Work Text:
You can count on your two hands the amount of times you've cancelled your classes.
Often, the reason is you'd caught something so contagious it would be downright irresponsible to subject other people to your presence. Once, because you'd gotten into an accident (not your fault, though it totaled your car and you didn't have the money for a replacement. You are still using public transport to this day.)
But you do not cancel classes if you could help it. Fevers? Paracetamol. Too much on your plate? Sleep isn't that important.
Teaching higher education does have a tendency to be slightly more lenient on these things. You know professors who do it. Higher than you in the hierarchy. Figures of authority, respected people, not just the slacker newbies or the lazy hotshots.
But you love being in class. You love physically standing in a room and coaxing ideas and participation from your students. You wouldn't be in this field, barely making money doing this if you didn't.
And most days, that love and passion is enough to push you forward, even when you're swamped. Even when it's socially acceptable to take the time off to catch up on research or grading, the same way some students will skip one class to prepare for another.
Today is not one of those days.
Last night, you'd received two emails back to back, both of which contain bad news. You'd lost several minutes just staring before gathering enough courage to read, and even then, you're convinced the universe is conspiring against your academic career.
Rejected for a scholarship grant from a few months ago—the one you had been hoping would allow you to teach a lower course load for the next semester.
As if that isn't enough, your PhD. advisor returned your initial data findings with a very succinct note on top of the document: Insufficient. Stop skipping over steps and go back to close reading the material before applying theory. And then, beneath it, a long list of suggested books to add for your related literature.
You thought you'd gotten over it last night—already spent an embarrassing two hours just sobbing over the amount of work you'd have to do. Woken up to disgusting, puffy eyelids in the morning, the color of an angry rash.
But no, this morning, somewhere between your coffee and brushing your hair, the tears inevitably started to fall again. Creasing the impeccably applied makeup that was meant to hide the evidence of your tears last night.
Despite your notes being in perfect order, and your discussion outlines ready to go, you do not feel like you're in any state to be seen in public, much less teach, so you do something you've never done before in your four years of teaching: you cancel your classes. For attendance, you place a discussion board up and ask them to submit a 200 word discussion about the poetry reading assignment you had previously assigned.
It's early enough in the morning that none of your students would have been in class yet, though some early risers reply with thoughtful platitudes. You'll deal with the rest of the paperwork later.
With that taken care of, you take the biggest, most grounding inhale before dealing with the brunt of your work: your dissertation.
Insufficient data. It blinks up at you like a curse, and you almost want to throw your laptop out of rage. Right, because reading through six books isn't enough. Like your advisor hadn't looked through your proposal, and fucking accepted it before you started in earnest.
The rest of the day is a haze. Truthfully, you don't get anything done, simply staring at the words before you as if they've somehow transformed into an incomprehensible language. You try searching for the reference recommendations, intending to make some headway through the readings, but only find half in the local libraries. Some bookstores carry the titles, but between the shipping and the prices of each book, there's no way you could afford all of them. You're too tired to try searching through the annals of the internet.
By the time night arrives, your vision has started swimming. No amount of blinking makes the stinging in your eyes go away. Possibly a mixture of strain and the excessive crying you've done all day. There's a dull throb by your temples and the space between your brows feel like something's trying to push from inside out. You haven't had anything to eat.
Still in this frustrating, zombie-like haze, you sent and email the classes you have tomorrow and cancel them too.
Two canceled classes in a row. That's a new record.
With a sigh, you force yourself to eat a couple of crackers until the pain in your stomach subsides and your apartment stops swimming whenever your gaze lifts from your laptop. Sleep tugs at you, sweet and insistent, just as the last of your laptop's battery drains.
– + – + – + –
You wake up to knocking. Sunlight drenches your apartment in brilliant gold, harsh in its brightness, which tells you it's late in the morning. Possibly noon. The screen of your laptop remains blank when you press the power button, indicating it's dead, so you reach for your phone to check the time.
1:26 pm.
Well shit.
The knocking persists, and you're forced to ignore the 40-something notifications on the screen in favor of whoever is on the other side of your door.
"Hold on, I'm coming." you push your glasses up your nose, blinking as the world sharpens and comes into focus, and tug a robe over yourself. There's an incessant throbbing at your temples and your legs feel wobbly. Fuck's sake.
You crack your door open with a grumpy frown.
Spencer Reid stands right outside, properly dressed and bouncing on the balls of his feet nervously. His face is filled with an innocent concern that morphs to confusion, then slight amusement, before settling back to concern.
Your frown deepens. "What're you doing here?"
"It's the second day you've missed work," he says, voice low and soothing, like he's afraid you'd slam the door in his face. "Didn't return any of my texts, or Carrie Myers'. We both agreed it wasn't like you, so I came to check."
"Don't you have classes?"
"It's my lunch break." he lifts a paper bag, smiling. "I brought ramen. I figured you'd want something with a broth, in case you're sick… are you sick?"
"No," you admit, opening the door wider to let him in. "I'm not sick, it's—wait, how'd you even get my address?"
"Carrie gave it to me." He sets the food on the kitchenette in the corner. He sweeps his gaze around, studying the state of your studio, and you wince at what he might find. What he might think.
"Are you sure you're not sick? Your eyes and nose are all red, there's tissue everywhere. I was debating buying some medicine too. People tend to get some form of cold as the weather gets lower due to the—"
"I'm not sick, Spencer, but thank you for your concern." You wave him off.
"Oh… then why?"
"It's my dissertation." you force a laugh, self deprecating.
He looks at you blankly.
You stare back at him. When it becomes clear he expects more explanation, you add:
"I got my advisor's feedback for my initial findings."
Spencer blinks, like he's trying to decipher a puzzle from your words. "You skipped classes because you got feedback?"
You cheeks burn, though you're not sure if it's from indignation or embarrassment. Most post-grad students understand that 'feedback' is code for I spent the next several hours sobbing and contemplating my life choices.
"Have you never had a draft return to you with so many corrections you want to, I don't know, just throw up?" you ask instead.
It's not his fault, you tell yourself, it isn't a universal experience to have crippling anxiety over feedback, after all.
He shakes his head. "Well, no. Feedback is part of the academic process. I find it to be very stimulating."
"Must be nice." you mutter, "Really, you've never cried over a shitty draft? Or a failed test?"
"I've never failed a test." He winces as he says it, like he realizes his words would just make you feel worse right after they're out of his mouth.
And he's right. Tears spring to your eyes at the unfairness of it all. Right. Of course. At some point, you must have forgotten he's a genius. How silly of you to think you're somewhat equals, just because you're friends. No, he outclasses you in experience, education, and intellect. He doesn't struggle over this the same way you do.
"Well, fuck, good for you." you try to say it as a joke, but the words fracture around a sob.
"I meant–" he isn't able to tell you what he meant as your embarrassingly loud sobs interrupt his words, and then he's right there, crossing the space and gathering you into his arms as fresh tears streak hot down your cheeks.
The world turns to slurry when he takes your glasses off and places it on the counter. Then, ever so gently, his hand cups the back of your head, gently guiding you into his chest.
You don't fight it. It's inexcusable, how many times you'd cried the past two days, but there doesn't seem to be an end to your tears. Especially now, when Spencer's got you wrapped up and pressed against him like you're sacred and fragile, something he wants to protect.
Something splinters inside you, and it erupts through your tears, free flowing and spurned on by his warmth. By his comfort. No one's held you like this in ages, you realize. You shudder in his arms, suddenly cold.
"Shhh," you feel his chin pressing against your hair, his free hand rubbing circles over your back. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, just let it out."
You sob, half convinced you're ruining his blazer, and too exhausted to care. Beneath your cheek, the fabric grows damp from your tears, and sob even more, guilty now for dumping this on him when he was probably expecting someone delirious from fever. Instead, he's saddled with a weepy, mess feeling ashamed for being so vulnerable, and god you don't even want to imagine how you look right now.
Even more, it all feels so right, being held like this. Cocooned in his warmth and the clean, perfect smell of him, and the pressure of his arms around your body like a grounding force when you've been sick with anxiety and self doubt and stress.
"Sorry," you mumble voice thin and watery with tears.
"Don't apologize for having feelings and caring about your work." he whispers, the circles on your back continuing despite your tears subsiding. "I may not have the exact same experience, but I do understand the… the feelings of inadequacy and frustration and how overwhelming it can all get."
"No, like, I'm sorry for ruining your clothes. And making you worry."
"Don't be," you feel a deep sigh heave out of his body, the air tickling your ear. "If you're at a point where you've missed two days of work because of this, then you clearly needed a good cry, darling."
"I thought we agreed to only use that in public."
He laughs, slowly unwinds himself from you. His big hands cup your face, tilting your head up to look at him. Big, earnest eyes stare at you, the light making them glint amber. "I think we can make an exception right now."
You feel the swell of his thumbs smoothing over your skin, catching the lingering tears with a gentleness that makes you want to start crying all over again. And you must look like you're about to, possibly from a swift glassiness covering your eyes, or a quiver of your lips, because his whole face softens with even more concern.
He says your name and you watch his lips wrap around the syllables, languid and sure, like he likes the taste of them on his tongue.
Before you know it, he's pressing those same lips on your forehead, quick and chaste, leaving the patch of skin burning. His thumbs keep swiping over your cheekbone, back and forth, like it's instinct. And maybe it is. It's the same motion he does over your knuckles when he holds your hand.
You barely manage to keep yourself upright from the realization.
"I have to go back," he says, sounding apologetic, "I have a lecture at 2 that I can't miss, but I'll come here as soon as everything's dismissed, okay?"
"You don't have to." Your insistence is beginning to sound ridiculous, but he doesn't make fun, or get frustrated.
"I know." he presses his lips to your forehead again, a brief, almost noncommittal thing you're worried will occupy your mind for the rest of the day. "I know. But I want to, really."
And it's stupid, the way your chest tightens at that softness, the way you just want to sink into it and let him envelop you.
"Eat. Please." his head jerks back to the counter, at the takeout ramen he thoughtfully brought.
You nod, numbed by surprise and anxiety and an inexplicable, vague ache beneath your sternum.
You wish you could pinpoint where it is, file it as something fixable through medication or surgery, but you know deep in your gut that it isn't that type of affliction. If only it is; if only you could be rid of it through some magic pill.
Spencer looks like he wants to say more, but he lets his hands drop to your shoulders instead, squeezing there firmly, and then he's walking out the door, leaving you reeling in the middle of your messy apartment.
It takes a while before you're able to unroot your feet from the spot, blinking dumbly at the food he's set for you. Finally, you slump into your little dining set to eat, fully braced to have some cold noodles, but to your surprise, the whole thing is still warm.
Funnily enough, you don't think it's the cause of the warmth spreading through your whole body.
—
You apartment is a mess. Not in a quirky, lived in way either, but reaching slob levels, someone-might-suspect-you-of-hoarding kind of mess. Clothes strewn about, mixed with books and pens, stacks of papers from your students everywhere, like your small studio is a weird stew of everything that makes up who you are.
You're a little embarrassed that Spencer had to see it in this state—it isn't normally this bad, but the past few days have been so busy and then you hadn't had time to tidy up any of it. If you'd known he's coming, you would have at least hidden the worst of it. Shoved them under your bed or the closet, kept up the impression that you've got everything under perfect control.
But, having something in your stomach has given you some clarity. You move, albeit mechanically, to tidy your space, stacking back the books you don't even remember grabbing from the shelves, making your bed, clearing the takeout and other trash that might still be around.
Once your studio resembles something respectably habitable, you finally trudge to the bathroom. The woman in the mirror stares back at you, puffy-eyed and familiar, with skin that's somehow both dry and disgustingly oily. You wince.
A small part of you twists when you realize Spencer saw you like this. Unadorned, raw, not very pretty. But it prompts annoyance from a bigger, more rational part, because why the hell do you care that Spencer Reid saw you in such a state?
It's the vulnerability, you think, it's not fun to be taken by surprise when you're in such a state, especially by someone who has never seen you this way before. After all, you've always prided yourself in appearing competent and professional, so as to avoid the judgment.
The small part tells you it's also embarrassment—he just saw you without make up, held you when you hadn't even made an effort to smell nice. Tells you that, as much as you'd like to pretend you're above it—the vanity of perception, this projection of confidence—you aren't immune to it.
What the actual fuck.
You strip off your pajamas and hop beneath the spray, welcoming the cold.
It will, hopefully, jolt these stupid thoughts right out of your system. It's a quick shower, almost clinical in the order—shampoo, conditioner, body wash. Lotion when you've dried off, then you leave your hair alone, knowing you'll probably regret it later.
Dressed and feeling slightly better, you curl up with your plugged laptop, this time not bothering with the dissertation. Not yet.
Instead, you file the necessary paperwork for your sudden absence, and read through the discussion boards you've assigned for your classes. Still doing work, still being productive, but avoiding what's been causing the bulk of your stress. You'll figure it out when you're in a better state of mind.
Around six, your phone rings. Dr Four Eyes. Spencer. Calling, which he rarely does. Usually, he'll text, but seeing as you'd accidentally ignored sixteen texts from him (and even more from Carrie), he seems to have taken the more direct approach.
"Hello?"
"Hey," his voice is soft, "Did I wake you?"
"No, do I sound that bad?"
He chuckles. "You don't, sorry. I just assumed you'd be sleeping or something. Getting rest."
"I told you, I'm not sick." Besides, you've done nothing but sleep and cry for the past day, you're getting a little sick of it.
He hums like he's not entirely convinced, and you hear faint chatter in the background. Sounds of life. You wonder where he is. You wonder if you can ask. Is that something the two of you can do? If he can come over unannounced, then you're allowed to ask where he is, right?
Yes. That's how friends work. And the two of you are friends.
"Where are you?"
"At a Chinese restaurant," he says.
Oh. You thought he's coming over. But before you could dwell on the dull sting of disappointment that shoots through you, he continues.
"That's why I called. Wasn't sure what you wanted."
Oh.
"Or if you even liked Chinese food. I should've asked first. I'm still in line, it's not too late to find another place, if you want something else."
"Spencer," you laugh, interrupting him before he begins to monologue, "It's fine. I'll have some lo mein, please."
"Got it," he replies, and you could almost see him nodding in earnest. "I'll be there within the hour, hopefully."
"Okay. I'll, uh, see you."
"See you."
"And Spencer?" your voice has lowered, suddenly a little shy.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
For a moment, all you can hear are the sounds of the restaurant, conversations and footsteps and music and clanging utensils all muffled through the phone. And then, "It's my pleasure."
—
He comes as promised, looking like some sort of messy haired angel bearing more takeout and a satchel. You let him in without suspicion or confusion this time, but feeling slightly exposed.
"Have you talked to Carrie? She's been worried sick, and I didn't have a chance to talk to her after my classes."
"Yeah, I did." You'd sent your friend a very apologetic text, and then another one that simply said comments about my dissertation. Carrie had sent a throwing up emoji and said I believe in you honey, let me know if you need any help.
Spencer makes a beeline for your counter again, unpacking takeout boxes like this is totally normal.
You clear your throat, feeling awkward in your own home, and begin laying out glasses and a pitcher of cool water, "I'm sorry you're stuck with me on a Friday night."
"Please, stop apologizing for something I volunteered to do." he replies gently, but there's a hint of amusement in his voice now. "Besides, where else do you think I should be?"
You shrug. "Out. I dunno, maybe with your–"
"My girlfriend?" he looks up, grins as if to say it's supposed to be you remember, and you want to simultaneously punch those dimples off his face and press your lips on each indent.
"Your friends." you glare, accepting your takeout box of lo mein with a huff.
Spencer laughs. "I think I'm exactly where I should be—taking care of my 'girlfriend' who missed two days of work."
And you really do try not to let that affect you because you know he's kidding, this relationship is fake, but there's warmth spreading just beneath your skin until the tips of your fingers tingle.
9ivider)
"Do you want to talk about it? The dissertation." Spencer asks. He's sitting on the armchair across from your bed and eating the rest of the wontons with a fork.
You'd both abandoned your sorry excuse of a dining table and found more comfortable spots. You're sitting cross legged on your bed facing him, napkins laid in front of you to catch any bits of food.
"Not really." you groan, setting aside your empty carton of food. "It's nothing bad, I promise. But I didn't get the scholarship grant I applied for either and I got saw the emails at the same time, so it was like… a lot."
"Oh, I'm sorry… I didn't even know you applied for a grant."
You shrug. "I passed it before I even met you. I guess it never came up. That's just how it goes, though—too many applicants, too little funding. Honestly, I'm used to the rejection, it just so happened to be one right after the other, you know?"
"It can be overwhelming." he's watching you without judgment, eyes the color of oak in the artificial light of your apartment. "If I could be of any help, you know how to reach me."
"Uh, if you happened to have eight grand lying around, I'd really appreciate it."
"I believe I'm your fake boyfriend, not your sugar daddy."
"Ew, that sounds weird coming from your mouth." you wrinkle your nose, exaggerating your disgust, just to watch him smile. "Besides, you asked how you can help."
He laughs. "I guess I could sell my first editions, if you need the money that badly."
"Oh my god, please don't. Don't think I can live with that baggage." you lay down, still on your side so you can look at him, smiling. "But now that you've mentioned it, maybe you can help me find books. For my RRL."
He nods, the food pausing in mid-air. "Yes. Definitely, send me the titles."
"Tomorrow. I don't want to deal with it right now anymore." you squeeze your eyes shut and will the world to fall away. "I've kind of had enough of the pity party I gave myself."
"I don't think that's what you were doing."
"Wallowing in my pain isn't a pity party? Feeling sorry for myself and second guessing how I even earned my way into my candidacy isn't a pity party?"
"No." his voice gentles, which doesn't match the intensity in his eyes, "Self doubt is a human emotion, and you shouldn't flagellate yourself for needing a break once in a while."
You're quiet for a moment, but then whisper. "It feels undeserved."
"What does?"
"All this… cancelling my classes, not doing anything."
"You mean taking a break?" his brows furrow, and you're not quite sure what to make of the expression on his face. It's more intense than you're used to, like he's ready to begin arguing.
"This—I don't need a break. Nothing about what I do warrants something as dramatic as this."
"You're a Phd. candidate, doing research for your dissertation, writing and publishing shorter articles, all on top of teaching—what is it, three? Undergrad courses." Spencer points out.
You look down pointedly, lips pulled in a tight line. It's not really something you like discussing out loud, precisely because most people always sound so horrified.
You get nice things when you've accomplished something.
A break has to be earned. So does respect, and your position at the university, and your dissertation.
Which makes this impromptu vacation so much more guilt consuming. You hadn't done a good job. You'd been rejected. Rebuked, on two different instances. And yet you'd spent the last two days at home, crying like an idiot.
"Hey," Spencer says again, gentling his voice, "I'm sorry. You said you didn't want to talk about it. We can… I'll drop it for now."
For now. Hopefully, his eidetic memory fails him and it never comes up again (unlikely, but a girl can dream). You smile, eyes flicking up to meet his tentatively. "Thanks."
You watch him, sitting in your armchair. He seems so painfully right, limbs arranged in that haphazard way you've come to learn means he's relaxed, and you have to fight the urge to reach over and poke him, just to make sure he's real.
"What?" his brows have met in the middle again, but this time out of self consciousness, "Sorry, did you want more?" he angles the carton to you.
"No, it's okay. Don't feel like getting up."
"Oh. Well, here," he spears a wonton with the fork and stands, the food held aloft like an offering.
There's too little time to do anything but blink and accept, mouth parting for the food, eyes fixed at his ankle, which you judiciously decide are the most interesting thing in the room. And you thank the heavens that they are. Interesting, that is.
Otherwise, your mind would have done something unreliable and silly, like linger on how long his fingers are, and wonder what it would feel to trace the veins that crisscross over the backs of his hands and crawl up beneath the rolled sleeves of his shirt.
But you are rightfully distracted by what peeks from his very professional dress pants—some very fun, very mismatched socks.
You reach out, hand curling around his forearm, both to stop him from going back to the armchair and to hoist yourself up for a better look. Black with robots on one foot, blue and gray stripes on the other.
"You do know socks typically come as a pair, right?" you say around the mouthful of food.
He shakes his head, settling on the edge of your bed, tentative as if he's afraid of imposing. "I'm aware. This is a deliberate choice."
Like a fool, you scoot to give him more room. More encouragement. Spencer takes the hint and fully situates himself by your legs.
"I didn't realize the great genius doctor Spencer Reid had such strong fashion choices." you grin when he laughs.
"It's a… thing. A luck thing."
"A luck thing?"
"Bad things tend to happen when I wear matching socks."
"That's oddly superstitious for a man of science."
"It's not superstition if it's backed by statistics."
You fully sit up now, grinning, eager to prod at his hypothesis. "Do you mean to say you've conducted enough research to reach this conclusion?"
"Indeed. I'm 81% more likely to stumble when my socks match."
"You don't think you've just conditioned yourself into being more clumsy on those days, just to subconsciously prove a point?"
Spencer shakes his head defensively. "The clumsiness isn't the only manifestation. A bad exam result–"
"I thought you'd never failed a test."
"A bad result doesn't always mean a failed one," he counters, smirking.
Your eyes roll at his smug expression, but the smile twitching at your own lips makes the action comes across fond. "How long ago is this data? I doubt you've taken any recent exams."
"Old… it started when I was young."
"How young?"
"Six." He says, laughs at the look of incredulity on your face. "Maybe it's outdated data, but the socks stuck."
"Mhm, FBI agent, professor and a fashion icon. What can't you do?"
Spencer laughs, and you have half a mind to record him, just so you can replay it over and over again. He offers another bite to you, and you've relaxed enough to accept it, though your gaze is still fixed on his silly socks.
He's quiet for a moment, wiggling his ankles to make you chuckle.
"You know, while it may be true that I've never failed an academic test, I have also failed others." he murmurs.
"Like?" you sit up, knees tucked to your chest, arms banded around them. You're on one end of your bed, and he's sat on the other. Casual, intimate.
Platonic, you tell yourself.
"Gun qualifications. I was really bad at those. Physical exams–oh, I had to be in remedial for those." he smiles, gaze dropping to the patterns on your bedspread. "Honestly, in my first few years with the FBI, my mentors had to write multiple letters vouching for me before I could be allowed on the field."
"So what I'm learning is you're a teacher's pet."
He laughs. "I'm just saying. I've… Earlier, when I said I've never failed one. I misspoke. I'm sorry I upset you."
"No, don't," you sigh, resting your chin on your knees. "It's okay, I was already upset. Anything would have set me off."
"Even so. I don't want you to think I'm unfeeling, or insensitive. I—it's hard for me to read the room, sometimes." he reaches out, gently takes one of your hands.
You have the urge to pull away, only because it feels good and you want him to keep doing it. Doing this, even when the two of you are alone and there's no need to act like a couple.
You squeeze his hand instead. "I don't think that about you at all."
He smiles, soft and warm and not the first time, you feel utterly doomed.
"Maybe not, but I'm still sorry. And… well, yes, I do know how it feels to be so anxious over something it makes me physically ill." he squeezes your hand back and doesn't let go. "And if that's how you've been feeling since yesterday, then you shouldn't feel guilty for missing a couple of days to sort yourself out."
"You said we wouldn't talk about it anymore." you remind him with a pout.
Spencer chuckles. Squeezes your hand again, thumbs moving in slow, absentminded circles like it's second nature, "All right, I'll stop. What do you want to talk about instead?"
"I dunno. Maybe nothing." you admit, feeling scraped raw. He honors it, staying quiet and holding your hand, until you add, "I don't want to keep you."
He shakes his head. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be."
"Even if you're just sitting with me, doing nothing?"
"I'm holding your hand." he says, tightening his palm around yours with a soft smile, "That's not nothing."
And maybe you've done nothing to deserve his kindness, or his company, but you smile and let yourself enjoy it all the same.