyes zeroing in on Penelope Garcia, who looks like she's vibrating from excitement, shouldering past Spencer to hold both of your hands.

“Hi! It's so good to meet you! I'd say I've heard a lot about you, but you know that's a lie, we didn't realize you existed until 10 minutes ago, but oh my god! You're here! You're so pretty- Spencer, she's so pretty!” She's practically bouncing up and down, causing Spencer to laugh sheepishly.

“Yeah, Garcia, I know that.” The next few minutes are a barrage of introductions and handshakes, all so brief that you can only get quick first impressions of them all.

Penelope is incredibly kind, not letting go of your hands until Spencer pries her off of you, telling you that you have to come out on girl's night with us, exactly like Spencer described her.

Elle is nearly intimidatingly cool, giving you a handshake and a smile, mentioning that she likes your eyeliner.

Aaron (Hotch? You're not sure how to refer to him) is nowhere near as stoic and intimidating as Spencer makes him out to be, breaking into a smile as he introduces himself, and grinning even wider when you congratulate him and his wife on their newborn child.

JJ is the sweetest. You've heard a lot about Spencer's best friend, and she lives up to expectations, squeezing you into a chaste hug with warm words.

Gideon is a little terrifying. He gives you a handshake, quirking the side of his lips in what you assume to be a smile, but saying very little beyond an introduction. You know how highly Spencer thinks of him, and hope he will warm up to you (Spencer is over the moon that he smiled, and informs you later that Gideon loved you).

Derek is exactly how you expected him to be. Somehow, he makes you feel wholly comfortable after a single comment, and promises to regale you with all the Spencer stories you'd want (you see him punch Spencer in the arm, grinning and saying he approved).

Spencer pulls you away from them as quick as he can, citing your dinner plans as an excuse. He slings an arm around your waist, leading you out the door as you wave over your shoulder.

“It was great to meet you guys! We should go out to dinner or something!” You hear mixed shouts of agreement from behind you, before the doors shut and it's just you and Spencer, on the sidewalk outside the building.

It's butterfly-inducing, the way you can see the tension leave his shoulders when he turns to look down at you, brown eyes shining.

“I'm sorry that was so last-minute, I know they can be… a lot.” You giggle at the weariness in his tone, resting your forearms on his shoulders.

“They were really nice, Spence. I'm glad to finally meet them. They didn't know who I was?” He sighs, hands tightening slightly on your waist.

“I don't know what goes on with them half the time. I've told them things about you so many times, but they were just being dense, I suppose. They saw us on Friday, at O’ Keefe’s, and they had no idea I was seeing someone!” He bends to rest his forehead in the crook of your neck with a sigh. As if on instinct, your hands come up to play with his hair.

“I guess they would have found it a little strange that you acted like nothing had changed, huh? Is that why they were being weird today?” He grumbles unintelligible words into your skin, before raising his head to look at you.

“I guess… You know I wasn't hiding you, right? I really thought they knew about you,” The earnestness on his face makes you want to implode, his thumbs rubbing minutely on your waist. Speaking would pop the bubble you've found yourselves in, so you find the best next option for you to show him your assertion.

Your hands roam up his neck to cup either side of his jaw, and slow, slow, slowly, you rise to your toes and kiss him.

Suddenly, Spencer's not worried anymore.

[dontsh0vethesun]

i just wanna go into the criminal minds hashtag and not be BOMBARDED with him plzplzplz🙏

[crsssie]

quiet - spencer reid x sharpshooter!reader

"Wind speed is—"

"It's windier than usual." You huff, situated at the top of the dock as you stare down through the scope. "Hotch."

"Can you get the shoulder without harming the boy?"

"It would be a gamble."

"Will you hit a major artery?"

"Guaranteed no."

"Hold fire."

You watch as Morgan tries to argue with the unsub, your fingers reaching to pull the earpiece from one side, staring as Morgan succeeds in talking him down, the boy free from his arms as you sit up and plug your earpiece back in, rolling your shoulder back as you nod at Morgan.

You sit at the police station with Reid as he finishes up the last bits of the profile.

"You know, I always wondered how it'd feel to find a victim that I actually know." You hum.

"Let's pray you never do." Hotch mumbles.

"I don't want to, but I wonder." You organize the papers in your hand, closing the tablets as Spencer stares at you.

"And if one of us ends up—"

"Don't even finish that sentence." You grumble. "The day I know a victim, I'm killing myself."

"Okay, that's not—"

"I passed my psych eval. Chill." You hold your hand out at Hotch. "Besides, I couldn't leave our boy wonder to hold up alone with geographical profiles, hm?"

"I did it alone before meeting you." He raises a brow.

"But we've gotten faster with them." Hotch nods. "Wheels up in thirty."

You lock eyes with Spencer, and you stick your tongue out.

"I'm still smarter." He huffs.

"It's alright. When the day comes, we'll see which one of us actually survive." You wrap up your bag, humming quietly as Spencer watches everyone else leave. "What's wrong?"

"Just wanted a moment." He mumbles, staring out the glass as he tilts his head down to brush noses with you. "I'll do the laundry when we get back. The wind must've been disorienting."

"Not the worst thing ever." You close your eyes, humming. "I'll cook dinner?"

"Sounds fair." He opens his eyes when Rossi walks out, straightening himself. "Come on. Let's go."

[elegantlyeva]

can you do a spencer and hot chocolate and maybe hes protective of her? or jealous

DAY THREE

Hot Cocoa

Summary: Spencer’s embarrassed after getting jealous.

Word Count: 0.4K 

Realistically, Spencer knew the jealousy that burned inside him was unfair to you. You had been nothing but perfect since the two of you got together two months ago.

You were beyond understanding when he showed up late to one too many dates due to work, reassuring him that it sucked but wasn’t his fault.

You never asked him to shut up, even when he knew he was talking too much.

You hadn’t been repulsed when he asked you to stay over at his apartment for the first time either, so why was he getting worked up over your co-worker buying you a hot chocolate?

It was stupid, and he mentally facepalmed. Here you were, draped across his lap, playing with the end of his sweater—a loose string he hadn’t pulled out yet—and he was worried over a drink.

As if sensing his thoughts (and maybe you did), you tapped his jaw with two fingers. “You okay? You’ve hardly spoken since you picked me up from work.”

He hummed in acknowledgment but didn’t say much else until he felt you shift to sit upright, causing him to frown.

“Spencer?” Your voice sounded worried, and he hated that it was his fault.

Clearing his throat, “Uh, yeah. I’m fine, sorry. Long day.”

You nodded, not totally convinced but not wanting to pry either. You took his hand, intertwining your fingers with his, and the act alone had him speaking up.

“Are you hungry? Better yet, thirsty? I can make you something,” he offered, though he didn’t specify what.

“Oh. I’m okay...” you trailed off, realizing he was already up and across the room. You furrowed your brows, mumbling under your breath, “Never mind.”

Not even five minutes later, Spencer was ushering you into the kitchen to sit at his counter, handing you a mug of hot cocoa.

The smell filled your senses, and the face you made when you took a sip had him relaxing slightly.

“It’s good, right? I made it the way you like it. I think. Although, maybe you like the way Ryan makes it more,” he said, scowling at the mention of the man’s name.

You gave him a knowing smile. “Spence...”

He shook his head. “No, no, I know it’s dumb. I know. But he was so... I don’t know. Not me.” Watching you frown, he sighed. “I’m not trying to be self-deprecating, I just—”

“No, you’re right. You’re nothing like him.” At his crestfallen look, you clarified, “Which is a really good thing. The best thing, actually. I might rip my hair out if you were anything like him. I’ve never met a man so obsessed with himself that he didn’t even care that he spilled the hot chocolate on the floor.”

When he sort of almost-smiled, you continued, “Not to mention he added way too many marshmallows. I mean, I couldn’t even taste the hot chocolate. Didn’t you notice I went inside your car empty-handed?”

“You threw it out.” It wasn’t a question. Spencer groaned, the tips of his ears turning pink, and took the mug from your hands to place it on the counter before wrapping his arms around you.

“Sorry, I don’t know why I reacted like that.” He mumbled.

“No apology needed. I’m happy to know you like me so much that you can’t even stand another guy giving me hot chocolate.”

“Don’t say it like that. He was flirting, I could tell.”

“Oh, you could tell?”

“Mannerisms.”

He squeezed you tighter when he heard you laugh.

[masterwords]

1x08 | 2x02 | 5x15 | 10x05

quiet everyone, hotch is telling us a story. (because the writers never did.)

[wistfulwatcher]

ONE LIGHTHEARTED CRIMINAL MINDS GIFSET PER EPISODE | 1.01 Extreme Aggressor

[kiwriteswords]

Aaron Hotchner + Hugs

[prettyboyweather]

i adore all of his hairstyles but this is probably my fav <3

[aperrywilliams]

From Now On (Spencer Reid x Pregnant!Reader)

------------------

Author Masterlist

------------------

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Pregnant!Reader.

Summary: After faking his death for seven months, Spencer is back just to find out you’re eight months pregnant. After the initial commotion and your denial, you both step into the apartment you used to share. Things have changed and you must talk about it.

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings: Hurt/Comfort. Talking about gunshots, blood, hospitals, faking death, pregnancy symptoms, potential abortion. If I missed something, let me know.

A/N: I’m back! I don't know for how long, but I needed to do something to fight my writer's block. This story can be read independently, but it is the second part of Seven Months.

-----

The cab ride to your apartment is mainly silent. Your head is tucked into Spencer's shoulder as he rubs your back from time to time. His nose is buried in your hair, inhaling your scent. God, he had missed it so much. He had missed you so much.

And he missed so much of your life in the past seven months. And that scares the shit out of him.

How would he fit into your life now? Does he have any right after faking his death and not telling you anything?

Rossi and Morgan told him you would understand eventually. That you would forgive him for doing this to you.

And maybe you are really considering. Maybe that’s why you went for him to Derek’s in the middle of the night.

Spencer wants that more than anything, but he feels like he doesn't deserve your forgiveness.

Now you both are in front of your building complex. The one that used to be his too.

Spencer knows the concrete walls are the same, but they don't feel like they are.

It's a strange feeling. A feeling that gets stronger when you open the apartment door.

Stepping inside, he knows this is where he used to live, but it doesn't look the same.

The shelves are no longer full of his books. Gone is his globe and coins collection that usually laid over the desk. There are just a couple of pictures of him with you on the wall. The decoration is different. Did you paint the place? Spencer is almost sure of that because it looks brighter than he remembered.

He's silent, inspecting everything around him. The walls, the bookshelf, the furniture: all changed.

After you take off your coat and hang it on the rack, your eyes follow him.

You know what’s going on. You have known Spencer for so long. Even if you thought you lost him, you still can read him like a book.

“Hope isn’t look too bad. I needed to, you know, make some changes?” you explain, not sure how to put the last months in words. Spencer turns to look at you, guilt written over his face. He knows what your words imply and remorse eats him alive.

“I - I’m sorry,” he mumbles, sure it's not enough to erase the hell you have been through since he were gone. Since they told you he was dead.

“I know.” Your response is short but not because you don’t have things to say. It's because you don’t know how to start. “Uh. Would you like some tea?”

It's the safest path. The one you both usually have taken the times you had fought and then try to speak it off. It's different this time, though.

Spencer hesitates. In other circumstances, he would agree and sit on the couch to talk. But it's late, the day has been a rollercoaster and you are eight months pregnant. He knows you should be sleeping, or resting at the very least.

“Maybe it's better you go to bed? It's late and you must be tired,” he points, nervously fidgeting with his hands, his gaze shifts between your eyes and belly.

“Honestly? I don't think I could sleep tonight even if I try,” you confess, moving to the kitchen to put the kettle.

”I don't think I could sleep either,” he admits, following to the kitchen. He wants to help, but he doesn’t want to look like an intruder in your space. A space that it’s not his anymore. Noticing Spencer doesn't know what to do with himself, you invited him to take a seat on the barstool.

“It will be ready in no time, don’t worry.”

You are the one who endured months of grief from your fiancee, carrying his child, and you are the one comforting him. Spencer thinks it's not fair.

In silence, he looks with raptor fascination at the way you move around the kitchen. It's delicate and calm. You have a glow that captivates him. You don’t realize his gaze until you turn to put the mugs over the counter.

“What?” you question softly.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, eyes entranced in you. You laugh, shaking your head.

“Come on, Spencer. I look like a mess. This belly reaches everything minutes before I can. It's huge! I can barely walk decently. Look at my hair! And my skin. It's sticky all the time.”

As you ramble about why isn’t accurate to call you beautiful, Spencer stands from the stool and rounds the kitchen counter to step in front of you. He wants to reach for your hands that you’re waving in the air to emphasize your point, but refrains. He’s still unsure about initiating physical contact. He rests his hands on the counter and clears his throat.

“I can certainly say it's not the way you are used to feeling. But the way I see you right now? I see beauty, power, and life. It's light what I see on you.”

You don’t know when tears started to roll down your cheeks. But hearing the adoration in Spencer’s words only spurs you to let out your emotions.

“You know my hormones have been doing a number on me, right? You’re not helping,” you complain, chuckling. After handing Spencer his tea, you take yours and walk to the living room.

You carefully sit on the couch and reach for the blanket in the back to cover your lower half. Spencer mimics your actions, sitting as well on the couch, but at a safe distance from you.

A silence envelops the room. Your hand plays with the strands at the end of the blanket, and your eyes scrutiny Spencer’s face. He looks tired, with prominent circles under his eyes, and stubble for days of no shaving.

He is analyzing you too. Even if your eyes denote exhaustion, he can see the strength that makes you look put together despite everything that has been going on.

He can see the protectiveness too. Rubbing your belly in soothing motions, shielding your non-born child from the unknown, the uncertain.

How much he would have given to be the one who could have protected you and the baby from the first minute.

“I guess you have questions,” you prompt. “But I have mine too, so if you don’t mind,” you trail off and Spencer understands what you want. He nods, preparing himself to answer whatever question you have. After a pause to collect your thoughts, you start to speak again.

“What really happened in that warehouse? Why you didn't let me go inside with you?”

You are talking about the day Spencer was shot and beaten for the unsub. The day he ended up at the hospital just to be declared dead hours after.

“I thought if we didn't split we could lose him. We were so close so many times. I thought it was our last chance. It never occurred to me it was a trap. That he wanted me there alone. I just didn't see it,” Spencer swallowed hard, remembering that day. You stayed in silence, waiting for him to continue.

“I heard his voice telling me he had you, and I panicked. So I ran to him. I let my guard down. When I realized he was lying it was too late.”

“But you launched at him. Why didn't you try to stall him first?” You asked, leaving your mug on the coffee table, feeling the suddenly urge to protect yourself with your arms around you. You never talked about what really happened with anyone. Not even to Hotch when he questioned you during the FBI investigation of the incident.

The way Spencer reacted with the unsub is something you never understood. The profile said the unsub was a guy who liked to show off, so trying to incite him to do that while waiting for backup would have been reasonable.

“The way he laughed. Maybe sounds stupid, but- I saw the resolve of an end game, and not like the typical bragging-end game, it was an evil-end game. He had the upper hand and he knew it. If I didn't do something first, he would have gone after you. And I couldn't let that happen. I didn't count on the hidden gun, though. Another mistake,” he breaths out.

You remember like it was yesterday rushing to the warehouse after hearing two gunshots. Once inside you saw Spencer lying on the floor, in a pool of blood.

“You were there and I didn't know what to do,” you recount your side of the story. “It was the worst nightmare. I screamed for help and it felt like an eternity before someone came to us. And your eyes-” You stop for a second, tears pricking the corner of your eyes. “You - you were saying goodbye and I wasn’t ready.”

Your resolve from earlier seems to crumble as you revisit what happened in that warehouse. Tears are now rolling down your cheeks, and you bite your bottom lip to stop their quivering.

Spencer wants to hold you, but he’s afraid of how you would react, so tentatively rests his hand on your knee. You are shaking and he’s worried this conversation could do more harm than good.

“We can stop. You are not feeling okay,” he points out. But despite Spencer's apprehensions, this conversation must happen now.

“I need to get this out of my chest. Please, let me do this. I know you need it too.”

Spencer knows you are right. You both need this.

“Do you remember anything after the shots?” you ask, and Spencer thinks for a moment.

“I remember being there, the sharp pain in the chest and my ribs. But most of it is a blur. I remember seeing you there. Crying. God. I hated seeing you cry. I think you held my hand?”

You nodded. “I was so scared, but with you there, I wasn’t anymore. The last thing I remember it’s the guilt of not saying I love you for the last time. I really thought it was the end for me,” he admits, his own tears blurring his sight.

“It was for me, though,” you mumbled, a sad look in your eyes. “I mean, I still had hopes when you were moved to the hospital, but deep down I knew I shouldn’t have had them. And everything shattered when JJ came to the waiting room and told us you didn't make it.”

A heavy sigh escapes from Spencer’s lips. Neither JJ nor Hotch had told him how they let it know the team he was ‘gone.’

“I can’t even imagine - It was unfair to you. And I know no matter what I say it won’t make it better.”

Your thoughts wander to the moment after you heard JJ saying Spencer was dead.

Disbelief. Pain. Denial.

And then, days of numbness.

“You know. I just shut off. I have some flashbacks. Rossi hugging me; Hotch telling me to take all the time I needed; Morgan crying with me.”

It feels weird to recall those memories as yours, like an alternative universe that turned different at the end.

“Where did you go?” Spencer asks. The thought of you in the apartment alone after that breaks his heart.

“Emily took me to her place because I couldn't put a foot here. I stayed with her for a couple of days. She helped me a lot to get through this,” you recognize. And for that, you will always be grateful to her.

You also tell Spencer about how the whole team helped you to make it through the days. Some kind of relief washes over him knowing you didn't face it alone.

He can’t fathom how difficult it was for you, also knowing you were pregnant. And about that...

“When did you find out?” He asks, eyes darting to your belly. You follow his gaze trajectory and a little smile creps on your face.

“Almost a month later. I was feeling sick all the time. Emily pushed me to get checked. They took blood tests and stuff. When they told me I couldn't believe it. For me, it was a twisted joke,” you admit, hanging your head low.

Spencer dreads asking the next question but you already know what is, so you keep talking.

“Yes. I had thought about it. I didn't feel in a good place to be a mom, Spencer. I barely could make it through the days. And having a baby? Fuck, just thinking about it was too much.”

You tell him about how you cried your eyes out. How lost you felt for days. The doubts about the future, but above everything, the protectiveness that aroused in you once the idea settled. Yeah, you couldn’t keep Spencer safe, but you were determined to save the part of him growing in you.

“And seven months later, here I am. About to give birth to our baby,” you conclude, lovingly rubbing your belly.

“It’s weird, you know?” Spencer begins. “The last time I saw you and now. It feels like I lost time. And I know I lost it. It’s just - I never expected to see things so changed. I don’t know how I fit here. What I’m saying doesn’t make any sense right now-” he trails off, darting his gaze to the fidgeting hands on his lap.

He’s been holding back. You notice. Since you both crossed the threshold he has been afraid of invading your personal space, of touching you. Now it makes sense.

“That's why you have been keeping your distance from me?” you ask. Spencer’s eyes quickly flash to you. Guilt is written on his face.

“What?”

Your gaze soften seeing him so stressed by being caught. It's true the past months have been tough for you, but they have been tough for him too. And to see a before and an after so different probably has him reeling.

“Since we put a foot in this apartment you have kept a safe distance. I’m not judging you, I really don’t. I just want to know what’s on your mind right now,” you explain, shifting on the couch to change your position. With an eight-month belly is difficult to be comfy in any position.

Spencer sighs. There are so many things revolving inside his brain that it’s not easy to put them in words.

“When I woke up in a hospital bed in Bethesda, the first thing I looked for was if you were there. But I was alone. A strange feeling squeezed my chest. For a moment I thought -” he pauses to take a breath. “I thought everything had gone wrong and the unsub had hurt you or the team, or both. I was about to freak out when a marshal came and explained to me what happened.”

Spencer recounts how the agent told him about his new destination and how this assignment was for an undetermined time.

“Since then, not a single day passed without the urge to take a plane and come back. To you. But what if I messed up putting you at risk doing so? It was insane to know I was dead for you and I couldn't do anything to fix it.”

“That's why you wrote the letters?” Spencer nodded. In a notepad, he wrote a letter to you every single day since he landed in Paris. He handed you the notepad at the BAU this afternoon before you stormed out, completely shaken and confused.

“I needed to put in words each day without you. I needed to tell you I was there, even if you never could read it.”

His shaky breath forces him to take some seconds to compose himself. You took that as your cue. Shifting again, you scoot a bit closer to him and reach tentatively for his hand, and he clings to it as if his life depended on it.

“And I’m here right now. And so do you,” you squeeze his hand reassuringly. “I’m as scared as you are, but we need to do something to get through this. If it is something you want to do,” you add. Spencer's glassy eyes find yours.

“It's all I want. Maybe it's hard for me to understand I can’t fix something like this, but I want a chance to make us work again. I know I can’t get back time, but if you let me I want to gain back the place I lost the day I gone.”

Spencer’s free hand flies to your cheek to wipe with his thumb the tears you haven’t noticed are falling.

“We can start with something,” you prompt, reaching for a folder resting at the coffee table. After opening it, you produce a bunch of ultrasound pictures and hand them to him. From the first appointment you had, to the last one from a week ago.

Spencer’s eyes sparkle with excitement, seeing every detail and the way the baby has grown in the past months.

Tears fall freely and there is pure emotion that fills his heart.

So many nights you both spent talking about what it would be like to have a baby. How wonderful it would be to see them grow. About what traits they would inherit from each of you.

You smile at the scene unfolding in front of your eyes. It feels so good to see in him the same excitement you have. You both wanted this. And until today you thought only you would get the chance to experience it.

After inspecting and committing to memory each detail from each pic, Spencer’s eyes find yours again.

“Do you know the baby’s-” he trails off. He’s unsure, maybe you didn't want to know or want him to know.

You have known the baby’s gender for a while now but have not told to anyone. From the same folder, you extract an envelope you offer to him. With trembling hands, Spencer takes it and gets the paper from inside. Scanning the words he realizes it is the information of your baby’s gender.

“It's - it's a girl,” he reads aloud with a cracking voice and more tears in his eyes. You nod, your own tears clouding your vision.

“Yes. Do you remember when we talked about having a baby and you told me you wanted a girl? When I found out the gender, I thought about how happy you would have been,” you sniffle, and Spencer reaches for you, now wrapping you in a loving embrace.

“Thank you. Thank you so much,” he repeats over and over, kissing your temple. You close your eyes, losing yourself in his chest, inhaling his scent.

You stay like this for a moment. Contently in each other arms. Spencer still can’t believe he got the chance to hold you again, and you are still assimilating the day’s events. It's unbelievable how everything changed in less than twenty-four hours.

“I love you,” he mumbles in your hair, a hand moving to rub your belly. “And I love you,” he says now, talking to your baby.

“We love you too, Spencer,” you respond, voice thick with emotion. “I never stopped, and we will never stop.”

Parting from your embrace, you get lost in each other's eyes. Communicating without words what this moment means to both of you. Cupping your face, Spencer leans to find your lips with his in a loving kiss. You kiss him back, pouring all your feelings.

It's a new promise of love.

After breaking the kiss, he presses his forehead to yours.

“Will we be okay?” he asks, almost in a whisper.

“From now on, we will be,” you assure him. It feels like you are telling this to yourself too. Maybe you do. Everything still looks messy right now, but life is giving you a second chance, and neither Spencer nor you is willing to let it go.

-----

Spencer Reid's Taglist: @dreatine @nomajdetective @jayyeahthatsme @rosalinasam2 @averyhotchner @lovelyxtom @princessmiaelicia @pastelbabygirl19 @reidsbookclub @alexxavicry @gspenc @spencerreidisbae123 @calmspencer @pauline5525mgg @anamiad00msday @milivanili99 @laylasbunbunny @leahblackk @miaxx03 @missabsey @taintedstranger

[whoisspence]

pov: it's your first day in the bau and the nerdy guy doesn't stop looking at you, even tho you barley talked to each other yet, you always catch him staring, but he's impossible to read, it's impossible to know what's going through his mind, and that drives you crazy. he's driving you crazy and it's only your first day

[clingypope]

more people need to realize and utilize how fucking INSANE spencer reid is. he killed someone for the first time like two weeks after he turned 24. he killed a guy that kidnapped and tortured him and then stole heroin off his dead body. then he continued to do heroin for at least two months while working as an active field agent. he's so good at rambling that he actually managed to distract a serial killer from killing him once. this guy rocked up to his father, who he hadn’t seen in 18 years fyi, and accused him of molesting and murdering a toddler. he had anthrax poisoning once. all of this before he turned 30 btw. character of all time fr

[deicidedruid]

I guess I'm not as tough as the criminal minds guys because if my 9 to 5 got me tortured and addicted to heroin or if it got me stabbed 9 times and killed my wife, I would just, idk quit. That's just me though.

[pinkglittergelpenink]

the team whenever Spencer talks:

[doehoney]

Criminal Minds is so real for their “the unsub is a man until proven otherwise” mentality

[mrsholmesreid]

ONE MORE CHRISTMAS, PLEASE | spencer reid x reader

summary: after your passing, spencer spends years suffering with the grief of your loss. on this christmas eve, though, something different happens. under a shooting star, he makes a wish he never imagined, not even in his wildest dreams, would come true. but it does, and he gets to have you for one more day before you're gone for good once again.

pairing: spencer reid x reader

word count: 10,2k

content warnings: angst, battling grief, mentions of drug abuse and withdrawal, brief mention of needles, brief mention of hurling, mention of failed su!cide attempt, unprotected penetrative sex.

author's note: despite the content warnings, i don't think this is a very heavy fic. it's mostly about grief and deep emotions, meant to stir longing within you and the pain of missing someone you love, but who isn't around anymore. this is my first ever published one shot, i hope you enjoy it! i write character.ai bots and this was based on a bot i wrote inspired by the song "another christmas missing you" by tors, and the fic was also inspired by "lover, you should've come over" by jeff buckley. here's the link to the bot:

check the ending to see some amazing fanart my friend cami (@/camiwhatuwant on twitter) drew for this story!!

playlist <3

i also made a playlist to go with this fic! 🥳

you can play it in order while you read, but if you don't like listening to music while reading, i suggest at least listening to the first song before starting to get in the mood or just listening to it whenever you need a good cry :)

The holidays were always the hardest. Spencer spent most of the year pushing through—lectures, cases, flights—losing himself in the quiet hum of his routines, but December always found the cracks in his armor. It was your season. Not his, or anybody else’s. Nothing ever bloomed as beautifully as you did during the holidays. It was like your soul had a special link to it, a connection way beyond this realm. There was something in the twinkling lights, the sound of carols, the scent of pine needles and cinnamon—that simply screamed you. Each one would later become a quiet reminiscence of your light, souvenirs from a long-lost love lingering like ghosts he couldn’t let go of.

You loved Christmas. Spencer used to think it was impossible for someone to be so full of joy over something so small. To him, this holiday never carried much meaning. His mom usually forgot to get him presents, and the colorful Christmas lights rarely ever lit his childhood living room. The warmth of this special shimmer—far from the literal aspect—was unknown to him. So, up until he met you, December was nothing but another month, piling up with all the others he had to drag himself through.

But you had a way of turning the mundane otherworldly. He could still picture the way your eyes lit up when the first snowflakes of the season fell, or the childlike glee in your voice as you took him to tree farms and Christmas markets. Your demeanor became so joyful, that he couldn’t help but think you looked even prettier under the blinking lights from the Christmas tree you decorated together. Like tattoos etched in his brain, each time he laid to rest, you were there—eyes boring into his own behind closed eyelids. Or so he wished.

You’d tease him for grumbling about the crowds and the too-cold-to-be-outside weather, but he always let you pull him along, secretly charmed by your enthusiasm. It didn’t matter what it was, if it was worth a smile on your face, Spencer would do it—no questions asked.

“Come on, Spence,” you laughed, tugging on his gloved hand. “Take a moment to feel it. Cherish this sensation, it’ll be over before you know it.” You stopped him in the middle of the park one afternoon, as you strolled through a thin cascade of delicate snowflakes. “You go on and on about your so-called ‘magic’ tricks, but you forget that the real magic lies here.” You took off his glove, the brisk air sharp against his skin, and placed his bare hand over your chest. The soothing rhythm of your beating heart—oh, how he missed that melody now,—thumped against his palm through the thick layers of fabric between you.

In that moment, your wide eyes glued to his, he felt it for the first time: the magic you were so zealous about, right beneath his fingertips. Your cold, pale hand suddenly felt warm against his own, and for a second, he believed you. Not because of the snow, or the whimsy, or the chirping of birds that he, only now—in the quiet of your bubble,—seemed to be aware of—no. It was because of you. You and the love he grew up believing didn’t exist outside of fairytales—and now, outside of you.

When you were looking at him like that, your cheeks flushed from the cold, your smile brighter than the lights strung overhead; there was not a single thing in the world he couldn’t do for you. Not a single word you could say that would change the heat creeping up in his chest.

I love you whispered in his veins, I love you with every beat of his heart, I love you strung all of the muscles contracting with his breathing. In and out, in and out, a never-ending cycle that once was his personal prison—but you showed him there was freedom within the litany. A lifetime of exhale after inhale—all this air he breathed, and yet there’d never be enough of your essence for him to capture. The very sound of his blood ran with a touch of you.

You were light, and life, and warmth; and Spencer had the blessing—a word he didn’t use very often, but your love was nothing short of divine—to have been yours.

Have been. Ouch. Past tense, that stings.

But then again, you were gone now.

Not even the holiest of prayers would bring you back to him, no matter how bright with deity was your soul. At the end of the day, your body was meat like all others. Being made of crushed little stars didn’t keep you from the harsh reality.

Mother Earth spares no one.

Every atom bathed in the sinful sanctity of your mist, like all others, must return to the ground, and the sky, and the very core of life itself—and you, of all people, could never be the one to cause imbalance to this perfect equilibrium. What pains the most is that the only path to such magnificent eternity is through death, and god help Spencer, but he couldn't keep you from it—no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he prayed.

It’s a selfish thought, he’s well aware of that. What could he, a being just as mortal as you, want from the beauty that is your body? And no, all of the lust-filled images he could fathom from that very sentence couldn’t be further from what he meant this time. This time.

The beauty in reference here goes way beyond what hungry eyes can see and eager hands can touch. It is heavenly, a beauty not to be seen, but felt with the heart. And that—well, that, wasn’t his to keep. However much he craved it. He’s always been a little greedy anyway.

Grief brought with it a flood of well-meaning platitudes, each one more infuriating than the last. Spencer had once heard someone say, “Good things perish so better things can flourish." What a cruel lie. Nothing could ever be better than you.

He had always prided himself on his ability to handle death. The sight of rotting bodies, though unsettling at first, became just another part of the job. Over time, he’d grown adept at compartmentalizing, studying the end of life with a detached curiosity that most couldn’t muster. Death was a process, a scientific inevitability, and he knew far more about it than he wished.

But now, that knowledge was a curse. The thought of microorganisms gnawing at your skin beneath a flower bed made him physically ill. The clinical detachment he’d once relied on had abandoned him, leaving only the unbearable truth: you were gone, and the earth was consuming what was left of you.

No one dies pretty.

Your turn seemed to be unfairly tragic, though. A stake to the gut so he could watch as all the light, life, and warmth that you carried and he worshipped, drained away, leaving your body limp—an empty shell of what once was the love of his life. No amount of scrubbing until his hands were raw to the bone would wash away the stain of your dry blood off of his skin. No time in prison, no death sentence, was enough to punish the man that did this to you, right before Spencer’s eyes. There weren’t enough new memories in a lifetime to erase the sight of your eyes blurring with eternal sleep.

Perhaps his opinion on this was a little biased, but how could it not be? The only times in his three decades of living he ever felt unapologetically loved, were when you were around. And now this? Can you blame him for wanting to do anything and everything it takes to have you back?

Well, actually, you can.

In the years you spent together, you pulled Spencer from the bottom of more pits than you could count. Through each high and each low, you held his hand and helped him past it. That’s why it hurt him even more when the familiar sting of a needle found its way back to his arm. It had been years since the last time he used it—but desperate times called for desperate measures. Right?

Wrong.

He only went through a couple of bottles before the shame overpowered the numbness and taking Dilaudid became no longer worth the knowledge that he was disappointing you, wherever you were. Withdrawal wasn’t half as bad as the first time, because now, he knew a pain far worse. He spent those weeks kneeling in his bathroom, switching from unconscious to barely there—the quick flashes of awareness used exclusively to beg for forgiveness and the occasional hurl.

He felt ashamed beyond redemption.

There was one night—right in the beginning—when the pain was so bad, he tried to join you. The fraction of his world left without you seemed no longer worth living in. He could swear that after the seventh pill, he almost felt the warmth of your arms around him, the color of your eyes in the back of his mind. Thankfully, his body knew better than to let him make the worst mistake he'd ever make, and he managed to reach his phone and call Hotch on speed dial. He didn’t remember much from that evening, but at the same time, it was impossible to forget about it—especially since no one on the team ever looked at him the same afterward.

It had been years now—years of learning to live with the you-shaped hole left behind in his life. Grief played its tricks, but for the most part, things were better. Over time, he managed not to cry himself to sleep every night. He managed to finally put your things in boxes in the basement—he wanted to keep them just the way you left them, but in one of JJ’s visits, she convinced him it was better to let go—and through the year, life went relatively smoothly. But December really was something else.

Spencer tried to honor you in little ways: putting up the tree, unboxing the ornaments you loved, whispering “Merry Christmas” to the silence. He told himself it was enough. It had to be. But his cup had been half empty for longer than he could remember, and that wasn’t about to change.

This year, though, the emptiness felt heavier. The tree stood half-decorated in the corner of the living room, its lights twinkling faintly—even they seemed sadder without you. It was Christmas Eve, and Spencer sat alone by the window, staring out at the dark winter sky. Snow fell softly, blanketing the world in quiet. His hands trembled as he held a mug of cocoa, untouched and lukewarm, the tiny marshmallows you always loved now drowning in the liquid. The sight made a tear stream down his face, but it wasn't enough to make him want to drink it. He settled the mug down to wipe the tears off of his eyes with quivering fingers. All seemed hopeless, the weight of knowing he was about to add another Christmas without you to his growing collection was heavy in his chest—until something lighting up the dark blue sky caught his attention.

Spencer was never one for superstition, but when he saw that shooting star streaking across the night, he broke. His voice cracked as he whispered, “Just one more Christmas. One day, please.”

It was all he could wish for at that moment. As selfish as it sounded to wish for you to spend one last Christmas with him, to take you from the peace of heaven—which he prayed every night to exist, despite not being religious, just for the hope of you being there—he couldn't help himself. 

It wasn't like it mattered either way, it was just a shooting star. A pretty name for a meteor, a piece of space dust flying inside Earth's atmosphere and creating a tail of fire as it burned. It was beautiful in its own, realistic, way; but as Spencer got back inside to call it a night, his heart clenched at the idea of never getting to see you again.

When he woke up the next morning, the world felt different. Sunlight filtered softly through the curtains, bathing his bedroom in an unusual warmth for such a cold day. Then he saw a small snow globe you had gotten him as a gift on one of your trips, sitting next to a picture of the both of you on his nightstand. He had found it a couple of days ago when going through the ornaments and decided to put it there to decorate the bedroom. Then it hit him—

It was Christmas. He was barely thinking about that detail at that moment, but as soon as it settled in, his heart ached. Another Christmas missing you.

He had learned not to stay in bed mourning over the years of grief, so he pushed the bad thoughts away, mentally encouraging himself to find things to occupy his mind with for the day—which was bound to be long.

Then he turned—and his heart stopped.

You were there.

Lying beside him, wrapped in the sheets, your chest rose and fell with slow, peaceful breaths. Your hair spilled across the pillow, and Spencer forgot how to breathe. He stared at you for long moments, studying your blissful expression and how the air flowed in and out of your nostrils.

Impossible.

He was completely frozen in place. He had to be hallucinating, right? You were dead, buried six feet under. He saw the life leaving your eyes, for god's sake, he was replaying the memory in his mind right then and there. But still… you were there now, next to him. Unmistakable, as beautiful as ever.

Still in utter shock, he tried to speak, but his voice failed as he reached out with trembling hands, afraid to touch you—afraid you’d disappear beneath his fingertips.

You stirred, your face scrunching before a sleepy smile tugged at your lips. “Morning, Spence.”

The sound hit him like a punch.

“Pinch me.” He whispered.

“What?” You mumbled sleepily, rubbing your eyes.

“I said pinch me. Now, please.” His tone was serious, making you cave and reach forward.

Your fingers hesitantly curled tightly around the skin of his arm, eyebrows furrowed in confusion—but before you could process it, you were in his arms, listening to his sobs.

Tears slid down his face, soaking your hair as he held you in a warm embrace, clutching you like you might vanish. “You’re here,” he whispered, his voice breaking and his shoulders shaking. “You’re here.”

“I know,” you murmured softly, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Merry Christmas.”

He let out a soft chuckle, sniffing as he struggled to stop crying. “Merry Christmas.”

“Why are you crying, baby?” You pulled back just enough to look at his face, concern etched on your features. You wiped his tears away with your thumbs and he let out another chuckle that did nothing to quell your confusion.

Why was he crying? You were back. He could feel you in his arms, your scent in his nostrils, your lips on his skin. Somehow, miraculously, you were back. A myriad of thoughts ran through his brain. Had he died too? Was your death just a bad dream? It didn't make any sense, but at that moment, technicalities were his last concern. His dream had come true.

“I'm crying because you're here,” he muttered as if it were obvious.

Your eyebrows furrowed further and he could read the confusion in your eyes as they searched his face.

Then it hit him: the shooting star.

It all started clicking in his mind, and before he could say anything, you broke the thick silence.

“What's going on?” you sounded concerned.

“You don't know, do you?” His voice was steady, but the tone betrayed the pain he felt.

“Know what?” you asked innocently.

His heart clenched at your naivety. He didn't want to tell you, yet he couldn't keep it from you either. Something about this was very wrong, but he didn't know on which end yet—yours or his.

With a swift motion, he stood from the bed and ran to the closet, making you gasp.

“Spencer, what's going on?” you sat up on the bed, but then he opened its doors. “Where are my things?” you asked at the sight of your side of the closet completely empty.

He turned to you, shoulders slumped.

“Something's going on,” he began, as if he had barely processed your question, going back to bed with his heart aching now that he knew it wasn't just a bad dream. You really were gone.

“Yeah, I can tell,” you added. “Care to explain?”

He inhaled deeply, bracing himself for what was about to come.

“I will… but I'm not sure either. Firstly, what do you remember?”

“’What do I remember?’ I don't know, Spencer!” You let out, your patience wearing thin.

“I mean, what's your last memory? The last thing that happened before you woke up now?” He held your hands, calming you down, but the worry in his eyes made you uneasy. As you tried to recall what happened the night before, your brain struggled to find the answer.

“I… I don't know…” you let out, searching your mind for something, anything, but didn't find it. “It's like… It's there somewhere, but I can't place it.”

He took another deep breath, squeezing your hands gently. He never thought he'd have to do this, actually sit down and explain everything to you. From the day of your death until the shooting star the night before, he tried to cover everything that happened, fighting against the knot in his chest as he relived each and every painful memory with your eyes staring into his.

Your face was unreadable. A mix of confusion and comprehension, pain and anger; flashed across your features. He couldn't pinpoint whether you believed him or not, and as the seconds after the last of his explanations ticked by, his heart stammered against his ribs.

“Are you okay?” he tried.

“Okay is a strong word. I'm… processing.” You muttered, avoiding his gaze, your hands cold against his.

“Do you believe me?” he whispered hesitantly.

“Yes,” you replied after a beat. “Yes, I do.” 

He nodded, patiently waiting for when you were ready to talk about it.

“So we only have today? Then what?” your eyes finally met his.

“I don't know, I think so,” he replied, his gaze reassuring. “Listen, I didn't think it was actually gonna happen when I wished for that last night, or else—”

“Don't,” you interrupted him, reaching out for his arm, the touch making his skin shiver. “I'm glad you did.” A faint smile played on your lips.

You shared a long gaze, probably the deepest, most meaningful you ever had, and his eyes watered once more. The mere sight made you cry as well, and the unmistakable redness on your nose as the tears spilled from your eyes only made him cry harder. In the ocean the two of you filled together, there was pain, longing and somehow gratitude. Love. No matter the circumstance, you were together. That's all that truly mattered.

He chuckled softly as the two of you sat there, crying and holding hands, laughing softly at the absurdity of that moment.

“I love you,” he muttered between tears.

“I love you,” you replied in an instant, your voice cracking.

With one swift, messy motion, both of his hands reached for your face, cradling it carefully as he crashed his lips against yours. The saltiness of your tears mingled with each of your kisses, sloppy and filled with a bitter kind of yearning. 

“No more tears,” you murmured against his lips as he rested his forehead against yours. “You have to promise me, no more tears.”

“Can't promise that,” he let out a humorless chuckle.

“No, but you can,” you insisted. “If we only have today, you must promise me. No. More. Tears. It goes both ways.” You gestured between the two of you.

After a couple of thoughtful moments, he took a deep breath and replied, “Deal. No more tears.”

Then his lips were on yours again, but this time, with a renewed sense of hunger.

It was as if that promise tied the darkness between you in a safe, securely tucked away from the present moment, where you finally had the liberty to lose yourselves in each other.

He pushed you back gently against the bed, his body hovering above yours as your lips moved together in perfect sync. Your tongues intertwined in a sensual dance, loving and enticing. He took your bottom lip between both of his own, sucking gently. The soothing motion made a soft gasp escape his lips, eliciting a smile from you.

Your hands explored and caressed his back with a reverent curiosity, and under your fingers, he felt safe. His skin shivered beneath your careful touch, and craved more of it. Suddenly, his clothes felt wrong, almost sinful to be blocking his skin from the wonders of your own.

“Need you now,” he muttered against you, his lips attached to the sensitive skin of your neck.

No further words were needed. His hands were under your shirt in no time, pulling and tugging at the fabric desperately. You didn't waste any time either, your fingers working expertly as you tossed his own across the room.

You were both more than used to it, the movements to this heated choreography memorized like second nature by now. And yet, it never felt so unknown.

As your bare bodies tangled beneath the soft sheets, the cold outside was long forgotten. The warmth of your skin seeped through Spencer's, only adding fire to his growing desire. His lips trailed messily across your neck and collarbone, occasionally drifting back to the safety of your mouth, making him uncomfortably aware of just how badly he missed this.

The taste of your skin on his tongue, the perfect hills and valleys his hands and lips traced along your curves—a landscape he'd never grow tired of. The scent of your hair, the soft gasps his ministrations begged to elicit from you, and the sweetness of his name spilling from your throat. 

When your ankles crossed behind his back, he knew he was done. A low moan left his lips as he ground down against you, your hips moving in practiced synchrony, following each step of your choreography perfectly.

His eyes met yours, and in a second of shared understanding, he knew you wanted him as much as he wanted you.

The moment your bodies connected in the most intimate way possible, he was home. There was truly no other way to describe the sanctity of your warmth, the safety of your grip, other than home. A home he wished for so long to return to, finally back around him. 

“Goddamnit, I missed this,” he let out almost involuntarily.

A soft gasp escaped your lips, one that made his entire body shiver. With slow, unhurried thrusts, he began moving within you. He could feel your body reacting to every movement of his, your eyes glued to each other's. It was like your souls became one in your little bubble of love.

Your nails dug into his back, little red half-moons left behind as a trail of your longing. The slight sting of pain only urged him on, his movements growing deeper and faster.

Your moans filled the room, a beautiful choir singing with his low groans and harmonized by the soft sounds of your coupling. Your breaths mingled in the small space between your faces, bare chests pressed together snuggly as you let yourselves be overtaken by the maddening friction between you. His face buried in the crook of your neck, and as he made love to you, all that crossed his mind was how lucky he was for having you. Right then and there, he couldn't find enough strength to care about the technicalities of this. He was home, for heaven’s sake. After years of not truly belonging anywhere. And he'd be damned if he didn't enjoy it to bits.

He could feel the familiar warmth coiling in his lower stomach, the pressure enough to fasten his pace—which didn't go unnoticed by you. He felt your legs tighten around him, your breaths growing faster and more shallow.

He knew you were close too. It was evident in your touch, written in the shimmer of your eyes.

“I can't get enough of you,” he admitted, small beads of sweat pooling on his forehead as he drove into you, each thrust deep and meaningful.

“You’re so cheesy,” you teased with a breathless chuckle.

“But I'm serious,” his eyes met yours, and even through the thick haze of desire, you saw the rawness in his statement. “I can't get enough of you. I take, and I take, but it's never enough. I need more of you, I need all of you.”

“You already have all of me,”

No, I don't.

The three words threatened to escape his lips, but he caught them before it was too late. The obvious silence that followed made it clear that you could hear even his unspoken words, read them through his eyes. For a moment, he could tell you had realized your slip-up, but he didn't care to point it out. The rhythm of his hips faltered for a second, but he quickly picked it up again, averting his gaze from yours as he struggled not to cry.

“Hey,” you whispered, making him look back at you with reddened eyes. “No more tears.”

The echoed promise was like an anchor, pulling him back to the present moment and making him focus on the heat in his core. No more tears. 

He leaned in and captured your lips again, swallowing the heaviness that had formed between you until the only thing left was love. His hands squeezed your hips tightly, the kneading of soft skin an anchor to the present, grounding him back to you—and in that moment, he knew: that was what he was put on earth to do. To love you.

Your tongues battled for dominance as your hips moved together desperately. He angled his thrusts, determined to hit that special spot inside you every time, needing to make you see stars. You moaned his name, and it went straight to his crotch. He groaned against the shell of your ear, his movements becoming harder and more needy. He was close. Agonizingly close. His eyes sought yours and found his desire mirrored in them, your lips slightly parted as you struggled to hold back.

Bring me home, whispered with each slap of your skin, pull me closer, his body begged with every in-and-out movement. He didn't want to leave, not just yet, but the pressure in his lower abdomen was overwhelming. Knots tied together pleaded to be undone, and he couldn't help but want to give in. His hand reached between your bodies to rub tight circles around your most sensitive spot, set on bringing you with him. Your soft moans became louder, the sounds like music to his ears for now he knew he had you with him.

Your legs trembled slightly around his waist, letting him know exactly what he had to do. With the last of his strength, he continued driving deep into you, his thrusts growing faster by the second and bringing both of you impossibly closer to the edge. His rhythm was clear and purposeful, back and forth then back again until he felt you unravel in his arms. Flowers blossomed in your core as you came undone, the soft brushing of the petals against his skin enough to tear him apart. He found shelter deep inside you, burying himself as close as humanly possible as he met the peak of bliss within your heat.

Home. He was home.

His chest crashed down on top of yours, your bodies tangled and limp against the mattress. You struggled to catch your breaths, minds still hazy with ecstasy.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you,” you muttered back, and it was like the world wouldn’t be complete without those three words coming from your lips. He’d waited years for that sound—years of whispering it to the silence and falling apart with the void left without the echo of your voice after his. But now you were there, saying it to him, and that’s all he could think about.

Soon after, you were padding down the hallway toward the kitchen in one of his shirts. He followed right behind you, watching every step you took.

“You kept the pictures,” you mentioned, pointing at the frames in the hallway, all filled with pictures of the both of you.

“JJ helped me take them down once, but I put them back up,” he explained quietly.

“It's not fair to you,” you added.

“That's what she said.” His voice was steady as if trying to end the subject. He already knew what you were going to say. That he deserved to move on and be happy, find somebody else and leave you in the past. He didn't want to hear that now—or ever if he was being honest. 

“I want you to be happy without me,” you insisted.

He let out a soft scoff, “I know you do.”

“Well, are you?” 

The words hung heavy in the air between you. You turned back to look into his eyes, but he was quiet. He didn't need to say anything, you already knew the answer. He could see it in your eyes, though, the whirlwind of words you wanted to say but didn't. You knew they were useless.

“I'm sorry,” you broke the silence.

“It's not your fault.”

“I know,” you replied in a heartbeat. “But I'm still sorry. And I wish I could change things.”

He took a deep breath, pondering what to say, but nothing felt right. “No more tears, right?”

“Right,” you nodded, averting your gaze and trying to ease the atmosphere.”No more tears.”

He followed behind as you continued your way to the kitchen, separated by a counter from the living room. Everything looked the same as you remembered—the plates were still organized on the corner shelf the way Spencer always insisted on doing, and the cups were carefully aligned on the cupboard. One thing was out of place, though. There was a mug on the table near the window, something he never left behind.

“What's this?” you asked, curiously stepping closer and taking it in your hand.

“Oh, that's just, uhm—”

“Hot chocolate,” you interrupted. “You don't drink hot chocolate. Or marshmallows.” You said, stirring the now cold liquid and mushy little white marshmallows, soaked and melting from being left there, untouched for too long.

“Yeah, but you do,” he said. “I made your recipe last night since I never admitted to trying it.”

“But you didn't drink it?” You asked.

He was quiet for a moment before replying. “Didn't feel like it,” he simply shrugged.

You stared at him then turned to the sink to pour it down the drain.

“What are you doing?” He asked, confused.

“I'm making you the real thing. You clearly added too much cocoa powder, that was undrinkable.” You replied with a plainness that made a shy smile appear on his lips.

“Yeah… too much cocoa,” he sighed, admiring the way you walked around the kitchen gathering items to make him the beverage.

“What are you doing just standing there? Go grab the cinnamon,” you said, already mixing up ingredients.

“Right, of course,” he straightened up with a smile, quickly obeying and grabbing the cinnamon to help you.

You two moved about the kitchen in a quiet, domestic dance. Handing each other ingredients, standing by the stove together with his arms around your waist as you stirred the pot—it felt so natural, it almost made him forget you weren’t truly there.

He could feel you, yes, the taste of your skin on his lips when he pressed a kiss to your shoulder blurred his senses; but you weren't truly there. You were like an idea he wished he could bring to life, not just for a day, but forever. He needed you forever.

You sat on the couch, your legs draped over his lap, hands clutching a warm mug of hot chocolate. He stared at you as you took a sip, quietly amazed by the way you blew on the liquid not to burn your mouth.

“You're not gonna try it? I came back from the dead to make you some of my delicious hot chocolate and you're not even gonna try it?” You joked, noticing the way his eyes were glued to your every move.

Stolen from his musings, he lets out a soft chuckle. “Of course I will try it. Can't a man enjoy the view for a moment?” He teased back, looking down at his own mug.

You watched as he brought the rim to his lips, carefully sipping on it and savoring the taste on his tongue. “So? Is it good?” You asked eagerly.

He took a deep breath before saying, “It's good.”

You leaned in when he smiled, pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of his lips, “Told ‘ya.”

He blushed, meeting your eyes with a soft gaze. He lost himself in them for a moment, drowning in the color of your irises and the depth of your wide pupils taking him in. He looked at you like he wanted to memorize it—as if he hadn’t already. That tone, that specific shade so uniquely yours, was his favorite color—and he missed it more than he could have expected.

“Does it bother you?” He broke the comfortable silence as you nursed on your mug.

“Does what bother me?” You asked, eyebrows frowning slightly with curiosity.

“That there isn’t an afterlife. That you simply didn’t exist when you were… you know,” he added awkwardly.

“Oh,” you let out, not expecting that question. “I don’t know, Spence. I didn’t even know I was dead before waking up next to you today. Maybe if it weren’t for that shooting star, I never would have known. I think maybe it was like sleeping, but then again, I can’t be sure.” You searched your brain for a better answer, but there really wasn’t one. He could see right through you.

“Don’t you wish there was a heaven? I prayed every night for heaven to exist, just for you to be there,” he admitted quietly.

Your eyes softened at his admission, your gaze averting for a moment as you thought about his words. Not that you needed to, though, the answer was right on your lips already. 

“No,” you said without hesitation. “Even if there was something like that, it wouldn’t be heaven. Not without you.”

His heart sank at your words, but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. If asked this question, he knew his answer would be the same.

You shared that moment for long minutes, sipping on your hot chocolate. He told you about his job and his friends, about his mom and his trips to Las Vegas, about his newest favorite books and spots to read. You listened intently, enchanted by the way his lips moved and how passionately he spoke about his interests. He loved it—being under your admiring gaze.

The quiet warmth of the moment gave way to an idea. Spencer stood, gently pushing your legs off his lap and offering you his hand. “Come on,” he said softly, a smile tugging at his lips. “Let’s go outside.”

You raised an eyebrow but took his hand without question. Moments later, you were bundled up in warm coats, stepping into the crisp air of the backyard. Snow blanketed the ground, shimmering under the faint winter sun. The world felt still, as if time itself had paused to make room for this fleeting miracle.

Spencer watched as you took a few steps into the snow, your breath visible in the chill. You tilted your head back, eyes closed, letting the delicate flakes fall onto your skin. He stood frozen, his heart aching at the sight. You were alive, somehow—more alive than he’d ever seen you.

“I missed this,” you murmured, turning to him with a wistful smile. “Snow always felt like magic to me. Like each flake carried a tiny piece of the universe’s secrets.”

He smiled, though his chest tightened. You always spoke like that, weaving poetry into the mundane, seeing beauty where others saw nothing. He never realized how much he needed that until it was gone.

As you wandered, something caught your eye near the edge of the yard—a patch of wildflowers poking through the snow, defying the season. You crouched down, carefully plucking a few stems. “Look at these, Spence. They’re still blooming.”

He joined you, kneeling in the snow as you began weaving the flowers together with deft fingers. “How do they survive in this cold?” you mused aloud, your tone soft and full of wonder.

“Maybe they’re like you,” he replied quietly, his voice thick with emotion. “Something too beautiful, too stubborn, to be snuffed out.”

You paused, your fingers stilling on the flower crown you were building as his words settled between you. Slowly, you looked up, your eyes meeting his. No more tears. But this time, the promise was harder to hold onto. Spencer felt the weight of his words but didn't press you to say anything. Your smile was more than necessary.

You swallowed hard as you finished your creation. “Hold still,” you whispered, leaning toward him. Gently, you placed the crown on his head, shifting it until it sat just right above his messy curls. “There. Perfect.”

He chuckled softly, the sound catching in his throat. “A flower crown? Really?”

The snow fell quietly around you, a fragile peace settling over the moment. You adjusted the garment on Spencer’s head, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “Mhm. And you look ridiculous,” you teased, your voice light but warm.

He huffed a small laugh, shaking his head. “I think you just wanted an excuse to make me wear this.”

“Maybe,” you admitted, tilting your head to study him. “But it suits you.”

Spencer’s smile softened, his eyes tracing your face. “You always do that,” he murmured.

“Do what?”

“Make the smallest things feel… infinite,” he said, his voice catching slightly. “Like this moment will last forever… you always find a way to do it, even now—even when…”

You reached out, placing a hand on his wrist. “Don’t,” you said gently. “Not today.”

He hesitated, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. “It’s hard not to think about it.”

“I know,” you replied, your voice steady. “But we promised, remember? No more tears.”

“No more tears,” he echoed, though his voice wavered.

Your breath hitched, and you looked down at your hands, twisting a stem of the leftover flowers between your fingers. “But it can, you know,” you continued quietly. “Last forever. If we let it.”

He tilted his head, his brow furrowing slightly. “How?”

You reached out, your fingers brushing his cheek. “By holding onto it. By remembering it—not with sadness, but with love.”

Spencer closed his eyes at your touch, his voice soft and full of longing. “I don’t want to remember, though. I just want to stay here… with you.”

You smiled, though your chest ached. “Then let’s stay here. Just for now. Don’t think about what comes next for a minute. You’ll have forever to worry about that.”

He opened his eyes, and for a moment, it felt as though the rest of the world had disappeared. “You’re right. No more thinking about it now,” he whispered.

And for a while, the two of you simply sat there, wrapped in the quiet peace of the moment, the snow falling around you like a blessing from a world that had finally stopped spinning.

The afternoon unfolded like a dream, each moment sharper and more vivid than the last. Spencer couldn’t stop watching you, memorizing every detail—the way your laugh filled the air, the sparkle in your eyes as you teased him, the warmth of your hand in his. You played around in the yard, throwing snowballs at each other and laughing together. Those moments were fleeting but eternal at the same time, lasting far less than what Spencer wished they did. But he knew he’d have them in his heart forever.

Yet the weight of the looming evening seemed to get heavier by the second.

Both of you knew it was bound to happen. You couldn’t simply come back from the dead, life was never that simple. So despite the obvious hope Spencer had been feeding throughout the day, he knew it was unlikely for you to be back for longer than one day. Life had never been kind to him before, why would it start now?

This was typical Spencer Reid. Finally getting something really good only for it to be ripped from his hands.

You'd been leaning against the porch railing for some time already when the sun began to set. The quiet wasn’t awkward—it was heavy, filled with the weight of words unspoken, of feelings too big to contain.

Eventually, the cold began to seep through your layers, and Spencer noticed the way your shoulders trembled. 

“I think it's time we go back inside,” you broke the silence, turning to face him. The flower crown still hung loosely over his head. You reached up to grab it with a smile on your face, fiddling with the small flowers between your fingers.

“You're right, it's getting too cold,” Spencer said, wrapping his arms around you, not wanting to leave this moment just yet. You set the crown on the railing to curl your hands over his arms that were crossed on your stomach. He leaned in close, his breath warm against your neck as he savored your scent.

Your eyes fluttered shut, relishing the sensation of having him close. A soft hum escaped your mouth, the gentle vibration trembling against Spencer's chest pressed on your back.

“We really should go, though, it's getting late,” you muttered quietly, though none of you made the effort to leave.

“Mhm,” he hummed in agreement, squeezing you tighter.

It was as unfair as unfairness could reach. He was sure, right then and there, that there was nothing in his existence that could feel more right than this—than you, in his arms. But the moment was slipping from his fingers like water, and he could feel it. He tried to grasp it. His hands tried to reach that water, to hold it and keep it to himself—desperately trying to make the feeling linger for a split second longer if it could. But it didn't.

One moment you were outside, and the next, you were inside again, the faint glow of the Christmas tree casting soft shadows on the walls. The night darkened the room through the windows, and it only made the realization that the day was almost over even heavier.

The living room felt warmer than it had that morning, as though the house itself had soaked up the joy and sorrow of the day. You sank onto the couch, pulling a blanket over your lap, and Spencer joined you, sitting close enough that your sides touched. Your head fell softly against his shoulder, the weight a comforting reminder that you were there—but also, not for long.

The Christmas tree lights blinked softly, almost sadly with the room's atmosphere, their rhythm hypnotic in a way. You stared at the ornaments, each one a tiny fragment of a life you used to know.

“It’s almost over,” you murmured, your voice barely audible.

Spencer turned to you, his expression pained. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true,” you said, your eyes fixed on the tree. “The day’s ending, and so is this. I can feel it.”

He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I don’t want it to end.”

“Neither do I,” you admitted, your voice breaking. “But we can’t stop it, Spence. We can only… hold onto what we have left.”

He reached for your hand, gripping it tightly as though he could anchor you here, as though his touch alone could defy the inevitable.

“I wish…” His voice cracked, and he looked away, blinking rapidly. “I wish I could have more time.”

You turned to him, your heart aching at the sight of his tear-filled eyes. “Spencer,” you said softly, cupping his face in your hands. “We had today. That’s more than most people ever get. We had this.”

“But it’s not enough,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “It’ll never be enough.”

You pulled him into your arms, holding him tightly as his body shook with silent sobs. “I know,” you said, your voice thick with tears. “It’s not enough for me, either.”

“I wish I could go back in time and wish to have you back forever, and not just for one day. Man, am I stupid,” he let out a humorless chuckle, the sound muffled against your hair. You chuckled back, wiping your eyes with the back of your hands.

“I wish I could go back in time and not leave in the first place.”

The way you admitted that stung like a knife in his chest. Suddenly, he was brought back to all the painful memories from the first months after your passing. The relapse, the withdrawal, the attempt… All of it ached as if the wound was fresh. He couldn’t say anything, he didn’t want you to know all that he went through trying to get over your death. You didn’t deserve to know it, not during your last moments with him. So he simply pressed his lips to your temple in a gentle, lingering kiss. He wished you hadn’t left in the first place either.

The two of you stayed like that for what felt like hours, clinging to each other as though you could merge into one being.

Eventually, Spencer shifted, pulling you into his lap. You curled into him, resting your head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His arms wrapped around you, holding you as though you were the most precious thing in the world.

The lights from the tree reflected in his eyes as he looked down at you, his fingers brushing through your hair. He noticed your red eyes as if you had been holding back tears for hours. “No more tears,” he whispered, though it was mostly to himself—he needed to be convinced, somehow, that crying at this moment was useless.

You smiled faintly, your eyes glistening. “No more tears,” you echoed.

But the promise was impossible to keep. The weight of the moment, the knowledge that this was fleeting, was too much. A tear slipped down your cheek, and he kissed it away, his lips warm against your skin.

“I love you,” he said, his voice breaking as he leaned down to press a gentle kiss on your lips.

“I love you too,” you replied, your voice steady despite the tears. “You did an awful job decorating the tree, by the way,” you chuckled softly, the sound muffled by your tears.

Spencer let out a breathy laugh, though it sounded more like a sob. “I’m not half as good at this as you. I use the same decorations you did, but my lack of talent makes me barely want to try.” He joked, but the words had a bitter flavor.

You tilted your head up to look at him, your smile sad but genuine. “Well, you’ll have to try harder next year. I’ll find a way to haunt you if you don’t.”

His face crumpled, and he pressed his forehead to yours, the laughter fading as the weight of your words sank in. Next year. The words hung in the air, a bittersweet hope neither of you dared to believe in. Next year. Next year you wouldn’t be there. Again.

And as the night deepened, the two of you sat by the tree, wrapped in each other’s arms, mourning the end of the day but cherishing the miracle of having had it at all. The world outside faded into darkness, but inside, beneath the glow of the Christmas lights, time seemed to stand still, holding you both in its tender grasp for just a little while longer.

The blinking lights of the tree cast soft patterns on the walls, the room dim and quiet except for the faint hum of the heater and the sound of your breaths mingling. He wanted to hold onto this—onto you—for as long as he could.

But Spencer knew it was useless to hold onto a moment that barely existed. Whatever this day had been, the miracle that was to have you in his arms again—even for just another heartbeat—was too good to be true. He knew it didn't matter how much he prayed, how much he begged the skies down on his knees. You'd never be back, not the way he needed you to. He could feel the way gratitude warred with downright bitterness in his chest.

Spencer could never hate anything responsible for bringing you—the light of his life—back, even if it were just for a day, but he'd be damned if he wasn't already blaming himself for the heightened pain of your absence that already began to stir within him. It was like the quick sample of what it was like to have you with him again made his already unbearable pain even worse.

But then your whisper broke the silence, soft and comforting, your voice trembling slightly, “Come to bed.”

Spencer hesitated, his arms tightening around you as though letting go, even for a moment, might break the fragile spell keeping you there. He knew what going to bed meant. He knew that going to bed would be officially saying goodbye to the last shred of you he'd ever grasp. Going to bed meant fully acknowledging the ending of this day—this perfect, painful day. But he nodded, his lips brushing against your temple. “Okay.” There was nowhere to run, and he didn’t want to make this any heavier on you.

He helped you to your feet, his hand gripping yours tightly as though afraid you might disappear too early if he let go. The walk to his bedroom was silent, the air thick with unspoken fears and lingering sadness.

You climbed into bed together, the sheets cool against your skin as Spencer pulled you close. He wrapped his arms around you, burying his face in your hair, and you rested your head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

Neither of you spoke, the silence filled with the weight of everything you couldn’t say. His fingers traced absent patterns on your back, and he clung to you like a lifeline, unwilling to let go.

“Spencer,” you whispered after a while, your voice barely audible.

“Yeah?” His voice was hoarse, thick with emotion.

“If I’m not here tomorrow…” You paused, your throat tightening. “I want you to promise me something.”

He stiffened, his arms tightening around you. “Don’t,” he whispered.

“Please,” you said, your voice breaking. “Promise me you’ll keep going. That you’ll let yourself be happy again. I know what we talked about earlier today, and I know it's not that simple. But please... Promise you'll try. Not for me, for you.”

He didn’t answer at first, his breath hitching as he tried to hold back the tears. He knew that was a promise he couldn't keep. Losing you—yet again—felt like a battle he could never win. He didn't want to lie to you, but the thought of waking up to an empty bed again, especially after what you lived that day, was a pain he could barely fathom—let alone expect to ever get over.

Yet he couldn’t help but consider it. The tone in your voice, the genuine pain in your eyes—it got to him. He needed this, despite not realizing it through the immense agony the idea of being left alone without you again brought him. He knew it was what you wanted for him, and deep down, it was what he wanted for himself as well. It would take a while to process it, but it was inevitable—he’d have to learn—because regardless of everything that happened, he could never regret meeting you, having you. Spencer knew that no matter how much suffering he went through, how many tears he shed because of you; if he could go back in time, he’d do it all over again without changing a single thing. Even if it meant reliving your loss, the aching your absence left behind, the dark places his mind stayed in for years… it also meant reliving the firsts, the kisses, the hugs, the love… and he’d never seen or felt anything more beautiful in his life.

Regardless of everything, having had you, however long for, had been his biggest blessing. His one true miracle. And for you, he’d do anything and everything. Even if meant going on without you, even if it meant getting over you. Having had the chance to taste your love was enough. It had to be.

Finally, he nodded, his voice trembling. “I promise.”

You pressed a soft kiss to his chest, right above his heart, your tears soaking into his shirt. “Thank you.”

The two of you lay there, clinging to each other as though you could freeze time, as though the night would never end. The question of whether you’d still be there in the morning loomed over you both, unspoken but ever-present. But for now, you had this moment, and being in each other's arms made itself enough to silence your fears for a handful of moments.

The seconds stretched on, but they were like a blanket that could never cover you both. Spencer could feel it slipping away along with your incoming slumber, but the moment you shared lingered, somehow. And neither of you was willing to let it go.

Before either of you could realize it, sleep overtook you. Tear-stained cheeks pressed closely, arms entangled as if their mere closeness could defy nature's rules and keep you there a little longer. Let your warmth remain forever tingling on his skin.

In his dreams, Spencer had you. It didn’t feel painful, though. All he felt was your love. It overwhelmed his finally resting mind. It had been years since he’d had dreams like that, dreams that felt like a balm to his aching soul instead of thorns coiling all around his chest. It was as if the dreams were there to ease his heart through your departure—and in a way, they did. His sleep was peaceful and undisturbed, unlike the rest of his day. It healed him in a way.

The morning light filtered through the curtains, pale and soft, casting an eerie stillness over the room and pulling him back to sensibility. Spencer’s eyes fluttered open slowly, his body surprisingly light despite the weight of sleep, but there was something else—an ache that gripped his chest. He reached out instinctively, but his hand met only the cold sheets beside him.

The bed was empty. The house was quiet.

You were gone.

For a moment, he lay still, hoping that you’d walk back in, your smile lighting up the room. But the silence stretched on, and he knew.

You weren't there, and you’d never be again.

He closed his eyes tightly, a sharp pang cutting through him as reality settled in. He missed the dreamland of sleep, where he was sheltered from the pain of reality and could only feel the light of your love. Of course you weren’t there. He’d known, deep down, that you wouldn’t be. The day before had been too perfect, too fleeting to be anything but a cruel dream.

Spencer lay there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, his heart heavy and his throat tight. He didn’t want to move, didn’t want to face the emptiness of the house without you. But then his phone buzzed on the nightstand, breaking the silence.

He reached for it with a trembling hand, his vision blurry as he read the message from Morgan:

["Merry Christmas, kid. I know this time of year is tough for you. I’ll swing by later to drop off your gift. Hang in there, alright?”]

Spencer sat up, frowning. Christmas? But… yesterday was Christmas… Wasn’t it? There was the shooting star on Christmas Eve, then he woke up with you the next morning and you spent Christmas day together, right? He stared at the message, confusion swirling in his mind.

If today was Christmas, then… when had you been here?

His heart raced as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, his mind replaying every moment of the day before. It had felt so real—your touch, your laughter, the way you’d smiled at him like nothing had ever changed. Too real to be a dream. Too dreamlike to be real.

He pushed himself off the bed and made his way down the hall, his steps slow and hesitant. The house was quiet, almost unbearably so, and the absence of your presence was palpable.

Confusion stirred within him, but at the same time, it felt only natural. He had to have dreamed it, it was grief playing tricks on him once again. But still… if it had been a dream, it was one like none other he’d ever had. One that messed up his concept of time and reality, making him pinch his skin softly, as a reminder and confirmation of his own existence.

He was there. You weren’t.

Spencer turned on the radio, needing something—anything—to fill the silence, to quell his racing mind. The soft, mournful strains of Lover, You Should’ve Come Over by Jeff Buckley filled the room, the lyrics cutting through him like a knife. He’d never been one to relate much to music. He’d learned it from you, the beauty of song. This time it felt like a curse, though, the relatability of the mellow lyrics burning in his chest.

"Maybe I'm too young

To keep good love from going wrong

But tonight you're on my mind

So... you'll never know

Broken down and hungry for your love

With no way to feed it

Where are you tonight?

Child, ya know how much I need it

Too young to hold on

And too old to just break free and run"

He sat by the window, watching the snow falling. The ache in his chest was different now—not the sharp, relentless pain of loss, but something softer, warmer. He could still feel your hand in his, still hear your laugh echoing in his mind. And as the song played, each lyric seeming like it was leaving from his own lips, each chord sounding like it was being played from his own heartstrings, the moment sank in.

Maybe it wasn’t so bad that it had all been a dream after all. Maybe it was exactly what he needed. But yet, the warmth of your presence loomed over him with a heaviness that felt nearly unnatural. You had really been there, one way or another. He was sure of it.

"So I'll wait for you, love

And I'll burn

Will I ever see your sweet return?"

He could feel you. Even now. He knew it wasn’t over—it would never be.

“Merry Christmas,” he whispered to the silence, a tear slipping down his cheek.

And somewhere, he knew you were whispering it back.

He sank into the couch, his head in his hands as the song played on, each word twisting the knife deeper.

"It's never over

My kingdom for a kiss upon her shoulder

It's never over

All my riches for her smiles

When I've slept so soft against her

It's never over

All my blood for the sweetness of her laughter

It's never over

She is the tear that hangs inside my soul forever"

The tears came then, hot and unrelenting, as he mourned the loss of you all over again. Regardless of their newfound taste after the collection of memories he gathered with you, whether it was a dream or not, the bitterness in his tears remained unmistakable. 

But then, through the blur of his grief, something caught his eye. He froze, his breath hitching as he turned toward the window.

There, like a mirage—a window to the unknown, a sight he’d never expected—sitting on the porch railing, was the flower crown you’d made during the day before. Just where you’d left it. The lines between dream and reality blurred, but Spencer didn’t question it. You had been there. And that was enough.

"Lover, you should've come over

'Cause it's not too late"

—————————————————————————————————

author's note 2: this is it!! i hope you guys enjoyed it, and thank you sooo much for reading it all the way! please share and let me know your thoughts on this :)

find me on other socials!

twitter: @/mrsholmesreid

character ai: @/mrsholmesreid

insta: @/mrsholmesreid (inactive but can be used for dms)

p.s.: i take requests, dm me!!

fanart :)

check out these amazing fanarts my dear friend cami (@/camiwhatuwant on twitter) drew for this story!! i'm in love, they're so perfect <3