Chapter Text
It's been one of the worst cases in a while, so disturbing even Garcia couldn't manage a joke in that last call. For three weeks you've all been unwilling residents inside the head of an unsub who frankly needed to do some spring cleaning in there.
The hum of the jet and the silence of your devices says it's okay, the case is over, you're going home now. Hotch has been quietly chatting on the phone to his kiddo asking how this week's game was and if he's been eating well. Emily's enjoying a well deserved podcast. Morgan and Rossi have snagged the sofas, not that they haven't earned it - the both of them stayed up all night interrogating that suspect.
JJ hasn't stopped working, a whole table and three extra chairs taken up by papers and diagrams.
And at first you and Spencer were the same. Going back and forth on the geographical profile, trying to work out where those theoretical extra sixty-five bodies might be buried. But after twenty minutes of Spencer describing how pond water differently affects decomposition, you've tapped out.
You turned to the window and he turned to his book.
Your intention was to try meditation - the therapist has been recommending it for weeks and with a minute to spare what could it hurt?
Unfortunately for you, exhaustion can only be ignored for so long before it makes itself heard, so meditation takes a backseat to a much needed nap.
You've now been asleep for the last fifteen minutes of the journey. He's been timing it.
Spencer doesn't consciously track the sleeping habits of the team, it just happens.
His brain can't help but notice how many cups of coffee Garcia needs before she's her sparkly self, or Hotch closing his blinds to steal a tight twenty minutes of shut eye when he has the chance. JJ mentioning Henry kept her up all night with a stomach bug, Rossi lightly complaining about old age insomnia, Morgan being a little more door-kicky than usual.
It all just adds up. Analysis of the team's nighttime patterns happens all by itself.
Your case is of particular interest to him though.
The whole team knows your history, knows about the PTSD, of course they do. You trust them. It doesn't come up much and you try not to let it affect the work but it occasionally bleeds through.
You gave up trying not to sleep in front of the team a long time ago, the cases and the hours simply don't allow for that level of privacy. So you had to give the awkward 'I might have the occasional nightmare, it's normal, just ignore it, I have a bunch of coping mechanisms to handle it by myself, I'll be fine' sort of talk before starting to let yourself nap on the jet or at the office from time to time.
That was enough for most of the team. Hotch checks in about once a month and has you set up with one of the FBI's in house therapists. The others all tend to nod at you understandingly and have pretty much all separately made it clear that they're here for you if you ever need them, and that's really all you need.
Spencer though. He can't help dozens of studies coming to mind about sleep hygiene. He can't stop himself from mentally drawing up sleep schedules he wishes he could give you. He can't resist impotent late night research that he never tells you about. But you were very clear in the beginning that you didn't want things to be weird and he had been quite successful in holding back so far.
It hurts him to turn away and not even be able to offer a simple comfort afterward. You tend to just get up, compose yourself in the bathroom and then just go about your day, without leaving a gap for so much as a 'are you alright'.
He continues turning the pages, the book in his hands becomes a prop as he focuses on counting your breath to the minute, tracks back to try and pinpoint exactly how long its been since you fell asleep. It feels creepy in a way, to be monitoring you like this. But he has to know.
Time passes uneventfully and as the 90 minute mark approaches, he glances up from his book more frequently. You should be entering REM sleep any moment now.
This is the point during your naps that you usually start twitching, tossing and turning. Nightmares are more common during REM and with PTSD in the mix the odds are kind of stacked against you.
But... that's strange.
Here Spencer is ready to track the length of each nightmare and the time between to estimate just how bad your REM sleep is and... you're not stirring.
No twitching. Nothing. Just steady breaths, rising and falling.
Maybe today's a good day. They're rare but they happen. No nightmares.
He's been trying to track those, the times when a nap is just a nap. If only he could bottle whatever it is that makes your sleep peaceful and undisturbed on those days.
The temperature in here, the recline of the chair, the material of today's outfit, what you've been eating, how much water you've had today, hormones, all the data swirls unhelpfully in his mind. Any one of these factors could be why your breaths are coming deep and slow instead of shallow and quick. Better note it all down in his journal.
He reaches down to his left, where his bag...is not sitting where it usually is.
"Emily," he whispers. "Where's my bag?"
She glances between the two of you and smiles.
"You left it by the door. On the left."
"Thanks."
Spencer slowly stands and slides out from the table, walks lightly to the back of the jet. And there's his bag, right by the door where he left it with the notebook slotted inside.
He flips to the back where he's been shorthanding encoded notes on your situation. Nothing huge just times and little noticed patterns. He knows, he does know it's weird. But this team is his family. You are his family. The people he cares about most, the ones he'd do anything for. He can't bring himself to sit and do nothing much longer.
There's a quiet shuffle somewhere down the aisle. You're...stirring.
Spencer hastily brings his bag and the notebook back with him to the seat and retakes his place beside you. Scrunched brows, tense jaw, hunched shoulders, definitely winding up into a nightmare.
He flips through his notebook - there's a page here somewhere with theories on how he might subtly ease you out of a nightmare. Playing quiet music perhaps or...
Nevermind.
Nevermind because your breathing is slowing down again, your brow is smooth, and your hands are unclenching. It must already be over.
Unusual for the nightmares to be so short, even for someone who's REM sleep is constantly being disturbed by a nervous system struck by hyperarousal...
He turns another page -
Ah. The sound of the pages - that could be it!
He casts his mind back to all the times your sleep has been less disturbed.
78% of uninterrupted sleep on the jet and at the office happened...while Spencer was reading nearby. It seems obvious in hindsight - the constant sound of paper sliding over paper must act like a sort of white noise machine - a method of better sleep hygiene he'd been considering bringing up with you.
Now to test the theory.
He picks back up his book and resumes reading, checking on you regularly from the corner of his eye.
And it works. Another hour passes uneventfully. White noise definitely helps - Spencer resolves to check youtube for any sleep aids with page turning content. Although he's not sure how to explain the process of how he made the connection without sounding weird.
"Hey, do you -"
"Shhhhh," he interrupts, a little more harshly than he really means to.
It's Morgan, glancing between the two of you knowingly.
"Sorry," he offers, much quieter. "Just woke up and I was wondering if you guys made any progress on those bodies."
Spencer shrugs. "We went back and forth a little but - can we talk about this when we get back?"
He throws his eyes pointedly in your direction and Morgan nods again.
"Sure. I understand," he smirks.
Spencer blinks owlishly. "You do?"
Morgan just gives him another knowing look, then straightens and takes a seat a little ways down the aisle. If only Spencer could understand the knowing of that knowing look.
Instead he's going back to his book, trying to keep the same steady pace of reading and therefore page turning.
When the plane tilts a little and your limp body leans up against him, he barely registers it at first. Somewhere in his head he's busy gladly and caringly noting that mild turbulence doesn't seem to affect your sleep.
But then you're curling in closer against him and your body feels so warm pressed to his, even through the fabric of his shirt and jumper. Your cheek is soft against his shoulder. Your shampoo, cherry sweet, smells much stronger this close. And the rhythmic push and pull of your body as you breathe against him is hard to ignore.
Spencer isn't sure why but that warmth spreads to his cheeks and he finds himself glad of the book shielding his face.
The plane comes in to land at the 215 minute mark, 25 minutes too soon. One good cycle of sleep with maximum benefits lasts about 4 hours.
Rossi taps Spencer's shoulder, quirking an eyebrow suggestively when he looks up from the book.
"Hm?"
"Must be a good book for you to get so wrapped up. Plane's landed, kid. We should wake -"
"Oh no, sorry," Spencer cuts in, quietly. "We'll catch up in thirty minutes."
Rossi shrugs. "Alright. You uh...you two have fun."
Spencer doesn't reply, distracted by realising he forgot to keep turning the pages. He misses Rossi's uncle-like tone of approval at the two of you together like this, just like he misses the others all filing out after him, each eying the still seated pair with amusement.
Because there's only 23 minutes.
23 minutes and then you'll have had a full cycle of sleep.
23 minutes and that'll mark a solid four hours with only one small nightmare incident.
Enough time to start working on an explanation for why the plane's empty except for the two of you..
---
You wake to quiet. Unusual quiet, for a jet. Comfy though. Again unusual.
You have a lot of love for your job and the convenience of the private jet taking you wherever you need to go in order to get that job done. But the constant drone of the engines, the motion sickness, the dry recycled air, the jetlag, the way it plays havoc with an already unsteady sleep cycle...the jet isn't your favourite place in the world.
When you open your eyes you realise just why it's so unusually comfy today.
"Hey."
Spencer.
You fell asleep next to him.
And now you're waking up on him.
His arm, specifically. And he's grinning that awkward white people passing each other in the street grin down at you.
"God, sorry -"
"There's nothing to apologise for. How did you sleep?"
"Uh -"
For a moment you focus on detaching yourself from him and sitting up, running a hand through bed head hair. Your shoulder feels a little cold in the absence of his.
"Fine. Good. Tell me I didn't drool on you," you laugh, hoping to turn it into an awkward joke.
"You don't drool in your sleep, you tend to breathe through your nose," he informs you.
You don't question why he knows that. Spencer knowing stuff most people wouldn't is nothing new to you considering he drops obscure facts on the regular.
You hear him awkwardly clear his throat a little; the quiet of the engines and stillness around you finally catches up to you.
"Have we landed??"
He nibbles is his lower lip a little, attentive expression tracking eyes finally wandering.
"I noticed that maybe you were missing out on some sleep - I mean we all have with this last case but you seemed extra tired and I hope you don't mind but, well, I thought we'd stay a little longer after landing so you could hit four hours which -"
"I've been asleep for four hours??" you interrupt, shooting to your feet. "Shit, I was supposed to try meditation and - and I was gonna call the electrician before six - I'm sorry, I really need to get going."
You sideways shimmy past him into the aisle. Spencer stands too, tapping nervously on his book. You go for your bag in the overhead and rifle through for your phone.
"When you have some spare time, I have some things I really need to discuss with you."
"Sure, I'll - um..." you trail off as you scan your notifications. "Is it an email thing or a call thing?"
"Actually maybe we could meet up just before work tomorrow? Breakfast on me? Honey?" he adds, with another awkward smile.
You nod, struggling into your jacket.
"Sure, all good. I'm sorry, I really have to go," you repeat, already heading to the door. "Bye, pancake!"
In your rush, you don't catch the way he smiles at you remembering the nicknames, even in your hurry.