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“Spencer, I am fine.”
“You don’t look fine,” he countered, equal parts frustration and concern laced in his words.
You looked anything but, if he were being perfectly honest. He supposed he wasn’t looking too great at this point either, but he wasn’t the one who had gotten multiple kicks to the ribs. He couldn’t focus on anything but the way that you clutched at your side, almost forgetting the fact they were still in the middle of a case–that the person who had caused you those injuries was now somewhere in the vast woods.
Somewhere around them.
You grimaced but tried to hide it quickly, schooling your face into a perfect example of neutrality. “Let’s just get this bastard, okay? And then you can worry about me, if you must.”
As if Spencer wasn’t always worried about you.
There was no use arguing with you. You were right, of course–there were bigger fish to fry at the moment. That, however, didn’t stop him from keeping a careful eye on you as the two of you made your way through the dense forest, every crack of a tree branch beneath his feet sending another spark of adrenaline through him.
Despite your injuries, he was having a hard time keeping up with you. He struggled to catch his breath, hyper-aware of the way he was all but panting.
“Wait–” he called out.
You spun around, a finger to your lips. “Sh.” You motioned wordlessly to a thicket of trees in the near distance, just ahead. “Hotch,” you whispered into your earpiece. “We got him. About three hundred yards south of the cabin.”
“Copy.”
Realistically, Spencer knew that the next moments that followed took up the better part of at least five minutes, but to him it truly felt like mere seconds. There was a whirlwind of motion, his eyes still struggling to adjust to the ever-mounting darkness as the rest of the team quickly joined them. You and Derek proceeded with your previously discussed plan, the two of you leaping into action, always the two people most quick to get involved in the physical aspect of a takedown. Spencer loved and hated that about you both, in equal measure.
Why did he hate it? Well, because of times exactly like this.
He heard Derek’s announcement of “He’s got a weapon!” before he could even process it. He ran straight towards the scuffle, but it didn’t matter. You and Derek had it handled. You always did.
You let out a low oof as limbs flailed, something that Spencer didn’t miss, but that was soon overshadowed by Derek leading the unsub away in handcuffs, the wailing of sirens in the distance growing louder.
As the crowd of agents and officers dispersed, everyone heading back to the waiting vehicles, Spencer hurried over to you, his run an odd sort of half-jog. “Slow down,” he called.
You obliged, but only a little, obviously in a hurry to get this over and done with and get back to the hotel. He couldn’t really blame you there. It had been nine long, sleepless nights and all he wanted to do was crawl under the covers.
After he made sure you were alright, of course.
“You okay?”
You nodded, and it was almost convincing. Almost, but not quite. It was the adrenaline, he told himself. You were still operating under the rush of the last hour, but it wouldn’t take long before it wore off.
All Spencer knew was that when it did, he’d be there. Always.
They finally made it out of the woods and onto the dimly lit gravel driveway. The team’s SUVs sat at one end, a handful of police cars across the way. “Where’s the ambulance?” he asked.
“Spence, I’m pretty sure the nearest hospital is at least two hours away. They have the one doctor in town, remember?”
Right. He had almost forgotten that they were in what amounted to the middle of nowhere.
“Okay.” He nodded. “We’ll take you over there then.”
The look on your face could only be described as completely and utterly baffled. “What? It’s like ten o’clock at night.”
“And? You’re hurt.”
You shook your head. “Nuh-uh, we are not bothering Dr. Jacoby over some bruised ribs. I am fine.”
“Y/N.”
“Spencer.”
You held his gaze without wavering, and Spencer knew there was no use. You were stubborn as all hell. It was one of the things he loved most about you, if he were being entirely truthful.
Well, one of the things he loved usually. Right now, he just wanted to drag you to the doctor, but you were probably right. It was late after all, and you had said it was just a few bruised ribs. He weighed it over in his head, ultimately deciding that he would just make you go in the morning. Just in case.
He tried not to think about exactly why this was so important to him, why he felt so certain that he needed to make sure you were okay, that you were safe. It’s what he would do for anyone on the team. At least, that’s what he tried to tell himself.
“Fine.” He opened the passenger door to one of the SUVs. “But I’m driving you back to the hotel.”
You got in without your usual grumbles of disagreement, which told him more than any words could. You might be pretending to be fine, but you were in pain.
The ride back was silent, the wind whipping through the open windows the only noise. You always insisted on riding with the windows down, and Spencer had started to associate you with the sensation of fresh air, a cool night’s breeze. Not that he would ever tell you this.
There were a lot of things Spencer would never tell you.
He shook the thought of his ridiculous crush from his mind, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. You were slumped against the door, your face tilted up as you inhaled the night air.
“Doing okay?” he asked.
You rolled your eyes but nodded. “Yep. Fine. Just ready to sleep.”
Spencer definitely couldn’t disagree with you there.
Once back at the hotel, he insisted on walking you to your room, despite your half-hearted protests. The moment the door clicked shut behind you, he snapped on the lights. They were dim, flickering from time to time, but they were better than nothing.
“Alright,” he said, motioning vaguely at you.
You stared at him blankly, waiting for further clarification, but none came. “Alright what?”
“While you’ve said that you’re fine so much that the word has lost all meaning, I’ll be damned if I let you just go to sleep.” You arched an eyebrow at him, and he continued, “You could–you could have internal bleeding for all we know! So, let me have a look.”
Your mouth dropped open and you fanned a hand dramatically in front of your face. “Doctor Reid! If you wanted me to take my clothes off, all you had to do was ask.”
Spencer inhaled so sharply that he almost choked on air, coughing out a pitiful, “I–that’s not what I–”
You laughed, bright and clear and borderline delirious. So this was what your adrenaline crash looked like. And, well, he couldn’t really say that he disliked it. Actually, he couldn’t really say much of anything at the moment. He was still stammering, the heat rushing to his cheeks as your words played on a loop.
“Relax, Spence.” You shook your head. “You worry too much.” You sank down onto the edge of the bed, and it felt like he could see the instant the last bit of your energy all but evaporated as your shoulders slumped, the tension leaving your body. You stared up at him expectantly.
It took him longer than he cared to admit to realize what you were waiting for. “Um.” He cleared his throat. “Can you–can you take off your shirt?”
He almost expected you to make another quip, but you just nodded wearily and shrugged out of your jacket first. It felt as though all of the oxygen had been sucked out of the room as he tried not to watch you tug the hem of your shirt up. You got it about halfway up before you grimaced, hand moving instinctively to your shoulder.
“I must have pulled something,” you muttered. “Can you help me?”
He nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak. Instead, he sat down beside you, reaching for your shirt. It was only then that he allowed himself to finally look at you again.
And that was when he noticed the jagged cut in your shirt and the dark, barely visible stain in the black fabric, just below the neckline. He drew in a quick breath, his eyes widening. “You’re bleeding.”
“What?” You twisted in an attempt to see, wincing. “No, I’m not.”
Spencer grasped your chin in his hand, gently turning your face away. “Yes, you are. And stop moving.”
“You’re cute when you’re bossy,” you said, so softly he almost didn’t hear it.
He cleared his throat again, deciding the best course of action was to pretend that he, in fact, did not hear it. It was just the exhaustion, after all. No use dwelling on fantasies. He set to work once more on the task at hand, methodically removing your shirt. He slipped your good arm out first, then carefully tugged it up and over your injured shoulder until it was finally off.
It was difficult to make out in the faint light, but he turned his focus to the gash that ran from the top of your shoulder to just below your collarbone. Thankfully it wasn’t too deep–not quite superficial, but not quite bad enough to warrant stitches.
“What’s the verdict, doc?”
Spencer barely realized that he hadn’t said a word, his gaze locked on your injury as he desperately tried to ignore the fact that you were now shirtless beside him. Shirtless and injured, he chastised himself. Now was not the time to be getting flustered.
He tried to snap out of his stupor. “It doesn’t look too deep, so I think you’ll be alright. We just gotta get you cleaned up and bandaged.”
You let out a yawn. “And then I can go to bed?”
He nodded, unable to contain the smile that spread across his face at just how absolutely, undeniably adorable you were. Especially when you were looking at him like that, all soft and sleepy and unguarded. You grinned back at him and if he didn’t know better, he would have sworn that he felt his heart skip a beat.
He needed to focus. He turned away much more forcefully than he had intended, busying himself with gathering the necessary supplies. Luckily, you were all well-trained in injury, which meant that everyone had a first aid kit handy in their go-bag. He pulled yours out and set it on the counter before grabbing a clean towel.
By the time he made it back over to you, first aid kit and damp cloth in hand, you were leaning back against the headboard, propping yourself up with what looked like considerable effort. He gingerly placed a pillow behind your back before sinking down beside you.
Spencer lifted the cloth but hesitated, his hand hovering just above the cut. He eyed you cautiously. “You ready? This might sting.”
You huffed impatiently. “Yes, Spencer. I’ll be fine.”
He didn’t even bother to resist the sudden impulse to roll his eyes. You were so absolutely, infuriatingly stubborn.
He pressed the towel to your shoulder as gently as he could, wiping off the dried blood first and avoiding the actual wound for as long as possible. The closer he got to the cut, the more he could see you gritting your teeth, trying to hold back a visible wince.
He worked wordlessly, acutely aware of the fact that he was holding his breath, that he was close enough to you that he could kiss you if he wanted to–and god, did he want to. He always wanted to, to tell the truth.
Finally satisfied that he had cleaned and dried the laceration as best he could, he gingerly bandaged it, pressing just firmly enough for the adhesive to adhere. You hissed, and he drew his hand back at once. “Sorry.”
The real, honest shock that you didn’t spit out an “I’m fine ” is what made Spencer look up at you more than anything else. You refused to meet his eyes even when he whispered your name, it coming out an uncertain question. The silence scared him, and he took your chin in his hand once more, delicately turning your face towards his.
You swallowed thickly before your eyes finally met his. They were wide and filled with unshed tears, and he felt the unfamiliar urge to reach out and wipe them away before they had even fallen.
“I’m sorry.” It came out a broken whisper, and the pain in your voice made Spencer’s heart ache.
He shook his head. “You have nothing to be sorry for. It’s okay to admit that it hurts.” You said nothing in return, just drew your lower lip between your teeth in an effort to fight back the tears. He continued, “I mean it. Nothing you could do would ever make me think any less of you.”
You were almost, almost smiling–albeit a watery sort of half-smile, but it was just almost there. Spencer reached over and booped you on the nose–something you always did to him–just in the hopes that it would make you laugh.
And it worked. For just a moment. You let out a startled laugh, but he barely had the chance to grin at you in return before it gave way to a sob, and in a split second you were gasping for air, the tears that you had tried so dutifully to wish away finally falling.
“Hey, hey, Y/N. It’s okay, everything’s okay.” Spencer pulled you into his arms, blinking away his own tears as you all but melted into him, your head falling to his chest. “It’s over, you’re safe. I’m right here.” You reached for his hand, clutching it as though it were a lifeline. Surprise flashed across his face before he interlaced his fingers with yours. He gave your hand a tight squeeze, sure and steady.
The two of you stayed just like that, intertwined with one another as the dim lights flickered above. Without thinking, he traced a finger from the top of your forehead to the tip of your nose, a remnant from his childhood. It had always served to calm him when he was younger, and he repeated the motion again and again as your sobs subsided, your shuddering breaths slowing.
“I–I’m sorry,” you hiccupped, face buried in his shirt.
“Mm-mm, you don’t need to be sorry.” Spencer didn’t mind saying it again. He’d say it as many times as it took. He had long ago realized that he would say anything, would do anything for you; some might say that that was a dangerous thing, but he knew that it was anything but. It was exactly right.
You pulled out of his grasp, just a little, and wrinkled your nose. “I think I got snot on your shirt.”
He snorted out a laugh, delighting in the tiny smile it elicited from you. “That’s alright.”
The two of you simply stared at one another, time almost ceasing to exist. Spencer wondered, not for the first time and certainly not the last, how on earth one person could be so breathtaking, so exquisite.
And then you yawned. “‘m tired,” you mumbled, blinking slowly and looking so adorable that he was sure he would never recover.
He nodded. “It’s been a long day, let’s get you to bed.”
You unceremoniously pulled the covers down. Spencer took a second to assess your injuries one last time as you crawled beneath them. Besides the now bandaged cut, he could see angry splotches of bruising beginning to form along your ribcage. He winced as though the pain you must have been feeling was his own.
You snuggled up under the blankets, curling up on your uninjured side as your head dropped to the pillow. He knelt down until the two of you were face to face. “Do you need anything?” he asked. “Pain killers? I can grab you some ice or–”
“You,” you said.
He blinked in surprise, certain he had misheard you. “What?”
“I need you.”
“You’ve got me.” He said it as though it were an irrefutable fact, undeniable and true.
It was.
“I’ve got you?” you repeated quietly.
He nodded. “Always.”
“Good.” The most perfect smile that he had ever seen spread slowly across your face. “Then come to bed.”
His mouth dropped open and he gaped at you, all too aware that he looked like a fish out of water gasping for air. “Um, I–” He coughed. “What?”
“Come to bed.” You pouted dramatically, and he felt every last reservation dissipate. “Please?”
He couldn’t find any words, couldn’t form a coherent thought. Instead he nodded. “Okay. I’m just–let me grab my stuff.” He turned and left the room before you could respond, his pulse thrumming loudly in his ears as he entered his own room. He changed quickly–perhaps faster than he ever had–before rushing into the bathroom and brushing his teeth. His bewildered reflection stared back at him from the mirror, wild-haired and wide-eyed, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose.
This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. Spencer scarcely dared to breathe. He had half a thought that it was a cruel joke, a trick of the mind. Surely he’d walk back into your room and you’d tell him that you’d been kidding.
Even as those thoughts plagued his mind, he knew that he couldn’t leave you alone. Not when you were hurt, not after you had just spent the better part of half an hour crying into his shirt.
If he were being honest, though, he never wanted to leave you alone. Not really.
He walked briskly back down the hotel hallway, opening the door to your room and stepping in before he could psych himself out. He almost expected you to be fast asleep, though he had only been gone for a few minutes, but there you were, smiling up at him.
You had moved over, presumably to make room for him, and just that little fact threatened to undo him completely. And then your eyes swept over him from head to toe, your blatant inspection causing the heat to rush to his face once more. He shifted from foot to foot, heavily regretting his choice of pajamas: flannel pants covered in cartoon dinosaurs and an oversized Circus Circus t-shirt.
“Sleep?” you asked, blissfully breaking him out of his embarrassment.
Spencer nodded. “Sleep.” He turned off the lights and crawled under the covers, intensely aware of just how close you were. He could feel the heat radiating from your body, felt his fingers itch with the urge to reach out and touch you.
And then you snuggled into his side, your head coming to rest on his chest. “Is this okay?”
It was most certainly more than okay. He nodded before realizing you couldn’t see him. “Mhm, yeah, this is–this is fine.”
Understatement of the century.
A comfortable silence settled over the room, and all Spencer could think about was your body against his, your hand resting on his heart. He was certain that you could feel how quickly it was beating, could sense his longing just from mere touch alone.
“What are you thinking about?” He asked it to distract himself from his own thoughts more than anything, to fill the room with something other than his almost tangible desire to lean down and kiss you.
“I really love your pajamas,” you murmured. He laughed, but you seemed to correct yourself, continuing, “Actually, that’s a lie. That’s not what I was thinking.”
“Oh, yeah?” If he was a betting man, he would have put money on the fact that you were about to insult his pajamas, just to get one last jab in before bed. He certainly wouldn’t put it past you.
But then you reached up and tugged on one of his curls. “I was thinking that I really love all of you.”
There was the briefest instant of disorientation as the meaning of your words settled upon him. He blinked a few times, trying to wrap his head around them. He had dreamed of hearing them so many times in so many ways, but he just–he never thought they were actually words that he would ever hear. That they were actually words that you would ever mean. A million thoughts, a million possible responses raced through his head, but he ultimately settled upon the honest truth, plain and simple: “I really love all of you, too.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, and as you sighed and nestled even further into his arms he came to the startlingly clear realization: that he had everything he could ever need. That he was just exactly where he needed to be.
He had meant what he said: he’s got you. In fact, he had never meant anything more.