Work Text:
Spencer’s always had low expectations.
It’s just the safest way, the only way. He reasons with himself that he can’t get hurt if he goes into something with the lowest possible expectations. That’s the way it should be, right? Expect the worst, then you won’t be disappointed when the worst happens.
It works in theory, but never in practice. It still hurts. It always hurts.
All of this to say that Spencer doesn’t think he can do the one thing he’s been wanting to for so long. For the last five months, even.
He wants to ask you out. More specifically on a date, although at this point Spencer is fully prepared to take what he can get. Just as long as he can get up the nerve to ask you to do something, anything with him.
It shouldn’t be this difficult. You’re his friend. He knows that. You’re sweet and kind and funny, and Spencer’s fairly certain that the two of you could be great friends- best friends, even. There’s so much that you have in common, so much that you talk about during the limited hours at work between cases.
He’s not quite sure what’s holding him back. Or, more accurately, he can’t pinpoint exactly one thing to blame.
Spencer is someone who is always learning. Learning statistics, learning new information, learning that history does in fact repeat itself. Despite the smiles you send his way, despite the gentle nudges to his shoulder, he knows what happens when someone like him likes someone like you. Someone naturally charismatic, lovely without trying, effervescent. Basically someone who is the opposite of Spencer.
Nothing good.
He’s in the middle of this internal struggle, slumped over a pile of paperwork, when the sound of approaching footsteps grows louder.
“Hey, Spence!”
It’s you. The light in your smile and joy in your voice makes him grin despite the war raging in his head. It’s enough to make him decide. Time to take the jump. What’s the worst that could happen?
That’s a rhetorical question, of course. He knows the worst that could happen. He knows, but the more he looks at you, the more he’s sure that it’s worth the risk.
“Hi, Y/N.” He mentally chastises himself for the tremor in his voice. He’s being ridiculous. It’s just you. But he knows that’s not true. It’s not just you. It never could be. “I, um, I actually wanted to ask you something.”
Now or never, he supposes.
“Shoot!” You sink down onto the edge of his desk, propping your hand up on your chin.
Now that you’re close enough that Spencer could touch you if he just reached out, he finds that his thoughts are all jumbled. He almost forgets what he wanted to ask you, almost chickens out.
“There’s this- uh, this film festival on Saturday and I was wondering if you- if you wanted to go? With me, I mean.” Spencer can’t meet your eyes, instead staring at his hands as he wrings them in his lap. “I- I understand if you don’t- don’t want to go.”
“Spence.” Your voice is much softer than it had been, and it makes him finally look up. You’re smiling, which he tries to tell himself is a good sign. This, however, he knows from experience is not always true. “Of course I’ll go with you.”
“R-really?”
He’s openly staring at you now, his eyes wide and his hands toying with the hem of his cardigan. It looks like he’s waiting for something, but you’re not quite sure what. After another moment, it dawns on you. He’s waiting for you to laugh at him.
The realization breaks your heart, makes you want to wrap your arms around him and never let him go.
“Yeah,” you say brightly instead, grinning at him. “There’s nothing in the world I would rather do.”
This is the first time that Spencer learns that there’s another way. That sometimes something good can happen.
Maybe even something wonderful.
Saturday takes much too long to come around, and Spencer feels as though he may just die from the anticipation of it all. Despite the fact that it’s you, his kind, sweet, lovely friend, he’s trying to mentally prepare himself for the worst.
You’re not going to show up. Or you are and something terrible is going to happen.
He knows you would never do anything to hurt him. He knows that, and yet he can’t believe it. When he closes his eyes, all he can see is that football field, that goalpost, those jeering faces. All he can feel is the blistering sun beating down on his bare skin, all he can hear is the malicious laughter ringing in his ears.
He’s not in high school anymore. And you’re not one of his tormentors. You’re Y/N. You listen intently when he goes off on a tangent, you ruffle his hair when you pass by him- god, you even laugh at his inane jokes.
These instances play in a loop in his head as he attempts to reassure himself, walking toward your door with shaking hands. Just as he approaches your front step, the door swings open and you step out.
“Spence, you’re here!”
All it takes is one look at you and his hands steady, his reservations dissipating. The nerves remain, but he finds that they’re no longer the unpleasant ones, the ones preparing him for something that’s going to hurt. Instead they’ve been replaced by ones of eager anticipation.
It feels like hope.
He still tries to keep his expectations low. He tries so, so hard, but you make it difficult. You in your oversized sweater and your combat boots, you with your luminous smile. It’s all he can do to stop himself from reaching out, from grabbing your hand. If he does that and you reject it, he doesn’t know what he would do.
Thankfully, he never has to find out. Instead, you reach for his hand casually, as though it’s natural, as though it’s right. Your hand hovers next to his for just an instant, waiting for permission. Spencer surprises himself by lacing his fingers with yours, grinning reflexively when you give his hand a gentle squeeze.
You’re here. You’re here and you’re not laughing at him, and there’s no sun burning his skin, and there’s no taunting voices echoing in his head.
All he can see is your smile, all he can hear is your easy chatter, all he can feel is your soft hand in his.
He didn’t know it could be like this.
One date turns into two turns into three turns into four and suddenly you’re together. You become Spencer and Y/N.
It’s something he never expected, the two of you together. It’s something he never dreamed could happen, but much to his surprise it just feels right. Everything is just as it should be.
Spencer knows from experience that that never lasts long. He keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop, for you to get sick of him. It always happens in the end. It’s one of the few constants that Spencer has been able to deduce after a lifetime of observations. Statistically speaking, it’s bound to happen.
You’ve never been one for statistics.
*
One night, the two of you are settled in Spencer’s living room, reading in comfortable silence. The only sound in the room is the fluttering of pages, your legs resting in Spencer’s lap.
The minutes tick by slowly, comfortably. This has become a habit, the two of you cuddled up with one another and reading. Sometimes you each read your own books, sometimes you read aloud to one another. It’s something that is so simple yet somehow so intimate, so deeply comforting.
You set your book down on the coffee table, ambling over to the kitchen in search of a snack. The cookies hiding in the back of the pantry are absolutely calling your name. Just as you’re about to reach for them, you hear a slight thud from the living room, followed by a yelp from Spencer.
“You okay?” you call out, grabbing the cookies and heading back.
You find Spencer kneeling beside the coffee table, a roll of paper towels in his hand as he frantically attempts to wipe up a puddle of juice that’s spreading across it. The red liquid is everywhere, seeping into the pages of your book, and he dabs at it uselessly, panic covering his face.
“I’m so sorry,” he says in a rush, tears brimming in his eyes. “I’m so, so sorry, Y/N. I wasn’t paying attention and I knocked over the cup and I’ll get you a new-”
“Spence, it’s okay.” You kneel down, hand reaching for his shoulder to reassure him, when you see it. He flinches- Spencer braces himself. He braces himself for a book to be thrown at him, for a hand to slap his face, for hurtful words to be spit at him.
These are the things that you learn from experience, after all. These are the things that you take with you long after the moment is gone.
“Oh, baby,” you say so softly he almost can’t hear it over the pounding in his ears. “It’s just a book. It can be replaced. I’m not mad, I promise.”
When he looks at you with his wide doe-eyes, it’s all you can do to stop yourself from grabbing hold of him. “You’re not?"
“No, I’m not,” you state firmly. He blinks at you, trying to gauge just how much he can believe you. It only takes a second for him to nod, his shoulders slumping as the tension finally leaves his body.
You wipe up the rest of the juice, setting aside the stained book to be dealt with later. When you return, Spencer is curled up on the couch, staring out the window. His arms are around his legs, his chin resting on his knees.
There’s something in his expression that you can’t quite read. Sadness? Confusion? Resignation? All that you know is that you instantly hate whoever put it there, whoever put these thoughts into his head. Whoever taught him he wasn’t worth it.
Spencer had told you bits and pieces about his childhood, but you were sure that there was more there. More that made him so accustomed to being let down, to being hurt.
You sink into the couch beside him, wrapping one arm around his shoulder and pulling him close. He practically melts into you, his head falling to your chest. He’s silent aside from a few remaining sniffles, the only sign of just how close to tears he had been.
Once again, you feel as though your heart is breaking.
“Spence, what happened?”
Maybe it’s the wrong question, maybe it’s the wrong time, but you can’t help but ask. All you want to do is figure out how to help him, how to show him that he is deserving of a soft, gentle love.
“I- I told you about my mom,” he says. “It could get- well, it could get kind of bad sometimes. But it wasn’t her fault. She loves me, she just gets confused.”
He doesn’t say anything more, and though you know that there’s more to the story, you leave it at that.
Instead you wrap your arms around him more tightly, burying your face in his hair. “Love isn’t supposed to hurt,” you whisper.
For the first time in his life, Spencer almost believes it.
*
Time passes easily when you’re around, Spencer finds. If anything, it feels as though it goes much too quickly. He wants as much time as possible with you. He wants all of the time with you.
He doesn’t think that he’s going to get what he wants.
Before he knows it, it’s his birthday. It doesn’t mean much to him. It’s just another day, just one day of many. He’s never had a birthday party, never really gotten presents. It doesn’t mean anything.
Spencer used to want it to mean something. He saw all of the other kids celebrating, going to parties that he wasn’t invited to, bringing in cake that he only got to eat because the teacher made everyone share with the entire class. It looked like it could be fun, this whole birthday thing. It didn’t take too long for him to shut down that feeble hope, however.
People forget your birthday enough times and you come to realize that it doesn’t matter. It’s insignificant in the grand scheme of things- you’re insignificant in the grand scheme of things.
This is something Spencer learned early on. He’s quite insignificant, if he really thinks about it- although he tries not to. Without him, the world would keep turning, the sun would still rise and set every day. Nothing would be different. He’s fairly certain no one would miss him if he were gone.
Despite the fact that he accepted this as undeniable truth long ago, it still hurts.
The first thing Spencer is aware of when he wakes up that morning is the smell of pancakes. Banana chocolate chip pancakes, to be more specific. His favorite. He can hear you puttering around the kitchen, the quiet noises of domesticity tugging at his heart. He didn’t know the simple sounds of a spatula scraping a pan and the radio playing Top 40 could make him feel like this, like he was exactly where he needed to be.
You’ve made him realize that home isn’t a place. It’s a person, a feeling. It’s you.
He drifts toward the kitchen, drawn by your gentle humming. It’s not a tune he recognizes, but he loves it all the same. He’s quickly realizing he loves anything you do. It’s a dangerous feeling.
Despite his best efforts to not grow attached, to protect himself from the inevitable loss of you, he finds himself falling more and more in love with you every day. He hasn’t dared say it aloud, because he knows that once he does the spell will be broken. You will realize just how much you don’t feel the same, how much better than him you can do. You’ll realize that it’s all been one giant mistake.
Spencer doesn’t know what he’ll do when that happens.
It feels like a ‘when’ to him, not an ‘if.’ It feels inescapable.
He’s still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as he pads down the hallway, coming to a stop right outside of the kitchen. You’re singing along to the radio now, completely unaware of his presence as you flip pancakes. This gives him ample time to take in the sight that greets him. A giant handmade banner reading Happy Birthday hangs from the cabinets, a party hat perched crookedly on the top of your head. There’s a small pile of wrapped packages on the corner of the counter.
Nothing about this makes sense, and yet Spencer feels as if he might cry at the sight of it. He chokes back a sob, the noise making you spin around to face him.
“Happy birthday, angel!” you cheer, dropping your spatula and enveloping him in a hug. He drops his forehead to your shoulder, his arms tightening around you. It’s only when he shakes a little in your embrace that you realize something’s the matter. You pull back, surveying him with worry in your eyes. “What’s wrong, Spence?”
He doesn’t quite know how to explain that nothing’s wrong. For once in his life, absolutely nothing is wrong. It’s just so unfamiliar, so overwhelming. You’ve managed to make him feel as though he matters, as though he’s significant.
As though someone just might miss him if he were gone.
He doesn’t know how to explain it, so he settles for murmuring, “You remembered.”
Your jaw drops, your eyes widening minutely before you can stop yourself. It hadn’t even crossed your mind that Spencer had expected you to forget his birthday. Yet again, you find your heart aching, thinking of the little boy he used to be and all of the missed birthdays, all of the missed events in his life. If only you could go back, go back and rewrite history. You’d be sure to show up, to be there for every single one.
You know you’re going to be there for every single one in the future. It’s not even a question. You are absolutely certain.
You don’t quite know how to explain all of that. Instead you say brightly, “Of course I did! It’s only the day my favorite person in the world was born!”
And if you notice the tears welling in Spencer’s eyes at your words, you don’t stay a thing. You just hug him again, pulling him as close to you as humanly possible.
You’re definitely never going to let him go.
*
Spencer tries not to expect the worst. For the first time ever, he really, truly tries. You make him want to try. You make him want more.
He wants everything, as long as it’s with you.
The voice in the back of his mind that tells him that the worst will happen, that the hurt is inevitable, is still there. It’s quieter, certainly, and even silent at some times. But it takes time to unlearn a lifetime of injury, a lifetime of disappointment.
You’re fully prepared to wait as long as it’ll take.
Just after a tough case (tough feeling like a massive understatement), you and Spencer return home together.
Home. The home that he shares with you.
It’s something he never thought could happen, something he never even dared to let himself dream of. But he’s somehow made it here.
You’re in the shower, and Spencer can tell that you’re feeling the effects of the case just as strongly as he is just by the fact that you’re not singing. You always sing in the shower.
Spencer curls up in the bed while he waits for you, pulling the blanket up to his chin. The sudden darkness, the immediate relief of being home and being safe, knowing that you’re safe, it all becomes too much. The tears come quickly, his entire body shaking as he sobs.
He doesn’t hear the shower turn off, doesn’t hear you come into the room. It’s only when the bed dips under your weight that he becomes aware of your presence. He cuts off his tears instantly, practically holding his breath as he frantically wipes his face.
Spencer waits. He waits for laughter, for you to tell him to man up, for you to tell him that he has nothing to cry about (‘Plenty of people have it worse’). He knows you would never say any of those things, and still he waits. He waits to hear it, to hear the things he’s learned from experience, learned from repetition.
He almost jumps when you snuggle up behind him, your arm looping under his, your hand coming to rest on his chest.
“Spence,” you whisper into the dark. “You can cry, baby. It’s okay to cry, to feel things. Nothing you could ever do would make me love you less.”
There’s a pause as he processes your words, and all at once the tears come rushing back. He turns in your arms, pressing his forehead to yours. The sobs are quiet, almost silent, but they bring tears to your own eyes. You gently brush back his hair, your other hand drawing circles on his back.
The two of you stay like that, holding onto one another for dear life. There’s no telling how much time has passed when Spencer heaves out a shaky sigh, his head dropping down onto your chest.
“You love me?” he asks, his voice thick with tears and exhaustion. He doesn’t need to ask. He knows that you do. And yet, all he wants is to hear you say it again.
You don’t mind. You know that you’ll say it as many times as you need to- that you’ll say it forever. “I love you.” You nod even though he can’t see you, your voice firm and steady.
Spencer’s response is barely a whisper, an unwavering promise as he drifts off to sleep. “I love you, too.”
*
Spencer knows that you’re not going to leave. Finally, he knows.
He knows it every time the two of you cook together, singing along terribly to the radio, twirling around in your tiny kitchen.
He knows it every time you save him a seat, every time you bring him his favorite coffee or pastry just because. Just because you think of him.
He knows it every time your hand finds his, every time you gravitate towards one another without thinking.
He knows it every time he finds a note you left him hidden around the house. They say Every time I hear this song I think of you; they say You are my favorite thing; they say I love you more than Issac Newton loves gravity.
They say everything.
He leaves you notes in return. They say You make me believe in magic; they say Everything is better when I’m with you; they say I love you more than chocolate frosted donuts with rainbow sprinkles. He leaves them everywhere- under your pillow, in the fridge, on the bathroom mirror. Anywhere. It’s become a little tradition for the two of you. Just one of many.
Spencer never expected to have traditions. Spencer never really expected to have anything, but with you it feels like he has everything he could ever need.
It’s taken some time, maybe even quite a lot of time, but Spencer knows now. He knows that not everyone leaves, that the worst doesn’t always happen.
He knows that love doesn’t hurt.
“I think we deserve a soft epilogue, my love. We are good people and we’ve suffered enough.”
-Nikka Ursula