Chapter Text
The go-bag sat half-zipped on the bed, and Spencer was already three steps ahead — flipping through the case briefing in his mind, mentally sorting for patterns, estimating how long they’d be gone. Fifteen to twenty percent chance of a fast solve, seventy-five for a long haul. He packed accordingly.
His eyes kept flicking to the clock. It was barely past six, but the sky was already dark, heavy with stormclouds, pressed low to the city. A good match, he thought grimly, for the quiet pressure behind his ribs.
He shoved an extra sweater into the side pocket without folding it, trying not to glance at the door. Of course, he did anyway.
Lola was leaning on the frame, one arm across her chest, mug in hand, her fingers curled too tightly around the ceramic. Her mouth was drawn into something close to a smirk, but her posture didn’t match. It made his skin itch, like he was missing something in plain sight.
“Going for the record on speed-packing there, Doc?” she said, lifting a brow.
Spencer gave a small, apologetic smile. “Fifteen minutes from call to car,” he said, tugging at the zipper again. It snagged on something. He didn’t fix it.
“You’d think the FBI would spring for teleportation by now,” she said lightly. Too lightly.
He heard the rhythm of her fingers tapping against her bicep and catalogued it like a data point. Restlessness. Elevated tension. But he didn’t know what to do with it — not without opening a whole conversation they didn’t have time for.
He thought about crossing the room. Kissing her. Saying something that might smooth out the rough edges under both their skin. But her posture was guarded — like a door halfway shut — and he hesitated.
“I know this sucks,” he said, adjusting the strap on his shoulder. “I hate leaving like this. It’s always—”
“Spencer,” she interrupted, forcing a smile as she stepped toward him. “It’s okay. Really. You’re not doing this on purpose. I'll manage.”
"Are you sure?"
“What do you want me to say? ‘Nooo, please don’t go catch a murderer because I want you to stay and watch QI with me?’”
He blinked. “That… would be nice,” he said — too earnestly.
Her mouth twitched, caught somewhere between affection and annoyance. “Don’t tempt me.”
He hated this part. The in-between. The packing and rushing and pretending it didn’t matter that they’d barely finished dinner together before the universe demanded he go chase another horror story. He opened his mouth to say so, to tell her how much it weighed on him, but then second-guessed himself. She didn’t need that on top of everything else.
“I’ll text you when we land,” he said, even as a sharp beep from his phone reminded him he needed to hurry. “Maybe call if I can sneak away.”
She waved a hand, brushing it off like a minor detail. “You don’t have to do that. I’ll assume you’re alive unless someone with a badge knocks on my door.”
“Let’s not make that the system.” He tried to laugh. It didn’t quite land. “Still… I don’t like disappearing on you.”
She gave him a look—something between fondness and exasperation. "Spencer, I’m not going to fall apart because you’re gone for a few days. I have Zelda with me. She’ll make sure I don’t join a cult.”
He smiled, grateful she made it easy. Even if part of him couldn’t shake the sense that she was giving him an out — letting him skip the hard part, because he wasn’t sure how to do it differently either.
For a long second, the silence between them stretched.
He wanted to tell her that this wasn’t easy for him either, that he hated the feeling of leaving her mid-sentence, mid-week, mid-everything. But it all sounded too heavy, too messy, and if he was honest, he didn’t know where the line was between reassuring her and sharing too much.
So instead he said, “I’ll make it up to you. Movie night when I’m back. Thai food. Zelda gets first pick of the seat.”
She rolled her eyes, and this time the humor sounded more real. "It's your job, Spencer. You don't have to make up for it."
But she didn’t say no.
Her gaze flicked back to the bag, and for a second he thought about the last time he’d come home late, blood on his jacket and rings under his eyes, and she’d said nothing but handed him a glass of water and her favorite fuzzy socks. She never made a fuss. He just wasn’t sure if that meant she was fine with it… or just didn’t expect anything else.
“Just promise you won’t bring home another bloodstained jacket,” she added, deadpan, as if reading his thoughts. “Last time I thought you were cosplaying Reservoir Dogs.”
“Noted.” That earned a real laugh, even if it was laced with the familiar way she used humor to redirect. He stepped closer and brushed a kiss against her forehead. She didn’t lean in, but she didn’t pull away either. Just rested her hand on his arm for a second longer than necessary.
“I’ll see you soon.”
“Yeah. Go save the world, genius.”
He stepped out into the hallway, the door closing behind him with a soft click, and that familiar weight settled in his chest.
The distance always started before he left.
The club was silent, still locked in the hours of prep before showtime. Lola ran her finger along the polished brass bar rail, absently checking for smudges she knew weren't there. The house lights were low, casting the room in deep, theatrical shadows, but the stage sat waiting under the spotlights like a question.
Usually, the sight grounded her. Routine, performance. Control.
Tonight, it just looked empty.
She’d reminded herself — at least four times since Spencer left — that she’d been alone for years and done just fine. Better than fine. She’d built a life, a career, a name — carved it out with her own hands. She didn’t need anyone to hold her together.
So why was she counting the hours since he’d left?
Why did her skin buzz like it was somehow tuned to the frequency of him, and the absence was all she could hear?
She turned her phone over in her hand again. No new messages. Of course not.
“Come on, Lola,” she muttered, setting it face down on the bar as if that would erase the evidence of her own behavior. “You’re not a teenager.”
The front door creaked open, and Sylvia breezed in, a stack of paperwork tucked under one arm. She paused when she spotted her.
“You look like you're trying to do your taxes in your head. You okay?”
“I’m fine,” Lola said — too fast. She grabbed a clipboard off the counter, held it up like a prop. “Just going over tonight’s lineup.”
Sylvia glanced at the clipboard — upside down — then back at her. “Uh-huh. That why you’ve been staring into space for twenty minutes?”
Lola’s cheeks flushed. She flipped the clipboard the right way with exaggerated grace. “I’m mentally rehearsing.”
Sylvia set down her stack with a thump and leaned against the bar, giving Lola a knowing look. “Rehearsing, or waiting for a certain someone to text you?”
Lola snorted. “Please. Spencer’s on a case, it’s not like he’s gonna be checking in every five minutes." She waved a hand. “He’s out saving lives, Sylvia. I’m not that person.”
“Mhm. And yet…” Sylvia gestured loosely at her, eyebrows raised.
“It’s not about needing reassurance,” Lola said, more quietly now. Her fingers toyed with the edge of the clipboard. “I just… I don’t know. I get it. I knew what I was signing up for. I respect what he does. I’d just rather not feel like I’m... losing something every time he walks out the door.”
Sylvia’s expression softened. “Yeah. Sometimes you don’t realize how much effort it takes to be okay with something until you’re already exhausted from pretending it’s easy.”
Lola looked down. It wasn’t fair to him, she knew that. He hadn’t done anything wrong. He’d kissed her forehead, promised to text, and left — like he always did. Like he had to.
And yet. Every time the door clicked shut, it echoed.
Her mother had taught her early that relying on anyone was a mistake. No man will be there to save you, she'd say. Make sure you can handle every problem on your own. And it's not like her stepfather, or any of the few relationships she had before leaving for the US, did much to prove this theory otherwise.
She’d clawed her way out of that. Therapy. Work. Distance. A whole new country. But apparently that old nugget of motherly wisdom was still deeply buried in places she hadn't reached yet. It still whispered: Don’t ask. Don’t hope. Don’t need too much.
“I think it’s just…” Lola trailed off, tapping her fingers against the bar. “I’m afraid one day, maybe he won’t.”
“Won’t what?” Sylvia’s voice was soft, the way it got when she meant it.
Lola gestured vaguely. “Come back. Or keep choosing this. Me. This place. All of it. Maybe I’ll ask for the wrong thing at the wrong time, and that’ll be it.”
Sylvia shook her head, leaning closer. “Lola, that man is head over heels for you. You said he’s a damn genius. Could be anywhere he wanted. He chooses to be here. That's not nothing.”
Lola tried to smile, but it felt strained. “I just don’t want to be that person who’s… clingy. You know? Like, if he has to go, I should just be fine with it. Not hang around waiting for him to be done.”
“Being in love isn’t clingy,” Sylvia replied. “You can stand on your own and still have feelings about someone leaving. Doesn’t make you needy. It makes you human.”
Lola gave a dry laugh — not unkind, just tired. “I wish my brain knew that.”
But the words stuck. Even after Sylvia moved off to tackle her never-ending pile of paperwork, they stayed lodged somewhere inside her.
She lingered at the bar, fingers brushing the surface. Looked at the phone again.
Picked it up. Opened Spencer’s messages. Typed:
Hey… thinking of you. Let me know when you’re settled.
She stared at it for a beat.
Then, slowly, hit backspace until the screen was blank again.
He’d text her when he could. He always did. And if he didn’t, well—maybe that was information too.
She locked the phone, shoved it deep into her bag.
Don’t chase. Don’t be too much. Don’t ask for more than you’re offered.
With a shake of her head, she herself into the evening prep—checking the lights, setting the ambiance, rehearsing the order of her numbers in her head. Everything clicked into place, step by practiced step. Here, she knew what came next. Here, no one left unless she cued it.
It wasn’t the same kind of comfort as having Spencer’s hand in hers — but it was familiar. And tonight, that would have to be enough.
The motel bed was uneven and a little scratchy — polyester blend sheets, probably never washed hot enough. Spencer barely noticed. He was hunched over the tiny desk, one leg tucked under him, surrounded by a spread of files and a cooling cup of half-drunk coffee. Outside, a neon sign flickered. Inside, everything was quiet except the scratching of his pen and the low hum of his brain refusing to switch off.
The rest of the team had long since turned in. Even Rossi had surrendered to the limitations of being human. Spencer stayed up, as he always did when the pieces didn’t quite fit, trying to pry the pattern loose. The unsub wasn’t impulsive — just careful. Methodical. Which meant he could be found. Spencer just had to out-think him.
A soft chime broke his concentration.
Garcia: Hey Brainiac, any luck with the paper trail?
Spencer exhaled slowly, grateful for the nudge.
Nothing concrete, he typed. But I think there’s a gap in the DMV logs from 2017. Might link the second and fourth victim. Working on a timeline.
Garcia: Ugh, timelines. You’ll be dreaming in spreadsheets. Check in tomorrow?
He hesitated.
Yeah. Thanks, Penelope.
He stared at the message for a beat longer than he needed to, then set the phone down.
He’d meant to text Lola. Thought about it more than once. But then there was the layover, the briefing, the chase. And now… it felt harder. Like too much time had passed to do something as simple as say hi. What was he supposed to say?
Sorry I disappeared for 36 hours — I missed you but couldn’t figure out how to say it without sounding like a wreck?
Not exactly romantic.
And anyway — she’d said she was fine. She always said she was fine. Self-sufficient to the point of self-erasure. If he texted just to say he missed her, what would that do for her, except underline the fact that he wasn’t there?
He tapped the screen dark. Back to work.
But his mind didn’t want to cooperate anymore. It kept sliding sideways — back to the apartment, to the way she’d leaned in the doorway as he packed. Her mouth had been smiling, but her arms had been crossed too tight. She hadn’t leaned in when he kissed her goodbye.
She’d said she was fine. She always does.
Spencer knew, maybe better than anyone, how easy it was to say you were okay and mean absolutely nothing by it.
Still, they both did it. Avoided the harder conversations. Smoothed over the edges. He told himself it was a kindness — giving her space, protecting her from the strain of his job — but sometimes it felt like… detachment. He didn't talk. She didn't ask.
The case files blurred for a moment. He sat back and rubbed his eyes. Fatigue was creeping in under his skin now, a low, persistent pressure.
Part of him wanted to call her. Just… hear her voice. Not even to say anything important, just to not be here for a minute. But what if she was asleep? What if she didn’t pick up? What if she did and sounded tired, or disappointed, or like he was interrupting something?
He could already hear the tone in his own voice — strained, polite, neutral. The way he got when he was overtired and trying to be normal. The way his mother used to sound when she was pretending everything was fine. The way he sounded when he didn’t know what else to do.
She doesn’t need that version of you, his brain whispered. She deserves better.
So he set the phone face down again.
He wasn’t sure what, exactly, he was protecting her from — the distance, the stress, himself — but it felt safer to wait. He could always explain later, when things were less tangled. When he was back. When he was better at this.
He opened a new document and went back to the profile. He was good at this part. Quiet. Focused. Useful.
She’d understand. She always did.
And if she didn’t — well, he’d fix it when he got home.
He always did.
Lola tapped her phone screen again, more habit than hope. The screen lit up with a single notification — Sylvia asking about show scheduling — but nothing else. No Spencer.
Of course not.
She tossed the phone onto the arm of the couch and immediately regretted it. Zelda blinked up from her perch nearby, tail twitching in quiet judgment.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she muttered, running a hand over the cat’s fur. “I’m not checking. I’m not checking.”
Zelda yawned.
The apartment felt too still, too quiet. She’d been used to that, once — silence had been her default setting for years. But now, it pressed in like a vacuum, humming with everything unsaid.
It was just another case. Just another trip. He’d be back soon. She’d handled worse on her own.
And yet. This week had been nothing but curveballs — broken sound system, a costume emergency, a last-minute dropout from the Saturday lineup. Any other time, she would’ve called Spencer in the middle of it, just to rant, let his even voice untangle the chaos in her brain. But now?
Now it felt like she’d be interrupting something. He was probably chasing a killer — or doing whatever it was he didn’t tell her about. She knew the drill. She didn’t want to be that girlfriend, demanding attention through the static.
Still.
Her fingers hovered over the message thread. A half-typed text blinked up at her:
Hope things are going okay? I...
She stared at it. Scowled.
It didn’t even sound like her. When had she started second-guessing everything she wanted to say?
A part of her bristled at the silence — not just from him, but from herself. Why was she walking on eggshells when he was the one who’d left her waiting?
The thought surprised her. Then settled. He wasn’t doing anything wrong. That was the worst part. He was doing his job. He was good at it. She admired that about him — his purpose, his empathy, the way he threw himself into things that mattered.
Right now, it felt like everything that mattered existed somewhere else. Somewhere she didn’t get to follow.
She deleted the message. Again.
Her jaw tightened.
If she sent something now, it would just feel like proof — that she was more invested, more dependent, more in it than he was. That she was sitting here counting hours while he was off saving the world.
Wasn’t that the deal? Wasn’t this exactly what she said she could handle?
She stood, pacing the length of the living room before collapsing back onto the couch. Zelda climbed into her lap without hesitation. Lola didn’t pet her.
“Nothing worth texting about,” she muttered again. This time, it sounded less like reassurance and more like a dare.
Back at the hotel, Spencer rubbed a hand over his face. Exhaustion had sunk into his bones, dull and heavy. The case had stretched longer than expected, twisted and ugly in ways he couldn't quite shake. Usually, the complexity would sharpen his focus. This time, it just felt loud.
He opened his phone. No new messages. But he hadn’t sent one either.
He pulled up Lola’s thread and scrolled — just once, just to see the last time they’d said anything. Before he left.
It wasn’t wrong. But it wasn’t them either.
They’d fallen into a rhythm early on — messy, chaotic, wonderful. Jokes, half-baked thoughts, cat photos, “listen to this weird jazz track” at 2 AM. But now... he didn’t know. He’d been off. Distracted. And every time he thought to send something, the moment passed. Now, even reaching out felt awkward.
He wanted to tell her he missed her. That he hated being gone. That he thought about her all the time, especially at night, when the world slowed and his brain refused to shut up.
Instead, he typed:
I’ll try to call soon. Miss you.
Then paused.
Would that feel out of the blue now?
Would she think he was only saying it out of guilt?
What if she was annoyed? What if she’d taken the silence as distance and started matching it?
What if the silence wasn't just his anymore?
His thumb hovered. Then tapped delete.
She’d understand. She always did. She was busy, too — she didn’t need his half-baked thoughts interrupting her day. She had her own pressures, her own storms to manage.
Maybe that was part of why they worked — no pressure, no endless check-ins. Just ease. Or… maybe that had just been the illusion of ease. Maybe he’d mistaken quiet for comfort.
So why did it feel like something was fraying?
He set the phone down and turned back to the case notes again. If he could just figure out the missing pattern — the part no one else could see — maybe that would feel like something he could still fix.
He shuffled into his apartment, keys still dangling from his fingers. He didn’t bother turning on the lights — the soft city glow through the blinds was enough. The air smelled faintly like books and coffee and whatever the last few days of his life hadn’t been.
He dropped his go-bag in the hallway and kicked off his shoes, not caring where they landed. That tiny rebellion — out of character, purposeless — made him feel worse. Not freer. Just more out of sync.
Usually, after a trip like this, he’d text her before the wheels even hit the ground. Or walk straight into her place instead of his own. But this time — this time felt… off. Too much silence behind them, and he didn’t know how to break it without making it worse.
He didn’t want to send a message that felt performative. Didn’t want to pretend the last few days hadn’t been weird.
Didn’t want to ask if she was upset — in case the answer was yes.
He dragged himself toward the bed, shedding his jacket as he went. The room was still exactly how he’d left it — which should’ve been comforting. It wasn’t.
The longer he waited, the worse it would look.
He knew that.
He still couldn't do it tonight.
"Tomorrow," he mumbled, pulling the blanket up without bothering to undress. "She’ll understand."
He had to believe that.
Because the alternative — that something had already shifted — was too sharp a thought to sit with.
He turned off the light. His phone stayed untouched on the nightstand.
Sleep hit like a blackout. Not gentle — just blank.