Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The BAU is nearly silent at this hour, the kind of deep, padded quiet that settles into the bones of the place. The overhead lights are dimmed, humming softly like a lullaby meant for those few stubborn souls still lingering behind. Most of the team has long since trickled out into the night, their departure marked by laughter that echoed through the hallways or the gentle murmur of farewells that faded around corners. Now, those echoes are ghosts, leaving only stillness in their wake.

Only Spencer remains, perched at his desk in the middle of the bullpen. One ankle is hooked lazily over the other, his slender frame folded into a position that looks casual enough but is actually a delicate balancing act against the tight coil of restlessness inside him. His fingers drum absently along the spine of a closed book—something dense and important, no doubt—but it might as well be a brick for all the meaning it holds right now. The words he’d been devouring hours ago have blurred together, transformed into indecipherable patterns that skitter across the backs of his eyelids when he blinks.

His mind is elsewhere entirely.

It always begins like this. A quiet ritual he can’t quite name, only that he finds himself compelled to observe it every night they wrap up late. He watches them leave. Emily slipping into the elevator, her lips curved in a small, secret smile as her thumb flies across her phone screen, likely sending a text to someone who makes that particular softness bloom on her face. Derek swaggering out with a promise tossed over his shoulder—something flirtatious meant for Penelope in the morning—his grin bright enough to momentarily chase away the shadows of their cases. JJ gathering her things with the contented urgency of someone heading back to a home built on bedtime stories, shared laughter, and a love that’s gentle because it doesn’t need to be anything else. Even Hotch, who so often wears the weight of his past like armor, occasionally pauses at the glass doors, his eyes gone distant and wistful with thoughts of Jack, of days that might still hold something tender for him.

Spencer sees it all. Catalogues it, unintentionally. Stores these moments in the same crowded vault where he keeps academic trivia and case files, except these feel different—raw and alive. He feels it too, in a tender spot beneath his rib cage that sometimes feels hollow, like a cavity carved out by longing, and other times so full it aches.

He tells himself this is normal. That this is what being human looks like. Wanting things, even if you don’t entirely understand them.

But for Spencer, the wanting comes jagged. It cuts going in and tears coming back out.

He isn’t even certain he wants that kind of life. The relationships, the romance, the building of something intricate and fragile with another person—something that everyone around him seems to do as naturally as breathing. Sometimes he wonders if he’s fundamentally missing whatever instinct guides people into each other’s arms without fear.

More frightening still is the suspicion that even if he tried, he might not be capable of loving someone the way they need to be loved. The way they deserve. Letting someone truly see him—every messy, unspooled thought, every jagged edge of his anxieties and his hypersensitive heart—feels like inviting disaster. He can’t imagine exposing all of it without flinching under the weight of what they might think, of when they might inevitably decide he’s too much trouble, too peculiar, or simply too much. Or worse—not enough.

Because what if they peer into the constant cyclone of his mind and recoil? What if they realize how easily he’s overwhelmed by a world that never stops pressing in on him? How sometimes, he craves solitude so desperately it feels like drowning in air when he doesn’t get it? How would they reconcile that with wanting to be close to him?

Still, there’s that wanting.
That stubborn, aching little wish tucked into the quiet pockets of his heart, nestled between all the sharp edges of his fears and insecurities. It’s a fragile thing—delicate as spun glass—but impossibly persistent, refusing to be smothered no matter how many times he tries to reason it away.

It slips into his thoughts in soft, fleeting images, like sunlight through half-closed blinds. He imagines a hand resting at the small of his back—steady, warm, grounding him in a way nothing else ever has. Sometimes he pictures someone tucked close against his side on the couch, their thigh brushing his, a book balanced across their knees, breath rising and falling in a rhythm so gentle he could memorize it without even trying.

Other times it’s a kitchen scene, cozy and mundane: laughter bubbling up between them as they try to cook dinner, shoulders bumping, a wooden spoon tapping against the edge of a pot while something aromatic fills the air. A playful smear of sauce on his nose, a startled, delighted laugh—then a thumb brushing it away, lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

And sometimes it’s a kiss—tentative at first, a soft question asked against his mouth. Then deeper, more certain, blooming into something that feels like a promise written right into his skin.

There’s never a particular face in these tender daydreams. It’s not anchored to a man or a woman, never defined by anything so specific. Just someone. Someone who might look at him and not see a collection of awkward habits or an overactive mind that can’t seem to slow down, but rather see Spencer. Someone whose presence wouldn’t crowd him, whose affection wouldn’t feel like water rising past his chin, threatening to pull him under.

He imagines someone who could understand—truly understand—how sometimes he needs hours alone, lost in the comfort of silence, how even love can be too loud, too bright, too much. Someone who wouldn’t take it personally when he retreated to his books instead of conversation, who’d let him curl up beside them with pages instead of words. Someone who could find intimacy in quiet—who might reach over, tangle their fingers in his for just a moment, and then let go because they know he needs it.

Would anyone ever want that?
Want him like that?
The question settles into his chest like a stone dropped into still water, sending out ripples of doubt. He doubts it, more often than he admits. Because who would willingly sign up for someone so tangled up in his own head, who sometimes stumbles over basic feelings like he’s learning a foreign language he was never meant to speak?

And yet—there’s another part of him. A softer, almost childlike corner of his heart, the same place that memorizes constellations for no other reason than they’re beautiful, that hoards obscure facts like tiny treasures because they make the world feel wondrous. That part dares to hope.

It wonders, with a breathless sort of awe, what it might be like to have someone lean in close, brush a thumb along his jaw, press their forehead to his and murmur, You’re not too much. You’re exactly enough.

On nights like this, when the bullpen is silent and the rest of the team is gone, when it’s just him and the whisper of his own thoughts, he doesn’t bother fighting that wanting. He lets it live, raw and tender. He sits with it—feels it pulse through him like a bruise under careful fingers. It hurts, but in a way that reminds him he’s alive, that his heart still has corners unexplored, still dares to ache for something gentle and impossibly bright.

Eventually, Spencer peels himself away from the quiet orbit of his desk. The chair rolls back with a faint squeal that seems much too loud in the cavernous hush of the empty BAU. His body moves on something like autopilot—muscle memory carrying him through the routine of gathering his things, shrugging into his coat, and locking up behind him. The hallways are dim, echoing with only his footsteps, a steady companion as he makes his way out into the cool night.

Outside, the world is hushed under a velvet sky. Streetlights spill amber puddles onto the pavement, and he lets his thoughts drift along with the shadows that stretch and curl around his shoes. The drive home is much the same—low city noise and the soft hum of tires on asphalt. Familiar streets glide past his window, blurring into gentle smears of light.

When he finally steps through his front door, his apartment greets him with its usual stillness, a quiet that feels less like emptiness and more like an embrace. The walls are lined with shelves stacked high with books—row upon row of spines in every color, every language, each one a small promise that he’ll never truly be alone. They’re loyal companions, patient and unchanging.

He slips off his shoes, sets his bag carefully by the door, and makes his way into the kitchen. Brewing tea becomes a small ceremony—precise measurements of loose leaves, water heated to exactly the right temperature, the timer on his phone counting down the steep with soft beeps. It’s a ritual that steadies him, anchors him in something simple and sure.

Cradling the warm mug in his hands, he wanders to the couch and sinks into it, folding his long limbs close until he’s all angles and gentle huddles. A dog-eared volume rests against his knees, its familiar weight a comfort in itself.

But he doesn’t open it. Doesn't read it.

Instead, he tips his head back against the cushion, lets his eyes slip closed, and lets his mind drift somewhere tender. He imagines it again: the soft, grounding weight of someone leaning into him, their shoulder pressed to his, breath stirring the fine hair at his temple. A slow exhale against his skin that says I’m here without needing any words at all. The easy, breathtaking certainty of being wanted—not just tolerated or understood, but truly desired. Maybe even loved.

The thought of it smooths out some of the knots inside him, but it also makes his chest clench, like standing barefoot at the edge of a towering cliff, wind teasing his hair, unsure if he’s seconds from plunging into the abyss or discovering he can soar. It’s terrifying in its scope—this possibility of letting someone close enough to see all of him, the glorious and the raw, the brilliance and the cracks.

He doesn’t know if he’ll ever want it enough to reach for it. Doesn’t know if anyone could ever fully grasp what loving him would demand—the patience, the grace, the willingness to weather the storms that sometimes brew in his mind without warning.

But for tonight, it’s enough just to imagine. Enough to let the idea settle inside him, fragile but luminous, like a firefly caught in cupped hands. Enough to let it whisper through his thoughts like a promise he might, one day, find the courage to claim for himself.

For now, he holds it close—this small, trembling hope—and lets it glow there in the dark, quietly daring him to believe.

Chapter Text

The party had started winding down hours ago. Rossi’s house—grand and sprawling, the kind of place that had decades of laughter and heartache soaked into its very walls—still hummed with life, though it was quieter now. The riotous energy of the evening had settled into something looser, slower. The clink of wine glasses and the low, rolling cadence of laughter drifted through the rooms like a comfortable breeze.

The team was scattered across the wide living room, sinking into soft chairs or leaning against polished tables, relaxed in the afterglow of good food and better company. Will stood close to JJ, his arm draped around her waist, thumb sweeping idle patterns against the curve of her side in a way that was unconsciously intimate. Across the room, Beth rested her head against Hotch’s shoulder, her eyes half-closed with quiet contentment, while Hotch’s hand moved in gentle circles along her back. Even Rossi, ever the gracious host, was leaning against the hearth with a faint smile, watching it all unfold like a man who knew precisely how rare and precious these peaceful moments were.

It should have been comforting. Should have felt like home—this easy tapestry of closeness and affection, woven together by years of trust and shared grief. But instead, something twisted inside Spencer, bittersweet and sharp, catching between his ribs like a breath held too long.

So he did what he always did when he felt that gnawing ache he couldn’t quite name. He drifted to the periphery, quietly excusing himself with a soft smile that no one questioned. His long strides carried him to the edge of the room, to the tall French doors that opened onto Rossi’s garden. The glass panes were cool beneath his fingertips, offering a fragile barrier between him and the tangle of warmth behind him. He stared out into the darkness where the garden lights twinkled like scattered stars among neatly trimmed hedges and stone paths, trying to pretend he was simply admiring the view.

If he willed it hard enough—this wanting to be invisible, to simply fade into the wallpaper—maybe he could trick himself into believing he didn’t feel out of place. That he wasn’t a solitary figure standing in the glow of other people’s happiness, aching with something he didn’t know how to ask for.

Of course, it didn’t work. It never did. Not when it came to Morgan.

“Pretty boy,” came that rich, familiar voice from behind him, wrapping around him like a favorite blanket. There was teasing there, yes, but threaded through it was a warmth so steady it undid something tense in Spencer’s chest. “Why you hiding over here like somebody’s misbehaving cat?”

Spencer jumped slightly, his hand halfway to adjusting his tie—an old, nervous tic that gave him away every time. He cleared his throat, eyes darting to the side without quite meeting Morgan’s.

“I’m not hiding,” he said quickly, though it came out a little too breathless to be convincing. “I was just… enjoying the view.”

Morgan’s brow arched, his mouth curling into a lopsided, knowing grin. “Uh huh. You mean the view inside or outside?”

The question landed with gentle precision, nudging past Spencer’s fragile defenses. Heat rushed to his cheeks, creeping up to the tips of his ears. He looked away, feeling unbearably transparent under that warm, amused gaze.

Before he could fumble for a sharper deflection, he felt Morgan’s hand settle at the back of his neck. It was large and solid, fingers splaying out to squeeze gently—reassuring, grounding. Spencer exhaled, something in him unclenching at the simple contact.

“Come on,” Morgan murmured, his voice low and rough with affection. His thumb gave one last squeeze at the base of Spencer’s skull. “Walk with me.”

And there it was again—so effortlessly offered. A lifeline. Morgan didn’t wait for an answer, just started steering him gently away from the crowded room, guiding him through the open doors into the quiet night. The cool air wrapped around them, carrying with it the faint scent of roses and fresh-cut grass. Spencer felt the weight of the house fall away behind them, leaving just the two of them beneath a canopy of dark leaves and scattered garden lights.

They walked for a while, following the winding stone path through Rossi’s garden, the night air cool and scented with late-blooming roses. Small lanterns lit the way, casting pools of gold that swayed gently with every breath of wind. Crickets chirped in the underbrush, a soft background chorus that made the quiet feel intimate rather than empty.

Morgan seemed perfectly at ease. His shoulders were loose, hands tucked into his pockets, his gait easy and unhurried. Every so often he tilted his head back to look at the stars. Meanwhile, Spencer was anything but calm. He kept shoving his hands into his pockets, pulling them out again only to push them through his hair or drum them restlessly against his thigh. His brain was moving too fast, thoughts tumbling over one another in tangled knots that refused to smooth out.

Finally Morgan shifted closer and bumped him lightly with his shoulder, a playful nudge that still somehow managed to be grounding. “Alright, genius,” he drawled, giving Spencer a sidelong look that was half amusement, half gentle concern. “You gonna tell me what’s going on in that Mensa-certified head of yours, or do I gotta keep dragging it out of you one awkward shuffle at a time?”

Reid let out a weak huff of laughter, but it was brittle around the edges. “It’s nothing,” he murmured, eyes darting to a low stone wall where moonlight pooled like silver water. “I just… overthink things.”

“Spencer.” Morgan’s voice dropped, rich with quiet insistence. “Come on. It’s me.”

And that was the trouble, wasn’t it? It was Morgan. The one person who could look at him—really look—and see straight through the layers: the encyclopedia facts he threw up like shields, the nervous tangents, the stammered defenses. Morgan was the one who somehow managed to slip past all of it and find the fragile, uncertain parts of him that Spencer tried so hard to keep hidden.

Reid exhaled, long and shaky, his breath fogging faintly in the cool air. He stared down at his shoes, scuffed against the edge of the path, and finally let the words slip free.

“I was just… watching them. Inside.” His voice was thin, as if he were testing it. “JJ and Will. Hotch and Beth. Even Rossi laughing with Emily and Penelope like that. Everyone seems to find it so easy. This—” he made a vague, helpless gesture with his hands “—being close to someone. Letting them in. Being… loved.”

Morgan stayed silent, patient. Spencer felt that like an anchor, keeping him from drifting too far into his own turbulent thoughts.

“I don’t even know if I want it,” Reid went on, his words gaining a desperate edge, as though they’d been waiting too long to be said and were now stumbling over each other in their rush to get out. “Not really. I mean, I like being alone. Most of the time I need to be alone. It’s—safer, I guess. Quieter. But then I see them together, and it’s like…” He broke off, swallowing hard against the lump rising in his throat. His hands twisted together, fingers knotting and flexing. “Like there’s this part of me that wonders what it would be like. To have someone’s hand in mine. To have someone pick me—choose me—every day, even knowing all the things that are wrong with me.”

His voice cracked then, rough and uncertain. “But then I think… I wouldn’t know how. How to love someone the way they’d want to be loved. Or how to let them love me without—” He sucked in a sharp breath, blinking fast as his vision blurred. “Without being terrified they’d see everything that’s wrong with me. That they’d figure it out sooner or later, and then they’d leave.”

His throat closed up around the last of it, hot and tight, and he hated it—hated how raw it sounded, how small and breakable it made him feel. Like a child admitting he was afraid of the dark.

He stood there, shoulders hunched, wishing he could fold in on himself and disappear into the shadows between the lanterns. Wishing he could take it all back, bottle up those trembling, traitorous words before they exposed so much of what he kept carefully hidden.

But Morgan just watched him, dark eyes steady and kind in a way that twisted something deep inside Spencer’s chest. And for the first time in a long time, even with all that trembling vulnerability laid bare, he didn’t feel quite so alone.

Morgan didn’t tease him. Didn’t try to patch over the moment with an easy joke or a cocky grin. Instead, he just let out a low, quiet breath—almost like he was trying to steady something inside himself—and then closed the distance in one sure step. His arms wrapped around Spencer in a hug that was rough in its urgency, pulling him in tight against a chest that felt like a wall of unshakable warmth. One broad hand cradled the back of Reid’s head, fingers threading gently into his hair as if to shield him from the world, to hold all his fractured pieces together.

For a heartbeat, Spencer stood stiff in Morgan’s grip, shock locking his limbs. He wasn’t used to being held like this—like something precious and breakable, someone who deserved comfort just for the shape of his heartache. Then, slowly, the tension bled out of him. His hands came up to clutch at the back of Morgan’s shirt, and he let himself fold into that solid embrace, pressing his forehead to Morgan’s shoulder. He drew in a breath that tasted of pine and night air and something that might’ve been tears.

“You listen to me, pretty boy,” Morgan murmured, voice rumbling right against the crown of his head. It was so low and tender it scraped at all the raw places inside Spencer’s chest. “Ain’t a damn thing wrong with you. Not one. You love different than most people, yeah. Maybe you’d need someone who gets that you gotta have space—who knows sometimes your head’s off a million miles away in books and math problems, and that’s just how you breathe. But that doesn’t mean it can’t happen for you. Doesn’t mean it wouldn’t be good.”

Spencer squeezed his eyes shut. The garden lights behind Morgan blurred into soft halos behind his lids, like tiny distant stars. His breath hitched, catching on something fragile and unspoken.

“And I swear to you, kid,” Morgan went on, his voice thick now, like he was pushing through his own tide of feeling, “anyone who ever gets close enough to love you for real? They’re gonna be the luckiest son of a bitch on this planet. You hear me?”

It cracked something right open inside Spencer. A small, wet laugh broke out of him, unsteady and breathless but real, bubbling up past the knot in his throat. He pulled back just enough to meet Morgan’s gaze, blinking rapidly against the heat in his eyes. His voice came out as a wobbly whisper, but there was something bright in it, too—something almost like relief.

“Yeah. I hear you.”

Morgan’s answering smile was soft and lopsided, his hands still braced firm on Spencer’s shoulders like he wasn’t quite ready to let go. “Good. Now come on back inside before Rossi starts telling people we’re making out in his hedges.”

That startled another laugh out of Reid, this one sharper, colored with embarrassment and a ridiculous kind of affection. He rolled his eyes, even as he let Morgan steer him back toward the house with an easy arm slung around his shoulders. The warmth of it seeped deep into his skin, into all the hollow places he usually kept carefully shuttered.

And for the first time that night, the piercing edge of loneliness dulled. In its place bloomed something warm and heavy in his chest—an ache, yes, but not the cutting kind. More like the way muscles throb after being held too tight for too long, beginning to stretch open again.

Maybe he still didn’t know what the future would hold. Maybe love—real, consuming love—would always feel like some foreign equation he hadn’t yet learned to solve. But as they crossed back into the golden spill of light from Rossi’s house, Morgan’s laughter rumbling next to him, his arm firm around Reid’s shoulders, Spencer thought… maybe it didn’t have to matter.