Archive of Our Own ^beta

“All those PhDs and you never got a degree in relaxation?” 

“That’s not—” He realizes you’re teasing and grins. “No. No I did not. I just… never really know what to do with myself, I guess?” 

“Shocking.” 

“What are you going to do, then?” 

“I am going to have a treat yo’ self day,” you declare proudly. 

“A what?” 

“You know, like in Parks and Rec?” He gives you a blank look. “No, you totally don’t know. Of course you don’t. But there’s this one episode where two of the characters have a ‘treat yo’ self’ day, and they go shopping and get, like, really self-indulgent things that they wouldn’t ordinarily buy themselves.”

He frowns. “You’re going shopping all weekend? You’ve never struck me as a particularly materialistic person.”

“Fuck, no. It’s more about indulging in experiences. Self-care. Things that make me feel relaxed. Just… whatever makes me happy.”

“Like what?” He still has this totally puzzled look on his face, with his nose wrinkled up. It’s so much more endearing than it has any right to be. 

“I like painting. I’m not good at it, but I like it, so I’m gonna get some new paints and a big canvas and make a mess, because it makes me happy.” 

“Huh.” 

“What about you, then? What do you do to relax?”  

“That’s… a good question, honestly.” 

“Well, what’s your idea of a perfect day?” 

Maybe it shouldn’t surprise you that self-care is a foreign concept to him. You wait patiently as he overthinks it.

“Perfect seems unrealistic,” he concludes wryly. 

“So, like, remember when you were a kid and you walked into a really awesome toy store?” you prompt. “Just feeling that sort of carefree, giddy kind of happy?” 

“Not really.” He shrugs. 

“What did make you feel like that, though?” you ask. “When you were younger? There had to be something.” 

“I think I just — I didn’t do much normal kid stuff.” He lets out a huff of a laugh and runs his hands through his messy curls, suddenly self-conscious. “Didn’t get to play pretend, or… I don’t know. Didn’t have time.” 

“Right,” you say softly. “Sorry.” 

“Nothing to be sorry about.” 

You nod, throat suddenly tight. “Yeah. Get some sleep, Spencer. Sweet dreams.” 

He gives you a tired half-smile and tugs his blanket up to his chin, tucking his hands under his cheek, and the dark hollows under his eyes are hidden by his long lashes as he falls asleep almost immediately. You need to rest too, but it takes you a while; you sneak a glance at him every so often, feeling that twist under your breastbone that happens all too often when you’re around Spencer. 

By the time the jet lands, though, you have a plan. 

* * * * *

You second-guess your plan approximately a thousand times on your way over to Spencer’s the next morning. When you get to his door, you almost convince yourself to walk away before you manage to knock; is this totally presumptuous? Is Spencer going to think you’re ridiculous? Is the whole thing just plain stupid? 

Then again, you were stupid enough to fall for Spencer in the first place, so. What’s another stupid decision on top of that whole mess? 

When he opens the door, he’s wearing pajama pants, a t-shirt, and a phenomenally hideous bathrobe, and he’s all messy-haired and sleepy-eyed, and for a moment you’re panicking because oh shit I woke him up. It’s almost noon, to be fair, but he did have some serious sleep to catch up on. Then you notice the coffee mug in his hand, and after a moment of relief, that morphs into more of a oh shit he’s so fucking beautiful type of panic. 

You’re used to that, though. 

Then you realize he’s staring at you, smiling but puzzled, and you haven’t explained yourself. Oops. 

“Um. Trick or treat yourself day?” you blurt out, hoisting your shopping bags and giggling at your own lame joke. “I… brought you something. Sorry, I didn’t mean to surprise you — I should’ve texted, I just—”

“You’re always a good surprise,” Spencer says shyly, and then seems to shake himself. “Come in. Sorry. Coffee?” 

“Please.” 

You set down your shopping bags and follow him to the kitchen, where he fixes you a mug of your own — exactly how you like it, because of course he remembers. Then he takes a couple deep gulps of his own sugar-sludge and tops it up, and by the time you go back out to the living room, he’s starting to look vaguely awake. 

“What’s all this about?” he finally asks, head cocked to look curiously at the bags. 

“Well,” you start slowly. Now that you have to say it out loud, it sounds even more stupid. “I was thinking a treat yourself day would be a lot more fun with company, and it seems like… maybe you’re overdue for some of that? For… self-indulgence, and just, like, enjoying yourself without worrying. And you deserve it. So. You wanna?” 

His eyes are soft and bright, oddly vulnerable, and a smile spreads slowly across his face, twitchy at the edges like he’s not sure he’s allowed to smile yet. 

“Really? I don’t know what to do, though.” 

“Well, I have some ideas about that. But first, you gotta make a deal with me.” The way he’s beaming makes you feel a whole lot more confident as you tell him, very seriously, “This is the sacred covenant of treat yourself day. You have to solemnly swear to do whatever you want. Anything you can dream up. Indulge every whim. Take an oath to give in to every one of your silly, random, frivolous desires, without any form of self-denial or doubt. Can you do that, Spencer?” 

“I can try,” he says, and his voice cracks. It’s like he can’t shape the words, with the way his smile has taken over his entire face. 

“Okay, good enough. And… I have a few ideas.” 

“Like what?” 

You shrug. “Like… some things I thought maybe you didn’t get to do as a kid? Here, let me—”

You rummage until you find what you were looking for, and then you turn around, holding it out like an offering. Spencer’s mouth drops open. 

“Is that a Captain Kirk costume?” he asks squeakily. 

“It’s a Captain Kirk onesie,” you correct. “And it’s for you.” 

“Holy—” 

He shucks the bathrobe and sets down his coffee hastily, and he’s zipping the onesie up before you can say “Beam me up,” looking down at himself with this joy on his face, totally giddy in a way you’ve never seen him before, and holy hell, even if he hates the rest of your ideas, this will be one hundred fifty percent worth it for the memory of that smile on Spencer’s face. 

“I have one too,” you admit, and pull your Chewbacca onesie out of your backpack. Once you’re both appropriately attired, you tell him, “Next order of business is cartoons.” 

“I don’t actually have TV?” he says apologetically. “I mean, I have a TV, but it’s only for —” 

You grin. “I came prepared, though!” 

Spencer’s the only person you know who still has a VHS player, but you’ve been holding onto some things you rescued from your parents’ attic a while back; you find your VHS of Tom & Jerry cartoons and wave it at him triumphantly. 

“I’ve never watched that before.” He examines the cover, bemused. 

“It’s essential viewing.” 

“Okay,” he says slowly.

While he performs whatever arcane ritual makes his ancient TV work (there’s like a rain dance and an animal sacrifice involved, you’re pretty sure) you settle on the couch, nesting in all the blankets and sipping your coffee contentedly. Spencer presses play and sits down next to you, but you can feel his uncertainty; he’s holding himself stiffly, and he keeps sneaking glances at you. 

“Spit it out,” you tell him, a few minutes in. “If you hate it, you can just say so, Spence. I won’t take it personally.”

He shakes his head. “It’s not that! I just — is this really how you want to spend your Saturday?” 

“What do you mean?” You have a Chewbacca onesie, a perfect cup of coffee, and great company; you’re not entirely sure how this could get any better. 

“Doing nothing,” he mumbles. “This is… there are so many things you could be doing. Don’t you have a whole list of things you wanted to do? But instead… I don’t know. You’re here. With me.” 

Sometimes you want to scream until he realizes how awesome he is, but the screaming is probably not the best way to convey that particular message. 

Instead, you keep your voice very quiet as you tell him, “There is absolutely nowhere else I’d rather be right now.” 

It’s a little too true. Your cheeks burn as you turn back to the TV, trying not to dwell on the way you can see him watching you in your peripheral vision. 

“Okay,” he says hoarsely. He settles himself more comfortably into the blanket nest, and before long, he’s giggling along with you. 

You watch in peaceful silence for a little while, but at some point, Spencer’s stomach growls, and you pause the tape to make food — chocolate chip pancakes with whipped cream, as per his verdict on “ultimate treat food.” As it turns out, he knows a lot about the science of cooking, but not a whole lot about the actual practice, so he sits cross-legged in a chair and directs you to various cabinets as you measure and mix and whisk. When you get the batter poured out on the griddle, he’s pattering on about the chemical differences between baking soda and baking powder. 

He looks utterly dismayed when the first chocolate chip hits his forehead. Turns out his lack of hand-eye coordination applies to mouth-eye coordination too, and the floor is littered with semi-sweet projectiles before he actually catches one, but he’s laughing, so you really can’t bring yourself to care. 

The pancakes are a total success. When you’re both stuffed and sugar-high, you grab the syrupy plates and bring them to the sink for a quick rinse. 

“You don’t have to,” Spencer protests. You ignore him. His next words are much softer, scratchy and hoarse: “Thank you. I don’t — just — thank you.” 

“Nothing to thank me for,” you say briskly. Then you turn around, and you freeze, because he’s a whole lot closer than you thought he was; he’s right there, close enough that you could reach out and run your fingers through his hair, or trace the sharp line of his jaw. 

He has a tiny streak of whipped cream at the corner of his mouth, right where his lips curl up as he smiles, and for a second you can barely breathe with how much you want to stand up on your tiptoes and see if he tastes as sweet as he looks. 

For a second he looks like he wants you to. He’s frozen too, for a moment, and you can hear his breath catch, but then he scoops you up in a hug, squeezing tight. And yeah, it’s just friendly, but it’s a hug from Spencer, and that happens rarely enough that it feels like a treat of its own, so you go with it, forehead pressed to his shoulder, heart racing.

When he releases you, you tell yourself you’re not disappointed. 

“Right,” you say, bossy to cover how flustered you feel. “Back to business.” 

“I think I need more practice sitting still,” Spencer confesses, following you back out to the couch. “It feels weird just… not doing anything.” 

You pause, deliberating. “Well, we could keep our hands busy?” 

With a quick rummage, you produce paint and an extra large pad of paper, holding them up for Spencer’s inspection. He frowns. 

“I don’t have any paintbrushes.” 

“They’re finger paints,” you say, grinning, and he laughs. 

“Of course they are.” 

You set everything up on the coffee table while Spencer presses play, and the two of you sit down on the floor, side by side. Spencer looks down at his onesie, then at the paint, frowning. 

“It’s all washable, Spencer.” 

“Still,” he mumbles. “I don’t want to take it off, but —” 

He unzips the onesie halfway, peeling the arms off and letting the fabric bunch up around his waist. 

“There we go, putting that genius brain to work,” you tease, but you’re touched that he cares enough about your present to worry about stains. 

It’s hard to ignore how close you’re sitting. You do your best, keeping your eyes on either the TV or your masterpiece of Abstract Expressionism, but Spencer’s knee is pressed to yours, a constant warm pressure, and your hands keep brushing as you both reach for containers of paint, and you can smell him, like vanilla and maybe old books. The whole thing has you feeling flushed. 

Other than that, though, it’s comfortable. It’s always been easy to talk to Spencer, which makes sense considering how much he knows about every subject imaginable, but it surprises you sometimes how easy it is not to talk to him, too. Silence isn’t awkward, with him. Neither of you say anything for the next hour or so. You just giggle at the TV and paint, wordless and companionable, and it’s the happiest you’ve felt in… longer than you care to admit. 

Life is rarely perfect, especially not in your line of work, but this? This is pretty close. 

As the credits start to play, you stretch, and then you look at his paper. It takes you a second to recognize yourself, but the likeness is unmistakable. Spencer’s got the exact angle of your eyebrow when you’re looking at him skeptically — apparently you do that often enough that he’s memorized the expression. He somehow managed to capture your smile, the curve of your lips, all in tiny delicate pinky-strokes of purple and turquoise… trust Dr. Spencer Reid to bring that level of precision to finger-painting, and oh god you are not going to think about his fingers any more. 

“Do you like it?” 

“Yeah,” you manage. You clear your throat. “Yeah, I really do.” 

Then he makes it worse by rubbing the side of his neck, bashful and self-conscious, smearing blue-green paint from his collarbone to the sharp line of his jaw, and he’s so busy smiling at you that he doesn’t seem to notice. He swallows, and his Adam’s apple dips, shifting a streak of color, making it flicker. It’s such a silly thing, but it draws your attention to his skin — makes you want to touch. Worst of all, it reminds you that he’s already art, that the shape of him, the delicate precise way he’s put together, is more beautiful than anything you’ve ever seen in a museum. 

It reminds you that you want some things you can never, ever have. 

“You’ve got — um,” you say, gesturing helplessly. He blinks at you, slow like he’s coming out of a trance, and tucks his hair behind his ear, smearing more paint there before he remembers. You giggle, sharp and nervous, and it breaks the tension all at once. Spencer laughs too, rolling his eyes at himself. You get up clumsily to go grab a wet paper towel from the kitchen. 

The moment is gone, but your heart is still racing. 

“What’s next?” Spencer asks softly, once you’re both cleaned up. 

He missed a tiny spot; there’s a blue smudge right at the corner of his jaw, and you want to touch it, feel it under your fingertips, see if the skin is as soft as it looks, right there where the bone stretches it thin. 

“Blanket fort,” you blurt out, before you can do anything embarrassing. 

His eyes light up. 

It really shouldn’t surprise you that Spencer and his engineering PhD make quick work of a pile of sheets and clothespins. You’re pretty sure that he could revolutionize the entire field of blanket fort construction, if left to his own devices, but you keep poking him when he gets lost in his head or starts muttering calculations to himself. The point is having fun. 

The end result is a lot more Frank Lloyd Wright than any of your childhood creations, but Spencer looks absolutely gleeful, so. It’s the spirit of the thing. 

“One more thing,” you say. “Do you have any Christmas lights?” 

Spencer frowns. “I don’t — oh! Wait!” 

He runs to the closet, and he ends up halfway inside the closet, digging around on his hands and knees. You’re about to make a crack about Narnia when he comes out, holding up a box with a triumphant smile. 

You read the label: “Halloween decorations 3 of 4.” 

Because of course Spencer Reid has Halloween lights. He pulls out several long ropes of them; a couple are shaped like tiny skulls, one is strung with Jack-o-Lanterns, and two could pass as Christmas lights if they weren’t orange and purple. You help him detangle the knot of them and drape them over and through your fort, and when you turn out the normal lights and draw his heavy curtains, the whole thing glows in patches of orange and purple and white. 

“After you,” you tell Spencer, and he crawls in without any more prompting. 

There’s more than enough room to sit up, but Spencer is lying down on his back in the nest of blankets and pillows that you’d relocated from the couch. He’s staring up at the “ceiling” in silence, eyes glittering with some unreadable expression where they catch the twinkling shards of light. You make yourself comfortable next to him, looking up and wondering what he’s seeing. 

“I always wondered what the appeal was,” he whispers. “Of blanket forts. And… childhood in general, I guess.” 

“You grew up pretty fast, huh?” you say quietly. 

“Yeah. And I never — I feel like most of the team doesn’t take me seriously sometimes. Like I’m still a kid to them. I always feel like I have to prove myself.” 

Your instinct is to deny it automatically, but you know what he means. They laugh him off for his quirks, for the way he gets excited about things and for the things he gets excited about. That’s what’s so incredible about him, though: that dichotomy of knowledge and curiosity, the breathless excitement when he makes a discovery.

“I liked pretending I had my own little world,” you tell him. “Blanket forts. Felt like I could actually shut all the bad things out.” 

“Still feels like that,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. 

“Nothing wrong with acting like a child, sometimes. We need that. Even if it’s just pretend.” 

“I think I get it now.” 

“Hmm?”

He’s silent for a long moment before he says, “In here, everything’s perfect.” 

“Or we can pretend it is.” 

You turn your head to find Spencer looking at you, and he doesn’t look away when your eyes meet. You barely want to blink for fear of breaking whatever spell you’re under. 

There’s something raw and earnest and almost scared shining all over his face, like you’re catching a glimpse of the child he used to be, before the world taught him to put on a brave face and keep his most intense feelings to himself. It makes you feel shaky in ways you were really not prepared for. 

There’s a heavy moment of silence. You’re painfully aware of how loud your breathing sounds. 

It’s a hell of a thing, to have his focus like this. You fell in love with him watching him work; you know how intensely he can devote himself to a task, to a puzzle, to a map… and every so often, when the two of you talk, he focuses all that brilliance on you, and he listens so completely that you feel his attention like a spotlight. 

That’s when he usually looks away, dropping his gaze like it’s something to be embarrassed about, because too many people have told him to stop staring. 

He’s not looking away now. He turns onto his side to completely face you, curling up in that sweetly childish way with his hands between his cheek and the pillow, and you mirror him.

“Feels like we’re alone.” 

He’s right; there are no distractions, no excuses to be made, no interruptions. It’s just the two of you, and it’s terrifying. 

“Feels safe,” you whisper, because that’s true too. Your heart is racing, and it’s like you can hear your pulse in your ears, but it’s the quietest sort of panic you’ve ever felt. “I think that was exactly what I wanted, after the last couple weeks. To get away. To feel safe.” 

There’s an orange light throwing most of his face into shadow, but you can see the corner of his mouth a little too clearly. You’re maybe a foot apart. It would be so easy — 

“We don’t get that often.” His voice is barely more than a breath. 

“Safety?” 

“That too, but —” His breath hitches, and he clears his throat. “What we want. I don’t usually get what I want, but this was — this was very close to perfect.” 

“Yeah, well, when is life ever perfect?” You manage a smile. “What would make it perfect? If you could have anything.”

“It’s not something I can have, though.” 

“So pretend. It’s just us, and there are no rules today. What would it be?”  

He bites his lip. “I don’t think —” 

“For once in your life, Spencer, stop overthinking it,” you half-laugh, and then he’s propping himself up on one elbow, shifting forward, leaning closer, close close close until he’s all you can see, and —

He kisses you. 

It’s the most gentle, feather-light brush of a kiss you’ve ever felt, barely more than a graze of his parted lips over yours. It’s there, and then it’s gone again before you can even begin to process the sensation. 

As your eyes flutter open you can already see the fear setting in, huge dark eyes fixed on you as he inhales sharply. 

You’re still trying to remember how to breathe; you’re too stunned to react beyond blinking at him. 

“I’m sorry. Can we just —” He shakes his head, hand over his mouth like he’s trying to hold onto the kiss. “Do you think we could pretend — can we pretend I didn’t do that? I’m so sorry.” 

“I don’t want to pretend,” you say shakily.  

He stares. 

For a moment this doesn’t seem real. It’s such a strange moment that you might as well be trapped in a Dali canvas. There’s fingerpaint on his face, and he’s wearing a Captain Kirk command uniform onesie, and there’s a tiny Jack-o-Lantern glowing over his head. If you’d imagined the “perfect” moment, this would not be it. 

But you reach out, running your fingertips over the dark smudge of paint on his jaw, and the skin is hot and smooth. He shivers at the touch. It’s real. 

“Spencer?” Your throat is tight, but you manage a choked, “I want you to kiss me again.” 

He does, with a careful hand cupped to your cheek and a smile curling his lips when they meet yours. You run your fingers through his hair, and you both laugh when they catch on dried paint. 

“Perfect,” he whispers. 

It really is.