Archive of Our Own

It’s nearing noon and the sun is hot enough to melt. When Spencer lays his hand in the brook before him it cradles his entire body, the water so briskly cold he thinks it might freeze him in place, each nerve in his hand responding to its love. The water loves him, doesn’t it? It gets colder though the sun grows hotter, working harder and harder because it needs to show its love. By the end of the day it becomes easier to cater to the temperature, not because of its ability, but because the sun has ceased its relentless beating. It’s doing the best it can to love.

The brook cradles him, takes care of him, though it fights to stay cold. Spencer thinks to whisper, thank you, because he knows the feeling. Sometimes he thinks the water answers.

His heart thumps violently in his chest now. It wakes him from his dream, and he is still only in his bed.

A lot of his nights are spent wondering what his mind is trying to tell him. Though his heart beats, he still feels frozen. It is Emily who moves first, shifting in their bed, silently in sleep. The movement jars him towards her, his body’s instinctual reaction to reach for her.

It’s so terrifying. When he wakes and thinks he must be alone, why wouldn’t he be? And suddenly she is there and she loves him. He has convinced himself it can’t be, no one wants him like this, and he has made peace with that. What if she leaves? Will he have grown comfortable being cared for, emotionally, physically, spiritually? He is learning to find peace with being this sort of satisfied.

He plunges his hand into freezing water on a burning hot day, and it feels like her care. She does the same and it feels like Spencer putting every ounce of effort into making her feel just as loved. Why isn’t it the same?

Is it too much? All of it? This love is instinctual for her, he thinks. And though everything in himself agrees that this is right, he has to teach himself. Emily just knows, understands what love is supposed to be, and Spencer spends his time wondering, is this what I’m supposed to be doing? Is she loved? Would she tell me if I was wrong?

Spencer shifts and wraps his arm over her torso. It’s for his own comfort, but she leans into it. It’s so wonderful to have these mutual desires. It still feels like he’s trying too hard, not enough. Something is wrong. Something has always been wrong, but it’s never had to show before; it is holding a flashlight to a pitch black room. No one had to know until now, no one had to see. Something is fundamentally wrong with him in ways not even he understands, but until recently that problem was only his to bear, only his to not understand; now he has to look her in the eye, stripped bare of his defenses, and tell her I am not what I’m supposed to be, you don’t have to love me, but still she says, I do, I do love you.

Emily is so calm in sleep. Spencer thinks his own brow never relaxes, a concrete crease boring its way from his skin to his skull. He wishes he could relax into being loved.

Spencer rolls over and his arm never leaves her. She tucks herself closer to him and he holds her.

I love you, he had told her over and over again, I love you, and I am so scared.

Emily held his face between her hands, peppering kisses anywhere she found space, and replied, I love you. You’re so brave.

He’s not sure why she said this but it feels better. It tells him that it is terrifying. It makes him freeze because he never imagined caring so much. He never wanted to be in the position to hurt someone like this. When he has been afraid in his life, he has been told time and time again, there’s nothing to be afraid of, though he tries to scream, not to you! To me there is!

She tells him, we are different, so we are afraid of different things. You are brave.

Spencer falls back asleep that night. It's not a luxury he is always able to afford, but tonight he does.

Emily slips out and back to her own hotel room early enough that when Spencer wakes to his alarm, it is alone. She's two doors down, he tells himself, but still his instinct screams, we knew it couldn't be true. That fear doesn’t recede until he sees her next. She holds his hand under the table at breakfast. It is brief, but still she does. Spencer eats left handed that day to remind himself that it's all real.

They’re both sure their team knows, why wouldn’t they? But be it not silent, it is quiet, and this is the first quiet thing either of them have had in a long time. It is something they stroke softly just in case it jerks away, they can’t show off, can’t breathe around, so scared it’ll fall apart if anything tries to alter it. So they hold hands underneath the table and slip out of each others’ hotel rooms early in the morning like teenagers, because they can’t let go, they have control over this, and they are afraid. Loving might not be natural, but hiding is. He can find comfort in that.

Though he finds so much fear, June begins when he kisses Emily good morning in the backrooms of a New York police precinct. I missed you, he wants to say, followed by, I love you, but all he says in the dewy beginning of the day, of their relationship, is, “Good morning.”

She smiles into their kiss. “Good morning.”

“I think they’ll figure it out,” he says, because there’s no way to tell her all his fear, so he will tease as long as the situation lets him. “I vote one more week.”

She laughs softly, pulling away as they talk because they can’t be here forever. He wishes they would. “Nah, at least three.”

“I think three might be giving us a little too much credit.”

The door opens and they force themselves back into professionalism, but Emily still says, “You’re the smartest of the bunch, Spencer, it’ll take them a while.”

It makes heat crawl across his collar, but he forces the emotion of the compliment down as they near their team. Quickly work takes over, and though Emily will never again be just a coworker, he works with her as one naturally.

She’s never been “just” anything; never just a coworker, never just a friend, she has always surpassed every title she has been given, becoming something new, something more, something unbound by the label. She is Emily, and Emily never seems to stop. He never wants her to.

It’s only been a week and yet everything in him knows that this is all he wants. He is so scared and yet his body says, please, please, please.

It’s only after they return to the hotel weary and exhausted does Spencer say, “I’m scared, Emily.”

She sits beside him on the hotel bed, and though she doesn’t look him in the eye she holds his hand. “I know. And I’ll tell you again, we’re going to be okay.”

“I don’t know that. I have no proof of reference, and—and yes, I want this to work so badly, and I’m doing everything I can, but that’s failed me before. It’s failed me a lot.”

“It’s not going to fail you this time.”

“You don’t know that.”

“But I have a lot of hope, Spencer.”

“What if I’m too much?” he says, and though she holds him it can’t stop the spiral. “I’m hard to listen to, and I don’t always make sense, and I can’t just function like a normal person, I wouldn’t blame you for realizing that I’m a lot more than you signed up for. I’m trying my best, I really am, but I’ve never loved anyone like I love you, Emily, no one taught me how to do this.”

“No one can teach you,” she fights right back. “It’s an impossible ask.”

“It looks so natural.”

“It’s natural,” she says quietly, “But that doesn't mean I always know what I’m doing. I don’t think that ever goes away.”

“And you’re not upset that I’m scared?” It feels so childish; he knows it’s still so necessary.

“No,” she says, voice soft and quiet. She’s always been so tender. “No, I’m not upset. I’m scared too, Spencer. Just because I look like I know what I’m doing doesn’t mean I do.”

“I wish you didn’t have to reassure me.”

“Me too, but only for your sake. I always will.”

“Promise?”

It’s quiet and firm, and that’s all Spencer asks. “Promise.”

========

Spencer feels himself sweating before it even starts. His shirt collar chokes him. She isn’t even there and just the thought of Elizabeth Prentiss has him like this. “When is she getting here?” he asks even though he already knows.

Emily lifts her head from her phone, but doesn’t break her gaze from it for a moment. “Four thirty,” she says regretfully. Not even she really wants to see her. “For as little time as possible, if we’re lucky. Then dinner, drinks and bed.”

Dinner and drinks are with the team, but the bed she refers to is his. Their relationship (this version of it, anyway) is barely weeks old, still infantile and undeveloped, still a secret they carry because they are afraid, but she is home with him, in his bed. He is home in her arms. He thinks of young mothers, too afraid to talk about their pregnancy until they reach twelve weeks, lest they lose their precious child. Spencer thinks this is something the two of them have created tenderly and carefully, waiting and waiting for that twelve week mark, then twenty four weeks makes them viable, then thirty five for viability outside the NICU. Every date, every number, giving him something other than Emily to find comfort in.

It never works like Emily does. He leans against her desk. “And Elizabeth’s just coming for the paperwork?”

Her gaze rises from the phone. “Yeah, she’s only coming inside herself because I’m here, and I don’t think she’s that thrilled to see me anyway.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” he comforts though he finds no comfort in it himself. 

“Yeah, say that when you’re reminded of why I don’t speak with my mother.”

“Stakes weren’t quite as high last time I saw her.”

An amused eyebrow raises, followed by a hint of a smile. “Spencer, is that what this is about?”

“What?” his voice raises an octave and he knows he’s busted. “You’re the one who’s anxious.”

“Preemptively annoyed at my mother’s antics? Absolutely. Anxious? Far from it, Doc, that’s all you.” She leans back in her chair, and the smile Emily gives him melts from teasing into tender. “If the rest of the team hasn’t said anything, neither will she,” Emily promises. “She’s probably gonna ask about the guy I went on two dates with last year, because she wouldn’t get off my back about dating.”

“I’m just afraid of making a bad impression. I have a tendency to.”

She gives a friendly pat to his knee as she rises, telling him, “Well, it worked out with us, I think you’ll survive.”

He sighs because she tends to be right in these things. Though if there's one thing to deny her odds, it's Spencer's terrible luck. He wrings out his hands and follows behind her.

It's clear when Elizabeth enters the room by the sudden tension in Emily's shoulders and concrete set to her jaw. She crosses her arms and leans against the wall. Though he can't see it Spencer knows she's biting the inside of her cheek, the nervousness carving out any spot in her body it can find; it looks like it's made a home in her over the years and it isn't going anywhere soon.

“Mom,” she says with a cordial smile, already reaching for the files she needs. Spencer reaches for the evidence log in the same breath. “You'll just have to sign them out.”

“Oh, I'm in a rush, if you wouldn't mind doing it for me—” she's barely made eye contact and she's already reaching for the files. 

Emily holds them back. “That's not how this works.”

She furrows her brow (it's the same as her daughter's). “I'm sorry?”

Spencer takes over before his brain can tell him not to: “Evidence, including case files, have to be properly logged in all their transport, by everybody who comes in contact with them, personally. Legally you have to do it yourself with your signature.”

She scoffs but takes the clip board. “You're the walking encyclopedia, aren't you?” she mutters even as she obeys. She takes the clipboard from his hands, the concrete look on her face seemingly natural by this point. She may be nothing like her daughter, but Emily is still destined to the woman’s DNA whether she likes it or not; though there is a comfort in seeing how differently they hold each other in posture. It tells him that years have been spent growing apart from Elizabeth, and he likes that. He likes that a lot.

Spencer keeps himself one step away from Emily at any given point. He is not strong, but he is steady, and he isn’t going anywhere. Elizabeth sets the evidence log back on the desk instead of in his hands, something like disgust fueling her every move. “Have a nice day, dear.”

Emily doesn’t seem to take a breath until Elizabeth retreats. Her shoulders are still so tense, and all he wants to do is massage them back to some semblance of relaxation. He can’t. “I’ll get you coffee,” he says simply, gesturing for her to sit.

She gives a halfhearted chuckle, something soft in her expression. “Thank you,” so quietly. 

When he returns with a mug of coffee (it’s not “hers” but it’s the one he always gives her, and the one she grabs now) she’s already going: “Can you believe I haven’t seen her in two years?”

“No, I… No.” He sits beside her, his desk chair rolled away and closer to hers.

“Two years. I don’t think she wanted a daughter, and now she has to pretend my entire existence isn’t a nuisance.” She takes a sip of her coffee even though he knows it burns. “Sometimes I wonder if that woman cares at all.”

“I’m sure she cares,” he tries to tell her, “But I don’t think it’s enough.”

She shrugs. “I won’t see her for another two years if I’m lucky, anyway.” Her posture is more relaxed now, letting the coffee and the conversation settle her now. Again, before they know they will have to return to normal work, she gives a soft, “Thank you.”

It’s beyond natural to answer, “Always, Emily.”

========

He strokes her hair. He thinks to himself, how much longer left? Like he is to forget, to leave. He is grappling to stay, and he holds onto her for dear life, and yet Spencer feels deeply that he is not meant for permanence.

Emily is halfway in his lap, propped up to read her book, still relaxed in his grasp. Spencer runs his fingers through her hair so she doesn’t notice their shaking. Still, ever present and thoughtful, she is well aware as soon as it starts. One shaky breath, two, and a third before she says softly, “What’s up, hun?”

“The—the long day is catching up to me,” he lies. “And maybe the coffee.”

She tsks lightly, slipping her bookmark between her latest two pages and shutting the book. It gets thrown aside and she shifts to meet his eyes. He squirms from the eye contact and she gives a soft squeeze to his hand as she looks away, sensing the discomfort. “Sorry,” she whispers. “You sure that’s all?”

He nods. She doesn’t move. Though not under her eye contact anymore, he knows she’s looking, waiting. He gives in with a whispered, “I can only tell you I’m scared so many times, Em.”

Her body shifts closer to his. “You can tell me as many times as you need to,” she returns softly. A hand reaches for his face, stroking his jaw and the stubble there. She always liked it, but he shaves it usually. He does so less now. 

“I just don’t want to sound like I’m ungrateful, or unsure, because I’m not, I’m really not unsure of us,” he rambles, “I’m just scared for us. I feel like something is going to go wrong at every turn. Like nothing we can do will prevent us from failing.” He has to choke back his doubts to finish with one, simple, “I feel like we only have so much time left.”

Emily shakes her head. “You’re creating deadlines for yourself. Deadlines that aren’t there.”

“I’ve never been able to hold onto good things. This just feels… slippery.”

“Slippery,” she repeats quietly. After a moment to ponder, she strings together the one sentence that might just reassure him: “Well, think of it this way: this isn’t something you hold onto alone. I’m holding on too. We’ve got a much better chance of making it, don’t we? Try and analyze your way out of that one.”

“I… I’ll certainly try.”

“And you won’t. Got it?”

He nods, and her hand stops moving, thumb catching on his lip for a moment before retracting. It’s tender and quiet. It tells him that this is slow, and it’s allowed. It’s allowed to be slow. 

========

Takedowns never get easier. Beyond his fear for the unsub getting off, Spencer’s fear for his team outweighs everything. When his adoration for Emily grows, his focus becomes on her; nowadays she’s always the first he looks to, everywhere they go. If the team doesn’t know already, they’ll know soon.

She comes away from the takedown with her hair askew and breaths erratic. He gives her a once over, shoving his weapon back in its holster and steps towards her, finding the injury on her arm almost immediately. “Show me,” he says gently, reaching out.

“It’s just a scratch,” she tells him, but complies, letting him take hold of her arm. “A nail on the doorframe, I think.”

He takes a careful look at it, aware but uncaring towards Morgan’s eyes on him as he does so. “It’s not deep enough for stitches, but you should still get an updated tetanus shot, just in case.” He nods towards the car where there’s a first aid kit. “Sit, I’ll be back.”

When Spencer returns with a water bottle in his hands Emily is sitting in the trunk, feet tucked up beside her. The first aid kit is already open. “Hey, let me,” he protests lightly, guiding her to help take off her now ruined jacket. She fiddles with it in her lap.

“Shame I never learned to mend,” she mumbles. 

“I can try.”

“You mend?”

He shrugs. “I have.” The first aid kit is unzipped and an alcohol wipe removed. He hands her the water bottle and says, “Drink.” She does so with a raised eyebrow, but he hopes it distracts her from the sting of the alcohol against her wound for a moment. He tends to it with careful hands, a gentleness he reserves for her. It’s hard, feeling sometimes like he is young comparatively, she is so much more experienced, hardened. It feels like he’s never able to help in the ways he wishes he could at times. But now, holding her arm with a tender grip and cleaning the wound she could have done herself, but doesn’t have to, maybe he finds it in himself to let things be alright, even.

It only takes a minute to clean and bandage the wound. “Thanks Doc,” she teases, moving to slip her ruined jacket back on. “Maybe you should go for medicine next.”

He shakes his head and gives her a short smile. “I’m picky about my patients, I don’t think that would work out.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, Morgan can fend for himself.”

Emily snorts, the laugh instinctual. It makes something in him uncoil, the stress easier on his body. “I’ll be sure to let him know.”

With a hand from Spencer, she rises to join the team again. He wants to hold on but forces himself not to. Still she feels drawn to him, and himself to her. Heat rises between them and begs them to come closer, closer, just close the distance and yell to everyone, we are drawn to each other in ways you don’t understand, in ways that will have us romanticized by poets for years to come. All they ever do is brush hands as they walk. It has to be enough, though both of them know it isn’t.

“Unsub is off to the station,” Hotch announces, “We’ll pick up the last of the paperwork tomorrow morning, and then we’re scheduled to fly out at noon.”

Morgan grins along with the rest of the relieved team and comments, “Alright, dinner at that cop bar down the road from the station?” It’s barely a request. The group agrees and splits into cars. 

The drive there isn’t quiet, but it’s peaceful. JJ and Emily talk about their unfortunate sleeping arrangements (“You would not believe how disgusting a freshly ‘cleaned’ hotel room is,” from Emily, and “The walls are so thin, I swear someone’s on their honeymoon below me…” from JJ), and he doesn’t pipe in because he’s afraid he’ll admit to being the honeymooning couple by accident. He laughs along with them and shares the glint in Emily’s eye.

He stays on her injured side, thinking maybe if he can’t keep himself from leaning into her for the fact of keeping them a secret, he can refrain by reminding himself of her injury. Still their fingers brush underneath the table.

It’s only after dinner is over and Spencer separates himself from her to talk with Morgan that the tingling anxiety of being found out hits him. Was he too close to her? Can everyone see? Why won’t they say anything?

“I’m thinking Thursday I can come help you build those shelves,” Morgan tell him absentmindedly, “And while we’re at it I’m going to fix that hole in your bedroom wall, the one that’s been there since you moved in.”

“You say you’ll fix that at least once a month and never do,” he teases halfheartedly.

“Hey, things come up! I’m coming prepared on Thursday.”

“Sure.” Still, Spencer grins, shoving his wallet in his pocket. “See you in the morning.”

“See you.”

He wanders back towards the cars where Emily and JJ talk. JJ has this grin on her face that only grows when he nears them, and Emily looks just slightly reserved, tucked in on herself, but is smiling nonetheless.

“Fine,” JJ comments, still smiling. “Be that way.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Am I interrupting something?”

“I don’t suppose you know who little miss secret keeper is dating.”

Spencer snorts. “Good luck.”

JJ groans. “You’re in for it,” she teases, pointing at Emily like a threat. “Girl’s night is going to be hell for you.”

Rolling her eyes, Emily steps away and says, “My loss. Spencer, you drive or me?”

“I’ve got the keys unless you want to.”

“That’s fine.”

JJ raises her eyebrow again, and a smirk forms on her face. “Okay… Spencer.”

He steps in the driver’s seat with the tingling feeling that he’s missing something he’s supposed to understand. Still all he does is turn over the engine, crane his neck to see through the rear window as he reverses, and catches sight of Emily in the backseat. She’s not looking at him, and it gives him just a second to admire her features without her noticing. Always when Spencer compliments her she shies away from it, though he’s sure he’s no better himself. It’s nice to appreciate her once in a while without ever having to prove himself.

He just loves her, plain and simple. The details are complicated but the concept is firm. He returns his gaze to the front windshield while he drives, but catches sight of Emily in the rearview mirror just enough times to make him grin.

========

When they return to the hotel he drops JJ off and tells Emily to get in the passenger seat. “Why?” she questions with a suspicious eyebrow and a smirk. “Something planned?”

He closes the space between them with a kiss, stopping between pecks to speak: “Yes, darling, a romantic evening—” She grins into the kiss, “—At the Urgent Care.”

She pulls back with a frown. “You’re mean.”

“And you need a tetanus booster.”

“You’re still mean.”

“I’ll buy you a milkshake on the way back.”

“…And I am susceptible to bribery.”

She takes one more kiss as Spencer chuckles, “Good. Will you please text Hotch and let him know where we’re going?”

“I should text JJ too, I’m pretty sure she thinks we’re gonna make out in the backseat now.”

“You think so?” She gives him a very clear look that says, yeah. With the roll of his eyes Spencer puts the car back into gear. “I’m glad somebody finally got it, honestly. I feel like it’s been a while.”

“Two months isn’t that bad for a secret relationship.”

“For a group of profilers it’s abysmal." 

“Cut them some slack, we’re profilers too.”

“Yeah, well I don’t know about you but I am an idiot in love, and it’s hard to keep off my face.” He grins, risking a look at her. “And judging by my perception, you are too. It’s a nice feeling.”

She chuckles, leaning over to hold onto his shoulder, rubbing her thumb against his shoulder. It kneads into the aching muscle there. The Urgent Care is a good thirty minute drive but neither of them seem to mind, humming to the music playing quietly in the background, and Emily trying to hit him once for a punch buggy, to which he only agrees because he likes the way it makes her smile. She uses her non dominant hand, as her dominant arm is immobile by her side. As silly as the situation is, he desperately wishes they weren’t in it.

They park outside the urgent care and he picks up on Emily’s sudden nervousness immediately. “Hey,” he says softly, unbuckling his seatbelt, followed by hers, “I’m not leaving.”

“I know.” She brings a hand up to her face, biting the skin around her fingernail immediately. “I just… I’m always uncomfortable with these sorts of things.”

“I don’t blame you, I am too.” He reaches to lower her hand, grabbing it in his and keeping it there. “Now come on, sooner we’re done the sooner we can find a drive through.”

She grins just slightly. “Deal.”

They end up rushing through the Urgent Care (turns out, nine PM on a Tuesday night in rural Maine isn’t a busy time for ConvenientMD) and make it out in about an hour with a tetanus booster and a fresh bandage on the wound. As soon as they step out the door Emily says, “I want a strawberry milkshake.”

He raises a hand in defeat. “Your wish is my command.”

“There was a McDonalds ten minutes back.”

“You have a better memory than me when it comes to food,” Spencer teases, rubbing her shoulder as he unlocks the car. She doesn’t even reach for the door handle anymore, not after Spencer started coming around. “That’s our destination, then.”

True to his word, fifteen minutes later they’re headed back to the hotel with two milkshakes and a large fry to split though he knows will mostly go to her. He doesn’t care in the slightest. Emily chides him for the dairy for only a moment before letting him off with a threatened, “That’s your problem later.”

It’s far from the most convenient, well planned out, or fortunate date they’ve had, but somehow it makes it to the top of Spencer’s list. They fall into their hotel bed together (Emily hasn’t spent a single night in her own), unshowered and teeth unbrushed. Emily is out as soon as her head hits the pillow and Spencer only stays awake long enough to kiss her forehead with a whispered, “Goodnight.”

========

JJ watches them at breakfast with a scrutinizing gaze and a soft grin. She never says anything out of the ordinary, but the intentions are clear. Emily sits across the table from him and he keeps catching her eye, keeps saying these silent things that neither of them understand and neither of them care to, as long as they do; all they want is to hear each other’s words, whatever and however silent they may be.

They wrap up their paperwork at the station quickly, and by the time Spencer feels he’s settled into the day, they’re on the airstrip waiting for the jet. He rubs at his eyes trying to dissipate the exhaustion of last night’s escapades. Morgan pokes his shoulder. “Long night?” he says like he often has, the tease familiar on his tongue and to Spencer’s ears.

He rolls his eyes. “Unfortunately. I took Emily to Urgent Care last night for the scrape on her arm, and we didn’t get back until after midnight.”

“Ah. She okay?”

“Ask her yourself, but I think so. She just got it rewrapped and got a tetanus booster.”

“You care about her,” he says, just a little quieter, more tender.

“We all do.”

“Reid.” He tips his head, motioning towards her. “You and I both know that’s not the extent of it.”

He sighs softly. “And?” he comments, not wanting to give anything away that he doesn’t have to.

“I think you should go for it.”

He chuckles softly, a tender, thin smile on his face. He sees her from across the bay, chatting with Rossi like she didn’t get just as little sleep as he did. Her hair is pulled into a ponytail and swings majestically behind her head. “Yeah,” he says softly, “Maybe I should.”

========

“Rossi, you’re ridiculous.”

He chuckles. “Take it from an old man, Prentiss, I know when love is in the air.”

“I think your old age is getting to you.”

“You seriously expect me to see the way he looks at you and think you two don’t have a little thing going on?”

“There’s no little thing—” No, in fact it’s far from little, it is a massive blanket wrapped around her heart, comfortable and warm and ever present. It is no little thing.

“Emily,” he emphasizes, that smile on his face. “It’s so clear.”

She rolls her eyes, and a form plans in her head that tells her it might be time for a little fun, and a very nice reveal.

========

“So,” she mutters in Spencer’s ear as they board, making the hairs on the back of his neck tingle pleasantly. “Rossi suspects something.”

He bites back a grin. “Morgan too.”

“And JJ knows. Wanna make it official?”

He wants to be embarrassed, his instinct telling him not to be seen, but he is proud. Beyond proud, he is amazed, astonished, and tingling with the joy knowing Emily in this way brings. He is proud of her, of him. There is nothing he wants to show off more than their relationship. He nods. “I don’t know how,” he admits, “But absolutely.”

She pats his shoulders. “I’ll take the lead.”

“Well that’s a scary sentence.”

With a roll of her eyes they step on the jet, the last ones on, and she takes hold of his shoulder. Quietly, and with no real build up, she slides into a booth and ushers him in by the hand. In front of the team she takes his face in her hands, sliding over his stubble and pressing a kiss to his lips. It’s gentle and quiet and nobody else on the jet has anything to say about it until it’s over.

Hotch mutters quietly, “About time,” followed by a few shocked laughs and Morgan patting his shoulder.

There’s nothing quite like that. He pulls Emily back in for a kiss just a moment later.

========

The first time Spencer talks—really talks—to Emily about his addiction, they haven’t yet dated. He’s still nervous and in denial. He says something along the lines of, “Georgia messed with me. A lot. For… for a lot longer than I’m willing to admit.”

She nods, respecting his hatred of eye contact and staring out through the windshield of the car. They’ve been parked for some time. “I know the hospital cleared you, but was there anything else we didn’t… didn’t see?”

He swallows back the fear and admits, “Dilaudid. A few doses. And… And I took the rest of Hankel’s body.”

“How long?”

“A few months.” Two months, eight days. “I stopped, took a few sick days, and got clean. I’ve been trying to go to meetings but I really don’t know if they help.”

“What’s your clean streak at?”

He could smile; he doesn’t. “Five months, seventeen days.”

“That’s good. That’s really good.” She untucks her legs, moving to get them out of the car this time as the night creeps up on them. “Please talk to me when you need to. About anything. I really mean that, Reid.

All he can really do is nod, unsure if he will but knowing he wants to. “Thank you.”

They don’t talk about it often, but especially as their relationship evolves, he finds himself indulging. It’s a nice feeling.

========

In the sweltering heat of August Spencer starts thinking about his partner’s birthday (girlfriend seems like so little compared to how much they are; partner feels sufficient). He starts with jewelry, because there’s little he wants as much as to see her adorned, but he doesn’t think she’d appreciate it quite as much as he would, so he leaves it for another time. She’s been talking about a pocket knife she wants, why, he doesn’t know, a Smith & Wesson she had talked to an officer about in rural Kentucky on a recent case. He starts researching it first.

It ships slowly and gets delayed, so when it arrives in early September he hurries to confirm it’s what he wants to get her and tucks it in the back of his closet. After that he starts roaming antique stores, thrift stores, and a few yard sales. By October he finally finds a handmade leather sheath for it, imprinted with the shape of a leaf on the corner, and it fits perfectly.

He wraps them up, places them back in their spot, and waits anxiously for October 12th.

It doesn’t even cross his mind until a week before when Emily mentions having a party that it’ll be his birthday too. He smiles. “I forgot to ask if you wanted one,” he admits, rubbing his neck. “Do you?”

“I think it would be fun to have the team over.” She paces his kitchen while he makes breakfast, coffee in hand. “Maybe order in, play some board games?”

He nods, liking the idea already. “And we can get you a strawberry cheesecake from the bakery down the street from my apartment. Or something else if you’d prefer.”

“Only if you let me get something for you too. They have that lava cake you liked.”

“Deal.”

“Deal.” She comes up behind him to peck him on the cheek, with a sudden, “Hun you’re burning your eggs.”

A muffled curse escapes his lips and Emily laughs into his shoulder. The eggs get thrown out despite his attempts to convince her that he could eat them, followed by his attempts to make her eat them. 

They arrive to work together and Morgan slaps him on the shoulder like they’re in college. He wants to say, have you never experienced this kind of love? Burning eggs and planning birthday parties together? It’s never been about the nights, Morgan, it’s always been about the details. It gives me hope.

There’s never been anything in his life like this. He doesn’t even mind the teasing anymore.

“Party on the twelfth,” Emily announces to the group when they’re gathered for lunch, “For a little birthday bash. I’m placing bets on if Morgan will knock out a whole large pizza or not.”

He laughs, “If you have enough alcohol I will.”

Something in him squirms. They both know there won’t be any alcohol, but Morgan doesn’t; Emily takes it over before Spencer can even think to. “Dry party,” she says easily, like there’s nothing wrong with it at all. “Keep things low-key with food and a few games, feel free to bring chips or something. We’ll provide the pizza, of course. Someone’s gotta fund Morgan’s addiction.”

It’s so simple to laugh off; no one seems to care at all. No one besides Spencer himself.

========

He panics. It’s easy to panic, he thinks. Maybe that’s just him. Spencer rushes to put the drinks in the fridge before they leave so they can attempt to cool down before the party. He has Emily’s gift (one of a few, after he continued perusing those antique stores a little longer) placed neatly on the coffee table, and she had set a slightly larger one beside it just a few moments ago. Now all they have to do is go pick up their cakes.

“Hun, are you ready?” he calls to the other end of his apartment. It’s theirs in everything but name, now, and as soon as Emily’s lease is up, they’ll have that too. It’s a comforting feeling.

She steps over a loose balloon as she comes. “Yeah, just need my shoes.”

As soon as she enters his field of vision Spencer knows it’s all over. Even for something as plain as their little birthday party, Emily wears a red top that has him drooling. The neckline isn’t low, but swooping, showing off the shape of her collarbone. She smiles as soon as she catches his amazement. “You don’t look so bad yourself, handsome,” she teases, giving him a short peck before forging onwards. “Come on, I’ll drive.”

Maybe it’s the birthday. Yeah, he thinks that could be it, the stress of being celebrated when he’s spent much of his life uncared for, and rightfully so, in his mind. Being cared for is strange, it’s a strange decision for anyone to make, so why shouldn’t he be stressed about it? Still it could be the stress of celebrating Emily, the love of his life, the light in his eyes, the goodness in a dark, dark world. He just wants her to feel as appreciated as she is, right? Right. One of these things has to be true.

They pick up the cakes, Emily having picked for him, and him for Emily. They’re both covered, but he knows that the short discussion they had is what ended up happening. Predictability is both of their friends. He carries Emily’s cake with care not to jostle it, even on the drive back.

They’re barely in the door when they hear Morgan’s booming voice and Penelope’s laugh. In succession the team trickles in, all smiles and laughter, bearing food, board games, gifts, and Spencer realizes suddenly that he likes it. He sees a lot of love in this little apartment, one that’s only technically his and mostly theirs. Where he once only had hope, he suddenly finds himself comfortable, stable, and ready. It’s a good feeling. It’s a perfect feeling.

October 12th comes and goes, and it is the day he finally realizes that he is staying right where he is, with Emily, with his team, with himself. He is exactly where he is supposed to be; he no longer has to cling onto hope. He holds their relationship firmly.

========

Things are good. Things are really good. Emily ends her lease and moves herself in, and Spencer is beyond happy to accommodate, however difficult it may be in the first weeks. He knows where everything is, and it’s all correct, and yet something feels off for a time that he realizes is just the concept of sharing his life, all of it, with her. A space he had previously called only his own and used in solitude now belongs to more than him. It isn’t wrong, in fact it’s painfully right, but it is still different and he has to adjust.

By Christmas he wants nothing more than for Emily’s mugs to stay exactly where they are in his cabinet.

January rolls around slowly, languidly. Periodically Spencer wonders how he got this lucky; he doesn’t fear it, not like he did, just thinks. Just wonders.

Emily’s shoulders get tight right around the start of February. He massages them, she thanks him and goes to bed, and Spencer has to lay there wondering what he can do to prevent this. Even in sleep she curls in on herself, away from him, and she never used to do that. He knows the subconscious efforts the body goes through to protect itself extend even to sleep, but why is she afraid? What threat has her body found?

And why hasn’t he heard about it?

They’ve become good at this dance, telling each other about their day, giving space and time for work to overwhelm them, and then setting it aside. He’s heard a lot about Emily’s fears, struggles, and stresses. None of them seem to fit.

As soon as Emily drops her keys in the dish by the door, Spencer quietly beckons her to the couch. She doesn’t argue, doesn’t say anything at all, actually. All she can do is sit down beside him and let Spencer guide her head into his lap; hands running through her hair in the hopes it’ll do anything to ease her stress. He kneads his fingers into her temples but it doesn’t do enough. In his grasp, still she seems to shake from the stress.

“What’s happening?” he asks quietly, just a little desperately.

Emily shakes her head, even in his embrace. There’s a tear down her cheek. “I just need you,” she whispers, “Please, I just need you.”

He holds her. He doesn’t ask.

========

Summer ended September twenty-third. It grew cold enough for scarves by October. He threw his first snowball in ten years over Christmas break. Somehow, amidst this, his heart never moved on from the warmth. For the first time he suddenly feels chilled.

“Lauren Reynolds,” he mutters, and his heart drops. Pieces click into place.

A guttural scream tears itself from his body after he learns of Emily’s death. Not immediate, not sudden, either. He steps outside with shaking hands and he knows he isn’t going to hang on. One minute, two, maybe a third if he’s lucky, and the parking garage gets the extent of his grief in that moment. There’s no other way for him to carry it, not now, not so soon.

“I can’t,” he sobs, “I can’t do it, I can’t,” like his words mean anything to his body. Like if he gets himself to understand the depth of this his body will shut down and he’ll get to join her again.

Hotch finds him, knees to the pavement. He slips his phone out of his pocket, types away, like nothing is happening and the sobs don’t matter only for a moment, before dropping to the ground right beside him, suit and all. Strict or stern or standoffish, never once has Hotch hesitated to reach to a level to which he doesn’t seem suited. “Reid,” he mutters, “Spencer.”

“What,” he tries to call out, but barely manages as more than a whisper. “What, am I too loud? Am I making a scene? Do I care?”

“Please let me explain.”

It’s instant. His body senses the shift. “What aren’t you telling me?” It’s not even close to a question, Spencer states it with every ounce of grief in him, everything that aches.

Hotch looks visibly nervous. “She’s alive, Spencer, she just—she’s alive. It’s a matter of security. She’s faking her death. Only JJ and I know.”

This sob speaks no words. It speaks of no other form of emotion but that same grief, morphed. It can’t hold anything. He wants to scream, hit Hotch and beat him until he feels everything that’s hammering down on Spencer’s own chest, but the only thing he can possibly do is let the man guide the two of them together, resting. One cries, the other comforts. It’s ugly and unprofessional and neither of them care.

He’s so angry. He’s so lost. There is nothing his body can do about either of these things.

========

He begs to let the rest of the team in on it, but he knows that even now he is a national security risk. Only Hotch’s empathy has saved him.

Even still, he cries at her funeral. He never knows if he is going to see her again. Maybe, on some string of luck, Emily will come home to him in the coming days, weeks, months. At what point does he let himself go? When does he say to JJ, “She’s not coming back, is she?” When does he have to accept that he’s living life without her?

Can he even grieve Emily?

He can grieve a life. This is a life he loves, a summer he built on hope and digested long enough to become comfort. Emily is an asterisk to his name, a title he carries. Everywhere Spencer Reid goes, the name Emily Prentiss follows, in word or spirit. He has to stop growing with her and start growing around her.

When will his hope return? Can he still have it?

The ground is still soft under his knees as Spencer drops to meet her grave. His forehead rests against cold stone and he whispers, “Soon,” like a promise he’s supposed to whisper against her skin. Feather-light kisses to her neck, her chest, that remind her that she is everything and more. “Soon, sweetheart,” because he has to tell what’s left of her until he has all of her back. 

When everyone sees the grief he carries from his lost love, it is so real and so deep. There aren’t words to tell people, she couldn’t even tell me. Why? Will I get the chance to forgive her? So he tells them, “I love her more than I’ve loved another person before. She was everything I needed and far beyond what I ever deserved.”

It’s never been enough before, and it can’t dream to compare now.

========

His life never seems to grow around Emily. All her mugs stay right where they are in their cabinets, her pillow remains, her bedside table he never touches and her products still in the shower. They keep him afloat when he feels like nothing is left of her and all he wants is to smell her hair. Even though it never satisfies him, really, he lets the scent carry him back into bed, holding onto a pillow when he desperately needs to hold her.

Spencer never grows comfortable with it. He grows used to it by month three and his body returns—relatively—to what living alone feels like, but everything he does is covered by a sheen of sweat, exhausted with the effort of functioning against his natural instinct. She is his natural instinct.

He thinks about buying her a ring. About planning a wedding. Telling himself, maybe it’s a fantasy, but it was real at some point. It can be real again.

Month four he watches over JJ’s shoulder as she plays online scrabble. “Carcass,” he advises lightly before returning to his crossword. She grins softly.

A second later, and she passes over the phone: “You go.”

He shrugs and takes the phone. “Giving up?”

Something in her expression falls, and it’s not sadness, it’s not even grief, it’s this sort of… apprehension. “Yeah. This girl is insane at Scrabble.”

He thinks nothing of it. One more word, and the other player must be pretty active, so they add another quickly. Back and forth, an easy routine for the next handful of minutes. Spencer wins. “Want me to start another game?” he asks JJ before passing back the phone. At her affirmative he starts again. CheetoBreath—that’s a little gross—against SergioTheGreat.

His hands shake when they hand over the phone. “JJ?”

She takes it back. “Yeah?”

“That’s…” He has to swallow back the emotion. “That’s Emily?”

A slow breath escapes her before she has the strength to nod her head, a short smile helping her case. “I have to assume,” she says quietly. “It… It’s important. We haven’t had much contact at all, and this is… so stupid, but so fun.”

Spencer downloads Scrabble on his phone two minutes later, and plays with one person and one person alone.

========

He twiddles his thumbs over the coming months. He fights cravings like he’s two days clean and not years, and Spencer can’t make himself separate his love from himself, so he stays in this state of purgatory while he waits.

When he sees her for the first time in months he could have passed out. He takes long strides towards her, and Emily rushes to him first. They crash into each other. The team is angry and nothing fits right but Emily is home. He whispers in her ear like if he’s too loud he’ll break it all, “I was so scared, you’re home, god Emily you’re home,” and none of it makes any difference but to prove that this is real.

He kind of wants to yell. He mostly wants to cry.

The world moves around him and all Spencer can think is that she’s home. His breath picks up and he knows that his body is panicking, but his mind isn’t, his mind is foggy yet stark, telling him, Emily, Emily, Emily.

He just keeps looking at her throughout the day, waiting for something to go wrong. He imagines a bullet through her skull, a knife through her ribs. Bruises against her throat where Doyle got his hands on her. He wants to be so angry and yet his body and his mind don’t let him. He’s not even sure he says more to her after his initial pleas. All he can be is grateful.

Seven months of waiting leads to her coming home with him again, hand in hand, betrayal sitting in the back of his mind but this desperate, childish need to hold her overcomes it all. He stands beside her. She wraps her arms around him and whispers, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” whenever the opportunity arises. They order takeout from the place down the street, the bag still warm when Spencer sets it on the coffee table. Sergio greets them quietly, Spencer first.

“I took good care of him,” Spencer says numbly.

Emily nods. She kneels on the ground and waits. The cat crawls towards her, sniffing her like she’s new, before sprawling on her lap like nothing has changed. She lets out a choked laugh. “I can’t tell you how badly I missed this.”

“He missed you.”

“No, this.”

She picks up the cat, sitting down on the couch that hasn’t moved an inch, the coaster that, if she had a better memory, would know she left there the last time she was home and Spencer never moved. Other things changed, the groceries in the pantry look less like hers and the plants grew a little more and the door hanging changed from the spring to the summer and now fall, but for some strange reason Spencer has never been able to move that coaster, the bedside table, her clothes in the closet. He washed her laundry and hung it all back up for her coming home.

He listens to her quiet admission and thinks, yes, this. “We waited,” he says quietly. “As soon as I found out, we waited.” It all sits heavy in his throat now that they’ve been granted privacy, and Spencer finds himself admitting, “You could have told me, Em. You could’ve.”

She wraps her arms around herself. Sergio nudges her but she makes no move to pet him. “I could’ve,” she repeats. “I’m sorry. I have nothing to make that better.”

He nods. It’s going to ache for a long time, he is absolutely sure. He will have to wake Emily at times just to assure himself that it isn’t her corpse in his bed. She will have to hold him and say, “It’s real, I’m real,” as many times as Spencer will have to wake her from nightmares and promise her, “You’re safe now, I swear, I won’t let anyone touch you.”

For now, they eat Chinese food on the living room couch. Spencer doesn’t know what his body hopes for now, but he’s not spent a day without the desperation of hope in a long time, so he continues to hope. For them, maybe. For their healing. For the team to look at her without seeing a ghost. For all of this to one day feel normal.

Sergio snatches some of his chicken, though. It can feel small, but it can feel normal. All Spencer can do is love.