Ghost Who, Under Orders From His Army Therapist (and With Prices Encouragement), Starts Looking Around

Ghost who, under “orders” from his army therapist (and with Price’s encouragement), starts looking around for hobbies when he’s on leave.

Not sure what to do at first. Tries gaming but gets bored of it and the PS4 stays gathering dust in his flat. Plants don’t appeal to him because he won’t be around enough to take care of them. Thinks about knitting, but is a bit too embarrassed to walk into the local craft shop to start making doilies.

Finally goes to the library after seeing a flyer advertising a painting class and thinks, “Hell, why not.”

Shows up in his hoodie, black face mask, and black baseball cap. Gives most of the old ladies attending the painting session a good scare

Until he rolls up his sleeves to avoid getting paint on his good hoodie. Then those old ladies are ogling his forearms and the tattoos painting his skin.

Is very attentive to the hired artist leading the session. Hasn’t got an artistic bone in his body, but dammit, he’s going to report back to his therapist that he tried if it’s the last thing he does.

Two little old ladies, Mrs. Levine and Ruby, pluck up the courage to sit beside him and start chatting him up. Compliments his painting, talk about their grandkids, how one of Ruby’s grandsons is into heavy metal (assuming Ghost is as well). Ghost listens half-heartedly, just trying to get the brown right for the deer he’s putting on paper. They manage to weasel out his name:

“Simon,” he announces gruffly.

“Oh, what a good name,” Mrs. Levine says.

He goes to the next activity as well: polymer clay creations. His hands are big and meaty and he has to take more clay than is probably reasonable to make the little pig he’s got going.

Mrs. Levine and Ruby are there too and sit right next to him to chat with him again. They love his idea of a pig and make a cow and sheep to go with it. When the hired artist comes around to see how everyone’s doing, Mrs. Levine announces that the three of them “have a little farm going” and that “Simon’s the farmhand.”

He's glad he's got his face mask on. He can feel his ears going red at the look the artist gives him.

Again, he’s very attentive to the hired artist, watching her hands carve into the soft clay with her nails to get texture on her dinosaur. He tries to do the same, giving whispy little hairs to his pig. It’s not pretty, but he feels a smidge better about going when it’s all done.

Mrs. Levine and Ruby get more information out of him as time goes on and he attends more activities. Soon their friends join in on the conversation, and Ghost – Simon – is well-known at the library for being the military guy who attends every Saturday when he’s not deployed. The little old ladies love him, even if he “doesn’t say much.” He’s helped them carry their bags of books and crafts to their cars, listens to them prattle on about activities and their aches and pains, and even scared off some hooligans who were trying to disrupt their library activity.

(They’ve all got little old lady crushes on this big man who takes time out of his day to better himself, and they love his dry/dad jokey humor)

(And he won't admit it, but these are his little old ladies now. Clarice brought him brownies that he absolutely devoured when he got back to his flat they were so good, and he can't help but laugh at how often they try to set him up with their granddaughters. And how they "trip" often just to hang on to his big arms. Birds are birds, no matter their age.)

what to expect | s.r.

in which you find yourself frustrated at the end of your pregnancy, and spencer talks you off a ledge

margotober

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff (hurt/comfort) content warnings: pregnancy, lamaze classes, self-consciousness, boy dad spencer, spencer is perfect, birth talks, breastmilk mentioned, crying word count: 1.68k a/n: i'm writing all of these a/n's at the same time and i'm running out of interesting things to say to you. this was a request! i hope you enjoy!

“Now,” the instructor continued her presentation, “Our recommendation is the five-five-five rule.” The yardstick that she was using to emphasize the slides smacked against the projector screen, “That’s five days in bed, five days on the bed, and five days near the bed.”

Leaning back, you rested your back on Spencer’s chest and whispered, “If you try to keep me in bed for five days, we’ll have to start marriage counseling.”

Your husband hummed in response, “Why don’t we just see how you’re feeling after he’s here?”

Holding back a groan at his diplomatic answer, you turned your head back to the screen, anxiety already at an all-time high after watching video footage of a live birth. At a friend’s recommendation, you had signed yourself and Spencer up for Lamaze lessons, but you hadn’t anticipated how in-depth they would go.

It didn’t help that Spencer had been on a case when you were supposed to start, pushing back your start time. Now you were finishing your last lesson on the same day your OB had given you the ‘any day now’ speech. “Are you alright?” Spencer asked, noticing the way you didn’t respond to his suggestion.

Your head bobbed in confirmation, “Yeah, just tired.” The lights were dimmed in the classroom, between that and the warmth of Spencer behind you, you were ready to fall asleep.

Your sweet husband was beginning to toe the line of being overbearing, “Do you want me to take the rest of the day off?”

“No,” you answered. He had taken an extended lunch to be able to go to this lesson with you, there was only a week until his paternity leave officially started, and it wasn’t necessary for him to stay with you for the rest of the day.

Besides, having him around all day was only going to make your prenatal anxiety worse.

He was already the perfect father, his eidetic memory contributing to all of the facts that he listed about newborns and birth. He knew more about the changes happening to your body, and the worst part was that everyone knew it.

Cringing as the lights went up, you leaned back on your hands as Spencer stood up, packing up your bag before crouching down to help you up. Looking around the room, you watched all of the other couples in your class smiling and laughing with each other, the moms moving around the room with an ease that you no longer possessed.

You took a deep breath, placing one hand on your side in an attempt to brace yourself, “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?” Spencer asked again, watching you zone out in the middle of the Lamaze studio.

“Mhmm,” you reassured him, “Braxton Hicks,” you added, trying to wave off some of his concern.

Nodding in understanding, Spencer gently placed a hand on the small of your back before the two of you started to make your way out of the room, stopping to grab the gift bag your instructor had put together for you. His hand dropped to hold yours before walking down the steps, leaving the two of you at the entrance to the parking garage, “Hey,” he nudged, trying to lift your spirits, “No more classes.”

Admittedly, the Lamaze lessons weren’t your favorite couple activity, and Spencer knew that the only reason you kept going was that they were non-refundable. “Right,” you agreed, knowing that now you’d have to face the next hurdle—actually giving birth.

“Okay,” Spencer said, gently herding you over to a park bench. He set the bags down on the seat before you sat down, leaving him squatting in front of you. “What’s wrong, honey? I know something’s wrong,” he insisted, knowing you well enough to be able to tell when you were burying your feelings.

You leaned back onto the bench, “I’m pregnant,” you shrugged as if that was answer enough.

Spencer frowned up at you, “Yes, this much I am aware of,” he confirmed, eyes flickering down to your bump before going back to your face.

“I just…” you struggled to find the right words, “I’m pregnant, and you’re doing all of this research into pregnancy and labor and birth, and I’ve done none of it. None of the research or the work and I’m— I feel useless!”

His expression softened at the sight of tears welling in your eyes, “You’re not useless. You’re so far from useless that it’s not even on the list of adjectives I would consider while describing you.” He rested his hands on you, one on top of your knee to maintain his balance and another on the side of the bump, skimming his thumb over the cotton of your t-shirt. “You’ve been growing our baby, and he’s beautiful and healthy and he’s going to love you regardless of how much research you’ve done about him.”

Huffing, you wipe at your teary eyes, “It’s so embarrassing though! Going to the BAU today and hearing everyone talk about how prepared you are, the stacks of books on your desk and on your nightstand and on the coffee table.” You paused to take a deep breath, “In those stupid classes where you knew so many of the answers that the instructor stopped calling on you to give everyone else a chance.”

“Sweetheart,” Spencer murmured, “I like being prepared. Especially for big changes like this.”

You nodded, resting your hand on top of his, “And I love that about you, but I have never felt so unprepared for anything in my life,” you confessed, struggling to catch your breath.

It wasn’t like Spencer didn’t understand your frustrations, he just wished you had voiced some of these concerns sooner, “You don’t need to prepare like I do, though. Your maternal instinct? It’s inherent. It’ll immutably move you to sense and take care of the baby, okay? With dads it’s different. I don’t have any sort of physical connection with him like you do, I won’t develop a similar instinct until I actually spend time with him. So, technically, you’re ahead of me,” he explained, using all of his research to soothe you out of your panic.

“I just want him to love me as I love him,” you pouted, looking down at the bump, “but I ache all over, Spence. My boobs hurt. They’re not even tender anymore, they just hurt,” you complained.

Spencer chuckled lightly at your breast comment, “He will love you as you love him; I guarantee it. Your boobs hurt because they’re producing colostrum, and we can call your doctor later to see if it’s alright to pump. That’ll help relieve the pressure.”

Some of the tension in your body released, and you sniffled timidly, “I think those classes are designed to freak people out of ever having another baby. Oh my god,” your eyes go wide as you recall the live birth video, “You can’t watch.”

“Watch what, honey?” Spencer asked.

You looked at him with abject horror in your eyes, “The baby. You can’t watch me give birth. Is that why the dads always used to wait in another room? Should I be having you wait in another room while I’m in labor?”

He shook his head, “I’d like to be in the room with you, but if you’d be more comfortable having me somewhere else, then we can figure that out. However, we just went through twelve hours of birthing classes together, so if you’d rather I just refrain from actually watching you push the baby out, then I will promise to abide by your rules.”

Horror stories that you had heard from other moms about how their husbands wouldn’t touch them after birth filled your mind, and that type of rejection horrified you. With wide eyes, you looked at your husband and whispered, “I can’t do this.”

Spencer watched helplessly as tears filled your eyes once again, “Can’t do what?”

“Have a baby,” you answered, your voice tight with emotion, “What was I thinking? I never should’ve done this, oh no.” You continued muttering to yourself, sending your head into a tailspin as Spencer desperately tried to get you to come back down to earth.

“Hey,” Spencer crooned, “Y/N, hey,” he tried to get you to snap out of it. “Hey, we made this decision together, remember? Why didn’t you tell me you hated being pregnant?”

Your eyes snapped to his, “I don’t hate being pregnant. I’m just over it!”

Pushing your bags off to the side, Spencer sat down next to you on the bench, “You want him here, huh?”

Nodding melodramatically, you cover your eyes with your hands, “I just wish he could be in my arms instead of in my belly, and now that I’ve been told he could come any day it’s so much worse.”

“Thirty-seven weeks is any day now territory,” Spencer acknowledged, “but not today, I’m afraid.”

Dragging your hands down your face as you met his eyes, knowing that today was, in fact, not the day. “I miss hugs,” you told him mournfully, wiping at the fresh tears in your eyes.

Spencer casually put his arm around your shoulders, leaning over to press a soft kiss to your temple, “I hug you all the time,” he reminded you.

“It’s not the same with the bump,” you admitted, there was always an awkward lean involved, and you could never get close enough to him.

He raised his eyebrows at you curiously, “So, if I promise to give you a hug after the baby’s born, will you stop crying?”

Leaning your head back and using his arm as a headrest, your head bobbed slightly, “Yeah, I think that could fix me.”

“Honey,” he started, “I promise to give you the coziest, most rejuvenating hug of your entire life after the baby comes. I will hug you like you’ve never been hugged before.”

Turning to face him, a timid smile grew on your face, “Well, now you’re kind of laying it on thick, don’t you think?”

He sighed desperately, “I just really want you to stop crying.”

Hey my pookie!! Please do prompt 19 with Chandler Bing.. Dankie 😁🫶

19. Person B is insecure about their scars, person A makes them feel better about this.

Of course, random stranger- 👀

I’m not great at the advice…

You had been friends with Monica and Phoebe for ages. And by extension Rachel, Ross, Joey and Chandler.

It had been pouring with rain in New York and Chandler and I were soaked through. We ran into his apartment.

I saw chandlers gaze rather fixated on my chest, I glanced down at my white button up work shirt it was clung to my bare skin and rather see-through.

I flushed red and glanced around grabbed his blazer from the counter and put it on.

“Sorry-“ he said looking around. I shook my head with a small smile, brushing it off.

I looked out the window. “You mind if I camp out the storm?” I asked

“Yeah- yeah of course.” He nodded. He looked me up and down. He smiled a little

“What?” I asked.

He shook his head. And I couldn’t help but smile. “It looks better on you.” He smiled nodding his head to the blazer. I blushed.

We talked a couple times but we were never as close as the other members in the group.

I was shivering from the wet clothes. “Do you wanna borrow something?” He asked tripping over his words a few times.

“I can just go get something of Monica’s-“ I say and he brushed it off. “She’s with Richard,” he said.

“I could-“ I started but he interrupted me. “It’s fine y/n really.” He said.

I smiled at him. “That would be nice.” I said and he went into his room closed the door and when he came back he had changed into pjs and handed me an old t-shirt and some blue plaid pajama pants.

“Thank you. Now I have my Halloween costume too.” I smirked, going into his room to change.

“Are you sure? I think there’s gonna be too many kids dressed up as awkward loser this year-“ he stopped his ramble when I walked out in his clothes. All a little big.

He stared “wow.” He let out.

“Not such a bad costume now is it?” I smirked.

“I should stop buying clothes, now that I’ve seen this they’ll look terrible on me forever.” He said.

My cheeks tinted pink. We were friends. He flirted with Monica and Rachel and phoebe too right?

“So what do you wanna do?” I asked

“We could-“ his eyes darted around the room.

Soon enough we were on the recliners facing each other. A little table in the middle. Trying to throw coins into the cup.

“Is this what you and Joey do all day?” I asked.

“Well n-“ he paused. “Yeah,”

I chuckled. I threw the last one in. I put my arms up and smiled. “I win!”

Chandler smiled at me. I sat back down. His face softened, and then turned into a frown.

I glanced around “what?”

He leaned forward and took my arm and pulled it towards himself. My face fell when I realised he was looking at my scars.

I pulled my arm away. I never wore t-shirts for this reason. With the rain and everything I just forgot. I wrapped my arms around my legs and looked away.

He was quiet for a long time. I sat there tears in my eyes.

“Hey-it’s okay.” He said softly.

“It’s not, it was a long time ago and I regret it. And god you were the last person I needed seeing this.” I wipe my face.

“What- what does that mean? I’m not gonna make some stupid joke about it-“ he said kneeling on the floor in front of me and turning my chin to look at him.

“That’s not it.” I said.

“Look y/n I know we’re not best buddies but I care about you and you can talk to me.” He put a hand on my cheek. “Why am I the last person-“

“Because I was stupid and thought you might actually like me- and now I’ve ruined it-“ I couldn’t help a tear rolling down my cheek.

Chandler froze. He used his thumb and wiped my cheek.

“I’m gonna go call a cab.” I say standing up and he scrambled to his feet.

“No y/n please don’t go! I’m sorry it’s just- you like me?” He asked.

“Isn’t it obvious?” I asked feeling insecure and pathetic.

“No no I don’t think you heard me you like me…” he smiled, poking at my sides. “You hear that I like you it’s no big deal but you, liking me.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “There it is!” He exclaimed. I rolled my eyes and it faded again.

I kept holding my arms trying to cover up now.

“You can talk to me about it when you’re ready, but just so you know…scars and everything you’re still like wayyy out of my league.” He exaggerated and I smiled.

“You really like me?” I asked softly.

“Really, really.” He squeezed his eyes shut. I smiled.

“Now can I kiss you? Because this whole soap opera, you in my clothes, and confessing your love, it has me a little antsy.” He spoke.

I nodded biting my bottom lip slightly. He leaned in and I pulled him the rest of the way by his shirt collar. Having to go on my toes. We kissed his hands in my hair and the small of my back.

We broke apart when the door opened and Joey stood there wide eyed. I flushed red. And he pointed at us.

“Joe! It’s Joey!” Chandler exclaimed

I stood frozen. Almost wanting to laugh. “Dude!” He exclaimed

I glanced at Chandler.

“It finally happened I’m so proud of you man!” Joey gave Chandler a hug.

I couldn’t help but laugh. “You told him you liked me?” I asked.

“Oh you have no idea, I mean you’re nice, but the talking blah blah blah!” Joey exclaimed wide eyed.

I laughed. Chandler was now blushing.

He nudged Joey “right sorry.” He cleared his throat and went into his room giggling.

I leaned my head on chandler’s chest laughing. “You’ve got a crush.” I teased lightly.

“Oh shut up,” he put a finger on my lips. I smiled.

“Make me.” I smirked and quickly his lips were on mine and I laughed as he kissed me passionately.

levi may not be the type to call you honey, baby, or sweetheart, but he is the kind of man to hit you with a “that’s my girl”.

when you turn red, as of course you do because he’s never once said anything like that before, he arches an eyebrow in confusion. “what’s wrong with your face?”

the goodness, love, i still carry for you ; 101

Spencer Reid x Non-BAU Reader

TLDR: Spencer contemplates the future of your relationship after the death of Haley Hotchner - 5.5k - angst, comfort

Warnings: long established relationship (start season 2+), almost break up (it doesn't happen, i can't do sad endings), spoilers for S5E9, talk of death and grief, religious imagery probably, some swearing, me going off on one about italy and the universe's inherent desire to breed because this is my fanfiction and IM in charge, existential crisis but reader's vibing, spencer is in hospital (not narcotic related) because of injury that is in like the whole of season 5, the tiniest tiniest tiniest mention of spencer not taking painkillers, maybe a tiny tiny reference to reader liking spencer's fingers in her mouth and being submissive i'm sorry arrest me

Notes: Second Person, no y/n. Fem reader. Specifically set following the immediate events of episode 100.

One thousand one hundred and sixty-two days ago, you had crossed through a public park on your way to work in a vain attempt to avoid the blistering sun burning down on Virginia. You sought the trees for relief. That, and you could watch dogs sniff around flowerbeds and skip happily on cool grass, chasing bright tennis balls and using their brilliant senses to embrace the last of the summer far better than humans can.

Your clothes were too thick for the season but you’re not good at adjusting – at handling change – and so, the sun did not take you by surprise, but rather held you entirely accountable for your attire. The gravel crunched under your dawdling feet and the trees stood tall and protective around the park, some rounded by children in giggling games of hide and seek, and the sparse benches found themselves bunched with families and picnic blankets, couples embracing each other, friends that tip their heads back with laughter, and solitary elderly people with books in their grasp. You stepped aside as a series of cyclists passed, some thanking you for your movement, and you traded a smile in exchange.

On any other day, your passing of a public chessboard would’ve been an innocuous, inconsequential act. Many people around the world – even just in Virginia – pass a public chessboard surrounded by players of varying skill and passion every day, and have this barely be anything worthy of attention on their route, let alone have an infinite impact on their whole life.

That day was different.

That day, Doctor Spencer Reid had been in attendance of a chess game. He stood in the back – being one of the tallest – in his glasses and a white speckled shirt and dark tie, his hand balled into a fist under his chin as he watched the game curiously. You noticed him because he was mumbling to himself and his eyes were flicking about the board, like he was playing his own game alongside it.

The odds of him noticing you were between seventy-five to eighty-five percent. They were good odds.

You saw him, and he saw you.

Your eyes flicked away then flicked back together again, like the millisecond of perception had pitched your brains to one radio frequency. The same song played. You wondered what song. Spencer awkwardly smiled, and you did too – albeit a little smoother, though you would later learn you could do anything smoother than Spencer Reid – and then you passed him.

You looked back. He did too. That’s always how you know.

Your face reddened and you blamed the heat as you resumed your walk to work, your steps unwavering, and you applauded yourself silently for getting the attention of someone you wanted attention from.

Still got it.

And though you hadn’t exactly sought the park for shade over the next few days, the weather remained hot and, therefore, an excuse. I deserve some refuge, you told yourself.

He wasn’t there. Not the day after. Or the day after that.

You grew a little embarrassed.

Until the Friday, when he was back, and you were thinking about all the religions you studied back in school and wondered which God or philosophy you owed your luck to.

And for a while, that was the extent of your relationship; nervously glancing at each other in the park like children on a playground, wishing you had a friend to beg to ask him if he likes you. Sometimes he’d be playing and not notice you, but if he wasn’t completely fixed on the game, then he was absolutely waiting for 8:24am when you would pass through.

You realised you were very obviously on your way to work, and it was manners that he hadn’t approached – that, and chasing down a woman in a park is the opposite of Spencer’s ethos.

In your infinite genius – and sick of your month of noticing but never doing – you leave your apartment early one day to get a coffee from the park, and prayed your morning crankiness wouldn’t be completely off-putting.

The early hour had you wishing you hadn’t and you were entirely counting on the universe’s uncanny irony to have this mystery chess player be absent on this day.

But the universe showed mercy.

He was there. He was saw you. And he watched you head to the park café – a small green building with baristas serving from windows, and old people slouched with newspapers on benches.

You felt his presence – saw his shadow – before you saw him.

“Hi.” he said.

You looked up.

“Hey.”

It was all very shy, and very sweet, and you glanced up at him – so much closer than he had ever been – and returned to standing in line for a coffee you were craving.

In realising he’d approached and had made the first big move, you decided it was on you to resume it.

“How’s the game going?” you asked then, nodding to the chessboard.

Spencer – the stranger, to you – smiled, blushed, and looked at his shoes.

“Nothing like Ivanchuk versus Yusupov.”

Spencer would later teach you exactly what he meant over game after game of chess, played miserably albeit amicably on your part. He admired your willingness to lose just for the sake of the game. You’re a good sport, and a winner in other ways.

Every time Spencer strokes your cheek and kisses your forehead, you win.

Every time Spencer utters a pet name, you win.

Every time his fingers trail the line of your back in the chalk-white sheets of his bed, you win.

Your fingers combed through his ever growing hair, inches longer than it had been when you’d met. God, how the time had passed – how you’d both decayed and flourished, how you’d changed and transformed.

You understand what love is now – love is the willingness to accept death, both inside you and in front of you. To fathom time. To say, okay, this won’t be forever, but I will grasp every moment like splitting glass, until my palms are torn and my heart is spent. Love is sameness. Recognition. Rest.

“Actually…”

Your eyes roll as you toy with Spencer’s hair in the hospital bed, gazing up at him in the dim light, casting your skin in a volcanic glow. Even with his leg shot to bits, he has to correct your factual inaccuracies.

“Love is more about psychology, chemistry, and biology.” his voice is raspy and quiet, as comfortable as he can be, brows knit and raised as he absorbs the multitude of your expression; the worry, the adoration, the annoyance, and he smiles, “Chemically, love is oxytocin and dopamine and-,”

“Yeah, and serotonin – everybody knows that.”

Spencer laughs, and you grin, and your face gets all warm like the muscles of Spencer’s thigh haven’t been ripped through. Resting on the bed, on your stomach and facing him as he slumps, you toy with the crisp, thin bed sheets draping his sore frame.

“All right... smart girl." he tuts, "Biologically, it’s more about mating and attachment-,”

“I don’t get why every living thing is – like – predisposed to wanting to reproduce; of all things to want to do, why that? Plants. Bugs. Germs. Even fire spreads.” you ponder, and Spencer’s smile widens at your tangent – your brilliant mind, your keenness to discuss and divulge and tear the human race to shreds, “I don’t want more of me. I suck.” you grumble.

“You don’t suck.” his head shakes, “And the fire-,”

“It was an analogy.” your brows pinch.

“More like a metaphor..." he hums, "look, genes want to survive. That’s the baseline. The way they do that is… producing offspring. It’s all evolution, really, most things come back to that in the end.” Spencer sighs, “But I think you’re branching more into the philosophical, colourful way of thinking.”

“I just wanna know why everything insists on spreading.”

“Because that’s life.” Spencer hums, almost laughing, “If nothing ever spread, as you so eloquently put it, there would be no life. The only other options are extinction or immortality.”

“That’s it? We either fuck, die, or live forever?”

Spencer’s head shakes.

“So crass.”

“You like my crass mouth.”

He reaches up. You think he might caress your cheek. His thumb, however, strokes your lower lip, tracing the well-kissed skin, and your jaw grows slack as you let him toy with you a moment, the salt of his touch lingering on your lips. It's far more intimate than he usually is with you in public. You shiver. You're torn between gazing into his brilliant eyes and shying away from them.

“I much prefer it when you’re muttering your soft little metaphors about love being sameness.”

You beam. You kiss his chest through his gown. His hand comes to stroke over your head.

“You and I are the same.” you tell him, very simply.

Spencer wonders how he ended up as lucky as he did; to go through a drought of love in all its forms to stumble one day, a few years ago, on someone so willing to give all of it to him.

Perhaps God had some making up to do.

“Psychologically, love is about mutual understanding and shared values and a… cognitive commitment,” he swallows, “a… recognition, then, of some kind. And you can explore attachment theory too, I suppose there are some merits in that – I’d be a fool to deny the impact on early development and how it leads to later expressions of emotions.”

“Is that why you love me the way you do?” you ask.

“How, exactly, do I love you?”

You tsk and sigh, rolling on to your back, and the movement sends a jolt of pain through Spencer’s ruined leg, desperately hoisting it away from your jostling. His hand returns to you as soon as possible with no mention of the harm you’d caused.

Spencer thinks you could’ve fired the shot yourself and he’d still find a way to stroke your cheek and tell you about love.

Saviour. Saviour.

“Very well.” you mumble contently, “Like ‘m the only thing in the universe worth loving.”

Spencer smiles at your theatrical little statement, adoring your moments.

“Maybe you are.” he hums, more to himself than anything.

“Quit your job, then.” you suggest, peering up at him, “Run away with me. We’ll go to Italy; all the best, most important lovers were there. We’ll eat too much pasta, and you can get sunburnt, and I will finally learn the language, and we’ll be happy.”

“You’ve really thought about this…”

“I like to think, in some other universe, I did it.”

You stare at the white squares of the tile ceiling above you, dirtied and grey with their age, fiddling with the hem of your shirt, lost in thought as always.

“That we did it – that you said, okay, baby, let’s run away together…”

Free will is not as free as people assume, and sometimes, when you look at the board of life, you find only white squares.

It's why you dream. Why you lose yourself. Why the greatest high is when your eyes glaze over and your inner storyteller unleashes their darkest fantasy.

Spencer’s smile softens into a sympathetic line. Your acknowledgement of some other universe evidences your understanding that he’s not going to do that – that the BAU is his crown and the bullpen is his throne, and he’s right at home there.

It’s probably all Spencer’s ever wanted, you figure. A home.

“Maybe that’s a better definition of the purpose of life,” you say, “that it’s not about life itself but what lies in it, and… to experience that, everything must keep going. Endure and survive. Because how will you have pasta in Italy if wheat doesn’t pollinate and tomatoes don’t have seeds?”

Spencer’s hand caressing the soft dips and curves of your forehead and the slope around your ear pauses, and he adores you, and he knows that Darwin was right and Dawkins’s The Selfish Gene outlined all about the innate impulse to reproduce, but he decides you’re right too.

It’s a much nicer sight, he thinks, to decide love - that 'spreading', that life and birth - is about eating pasta together.

You’re his Library of Alexandria. Beautiful. Impossible.

"You and I are the same." he says.

Minutes and metres.

The space between Haley and Aaron had been minutes and metres, but it may as well have been millenniums and lightyears. Loss is loss no matter how much distance and time might have prevented it.

Cane in hand, Spencer stops at the door to his apartment building.

Metres and minutes. The space between you and him.

No doubt, you will be waiting for him inside, bright as ever, gazing at him like he’s the milky way – the very thing the whole universe revolves around.

There had been a period in Spencer’s life when all he wanted was for someone to look at him – to feel about him – like that, but as he stares at the door to his building, it only brings him motions sickness. The sunset burns against the back of his head, curls stroking his neck, cane in his calloused hand, and hovering there in that liminal space, in the minutes and metres, Spencer realises he loves you too much to love you.

The thought you might befall the same fate as Haley ravages him from the inside out, from his delicate strands of DNA to the cells of his skin, and as his jaw tightens and he blinks, sighing into the cool evening air, Spencer decides he has no choice but to leave you.

Your loss would be the ultimate tragedy; for your sake, for all you would and could have done.

Spencer clambers the stairs, cane supporting his leg, and he stops outside the front door.

He hears you inside.

The soft mumble of a television left on even though you’re not watching. Music playing from the kitchen where you’re engrossed in some thrown together recipe. Your steps galloping across old wooden floorboards. You’d brought so much life to someplace that had been so quiet.

Spencer opens the door.

He finds you leaning on his kitchen counter, laptop on the table, engulfed in an old jumper and thick socks on your feet, stroking the sleeve across you bottom lip as you stare at the screen. Images of vineyards and Tuscan kitchens flash across your vision and you smile. You and Spencer are in definite need of a vacation, and now he’s back on his own two feet – with some help – you figure it’s time to satisfy that little fantasy of yours just a little bit.

Even if it’s not real. Even if you know it won’t be.

Swamped in basil and garlic, the kitchen summons Spencer forward, one hand tucked into his pocket. He turns the television off as he passes, and he admires you distantly for a moment. You hadn’t heard the door close behind him, too busy in your own little world and your ginormous, all-encompassing thoughts. Dinner cooks away behind you, and he hears the same playlist you always listen to – Spencer swears he’s memorised the order of songs.

You’re so beautiful. And so human.

With another step forward, you blink and catch Spencer coming in.

“I didn’t hear you.” you grin.

Your warmth and smile, usually melting Spencer’s slightly cold exterior, are forced to reach Arctic temperatures instead.

His lips press into a fine line but he does try to smile. Dressed in dark colours, Spencer clashes the marigold ambience burning everything into beauty.

“You okay?” you ask, “Is your leg causing you trouble again?”

Spencer spies the vacation deals you’d been stalking on the internet but says nothing. He shakes his head. He hadn’t been paying much attention to how his leg had been feeling. It probably hurt.

“No, no, I’m fine, thank you…” he says.

Gingerly, he steps to you, almost chest to chest, and presses a kiss to your forehead. I'm home. Something about the way he hesitates and then lingers fills you with unease.

You stand there like a pawn, waiting for the next move.

When Spencer pulls away, he gazes down at you, forehead almost brushing yours, and one hand raises to your cheek, stroking along the warm curve of your complexion.

Then, he steps away, leaving you in his cold and comes to stand further away, leaning against the counter.

Your tight jaw sends ripples of tension through your body and you close your laptop, heading to the oven, turning the heat off and shifting your food off the flames.

“What’s wrong, Spence?” you ask.

Spencer doesn’t like to worry you.

The problem is, on this occasion, he doesn’t have much of a choice. The man has never deemed himself to be the perfect partner. He figures he worries too much, or is a little – a lot – insecure, and, because he’s swept away at any moment, leaves you with more than half the chores and errands. In the last few hours, Spencer’s come to find the only way for him to be your perfect partner is to not be your partner at all; to not sign you up for a demise like Haley, to not ruin your life with his drought, to have you waiting all the time.

To promise you everything. To give you half. To make you feel guilty for craving the rest of what he’d offered in the first place.

“Haley Hotchner died today.” he tells you.

It’s simple. It’s not sugar-coated. It’s not beautiful like most things he tells you. He starts as he means to go on.

The marigold haze pales to beige. You understand the coldness.

You knew Haley. Her smile was phenomenal. The kind of smile people do fall in love with. Haley Hotchner was sunshine. She was good.

She was dead.

Brain buffering, you do your best to process the information as it’s handed to you. It can’t find a place to settle so it remains in front of you instead; not in anger, not in sadness… just… there, and you hold it.

“What?” you ask.

“Haley… she…” Spencer swallows, brows wrinkling, “she was killed by – um – the Boston Reaper, he… he tracked her and Jack down, and… and he killed her-,”

“W-what are you saying, wh- no, no, that’s- I saw her last week-,”

“He shot her.”

Still, the news cannot find a home inside you.

Spencer watches the cogs turn – or rather, not turn – in your head and you go into reset mode; not smiling, not talking, not thinking, just standing there as you try to process the information. Haley had always been nice to Spencer. She didn’t have much of a bad word to say about anyone; especially not Spencer, and especially not you.

She’s a firecracker, Haley had once said about you, smirking over a glass of wine at dinner, eyes flitting between you and Spencer as you wandered off to join Jack with his new space toy set.

“Oh my god…” you mumble as the penny drops, “h-wh-how’s Jack? Is Jack okay?”

“He’s alive. So’s Aaron.”

“Spence…” you murmur, not meaning anything by it – reciting his name as if to ground yourself.

He powers through your shock. He’d have preferred to have dinner instead, but dinner tonight isn’t worth the loss tomorrow.

“We’d been… tracking the Boston Reaper… he was one of ours, ‘nd he’s dead now.” he explains, “He’d formed a… a real grudge against Hotch, and… took it out on Haley… probably Jack too if he could’ve, but… Jack hid…”

“Oh, Spence… are… are you okay?”

“Yeah, ‘m fine.”

“You can not be fine, Spence, I… I know you were fond of Haley.”

“We all were.”

You nod, coming to stand in front of him, fingers tracing over his blazer and encouraging it from his shoulders, and he lets you take it off him, draping it over the kitchen counter instead. Gazing down at you, Spencer catches the twinkle in your eye as you peer up at him.

Unlike Haley, he has this horrible feeling that you’d wait and wait and wait until you hated yourself, and still, you would stand there – an angel sculpture in the centre of a town long abandoned. Birds would rest on your stone wings. You were built to stand still until Spencer came back, and he'd done that whether he realised it or not.

Spencer sighs.

“Come sit with me.” he rasps, voice gentle all of a sudden.

You figure he wants comfort in the warm temple of your embrace, and you nod, taking one of his hands as he hobbles to the couch.

He goes to sit down but winces and can only make it as low as the arm of the couch, so settles there, with you standing between his legs in front of him.

Pushing his hair from his face, he allows you this moment of softness – you’re not the problem after all. He even manages to smile at your sweet gesture; you offer your tenderness to him so freely.

What a cruel act it would be to allow that to be taken from the world.

“What happened today… was barbaric…” he mutters, your fingers still trailing his locks, “and it can’t ever happen again.”

Your brows pinch as you run his words over and over again through the meadow of your mind.

“And I love you so much.” he tells you, “Love you in every way.”

“And… and I love you…” you say, your tone spoiling the anxiety pooling in your stomach.

He smiles. He relishes in the feeling of your love until it makes him sick with stress. Kind eyes burning gold in the dying sunlight, his gaze flicks about your expression, just making sure it’s entirely fixed to memory.

“And if I – if the world – lost you, if you lost life… because… because of my work, because of what I do, I-,”

“Spence, you can’t think like that.”

He licks between his dry lips, eyes flicking away for a moment before returning to yours just as scalding.

“But I have to… because it happened.” he swallows, “It’s not some nightmare, baby, it’s… it’s real… and if it can happen to Haley then it can happen to you. There is no second you, there is no second chance, I-,"

His jaw tightens.

“And I can’t sit back and watch.”

The truth sinks like the Titanic. It starts slowly, then breaks in half and plummets to your depths, taking screams with it.

You step back. Your hands fall.

Spencer reaches to hold you but doesn’t force you into his grasp, so when your arm slips from his fingers, he lets it. Part of you burns hot at the thought of him wanting to comfort you when he’d caused such anguish in the first place.

“No.” you mumble, more disbelief – more of that displacement, of not knowing where to put this feeling, of how to swallow it.

“Baby-,”

“No.” you retort louder, “No, that’s not- no, I-, go get into comfy clothes and come eat dinner – I made dinner, I worked really hard on it, a-and I found this vacation-,”

“Sweetheart-,”

“Florence, you know, I wen-, it’s beautiful, ‘s beautiful…”

“Baby,” he stands then, wincing, and gazes down at you, “I can’t go to Italy with you.”

“Not with that shitty knee…” you frown, brows pinched, biting back the cry crawling up your throat.

Spencer smiles. Actually smiles. It breaks your heart.

It goes quiet. You breathe out a sigh. The clock ticks and the sun cools and the world spins on as it always had, and you can’t help but feel that everything, everywhere, should be on lockdown just like you.

More of that suffering. More of that silence.

“You can’t break up with me because Haley died.”

“I can.”

“No, you can’t, because… because it’s… it doesn’t make any sense, it’s for all the wrong reasons-,”

“I love you. That’s the only good reason for doing anything.”

Spencer’s hands clasp your jaw, cradling your face, trying to steady you, encouraging you into eye contact you’re desperate to resist. You curse the magnetism that’s pulled you from the very first day; that naturally makes you submit, that quiets you and your rambling and turns you into nothing but wide, teary eyes.

“So… what, you’re just never gonna love anything ever again? Never gonna have anything, or want anything, or hold anything… on the chance something might happen to it?” you ask, “Never gonna love anybody else, never gonna have children or a family or a dog because you might lose it?” your eyes flick between his, “That’s life, Spence.”

“No, it’s not - what happened to Haley, this is not normal; I am… a bad apple… for you.” he says tenderly, like he’s reciting poetry about your majesty.

His softness, he hopes, distracts from how difficult he’s finding this whole thing. He knows it’s for the better. He prays so, anyway.

“We’re not apples, Spencer, we’re people.”

You push him away, putting metres between you, trying to find the right distance in order to withstand the cold.

Spencer’s tether snaps far before he expects it to – perhaps it’s the grief or the fear or the tension in loving you so much and hurting you because of it.

“Do you have… any idea… how much I must love you in order to put us both through this?”

The worst part of this whole thing, you decide, is that it is so full of tenderness and affection. Every part of your surrounding world suffocates you with undeniable love, and it hurts so much.

Spencer continues.

“Do you have any idea… how hard it would be to… look at the world every day – wake up, eat breakfast, see the sun, walk around the park – do all that… knowing what I took from it?”

Heart thundering in your chest, you curse the sunset for being so bright and the room for being so warm. You’re not at home in it at all – you’ve embodied all the wrongness that you’ve tried to swallow. It had to go somewhere.

You break.

“Oh, so you blame Aaron then?”

His brows pinch.

“What?”

“You blame Aaron for what happened to Haley, right?” your head cocks, voice vibrating with sudden anger, “If you’d blame yourself for anything that might happen to me then it works out that you blame Aaron – that it’s Aaron’s fault, huh?”

“No,” Spencer swallows, “that’s… that’s not what I’m saying.”

“No, it is,” you yell, “say it, say you blame Aaron!”

Fury envelopes your gaze as you glare up at him – daring, challenging, as you always have – and Spencer sighs, uncertain how to navigate such dangerous territory.

“I can’t, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do! Say it! Say it!"

“Baby…” he hushes; you’ve always been a worthy opponent – a pleasure to defeat and an honour to kneel before.

“So, you can’t stand there and talk about blame and me dying…” your brows tremble above wide, glazed eyes that you fight so hard to keep clear and stern – it exhausts you.

There is no comfort – no kind words, no thoughtful actions – that can soften the horrendous blow; gunshots are gunshots even if you use a silencer.

“But Aaron blames himself. Right? We can agree on that?” his voice is so gentle as he reasons with you, “And if you were me, you would feel the same – you know you would, baby.”

You hate that he’s right.

That if anything happened to Spencer, you would always wonder what you could’ve done to prevent it. God, Himself, could offer you splendid integrity – call you a blameless lamb – and you would still beat yourself blue with fault. It’s your way.

A funny feeling builds in your chest like rust. Your blood turns to gold. Your heart does not beat the same.

And Spencer seems to sense the unease possessing your haunted frame. Daring once more, he crosses the distance and runs a thumb over your cheek even though he knows he shouldn’t.

“It’s not fair.” you utter with little left to offer.

“I know.” he says, “But it’s what I want.”

“It’s not,” you sniff, “it’s what you think needs to happen. You’re martyring yourself – it’s what you do.”

Typically, Spencer would respond with denial, but as you seem to near acceptance, he doesn’t want to chase you away. Your stubbornness only inflates his adoration for you and, in turn, forces him more and more to let you go.

He lets you say what you need to say so you can find peace with it all.

Unfortunately, you are not the peace-making kind.

“I can’t let you do this.”

“Baby.”

“No, because it sets a bad precedent.” your head shakes and your arms cross, “Break up with the wall – not me.”

He smirks at you, entirely adoringly. He almost wishes he were the cruel and tactical kind; that he could drive you to despise him, that he could dig deep and find enough meanness to make you walk out. He’s always been a lover. Loving somebody doesn’t let you say mean things to them, for he has none to say.

Even your snark – your beautiful defence – has him crumbling at your feet. He understands the Battle of Actium. How torturous a loss in the name of love; how willing to be crushed so long as you are crushed together. Drown with me. Drown with me.

“And what kind of precedent does it set if I don’t?” he asks you, “I’m telling you that my wants come over your safety – that I would put you in danger for my own selfish agenda, that what happened to Haley means nothing to me at all. It wouldn’t have happened if-,”

“Why does what happened to Haley have to be the rule, not the… the horrible exception? Even you have to see th-the statistical fallacy in that!”

Oh god, you have him smitten.

You’re so angry with him and for him and at him.

“You can’t make up odds as you go – as you see fit – you can’t just pick and choose the thing that makes you feel bad a-and… and…”

You’re crying then.

Spencer’s heart clenches in your chest. You’re working with two cycles of grief spinning inside you; processing Haley's death, and understanding Spencer’s reasoning for ending your relationship.

You crave rage to bite at his words but the thought of never seeing Haley’s smile cremates your dignity, and you’re so mad at the Boston Reaper for taking her from this world but so devastated by Spencer’s stubborn love toward you. Everything blurs together and starts to feel like nothing; a poisonous nothing that kills you, nonetheless.

Your tears are his complete weakness. He’s not seen them many times, but every time he does, his resolve is slashed to splinters.

“I can’t be selfish with you, baby.” Spencer tells you, “The very worst thing that could’ve happened has happened, and… so long as there’s even the smallest chance…”

He sighs.

"No amount of good I could ever do would make up for costing the world you."

“But why isn’t that my decision?”

“What?”

“You’re making that choice for me; you’re not even letting me decide what to do with my life – if I wanna take the one-billionth chance. You think you know best because you’re all clever and smart and know all these stupid big words like heteroscedasticity-,”

He blinks at you.

“-but you don’t because you’re just as emotional as the rest of us – as me. And…” you suck in a harsh breath, “and I hate you right now but I love you, so… so you’re just gonna have to let me make my own choices. And I know you – you’d never take away my choice.”

The phrasing challenges him – dares him – to do what he’d never do; trap you, force you, bind you into a world you didn’t agree to.

True love sets you free, he knows.

Spencer wonders if, in trying to release you from one cage, he’d only been ushering you into a very cold, dark box under the guise of it being better.

If fear and guilt and terror had turned him into a preacher of what-ifs.

You’re all teary-eyed and biting down hard to keep your voice tame and emotions under control, but with each silent second, your veil tumbling like an avalanche into the arctic, the thunderous cold of your rage consumes Spencer too.

It’s too much.

“All right,” he relents, coming closer to you, “you’re right, you’re right, I’m sorry… baby, I’m sorry…”

But you’re already in pieces, consumed by grief and confused by it all the same – swamped in Haley’s loss and suspended by your throat over the ocean of odds and demise.

“No, you’re so mean to me.” you sniff, palms pushing him away despite careful fingers lacing around his shirt.

You’re both trapped in an awkward push and pull. Spencer can’t blame you for your sudden uncertainty; who knows when the tide will pull out again – what carcasses it will reveal on the sea floor?

“I’m sorry, I know, I’m sorry.” he murmurs against your forehead, pressing his lips against your warm skin, his hair brushing your skin, “I love you, I was scared – I’ll take you to Italy, baby, I’ll-,”

He reaches to caress your cheeks, your jaw, your neck, your shoulders – anywhere he can soothe, can touch, can make feel better with his warmth.

“I hate you.” you grit.

“I know,” he almost smiles, not because it’s funny but because you’re so passionate, “I know…”

“You’re banned from breaking up with me-,”

“Banned?” he chuckles against your forehead, “I’m not sure that’s how it works, sweetheart.”

“It is now.” you wipe your eyes clear.

Spencer grasps both your wrists to hold them close, fingers steaming the delicate pathway of your veins and tendons.

“I’m so hot.” you whimper out.

“I know you’re deflecting-,”

“I’m not!” you sniff, grounding yourself with a heavy breath.

The sunset burns warmer then – rises from the ashes – and returns the fiery glow to Spencer’s apartment.  

"You are completely impossible." he says then, "There's no burning you down, is there?"

"Absolutely not."

No. No. You are not paper. You are not leather. You're something much more immortal.

He laughs. He cradles you. He kisses your forehead again.

"I'm sorry Haley died." you add, gazing into those brilliant earthy eyes of his.

Spencer loses himself in his own mind for a moment, trying to navigate the treachery of loss alongside his logical mind; how he has no other conclusion other than gone-ness being final.

In your eyes, he finds your humanness. Fragile.

You cannot flee from it. You cannot be protected from it.

Of all the things he can and cannot do, Spencer swallows whole the bitter truth that time, misfortune, and decay are out of his hands. He cannot fight them nor wage war against them. No amount of 'genius' can change that.

"Yeah," he sighs, "I'm sorry too..."

You kiss his fingers as they continue to grasp your wrists. Heat rises to Spencer's cheeks and he does not feel the ache of his messed up leg as he stands before you. He releases you as you step closer, wishing to be held and being too obstinate to ask for it, and his arms drape about you, fingers caressing the nape of your neck in delicate circles.

"And I'm sorry I tried to break up with you."

You sort of laugh and sort of cry.

"You're not forgiven."

He smiles slightly.

"I'll keep begging for redemption then."

"I mean... I've always wanted to go to Pompeii." a soft chuckle ripples through your chest.

You sniff, your hot breath tingling against his chest. There is still the rich scent of basil and tomato and chilli, and your laptop sits on the counter with a hundred searches for escape and love and fantasy. Oh God, you want him to live with you, not just survive - not just wait for a terrible thing to remind you that existence is and was and won't be again.

Evolve. Evolve. Evolve.

Spencer's guilt comes in waves until it's too much to handle; until he's drowning.

"Did you know that Pompeii was actually discovered by accident fifteen-hundred years after the eruption?"

The best things are discovered by accident.

You walk through a park one day because it was hot.

And Spencer was too late to play the chess game.

"There's a Doctor Who episode called The Fires of Pompeii. Why don't we dish up dinner and watch it together?"

You nod, swallowing, still deeply unhappy with the man before you and the one thousand, one hundred and sixty-two days you'd known him. He'd never changed. You love him. You hate him. You love him more.

Spencer smiles, eyes narrowing with pinch of his cheeks.

"That's my girl. I love you. Really, I... I completely love you."

And, somehow, this softens you enough - melts your frost, residual ash and heat blowing in from 79AD.

"Completely love you too."

masterlist for more relationship-fighting angst, you may enjoy serendipity and harlot (18+) for more sweet spencer x reader moments, feel free to check out lobotomy and tramp

kissaphobic - make out monday unknown / nth - hozier waiting room - phoebe bridgers

Soap would hold up your pregnant belly.

You're pretty far along, and the extra weight is putting a strain on your back. It aches something fierce when you have to be on your feet for awhile. Today you're stuck in a long line at the bank.

Of course, Johnny notices the way you're rubbing at the small of your back, so is quick to help relieve the strain. Stepping behind you, he pulls you against his chest, then wraps his arms around you, big hands cupping the underside of your belly to gently lift it up. You instantly relax into his embrace, sighing in relief.

"Feel better now, bon?"

"Yeah, so much better."

He kisses your temple. "I'll give ye a good back rub when we get home."

You smile. "That sounds good."

"Aye, especially if yer naked."

"Johnny!"