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Spencer is leaning over you still, your breaths mingling in the air between you, when what must be his phone starts ringing—it’s too shrill to be your own. The mood breaks instantly, and you let go of him so he can step away to answer it. You relax against the wall and turn your focus off of him to give him a little privacy. You are watching as he huffs out a breath before he flips it open—he seems a little annoyed, which is bolstering in its own way—but then you try to ignore him. It’s only polite, after all.
“Yeah?” you hear him say, and then there’s a pause as he must be listening to the other end. “Okay. I’ll catch a ride back in a cab, you guys go on ahead of me.” There’s the sound that must be him shutting his phone, and then he steps back into your line of sight. “Um…”
“You’ve gotta go, huh?” you ask, trying to put on a smile. You’re undeniably a little sad about it—you’d really enjoyed kissing him, and it had a lot of potential to go, well, places.
“Yeah, uh. A case just came in, it’s apparently very urgent. But it’s dark out, and I wouldn’t feel right letting you head anywhere alone, even here in Quantico.”
“I appreciate that. And hey, you’re calling a cab either way, right? Will you walk me to the diner up the street? I don’t really feel like going back to the club. I know that’s a lot to ask, but—“
“That’s fine. I’ll just have the cab meet us there. What’s the name of diner?” You tell him, and after a few moments and another phone call, you’re on your way down the sidewalk together.
There’s silence between you, and you feel more than a little tense. You’re not really sure what to say, you’ve never had a night—evolve, devolve, whichever—this way before. “So, um,” you eventually start, just because the silence is killing you, but you still don’t have anything to say.
“I had a good time,” he offers, and when he looks over at you the expression on his face is genuine. The easy slope of his shoulders and arms and the way his hands are in his pockets makes him look even younger than he already does.
“Did you really?” You can’t help but laugh, surprised.
“Yeah, yeah, I did.”
“Well, I had a good time, too.” The diner is coming into view; the harsh neon lights that mark the business are almost too bright to look at. There’s a cab idling in one of the parking spaces, up near the door. “Look, I-I really did enjoy this. And I know all of this,” you gesture between you and at the night in general, “evidently isn’t your normal cup of tea, but if you wanted to do it again sometime… I’m more than okay with that. You’re too cute to pass up, doctor.”
It could just be the glow from the signs at the restaurant, but you’re pretty sure he’s blushing. He opens his mouth to stammer, but you can’t bring yourself to let him do it. The way he’s nodding his head is enough of a yes anyway.
You catch him by the elbow, just a handful of paces from the cab, and he doesn’t resist you stopping him. “Call me whenever, if you want.” You keep a couple of business cards, along with your cell and a stumpy pen, in a tiny pocket sewn into your dress, and you dig one out to write your address and cell number on the back.
Feeling confident, you tuck it into his hand, and you can’t resist leaning in for a final kiss when he looks back up at you. You’d keep him here all night given the opportunity.
The cab honks, though, about the time you’re pulling away from him, and he jerks like he’s been shocked. “I, uh, I need to go,” he says, and he bolts to the car with his hand on his mouth.
You really do hope he calls you when he gets a chance, that he remains interested tomorrow or even in the light of day. If he doesn’t, you’ll find a way to deal—there are plenty of handsome young men in the world. But you’d be kicking yourself if you let a man that delectable get away without trying to draw him in.
\*/***\*/
In the cab, which is not so much an actual cab but the service that works with agents to bring them back onto the base when necessary, Spencer tries to sort out his appearance. He recognizes the face of the driver but can’t remember their name, and instead of trying to sort it out he spends the drive trying to fix his hair and his clothes.
He feels out of sorts in his own skin, in a good way. In a way different from the last couple of weeks since— Wow, has it really been hours since he even thought of Lila?
The car windows aren’t a very good mirror and there’s not a lot of light, but he looks better than he did before the trip when he gets out of the car in the parking garage. “Thank you,” he says to the driver, and he just gets a chuckle for his trouble.
“Wish I was getting lucky tonight like you were, kid.”
Instead of dignifying that with a response, Spencer takes the stairs up to the office proper—the elevator would take too long, and he’s wasted precious time already. Or at least, that’s what he feels, until he makes it into the bullpen and realizes that only Morgan and the girls have made it in so far.
They’re all circled around the kitchenette, nursing cups of coffee like they’re trying to prematurely stave off a hangover, and he can’t blame them for that. In fact, he edges his way into the group and makes a cup of his own, trying to ignore the way they’re all staring at him.
“Have a good time, loverboy?” Morgan asks, and there’s a clinking of glasses like someone knocked their mugs together.
“I, uh. I guess,” he stammers out, trying to put all of his focus on counting his scoops of sugar instead of on playing out in his head the way this will all go when they start teasing him. Scrutiny of his mind or his ability he can handle, but—scrutiny of his actions and existence is just a throwback to when he was in high school.
When he turns around to look at them, instead of finding the judgmental looks he’d expected, everyone looks—genuinely happy for him. Sometimes… Sometimes he forgets how they are.
“Good for you!” Elle says, and Garcia offers her hand for a fistbump that he only waits one beat too long to return. Because she’s—as Morgan has been known to say—an angel, she’s still smiling at him when their knuckles do finally awkwardly meet, and then JJ is starting in on a tale of what she’d been doing and who she’d been doing it with before the call came for her.
That’s something he tunes out though, because that’s more than a little too much information, and even though he’s half-listening he doesn’t realize the others have left him and Morgan standing there until he comes out of his thoughts. There are a lot of them, it’s not beyond him to get a little lost sometimes. The other man is eyeing him like there’s something he wants to say, and after a moment of eye contact he finally speaks.
“Was wondering when you were gonna make it back to earth, kid.” He chuckles and then continues, “I saw you leave with that girl, so spill.”
“What do you want me to say?” The way Morgan and Garcia have always been willing to share the details of their dates has baffled Spencer pretty much always, and this is different, beyond even that. “Even I know not to kiss and tell,” he says, hiding his smirk with his coffee cup when his line draws another laugh.
“So you have learned a little something from the master.” Derek takes a drink of his own, downing the rest of the cup before rinsing it out in the sink. “I’m glad you came with us tonight. Scratched your itch or whatever. You look… better for it.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah. Take a look in a mirror sometime, it’s all in your eyes. You don’t look so… I don’t know what it was, but you’re definitely not so stressed.”
“Well, for the record, I’m glad I went too,” Spencer admits, finishing off his own drink. When he sidles over to the sink the other man doesn’t move far out of the way, bumping their shoulders together instead.
“That mean you’re gonna start comin’ out with us regularly?”
“Oh no, I doubt that. It’s not really… my sort of place. The implication of a standing invitation is appreciated, though.” There’s the tell-tale tapping of JJ’s shoes and then she appears at Derek’s shoulder, laying a case file against his chest.
“Come on, guy time is over. Hotch and Gideon are on their way up, so let’s go ahead and get this started.”
/*\
The case led them to Arkansas, where someone had been breaking into apartments and killing young women—one Friday, one Saturday, and one Sunday. At first the police department thought it was just a horrible coincidence, but after another Friday killing in the same manner one week later, they’d called JJ to get the BAU on the case. The four women that had already died had been left bound and gagged, and none of the apartments had surveillance—identifying the kidnapper was nearly impossible.
At least without the profile, anyway. Saturday morning they flew out, and they had a working profile by Saturday night. It didn’t prevent Saturday’s apparently scheduled death, but they caught him Sunday when they busted down the door to to the last victim’s apartment and found him kneeling over her prone body.
He turned out to be the handyman for the apartment complex all the girls had lived in, and by the time they got him talked down and taken in, it was already well past midnight and early Monday morning. Despite that, though, the case was quick to shut, and despite the circumstances the mood is light once they make it back into the air to head home.
Everyone is hanging out, socializing to try to make the time pass. They’re almost anxious to get home as a collective, and three days out of town in the muggy southern weather isn’t a treat either.
Gideon and Spencer have just finished up another close chess game, the other man pulling out a tight win. Derek is half-listening to his music and half-teasing Elle about something, making the dark-haired woman laugh and slap his arm. Hotch and JJ are sitting across from each other in the back of the plane, but she’s napping against the window and he’s got his attention on another case file; there will probably be more work for them once they make it home.
/*\
By the time the chess board is folded away, there’s only about twenty minutes left until the plane lands, and they’ll be back at the office within the hour. With a lack of anything better to do—nothing on the plane or in his bag he hasn’t read yet, and Gideon’s occupied himself talking to Elle now—he folds himself up in his seat and turns to his thoughts. Out of his wallet he pulls the card she’d given him before he left on the case, and he turns it over and over in his hands.
He knows all of the information on it from memory regardless: the name and address of the office where she works, her work and fax numbers, her cell number and her address off the back. He wants to see her again, has spent the waking hours he hasn’t had focused on the case or something else his brain running over what he’d done with her.
Objectively, he knows that what they’d done isn’t a lot, by modern standards and especially not if compared to the notches in Morgan’s belt, but it’d felt like a lot at the time. And even though the idea of approaching her is… terrifying, he wants to see he again. The way that she had approached him, instead of him doing it—had taken a lot of the anxiety out of the conversation. But calling her, or going to her apartment, that puts it back on him.
She did it on purpose, though, considering that everything about her body language when she’d been speaking with him and-and touching him, had said that she felt like she was taking advantage of him. She wants his consent by way of him approaching her this time, wants to have given him the opportunity to have to never see or be bothered by her. Her willingness to be understanding of his situation, of his awkwardness, manifested in a lot of different ways, but especially that one.
But it’s been three days since he even met her, and it would come as a surprise to no one that he’s not sure what the standard or appropriate wait time is. What if it’s been too long and he missed his opportunity? There’s no hard-and-fast ruling on that front, no statistic to learn or handbook on the subject to know inside and out.
He could ask Morgan his opinion, which is probably the closest thing to a real source on the subject, but… With that would come the opportunity to be teased and the knowledge that his coworker will know much more about what’s going on than Spencer really wants. By the time the plane lands and he’s walking out with the others, though, Spencer’s talked himself into giving her a call tonight once he gets off—if he can keep his nerve together.
\*/***\*/
Mondays are, hands-down, the hardest days of the week. Trying to recover after a weekend of relaxing and being generally unproductive is just—rough. And of course there are dozens of people that need your input because of some issue or another that they’ve realized over the weekend. Being the head of your department is just too much damn work sometimes.
It’s late afternoon and you’ve just left work, heading out to your car in the parking garage. You’re just getting into your car when your phone starts to ring, vibrating in your pocket against your leg. It’s the default ringtone, so it could be almost anyone, and when you check the screen it’s a number you don’t have saved in your contacts.
“Hello?” you ask, only half-paying attention as you settle into your car and shut the door.
“Hi, this is, um, Spencer? Spencer Reid?” the voice on the other end says, and you feel your face light up with a reflexive smile. You’d figured that after two full days with no call he just wasn’t going to—which is okay, and it happens, you wouldn’t have really held it against him for not calling. But now…
“Spencer? Spencer from Friday night?” You instinctively touch your hair, your face, like he can see you through the phone and you need to look just right.
“Yeah, uh, that’s me.” He laughs a little, and you drop your forehead to the steering wheel.
“I’m not going to lie, I thought you weren’t going to call,” you admit, laughing too. Your heart has started to race just at the sound of his voice, he’d managed to get under your skin that much in just the hour or so you’d really talked to him.
“Sorry, we were—really caught up in a case. I can’t really talk about it, but. I was wondering if, um, you were free tonight?”
You had intentions of doing laundry and maybe cleaning the kitchen, nothing glamorous for sure, but they can definitely wait in the face of a handsome man that wants to see you. “I’m free, sure. Do you want to have dinner with me, maybe we can see how it goes, or is there something else you would prefer? I was going to make some lemon pepper chicken, potatoes, that sort of thing.”
“That… that sounds good to me,” he says, and the tension in his voice seems to fallen away a little. “What time is good for you??
“I only just got off work, so maybe 6:30? That way everything should be done by the time you arrive.”
“Okay. I’ll be there.”
“I hope so,” you say, smiling, and when you hang up the call if you do a little victory dance in your car, no one is the wiser.
/*\
When you get home you take a quick shower before getting dinner started, setting the oven to pre-heat while you season the chicken and arrange it on the sheet pan for baking later. You chop a few potatoes and set them in a pot of water to boil so you can mash them once they’ve softened up, and you set out a couple of cans of green beans that you’ll round out the meal with. Once it’s no more than a waiting game, you start in on trying to tidy up your apartment.
The first thing you do is change the sheets on your bed, just in case whatever happens makes it that far, and you start up a load of laundry just to get it out of the hamper and the floor. You clean the dishes out of the sink and set them into the dishwasher so you don’t look like the sort of person that put off washing them for the duration of the weekend—even though you totally are.
Later, by the time you’re pulling the chicken out of the oven, your apartment looks decent enough to show to someone you feel is as handsome and illustrious as Doctor Spencer Reid. The little table you have tucked into the corner of your kitchen has two places set, and when you’ve got the potatoes mashed and the green beans seasoned and cooked, you chance a look at the clock. It’s 6:28, and you’re pretty proud of how well you’ve timed it all.
At exactly 6:30, there’s a knock at your door, and that’s when you get nervous again. The last time you’d invited someone back to your apartment had been… months ago, for sure. But something about Spencer is different than the other people you’ve met at the club or even people you’ve gotten to know through work. There’s something about his attitude and the way he holds himself that pulls you to him, and even though what is going on between you is obviously nothing concrete or exclusive yet, you want to keep him around and coming back for as long as he’s interested.
When you answer the door, you can’t help smiling at him—there’s seriously something about him that brings delight to your face. It’s embarrassing, after spending so long in your life trying to seem even a little aloof.
He’s rocked back on his heels in the hallway, a bottle of white wine in one hand and the other in his pocket. He looks your way when the door opens, and when you make eye contact, he smiles back at you. “Hey,” he says, and he steps inside when you move out of the door to make way for him.
“I’m glad you turned up,” you say, shutting the door behind him and gesturing towards the kitchen. “I didn’t expect you to bring wine, though. I think I’ve got glasses, but I don’t really know how to serve it.” You can’t help the nervous laugh that falls from your lips; you hate not knowing things, especially things you conceivably should know.
“It just didn’t feel right to show up empty handed,” he admits, setting the bottle on the table in the corner. He’s got a white dress-shirt on, and the sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. The top button is undone and he’s not wearing a tie—he looks casual, and he would look as cool as a cucumber if his empty hands weren’t shaking just a little.
“I’ve got some wine glasses on the top shelf in here,” you say, pulling open a cabinet and pointing up at them. “Do you wanna get them down? I’ve usually got to climb on the counter to get to it, but you’re taller than me and all…”
“Sure, sure, yeah.” His head bobs a little, and you’d give your right arm to get some of that anxiety out of his posture and out from under his skin. Instead, though, all you can do is dig through your cutlery drawer in an attempt to find your wine screw. It’d been a gift along with a bottle of too-expensive wine someone had given you when you got promoted to your new job, like they’d known you didn’t own one yourself.
You find your opener before he manages to get the glasses down, and you turn around to see him stretching on tiptoe to wrap his hands around one. The line of his back beneath his shirt is so, so appealing. By the time he’s pulled the other glass down and has turned back to you, you’ve mostly gotten your brain under control. Food, first. And wine.
He still looks a little uneasy though, or at least you think he does, and you leave the tool on the counter to step a little closer to him. “Are you alright? I’m—you just look really uncomfortable. If you don’t want to be here…” You don’t want him to leave, but you would hate even more the idea of keeping him here when he doesn’t want to be.
“No, no, I want to be here. I’m just… out of my element.” He forces a little smile, tight around the eyes and mouth, and bobs his head again like he’s trying to reassure himself and not you.
“Well, I’m glad you’re here,” you say, putting your hand on his shoulder. He puts his hand over yours, rubbing against the side of your palm. It tickles, a little, but you like it. “Come on, are you hungry?” You gesture to the food laid out over the stove, and your stomach grumbles as if to make a point.
You both make your plates, and he beats you to the table since you’d let him go first. By the time you sit down, he’s got the wine uncorked and is just waiting for you to pour it. He seems confident in the action, definitely more confident than you would be if you had to do it, and it’s interesting to see him comfortable doing something for once.
“I don’t think I’ve ever had wine with dinner, before,” you admit, picking up your glass and looking at it like you’ve never seen it before. (This is almost true—you’ve used them maybe twice ever.) “I kind of just thought it was one of those—stereotypes, things you see on TV that don’t actually happen.”
“Well, the Vatican has the highest per-capita consumption of wine worldwide, but I don’t think they’re drinking it for dinner,” he says, and you can’t help but laugh.
“And you just know that?”
“Yeah, I—I have an eidetic memory, actually,” he says, taking a sip from his glass and pausing before continuing his train of thought. “If I’ve read something, I’ll remember it. It’s less reliable for things I’ve heard, but if it’s a picture or a sentence I’ll recall it.”
“That’s really interesting. Another one of those things I thought wasn’t real, honestly.” You taste your wine, and it’s actually… really good. Definitely better than the red wine you’d had last time.
“It’s all real, I promise. For example…” He begins to rattle off the information from your business card—your name, your position, your work and fax numbers, and then your address and phone number. By the time he’s finished talking you know your mouth has fallen open.
“You are incredible,” you say, and he shakes his head.
“Not really. A lot of people treat me like I’m some kind of computer, or an alien, honestly.”
“That seems a little unkind.”
“I don’t think they mean it that way, most of the time. I know that—the things I can do are outside the realm of what just about anyone else is capable of. It makes people uncomfortable, and my demeanor doesn’t really help… any of that.”
“Aww, angel, you’re not all that bad. I think we’re getting along okay.” You reach across the table to touch his hand, briefly, and he smiles at you. The next little while is spent mostly in silence as you eat, and by the time you’re both done you’re feeling pretty good about, well. Everything, really.
“Thank you for dinner,” Spencer says, standing and walking his dishes over to the sink. You follow him, bringing both of your empty wine glasses along as well.
“I do what I can. I haven’t starved yet, at least.” You set the glasses down beside the sink, put your plate in on top of his. “Did you want another glass? I figured we could head to the living room…”
“I think… I think I’ll be okay.” He runs his hand down his shirt, sighs. “Is it always so nerve-wracking?”
“For some people, maybe. For me, it got easier with time.” He grimaces at that, and you smile. “Sorry, I know that’s not a comfort. But there’s nothing to be afraid of, here. I can promise you I won’t laugh at you, and I won’t bite.” You put you hand over his sternum, giving him what you hope is a comforting pat. “Well, at least not if you don’t ask me to,” you finish, even though it’s cliche, and he looks at you with wide eyes, like you’ve scared him.
“Is that—“
“I’m kidding, honey. Mostly.” You wink, he licks his lips, and you feel hugely satisfied about it. “You wanna give me a second to get this all put away, maybe go wait in the living room for me?”
“Yeah. Yeah, sure.” He turns away, heads out into the other room, and once he’s gone you heave a huge breath. It’s gonna be okay.
/*\
You packed away your leftovers into tupperware and in the fridge as fast as you can, so eager you can hardly stand it. You wash your hands once you’ve got everything cleared off the counter and it takes actual effort to keep yourself from sprinting into the living room.
Spencer is sitting on the couch, knees together and gaze on his lap. When you step around the corner he turns to look at you; he’d definitely been anticipating your return. He’s still looking a little like a deer in the headlights, but you try to look as reassuring as you can. Vaguely, you remember being inexperienced, shy and almost scared of everything, the way he seems to be now. You take a seat beside him on the couch, folding one leg beneath you so you can face him.
“Still nervous?” you ask, smiling like his anxiety doesn’t make you a little anxious too. You just want him to have a good time.
“I may just be one of those people that’s always anxious about this,” he admits, shaking his head a little, and you pluck one of his hands out of his lap so you can hold it in both of your own.
“I really meant it when I said it was gonna be okay. We don’t even have to do anything tonight—or ever—if that’s what you want.” You rub your thumbs across his knuckles, over the back of his hand. His skin is soft, like he moisturizes or something.
“I know it’ll be alright; I mean, the worst thing you could do is laugh at me, and I’m used to that.” You frown at his words, sad for him, because that should be no one’s baseline. “It’s just been… a really long time since I didn’t know what I was doing, I think.”
“How many other partners have you had?” you ask without thinking about it, and you can’t take it back now that you’ve said it but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t feel invasive. You don’t need to start a habit of putting your foot in your mouth.
“Before Friday night, I’d only ever kissed one person. For most of my school years I was much, much younger than my classmates, and I didn’t get along with most of them anyway. And, well, you know the club scene isn’t really for me either.” He looks embarrassed and it makes your heart warm a little, honestly. “I want to be here. I just don’t know what I’m doing.”
“I’m glad. I really didn’t think I was going to see you again.”
“Why do you want me here?” You… weren’t expecting that question, and he looks up at you from where he’d been watching your hands. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to ask that. Feel free not to answer it.” His expression says he hadn’t really meant to speak either. Between the two of you, you’ve got some very loose tongues tonight.
“No, no, I don’t mind to answer it.” You shake your head, smiling down at your hands because you can’t try to answer that question while making eye contact too. “I just… didn’t expect you to ask it, I guess.”
“I have… more than a little trouble with that. Talking to people is difficult, and being nervous only makes it worse.”
“Well, hopefully talking to me will get easier with time,” you say, and he hums in what you’re taking as an agreement. “But, really, I’m glad you’re here because, well. I had a good time kissing you—I find it hard to believe I’m only the second person you’ve ever kissed. And you’re very handsome and the part where you’re so much smarter than me but you aren’t a giant jerk about it is really appealing, too. There are some people that don’t care if their partner, temporary or not, sucks as a person, and I’m just not one of them.”
“I really don’t think about the people around me in terms of our relative intellect,” he says, and you just laugh. “Is there something funny about that?”
“I’ve just—done a lot of stuff with a lot of shitty guys that were, or at least thought they were, smarter than me, and I never would have heard that out of any of them.”
“Why not?”
“Some people think that just because they’re smart they’re some kind of… gift, or something. Like they get a pass in every other aspect of being a person just because they’re smarter, so they don’t have to worry about being kind or being good, even.”
“I really do have a hard enough time talking to people, I think it would only be worse if I antagonized them too.”
“It probably would be, buttercup,” you agree, and he makes a little face at the name but doesn’t remark on it. “So… If you want to be here, and I want you to be here, and all of those other things we just established… What do you want to do?”
“I don’t… I don’t know. My only experience with this stuff is books, and some TV, but poetry and soap operas don’t really cover the practicalities of physical relationships.”
“Well, is there anything you don’t want to do? I’m okay with anything, generally spekaing.” He opens his mouth, but you cut him off before he can say whatever clever thought he’s had. “If you’re going to try and shock me with something, chances are I’ve already tried it at least once.” You wink, and he blushes.
“Good to know. But, uh, I don’t think I’ll be overcome with any unusual urges.” He’s so cute when he’s embarrassed, and the low light from the lamp at your end of the couch lets you see just how pink his cheeks are.
“Well, here—here’s a plan.” It’s only just occurred to you, but he doesn’t have to know that. It’s so odd that it just might work.
You let go of his hand and move back so you’re leaning against the arm of the couch, reaching for him once you’re settled in place. “C’mere, and then I’m gonna close my eyes and you can do whatever your brilliant mind wants, how does that sound?”
“That sounds like a lot of leeway to give someone with my experience,” he says, but he’s moving towards you anyway.
“I mean, I’m going to be right here. It’s not like I won’t be an active participant. But I know I get nervous when people are staring at me, and I… really, really don’t want to put any pressure on you. And if you’re on top you can move away at any point, no being caged in.”
“You seem to worry a lot about me,” he says, perching over you with his legs on either side of your hips. “But what about you?”
“Don’t worry about me.”
“Even I know that’s not usually how these things work.”
“Well, then, look at it this way—you can have what you want this time, and next time we’ll worry about me.”
“Next time?”
“Well, if you have a good time, then next time.” You’re smiling at each other, and he’s really too precious for you to deal with. “Now, really. Just about anything you want I’m okay with, and if you’re not sure it’s not like I’m not here to ask. I am yours to do with as you wish.”
His weight settles into your lap and he’s—light, like a baby bird. You can’t help from bringing your hands up around him, settling them on his waist, and you close your eyes so he doesn’t have to think with you looking at him. You’re tense, though, excited, and it feels like there’s a wire tightly strung in your chest.
There’s a long period where nothing happens. There’s only the steady weight of him in your lap and the warmth of his body beneath your hands.
The first time his hand touches your face, you can’t keep from jumping. After that, though, he’s just… still, again.
It’s… so hard to be patient, to keep your breathing under control. You want to say something, or to try and encourage him, but you told him this was for him, and if he wants to sit here and stare then you’re just going to try not to think about how your face might look under his scrutiny.
His thumb rubs delicately across the skin just beneath your left eye, and then his other hand comes up to fully cup your face between them. His warm breath puffs over your forehead, the only warning before his lips land there in a gentle kiss. You can’t help the shiver that runs down your spine, or the way your skin breaks out in goosebumps.
His thumbs are still rubbing those relaxing lines across your cheeks when he presses kisses to either of your closed eyes, and then one on the bridge of your nose. It’s weird, being treated tenderly here, but you can’t say you don’t like it. His hands are trembling just a little against your face, but you don’t think it’s him being nervous now. You hum low in your throat because he’s hesitating, again, and you may be patient but you’re no saint.
You open your mouth to speak, to say his name, and it’s on your tongue when he finally presses your mouths together. You kiss him back, because of course you do, and it’s chaste, soft, just like the ones he’d placed across your face.
Even as he pulls away from the kiss he’s settling in closer to you, though, and you draw your hands up so they’re cupped around his shoulders instead. You desperately want to know what’s got him stopping and starting so much, and after fifteen seconds or so of him sitting still—just the sounds of breathing between the two of you—you go to pull your hands away, because you’ve obviously made him uncomfortable.
“No,” he says, the first spoken word in what feels like hours but can only be minutes. You try to hum questioningly, still hesitant to talk. “You were fine. I—I’m sorry, this is just something I never thought I’d get to do.”
You crack open your eyes just a little to look at him, worried. His mouth is twisted like he’s trying not to frown, and his eyes look—red, from what you can see.
“Get to do?” you say, as quietly as you can, and you wait to move your hands back just in case it makes him feel trapped against you.
“I never… thought someone would like me enough to—“ He’s really frowning now, and he sighs through his nose like he’s trying to keep it together. “I’m sorry.”
Your stomach is twisted in knots now, sad for him again. You can’t say you know him well, but the fact that anyone would feel like they are so undeserving of any attention at all is awful. You try to smile for him, though, but considering that he’s got his eyes down you doubt he sees it.
“Spencer, don’t be sorry,” you finally bring yourself to say, taking a deep breath because what you want to say next is—invasive, to say the least. “Is… Do you feel like you’re not worthy of affection? Is that what’s going on?” You feel sick even asking, but he’s a grown man and if he doesn’t want to answer then he won’t, surely.
His reply is mumbled the first time, impossible to hear even though there’s barely any other sound in the apartment. You “hmm?” at him to get him to repeat it, and when you hear his tiny “I guess so,” you can’t help but crush him against your chest. God, this sweet boy deserves like ten years worth of hugs.
“You are so worry of attention, and affection, and appreciation,” you say, and he laughs against your neck where you’ve decided his face belongs. He fits against you well, arms wrapped around your shoulders now, and as far as you’re concerned he can stay as long as he likes.
“I like your alliteration,” he says, voice vibrating against your skin and making you laugh just a little.
“I like you,” you say, and he squeezes your shoulders in a hug. “I mean it.”
“I really don’t understand why. You only met me Friday.”
“I’ve just got a feeling. Trust me.” You ruffle his hair with one hand, turning your head to kiss his cheek. “You gonna make it?”
“I don’t think I’m going to drop dead or anything,” he says. “I’m young, it’s statistically unlikely that I’d have a heart attack from just this stress.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear it.” He breathes out against your neck, tickling you again. This can’t carry on or you’re going to start squirming. “Do you… want to watch a movie or something?”
“Why?”
“I want you to be comfortable, honey.” You run your hand up the length of his spine once, twice. “And I think you might have a better time right now if we watched a movie. Unless you wanted to go home?”
“Would you kick me out?”
“No, no, it’s not like that. I just think you’re not going to have a good time like… this. And I’d like to spend some more time with you, but I don’t want you to crawl out of your skin while you do it, that’s all.” You continue rubbing his back, and he slowly relaxes against you.
“I think a movie would be good,” he finally says, leaning back to look you in the eye. His expression is much more relaxed, and there’s that little smile on his face again. You like seeing it, more than anything.
“I’d put my money on you being able to guess what happens, whatever we watch. What do you think?” He laughs and you lean up to peck a kiss on the end of his nose. “Is that okay? A movie?”
“Yeah, I’d—I’d like to stay.”