Work Text:
By the time Spencer got to Lola’s apartment, it was already past noon.
They’d texted earlier—just a quiet little back-and-forth, mostly emojis and a picture of Zelda sprawled dramatically across Lola’s pillows wearing a tiny paper hat and the most offended cat face Spencer had ever seen. Lola said she didn’t sleep until almost sunrise.
Ms. DeLuxe: Just got home. Feet dead. Glitter in places there shouldn't be glitter. Happy New Year, Doctor Genius.
He offered to come by with food. She didn’t argue.
She opened the door in a vintage Depeche Mode t-shirt that must have remembered the original release of Violator. Her hair was shedding glitter, piled up in a messy bun that looked like it was held together by sheer willpower and maybe two bobby pins. She looked like she’d just crawled out of a nap that lasted either fifteen minutes or ten hours.
Spencer thought she looked perfect.
“Hey,” she said, voice raspy, soft. “You’re real.”
He held up a brown paper bag and a cardboard cup carrier with two lattes and said, “I bring sustenance.”
“Carbs and caffeine. My hero,” she muttered, stepping aside. “Come in before Zelda decides you’re prey.”
Zelda, in fact, was stationed on the windowsill, gazing at them like a disdainful little gargoyle.
The apartment was warm and dim and a little cluttered, as usual. Full of books, records, costume bits, and props Spencer knew better than to ask about. A cinnamon-vanilla candle flickered on the kitchen shelf, safely out of reach of feline sabotage. Everything smelled like sugar and comfort and a little bit of lavender.
“God, you’re spoiling me,” Lola murmured, cradling her latte with both hands like it was holy.
“You ran an entire show last night. You deserve spoiling.”
She sipped, blinked at him. “Do you ever get hangovers?”
He shook his head. “Not unless I drink half a bottle of absinthe.”
She gave him a flat look. “Have you ever actually done that?”
“I’ll plead the fifth.”
Lola laughed. It turned into a yawn halfway through.
They ate reheated croissants and fancy scrambled eggs he picked up from a café near his place. Lola watched as he unpacked everything with an easy familiarity, and she leaned on the counter like they’d done this a hundred times before. Like it was normal. Like they were.
At some point, she made a sleepy little noise and just… slumped sideways into him, forehead resting against his shoulder like gravity had made an executive decision.
He didn’t move. Just reached up and tucked a loose strand of glittery hair behind her ear.
Later, they curled up on her couch under a slightly scratchy throw blanket that had tassels in places tassels didn’t need to be. She was half on top of him, legs tangled with his, her cheek against his chest. They watched a documentary on bird migration and then something ridiculous involving baking and sabotage. Spencer made dry observations. Lola heckled the narration. Zelda briefly attacked the blanket fringe and then retreated with disdain.
They dozed. They stirred. They existed, beautifully.
Spencer’s phone buzzed once. He checked the alert—FBI dispatch update—but didn’t move. He was on call, not needed. Lola was soft and quiet against him, her breathing warm where it touched the fabric of his cardigan.
It wasn’t until the sunlight started tilting low and orange through the windows that she stretched and blinked up at him. “So. You told them?”
He shifted slightly to look at her. “The team?”
“Mhm. I’m guessing someone connected the dots.”
“Garcia,” he said. “Of course.”
Lola laughed, quiet and dry. “Of course.”
“She asked why I came alone last night. I said you were working. She did the math.”
“And?”
“And then everyone made fun of me for blushing.”
Her mouth curved. “You blushed?”
“Apparently I do that.”
“I know,” she said, pressing her face into his chest again, smug now. “It’s adorable.”
There was a pause. Not a heavy one—just the kind that stretched comfortably when two people didn’t feel the need to fill it.
Then he added, almost offhand, “Rossi saw me call you.”
She lifted her head slightly, curious.
“He said I shouldn’t overthink a good thing.”
She brushed her thumb across his chest, over the fabric of his soft grey cardigan. “He’s not wrong.”
Spencer was quiet again for a moment, then: “Do you think this is a good thing?”
She lifted her head just enough to meet his eyes, one brow raised. “Are you asking me that today, while I’m still half-covered in last night’s body glitter, unshowered, and lying on top of you like a human pancake?”
“Yes?”
Her smile turned slow, and warm, and quietly devastating. “Then yeah. I think this is a very good thing.”
They sank back into the cushions. Minutes passed. Maybe hours. Eventually, she murmured, “Did you make any resolutions?”
He shook his head. “No. I’m trying to stop giving myself goals that require me to fundamentally become a different person.”
She snorted. “That’s the healthiest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”
“You?”
“Not really. Just… you know. Eat real food. Sleep more. Let someone be nice to me without having an existential crisis about whether I deserve it.”
Spencer huffed a soft laugh. “That last one seems oddly specific.”
“Weird, huh?”
His hand came to rest against the curve of her back, warm and steady. “I’d like to be nice to you. Consistently. Not just on holidays.”
Her voice was quiet. “I’d like that too.”
Maybe this was what it was supposed to feel like. Not fireworks or declarations. Just coffee and quiet. Glitter on the pillowcase. Croissants on the counter. A warm, steady hand on your back.
Someone falling asleep next to you because you make them feel safe.
Their first New Year’s Day.
The first of many, he hoped.