Chapter Text
October 14th, 2006:
It was far too early to be out of the house, far too cold for the beginning of October, and yet Spencer was already dressed and out the door at the ass-crack of dawn, shivering his way to the Red Brick café.
Granted, he didn’t need to go… but it had become a sort of routine for him over the past few weeks, and he hadn’t any cases recently to drag him out of town, so he relished the normalcy of it. Honestly, it was getting to the point where he was loath to get a new case, as that would mean putting his new morning tradition on pause, and that just wouldn’t do.
It had been a long time since he’d had someone to talk to about books in any meaningful capacity. Too long (since he was in college, actually) since he'd met someone who seemed interested in the same niche subjects as him, and who seemed to actually enjoy speaking with him about it. And it had been far too long since Spencer had a friend, outside of work, take an interest in him and his life (mundane as it was), and he found himself appreciating the companionship.
More than that though, it had been so long since Spencer had experienced a crush this intense, this severe, that if (when) he was called away on a case, he wasn’t certain he’d be able to handle the distance with the decorum of a grown adult with three PhD’s.
He had a feeling he’d more likely end up pining like a lovestruck schoolgirl until he got back to DC, and back to his standing morning meetings with Doctor Sam Campbell at his favorite café.
Since the night they finally introduced themselves, Spencer’s perception of the other man had completely shifted. He thought he was just a creep before then, when he was copying what Spencer was reading and incessantly staring. But, now that he’d gotten to know Sam, he knew different. Despite being tall and commanding, Sam was painfully shy and so easily embarrassed that oftentimes Spencer found he needed to carefully parse his words, lest he say something to make Sam clam up and go beet red. The only reason Sam had gone so long without speaking to Spencer in the first place was because he could never manage to build up the nerve, and whenever he had, Spencer was already gone, having just stopped in to grab his coffee and go.
Now though, Sam had come out of his shell, and Spencer knew better than to write him off. The man he’d thought was just some weirdo jerk was actually highly intelligent, self-made and successful, with goals and ambitions that he fought after with a single-minded tenacity that impressed Spencer like no other. He was funny, dry and sarcastic but also absurdly charming, capable of cracking Spencer up with nothing more than a off-handed quip about his job.
But most of all, Sam was kind, and he seemed to really enjoy spending time with him. He’d been the one to suggest they meet in the mornings, earlier than normal, just so they could sit and talk with each other a little longer. He was the one to initially take the plunge and attempt to speak to Spencer, and now, Sam was the one to ensure they continued to talk, forging a burgeoning friendship that Spencer was both grateful for, and terrified of.
Grateful, because he sincerely enjoyed Sam’s company, and having a friend outside of the BAU was doing wonders for his mood.
And terrified, because the more time he spent with Sam, the more he fell head over heels for him.
The mere sight of him made Spencer’s heart skip a beat, and this morning was no different. As he walked into the café, Spencer spotted Sam immediately, hunkered down in their normal spot, far from the counter and close to the fireplace. It was Spencer’s favorite (as someone perpetually cold who also couldn’t relax when bombarded by the presence of strangers), and since Sam got there first every morning, he made a point of snagging the spot and saving Spencer a seat.
He was hunched over a book, the same one that Spencer had stashed in his bag, and was reading intently, his brow furrowed in concentration. His long brown hair was tucked behind his ears, just brushing the collar of his plaid button-up, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He was in street clothes, not scrubs, which either meant he had the day off, or he was on-call that night. And, judging by his horrendous schedule as of late, Spencer could assume he was probably on-call, and probably not for the first time that week, either.
Sam didn’t look up when Spencer walked in, too engrossed in Gravity’s Rainbow, and when Spencer pulled out the chair next to him he jumped, startled by the sudden movement. “Good morning,” Sam said with a smile that forced all of the air from Spencer’s lungs, his stomach clenching uncomfortably.
Busying himself with the untouched cup of coffee that sat beside Sam’s, Spencer pulled it towards him, inhaling deeply the smell of espresso and too many caramel shots that called to him like a beacon, promising the kind of higher brain function he sorely lacked that early on a Monday. Sam didn’t wait for Spencer to return his greeting, used to him needing a few moments to wake up once he sat down, and instead returned to his book, knotting one of his hands in his hair as he paused on a particularly meaty passage.
“How’re you doing?” Spencer asked eventually, and Sam somehow just knew he was asking about the book.
“This is without a doubt the most frustrating thing you’ve had me read,” Sam groused, letting the book fall open onto the table, “He’s delving into some heavy stuff: quantum mechanics, mass extinction, speculative metaphysics… but he writes like the lovechild of Kerouac and Faulkner.”
“It has been called the definitive postmodern novel,” Spencer said, nodding sympathetically. He smiled, leaning forward and resting his chin in his palm as he asked, “Think you’re going to fall behind? I finished it yesterday.”
Sam took his question for what it was: a challenge. He sat back in his chair, raising his mug to his lips and stopping, just before taking a sip, to smirk at Spencer from over the rim of his cup. Brimming with a confidence that made Spencer shift in his seat, he locked eyes with him and said, “Not a chance. You’re not getting ahead of me, even if that means I’m reading this—” he paused, raising the book in the air, “all day long.”
It was like he didn’t even have to blink, Spencer mused and he gulped nervously, his eyelids fluttering despite his best efforts as Sam stared at him, eyebrow quirked in strategic self-assurance.
Typical Alpha-male, Spencer thought with a sigh as he gave in to his biological need to blink.
Sam closed the book, sliding it into his bag under the table and turned his full attention to Spencer, who was himself absorbed in his coffee. “Do you think you’ll get a case today?” he asked, leaning his forearms against the table, his keen gaze tracking the way Spencer tapped his fingertips along the side of his mug.
“I’m not sure,” Spencer shrugged, taking a sip and scanning the empty coffee house, “Its not unusual for us to have a lull between cases, but its been three weeks now, which is odd.” He looked up sharply and shook his head, realizing how that has sounded, “Not that I’m wishing for one! I wouldn’t, its not like I want people to get hurt so I can have something to do, its just—”
“Even if you aren’t being called in, that doesn’t mean people aren’t being hurt,” Sam finished for him, nodding solemnly, “Its just that the ones doing it aren’t any closer to being caught.” He looked up at Spencer from underneath his brow, imploringly, “Right?”
“Right,” Spencer said softly, a flush rising unbidden to his cheeks, “There’s always someone out there, waiting to be stopped. If we aren’t being called in, that’s just more time for them to get away with the reprehensible things they’re doing.”
“And that makes you anxious,” Sam said, running his fingertips over his lips, studying Spencer carefully.
A chuckle burst past his lips before he could stop it, and Spencer leaned back in his seat with a smile. “Hey,” he admonished playfully, giving Sam’s shin a light nudge with the toe of his sneaker, “Who’s the profiler here, Doctor?”
Sam smiled bashfully, ducking his chin to his chest and Spencer gulped nervously, affection blooming in his chest. “I just figured, since you seem to be the master of metabolic disorders, something supposedly in my wheelhouse,” Sam said, scratching at the surface of the splintered wooden table, his cheeks dimpling as his grin widened, “it wouldn’t hurt to branch out into your speciality, Doctor.”
Spencer cleared his throat, attempting to tamp down the rampant butterflies in his stomach. He steeled his expression, or at least tried to; he couldn’t quite keep a smile from twisting the corners of his lips, and he was certain he looked ridiculous as he struggled to keep a straight face. “Well then,” he said, his voice even and taunting, “why don’t you test your profiling aptitude on…” Spencer glanced across the coffee shop and pointed, drawing Sam’s attention to an older gentleman sitting at the bar, “that guy.”
“Really?” Sam asked, looking at the man across the shop and then back at Spencer, “How will you know if I’m right? Do you know him?”
“No I don’t, but trust me,” Spencer said, tapping his fingers along the side of his mug, confidence brimming as they entered into his conversational territory, “I’m great at my job. I’ll know.”
It was Sam’s turn to cough nervously, setting his sights on the gentleman at the bar, who was drinking his cappuccino and chatting with Lisa, blissfully unaware. Spencer bit his tongue, wanting to give Sam a fair chance before teasing him, and as the other man attempted to profile the stranger, he busied himself with profiling Sam.
He was quite the enigma, but Spencer knew that from the first time he laid eyes on him. Shy despite his looming stature, always trying to make himself seem smaller than those around him, out of a desire to blend in but also for their comfort. He was soft-spoken, but liked to tease, and when he knew he was right about something, he didn’t hold back.
But there was something he was holding back.
He never talked about his family. That in itself wasn’t odd but combined with his openness in other facets of his personal life, it was. He had no issues talking about his “adopted” family, his roommates Kevin and Cas, and Cas’ little brother Jack. He spoke of his foster parents often, Bobby and Ellen, his foster-step-sister, Jo (his family situation seemed complicated from the get go), and he held no secrets where the difficulties of his job and his horrendous boss, Crowley, were concerned. But whenever the subject strayed to his birth family, to a brother and parents Spencer had only heard hints of, Sam did something peculiar.
He tapped his right ring finger.
Twice.
Once, Spencer had asked him a question, something seemingly innocuous, like where he was born, and even though Sam had answered him (vaguely; all he said was Kansas), he’d tapped the tip of his right ring finger off the surface of the table twice, in rapid succession.
And once more, when Spencer asked if he had any siblings, Sam had told him about Jo easily enough. But when he mentioned he also had an estranged older brother, he tapped his finger again. Twice.
It wasn’t the only compulsion he had, but it was the one Spencer found the most interesting. He had a habit of looking at the café door every time someone walked into the restaurant, no matter where they were sitting or how often the door opened, exactly two times. He also had a nervous tic, wherein he tucked his hair behind his ear, running the tips of his fingers down the shell of his ear from top to bottom, twice.
Sam was aware of it and obviously ashamed, as evidenced by how he tried to hide it. Spencer saw him struggle to resist the urge to perform the compulsion each time it happened, and it broke his heart. He couldn’t help but feel bad for Sam; not for suffering from a disorder outside of his control, but because he felt it was something to be embarrassed about. Spencer found himself wishing a few times that he could explain he didn’t mind, and that Sam didn’t need to feel badly about his disorder… but every time he tried, the words stuck in his throat and he chickened out.
He supposed he could express the sentiment without disclosing his own experiences with mental illness, but he felt that if he tried, it would seem fake. Spencer didn’t want to tell him about his mother, or his fear that he might someday inherit her sickness, because he liked Sam, a lot. And he didn’t want him to think less of him (not that he would; Sam was a doctor, for goodness sake) because of it.
Spencer leaned his chin in the cradle of his palm, sighing heavily as he watched Sam watch the poor, unsuspecting stranger.
He was one to talk about being unashamed, wasn’t he?
“Okay,” Sam said suddenly, making a show of cracking his knuckles as he turned back to Spencer, “I think I’ve got it.”
“Deliver your profile, then.”
“Well,” Sam said, gesturing to the gentleman at the counter, “he’s around fifty, no wedding band, but he has a tan line where one would be, so he’s probably recently divorced.”
“Very good,” Spencer murmured, smiling softly.
“His clothes are old, but well cared for. They’ve been patched up a few times, so he probably isn’t very well off, but he takes care in his appearance and tries to seem wealthier than he is.”
“How so?”
“He’s wearing a three-piece suit in a coffee shop at six in the morning,” Sam explained matter-of-factly, “He’s got a knock-off Rolex and a faux-alligator skin briefcase. You don’t go to that kind of effort unless you’re trying to impress someone.”
“And who is that?” Spencer asked.
Sam frowned, chewing on his lower lip and paused, unsure. “Lisa, probably,” he decided, watching the stranger talk to the older woman behind the counter, who laughed uproariously at something he said, patting his arm affectionately, “they’ve been flirting the whole time I’ve been here.” He looked at Spencer and raised a brow, “Right?”
Spencer shook his head, “Close, but no.”
“Who’s he trying to impress then?”
“He’s going to interviews,” Spencer explained, drawing Sam’s attention back to the man they were interpreting, “look at his shoes.”
Sam did as he was told, lowering his gaze to the mans feet, pursing his lips when he realized he was wearing sneakers, ones that clashed with his outfit and that were obviously worn out of practicality.
“You were right that he is recently divorced,” Spencer said, drumming his fingers off the surface of the table, “and about dressing to impress, but look at the way he’s sitting.”
He did, and Sam hummed thoughtfully when he noticed the mans stiff posture, and the way he kept adjusting his tie and twisting his watch. “He’s uncomfortable,” Sam murmured, “he’s not used to wearing clothes like that, and he’s nervous.”
Spencer nodded, “Exactly. The suit is old, and out of fashion. Its probably the same suit he wore to the last job interview he had, which was years ago from the look of it.” He pointed to the man’s waist band, “He lost weight too. A good deal of it, which points to a major stressor in his life.”
“The loss of his job,” Sam said.
“Yes, the loss of his job,” Spencer continued, “which put a strain on his marriage, leading to his recent divorce. He’s attempting to seem put together but look: his hair is so long its sticking out behind his ears, and he forgot to shave this morning. His shirt isn’t ironed and there is a tear underneath his right jacket sleeve. His wife probably kept on top of him for that kind of stuff, but with her gone, he doesn’t think of it.”
“He’s hoping if he can get a new job, he can win her back.”
“Precisely.” Spencer smiled widely, patting Sam on the shoulder, “You did pretty good, Sam. You’d make an excellent junior profiler.”
Sam laughed, blushing amid the praise and waved Spencer off. “I only managed to guess he was divorced,” Sam admitted, reaching across the table and brushing a strand of hair out of Spencer’s face, tucking it gently behind his ear, “You’ve definitely proved your aptitude, Spence.”
As Sam's finger brushed the shell of his ear, Spencer gasped embarrassingly loud, and they both froze.
Sam obviously hadn’t meant to do that, if his pained, wide-eyed stare and burning red cheeks were any indication, and Spencer hadn’t expected him to, either. They both sat perfectly still, unspeaking, Sam’s hand still hovering next to Spencer’s cheek as they each attempted to unpack the moment in their minds, deciding what they hell to do.
Spencer’s heart hammered in his chest, those pesky butterflies whirling so quickly now he was beginning to feel sick. It was a surprisingly intimate move, and Spencer had to mentally talk himself down. It was a mistake, he thought ruefully, it had to be. There was no way that a man like Sam, who was tall, astoundingly handsome, personable, funny and a doctor, could have meant that simple gesture as anything more than friendly. It was Spencer, with his impossible crush and his silly, panicked gasp, that had made things awkward.
But Sam… he just sat there, his fingertips ghosting against Spencer’s cheek, and for a moment, he looked conflicted. It was just a second’s touch, his hand brushing the curve of Spencer’s ear as he had tucked his hair back, an unexpectedly intimate gesture. But in that second, it felt like a thousand volts had travelled through that single point of contact, attraction crackling like jumper cables and burning through both of them, culminating in Spencer’s sharp inhale and Sam’s narrowed gaze.
And for that one second, Spencer let himself believe that maybe he wasn’t the only one with a silly little crush.
Sam was the first to move, pulling his hand back as though the heat from Spencer’s cheek had burned him. He coughed, clearing his throat and rubbed his hands on his jeans, clearing away any phantom evidence that he’d touched Spencer at all, while avoiding his gaze as though his life depended on it.
Spencer slumped in his seat, hiding his disappointment behind his coffee mug. He let himself be upset, just for a moment as he took a large gulp of his drink, before setting it back down on the table, his expression steeled and friendly once more as he asked Sam about his plans for the day.
After all, this wasn’t his first unrequited crush.
And knowing him, it certainly wouldn’t be his last.
October 15th, 2006:
“So, let me get this straight,” Kevin said, holding a hand in the air to keep Sam from interrupting him as he tried to collect himself, “You just reached across the table, unprompted, and touched his hair?” Sam’s silence was telling enough, and Kevin laughed out loud, slumping sideways over the nurse’s station, his feet dramatically sliding out from under him as he declared, “You’re such a creep, man!”
Cas rolled his eyes, reaching across the counter with a chart in hand and whacking Kevin lightly over the head. Kevin reared back with an over-the-top yelp, rubbing the back of his head as he glared at Cas. “Leave him alone,” Cas said, holding the metal clipboard aloft in a silent threat, and when Kevin backed down, he handed it to him, explaining, “Here. They need you in the OR to place a femoral swan.”
Kevin blanched, holding the chart Cas was handing to him but not taking it. “Who’s the attending?” he asked timidly, unconsciously pushing the chart back towards Cas.
“There is no attending,” Cas said coolly, his grip tightening around the clipboard as he shoved it back towards Kevin, “It’s all on you, wonder boy.”
“You’ll do fine, Kevin,” Sam said, removing the chart from their backwards tug-of-war and placing it in Kevin’s hands, “You’ve done this procedure a thousand times before. So you don’t have someone supervising, so what?” Kevin paled again, and Sam clapped him on the shoulder reassuringly, “You can do it.”
Kevin opened his mouth to insist that no, he most definitely could not, when his pager beeped. He glared down at it, realizing it was probably the OR resident wondering where he was and deflated, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “Alright,” he mumbled, taking the chart and looking up at Sam balefully, “sorry for calling you a creep.”
“Don’t be,” Meg called from behind Castiel, where she was busy inputting patient records, “he was a creep.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Sam said, actively ignoring her, “we’re okay. Now, go stab a person in the neck with no safety net to speak of, and try not to fuck up.”
Groaning, Kevin turned and walked down the hall towards the elevators, shouting over his shoulder that “You’re all jerks!”
Sam chuckled to himself as he watched him go, turning back to Cas with a small smile. “Do you think it was really that creepy?” he asked, pretending he couldn’t hear Meg when she shouted, “For the love of god, yes!”
“No,” Cas said, unconvincingly. He was busying himself with sorting patient files, compiling the stack that Sam’s attending had left for him, and wouldn’t meet Sam’s eye. “I don’t think you were being creepy,” he admitted eventually, adding, “but I do think you were being a bit of a coward.”
It was a truth that hit Sam like a punch to the gut.
Cas looked up apologetically when Sam didn’t respond, and Meg laughed sharply from her spot at the computer. “That’s worse, jolly green,” she quipped, and Cas quickly hushed her, telling her to be nice.
He was right, of course. Sam had been a coward. But knowing it and doing something about it were two different things.
When he’d finally worked up the nerve to talk to Spencer, Sam thought that was the biggest hurdle he’d have to face. He was afraid of the unknown, afraid of what might happen, whatever that may be. Once he started seeing him on a regular basis and getting to know him, Sam thought the worst of it was over.
But he was wrong: the worst wasn’t over, not by a long shot.
From afar, he knew he'd liked Spencer. He thought he was cute and intriguing, but since all he knew about him was his taste in books, that was as far as his feelings for him went: interest and appreciation. But now that they were spending every morning together, talking about everything under the sun as well as keeping up on their “who can read the most difficult books in the world the fastest” competition, Sam was forced to admit that his feelings had changed. It was no surprise to him, or Kevin and Cas apparently, that he’d ended up with the worlds biggest crush on the young doctor.
And thus, his anxiety was back with a vengeance, because he couldn’t for the life of him get a read on Reid.
The kid was like a ten-thousand-piece puzzle of nothing but blue sky. He was friendly and frank, awkward and charming, but guarded and clever, and no matter how hard Sam tried, he could not figure out what Spencer thought of him. Clearly, he liked him well enough to keep meeting with him in the mornings (even though he wasn’t much of a morning person), but every time Sam tried to flirt with him, it either went over his head or he ignored it altogether.
There was no way he wasn’t picking up on what Sam was laying down; he was a genius. He was a profiler for the FBI. His entire job hinged on his ability to observe people and figure out their innermost secrets. So, if he wasn’t reciprocating or commenting on Sam’s attempts to flirt with him, then he obviously wasn’t interested, right?
It seemed so simple when Sam thought of it like that, when he was alone doing paperwork or laying awake at night. The waters were muddied however, because no matter how convinced Sam was that Spencer wasn’t into him like “that,” whenever Sam saw him again, Spencer would do or say something to make him question how he felt about him.
Like Monday morning, for instance. Spencer hadn’t moved a muscle when Sam lost his goddamned mind and tucked his hair behind his ear. He didn’t move away, in fact he seemed to move closer, his pupils dilating and his lips parting softly as he gasped in shock. And the way he looked at Sam, like he was caught in his sights, cornered by the big bad wolf and wanting him to bite. He didn’t look uncomfortable—he looked turned on.
Sam heard his breathing quicken, saw his eyelashes flutter as he sat perfectly still, waiting for Sam to do… something. To move closer, slip his fingers through the silky tresses curling against the back of Spencer’s neck and tug him forward, taking advantage of that perfectly parted pout and covering Spencer’s lips with his own. He could imagine the way Spencer would inhale sharply against his mouth, hesitating only for a moment before pressing into him, his lips moving in tandem with Sam’s as they kissed across the table.
But Sam came to his senses, suddenly embarrassed by his actions and worried that he was reading much too far into Spencer’s reaction. He was terrified he’d made Spencer uncomfortable and pulled away, letting him carry on the conversation they were having and ignoring everything that had happened, mentally chastising himself for getting lost in a stupid fantasy.
He convinced himself (again) that Spencer wasn’t interested.
As if he could read his mind, Cas clicked his tongue, pulling Sam back into the present as he said, “You’re never going to get anywhere if you don’t take a chance.”
“I thought I did,” Sam said, being deliberately obtuse, “I talked to him, didn’t I? We’re friends now, right?”
“But that’s not all you want,” Cas said, hands on his hips as he glared at Sam over the nurse’s station, silently warning him he wasn’t in the mood to put up with his shit, “And you’re never going to be satisfied until you find out if he likes you or not. Ask him out on a date, or so help me, I’m going to egg your car.”
“He’ll do it too, Doctor Bunyan,” Meg said as she sidled up next to Cas, a smarmy little smirk on her face, “and I’ll help him. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a grown man acting like a big baby. Nut up or shut up.”
Cas huffed a laugh, and when Sam shot him a pitiful look, all he could do was shrug. “She has a point,” he said, shoving Sam’s stack of charts across the counter towards him, “You’re never going to know how he feels about you if you don’t have the courage to ask.”
“Right on, Clarence!” Meg crossed her arms over her chest, levelling Sam with a terrifying glare, one that somehow wasn’t undercut by her pink scrubs and tiny frame, “So tomorrow morning, during one of your dorky little coffee dates, here’s what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna look him straight in the eye and tell him, ‘Simon’—”
“His name is Spencer.”
Meg rolled her eyes, “Whatever. Say ‘Spencer, I want to suck you, fuck you, and take you out to dinner.’” She pursed her lips and thought about it a second, before adding, “’Though not necessarily in that order.’”
“And maybe not those exact words,” Cas said, nodding, “but basically… what she said.”
Sam shook his head, pulling his charts off the counter and gaping at the two nurses, wide eyed and disbelieving. “You two are impossible,” he said, trying to keep a straight face but unable to as nurse Masters somehow managed to smirk at him while pantomiming a blow job, “and incredibly inappropriate.”
“Hey!” Meg said sharply, pointing a finger at Sam’s chest, “I resent that. I’m the very picture of professionalism.”
“Sure,” Sam drawled, grinning as she flipped him off and went back to her data entry. He looked at Cas, hefting the stack of files in his arms and asked, “You really think I should ask him out?”
Cas nodded, “I really do.”
“Okay,” Sam said. His nerves were already cranking into high gear, but he trusted Castiel’s judgement, if not Meg’s.
He’d talk to him tomorrow morning.
October 20th, 2006:
Spencer knew that their streak of no cases was going to end with a bang… he just didn’t anticipate it dragging on once it got there.
This was the third case they were on since the fifteenth, and he hadn’t seen his bed in five days. He spent more time on the jet and in hotels rooms than he had at home, and as much as it pained him to admit it, he missed DC. It was even harder for him to admit that what he missed more than his own bed were his morning coffees with Sam.
He hadn’t even had the chance to explain what was going on… all he’d managed was a quick text message two days ago to let him know he was still alive and not just abandoning him. He’d wanted to say more, maybe to reassure him that he wasn’t avoiding Sam due to the awkward moment they’d shared the last time they’d seen one another, but all he could bring himself to type was, “On a case. Will be back Friday.”
And all Sam had said was “Okay.”
“Okay?” Spencer muttered to himself, staring at his phone instead of sifting through newspapers like he should be, like he was there in that St. Louis precinct boardroom to do, “Okay? That’s it?”
As if he needed any more proof that Sam really didn’t think of him as more than a friend.
He’d let his imagination run away with him since their last morning coffee, and now he was seriously regretting it. Spencer had replayed that moment over and over again, picking it apart from every angle, hoping to find some indication that his feelings were mutual. Why else would Sam have hesitated the way he did, his fingers skirting Spencer’s cheekbones as he stared into his eyes? Why hadn’t he just pulled away? And why was he so flustered after the fact?
Spencer was grasping at straws, and he knew it. But he also couldn’t help it.
Was it so wrong for him to hold on to hope that he might just get something he wanted, just once?
“Reid,” Hotch called to him as he walked into the board room, toting a box of old newspapers with him from evidence, “Any leads yet?”
Spencer slammed his phone onto the table with a little more force than necessary at his boss’s sudden appearance. He rifled through the newspapers in front of him, shuffling them around until he found the one he was just reading and said, “Not yet, but I think I’m on to something.”
“Well, here’s the rest of them.” Hotch set the box down in front of him with a thump, straightening out his jacket before turning to the board, “We need to figure out what it is about these papers that’s linking our killers, and we’re running short on time.”
“I know sir,” Spencer said softly, pushing his glasses up his nose and opening the bankers box, pulling out evidence bags of newspapers.
“We’re counting on you to crack this.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t make me confiscate your phone, Reid.”
Spencer looked up sharply, his eyes widening and his cheeks flushing red before he could look away. Hotch wasn’t mad, but he was levelling him with that patented SSA Hotchner stare, the one that reminded him of the only three times in his life he’d ever disappointed a teacher. “Of course, Hotch,” he said, clearing his throat as he turned his attention back to the newspapers, “I’m sorry, I promise I’m focussed.”
“I know you are,” Hotch said, his voice steady as ever, “lets keep it that way.” Spencer didn’t look up again, and Hotch didn’t say another word. Instead, he walked out of the room, the bustling sound of the precinct flowing in through the open door just momentarily, before Hotch closed it behind him again.
Spencer exhaled slowly, having been holding his breath the entire time Hotch was in the room. He cursed under his breath as he shoved his phone back in his pocket, pulling newspapers out of their bags and throwing himself into his work. How unprofessional was that? It was embarrassing, being caught going over texts on his phone like some lovesick teenager, when he should have been working. People were dying and all he could think about was what some guy had texted him.
His phone vibrated in his pocket, and without thinking, Spencer pulled it out and flipped it open, assuming it was JJ or Morgan, and said, “Doctor Reid.”
“Hey, Spence.”
He just about dropped his phone.
“S-Sam?” He hissed into the phone, looking over his shoulders to make sure he was alone and cupping his hand over his mouth and the speaker, as if someone might be listening in, “What are you doing?”
“Um, calling you?” Sam said, sounding intensely confused, “Why are you whispering?”
“I’m on a case, I told you,” Spencer said as he walked over to the interior window, looking for Hotch. He spotted him across the precinct, talking with the local captain and Gideon, and Spencer whispered, “Hold on a second,” into the receiver before shoving his phone into his pocket and exiting the boardroom.
Hotch and Gideon both looked up when he entered the bullpen, and Spencer just pointed in the direction of the bathroom in lieu of explanation. Hotch held up three fingers (three minutes, great) and Spencer nodded, forcing himself to walk to the bathroom at a normal pace, instead of breaking out into a sprint like he wanted to.
But once he was around the corner and out of his superior’s line of sight, he dashed the rest of the way, darting into the men’s room and locking the door behind him.
“Sam?” he asked, once he fished his phone out of his pocket, “Are you still there?”
“Are you not allowed to use your phone while you’re working?” Came his earnest reply.
“Not normally, but Hotch has already noticed I’ve been on my phone more than normal on this case,” Spencer explained, pacing back and forth across the men’s room, double checking the stalls to make sure no one else was in there.
“Oh shit, I’m sorry,” Sam said, and Spencer couldn’t help but smile at the sincerity in his voice, “I can let you go, its really nothing im—”
“No, its fine,” Spencer assured him, leaning up against one of the tiled walls, “I can talk for a few minutes. What’s going on? Is everything alright?”
“Listen, its really not a big deal. If you’re busy, I can always call back, I don’t want to get—”
“I’ve got two minutes to talk,” Spencer interjected, “and I can’t give them back now, so you might as well use them. What is it?”
“I don’t—”
“Sam.”
“What are you doing Friday night?”
Spencer’s grip on his phone tightened as he tried to decide if he heard him right. “I, uh…” he trailed off, running his tongue along the back of his teeth nervously, before saying, “If I’m not out of town on a case, then nothing.” He frowned, “Why?”
“I wanted to take you out,” Sam said, his voice barely audible through the speaker, “on a date. Like, an actual date.” At Spencer’s prolonged silence, he elaborated, “With me. Outside of the café.”
There were so many things Spencer wanted to ask in that moment, but he couldn’t find his voice. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He was so convinced that Sam felt absolutely nothing for him… how had he been so wrong? He was a profiler, but he couldn’t figure out that the guy he liked, liked him back?
He felt foolish.
He felt giddy.
He needed to say something so Sam wouldn’t get freaked out and take back his invitation.
“Spencer?” Sam called to him, his voice nervous, “Hey, if you don’t want to, that’s fine. I don’t want to make things awkward, if you’d rather just forget this whole conversation happened, then that’d be fine with me.”
“No!” Spencer didn’t mean to say that as loud as he did, but as it was, he all but shouted it into poor Sam’s ear. “No,” he repeated at a normal volume, closing his eyes tight and willing himself to stop being such a spaz, “Friday’s great, I’d love to go out with you.”
There was a lengthy pause and Spencer heard a sigh of relief through the receiver, before Sam said, “Awesome. I’ll pick you up at seven?”
“Can’t wait,” Spencer said, slapping a hand to his forehead at how juvenile that sounded, but Sam didn’t seem to mind. He could almost hear him smiling through the phone as he said his good byes.
Spencer flipped his phone shut and slipped it into his pocket, taking a deep, calming breath as he attempted to process what had just happened. “Can’t wait?” he muttered to himself, grimacing as he walked over to the sink, turning on the faucet and splashing cold water on his face. He leaned against the lip of the counter, watching the water circle the drain in the porcelain basin, his gaze unfocused as he attempted to compartmentalize.
What just happened?
How the hell had he been so wrong?
There was no way Sam meant it as a date. Except he’d specifically said date. But maybe he meant it as a friend date? He knew Garcia used the term to describe their once a month Sunday brunches. He’d specified it as an actual date though, so…
“Stop it,” he said, shutting off the water and burying his face in both hands. He wiped at the water on his cheeks before blotting it off on his shirt sleeves and looking up at his reflection in the mirror. Wasn’t this what he wanted? He had the mother of all crushes on Sam, and he was legitimately upset when he thought the other man didn’t think of him as more than a friend. And now Sam had called him up (granted, with terrible timing) to ask him on an honest to god date. Spencer hadn’t been on a date since grad school! And he’d always been the one doing the asking!
So why was he trying to convince himself that this wasn’t a good thing?
Easy, he thought ruefully: because good things don’t happen to Spencer Reid.
Tall, handsome, intelligent and charming doctors didn’t fall over themselves to be with him… but this one was. He sighed, gnawing on his shirt sleeve distractedly as he gazed at himself in the mirror. He supposed he was alright: big brown eyes, high cheekbones and full lips. He always thought he was too skinny, too effeminate, too lanky, but as he got older he realized that, no matter what he felt about himself, there was always going to be someone who found him attractive. Human interaction was so nuanced, so complicated, that it was logically impossible for no one to be interested in him. And besides, what he felt he might have lacked in looks, he knew he more than made up for in brains.
That was what was so intriguing about Sam. From the very start, the first thing that drew his interest was Spencer’s intellect. What he read, how fast he did so, and his varied interests. And since getting to know him, Sam’s favorite thing to do was just sit around and pick his brain. To have long, in depth debates about what they were reading, or what he was studying, and every time Spencer felt he was overstepping, showing too much of his dorky self, that was when Sam seemed the most interested. He valued his mind, and not in the sense of what Spencer’s intelligence could do for him… no, it was a genuine appreciation for how it shaped his person, and every time Sam called him brilliant or amazing, it made Spencer’s heart skip a beat.
So maybe it wasn’t such a stretch to think that Sam might actually like him.
And maybe it wasn’t so odd that he would want to date him.
He was a bit of a dork himself, after all.
Wasn’t it Sam that Spencer had caught wearing a rubber thimble while he studied, in broad daylight, claiming it “helped him turn the pages faster?” Wasn’t it Sam who made that atrocious joke about the difference between an internist, a surgeon and a pathologist, and cracked himself up over it? And wasn’t it Sam who had worked himself up to the point of almost leaving when Spencer had mentioned his distaste for Emily Dickinson?
Spencer smiled, shaking his head as he started to realize that maybe he was working himself up over nothing.
There was a loud bang at the door, and Spencer just about jumped out of his skin. He glanced down at his watch, seeing that five minutes had passed since he left the boardroom and he cursed, hurrying over to the door and pushing past the confused LEO standing on the other side.
He darted around the corner and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Hotch and Gideon were still in the same spot they were before, speaking with the captain on the opposite side of the bullpen. As quietly as he could manage, he slipped into the boardroom, taking his seat and burying himself into his work with purposed. When Hotch came in ten minutes later, he’d found the link between their killers, Hotch was none the wiser about his prolonged absence, and Spencer had a date on Friday.
October 21st, 2006:
“Someone’s happy today,” Cas observed as he walked through the front door, smiling amusedly at Sam as he flitted around the kitchen.
Sam just hummed in response, too busy fixing himself dinner and floating on cloud nine to comment. He was practically gliding across the kitchen, a dorky smile on his face as he tried to cobble together a decent meal out of the random junk in their cupboards. Even the fact that all they had was toast, stolen fruit cups and pudding they’d smuggled sleeping patients lunch trays, and a carton of questionable eggs couldn’t put a damper on his good mood.
He'd bit the bullet. He took a chance and asked Spencer on a date. He stopped being a big coward, and for once it didn’t blow up in his face! Why wouldn’t he be pleased with himself? This was the best news he’d received since his application to Bethesda General went through.
“Of course he is,” said Kevin, answering on Sam’s behalf as he sat at the kitchen window, eating his third stolen pudding of the evening, “He’s got a date.”
“No way!” Jack poked his head into the kitchen, a silly little grin on his face, “With who?”
“With his mystery dork,” Cas said, stepping into the kitchen behind him and frowning at both Kevin and Sam’s meals. “Is that honestly what you’re having for dinner?” he asked, and upon receiving two equally blank looks he rolled his eyes, grabbing the cordless phone off the wall and tossing it to Jack, telling him to, “Order three pizzas, one no meat and cheese.”
Cas held up his hand when Kevin went to object. “If I’m going to feed one kid, I might as well feed all three of you,” he said, before hopping up onto the counter beside Sam and asking, “So, how did it go?”
“It went well, I think,” Sam said, opening a fruit cup and all but pouring it into his mouth, much to Cas’ distaste, “I called when he was on a case, and he sounded pretty busy, but he agreed to go out on Friday so I guess I didn’t inconvenience him too much.”
With a grossed-out grunt, Cas pulled a clean spoon out of the dish rack and shoved it towards Sam’s hand. “You’re such a caveman,” he grumbled, but couldn’t keep his smile at bay. Sam’s enthusiasm was catching, and he said, “I’m happy for you.”
“Thanks,” Sam said, taking the spoon and eating his fruit cup like a normal person, “Now I just need to figure out what to do. Do you know how long its been since I was on a date?”
“Six months,” Kevin piped in from his spot in the window, and when Sam and Cas both looked at him confusedly, he shrugged, “Ruby made an impact on all of us.”
Jack groaned from the living room, “I thought we weren’t ever going to mention her again!”
“I’d like to second that rule,” Sam said with a grimace, “but Kevin’s right, its been a long time.”
“Its not like the concept of dating has changed, though,” Kevin said, waving his pudding coated spoon at him, “Dinner, movie, coffee… take your pick?”
But Sam just shook his head. “I don’t think its going to be that simple,” he said, “Spencer doesn’t strike me as the dinner and a movie kind of guy, unless we were going to see some eight-hour Soviet sci-fi film, and I’m not sure if that’s first date material. I also promised I’d take him somewhere outside of a coffee shop for once.”
Jack came back into the kitchen, hanging up the phone. “The Smithsonian is doing this thing over the next few weeks where they’re open until midnight. I think there’s food and drinks, too.” All three men looked at him curiously, and he shrugged, “I’m on their mailing list.”
“Of course you are,” Cas said, reaching out from his place on the counter to affectionately ruffle his younger brother’s hair.
“That’s not a bad idea, Jack,” Sam said, pursing his lips as he mulled it over. Spencer certainly seemed like the kind of person who’d want to spend a night in a museum, and it would give them a chance to talk in a way watching a movie wouldn’t. Besides, if they weren’t going to be eating at a restaurant, he wouldn’t have to worry about some of his more intense compulsions getting in the way or being too noticeable. Speaking of, he thought ruefully, he grabbed a piece of paper towel and wiped down the spoon he was using before taking another bite.
“What case?”
Sam looked up at Jack, his brow furrowed. “What do you mean, ‘what case?’” he asked, not understanding the question.
“Earlier you said that you called him while he was on a case,” Jack explained, “What case was he on?”
“Yeah,” Kevin chimed in, “What does he do for a living? You mentioned the multiple doctorates, but you never said what his job was.”
Averting his gaze, Sam placed his fruit cup on the counter, busying himself with wiping down his spoon. The kitchen was suddenly silent, save for the rasp of paper towel, and Sam sighed. He knew he was eventually going to have to tell them, but he’d been secretly hoping to put it off a while longer. At least until he’d assuaged his own concerns on the matter.
He cleared his throat, picking up his fruit cup and taking a bite, only to immediately set it down and clean his spoon again. “He’s a, uh—” he stammered, keeping his gaze zeroed in on the utensil in his hand, and motored through at lightening fast speed, “He’s a criminal profiler for the FBI.”
The silence persisted for a few more moments, and Sam was certain if he looked up, he’d find three sets of wide eyes owlishly blinking at him. It was so quiet Sam could hear the leaky bathroom faucet dripping from across the apartment, the hum of their old refrigerator, and then…
“He’s a what?!”
“Sam, what the hell were you thinking?!”
“That is so cool!”
Sam winced at the sudden bombardment. Kevin was looking at him like he wanted to throttle him, Cas looked like he was unsure of whether to have a panic attack or an aneurysm, and Jack… looked supremely excited. Like, over the freaking moon.
He decided to start with Jack.
“He works for the Behavioural Analysis Unit in Quantico,” Sam said, looking past his roommates and focussing entirely Jack, “He travels across the country helping catch serial killers.”
“Does he know?” Kevin demanded, standing up from his stool and walking into the kitchen, which was quickly becoming way too crowded.
Cas was still sitting on the counter, but Sam couldn’t bear to look him in the eye. He could feel the worry and disappointment rolling off him in waves, and he knew the second he looked up at him, Cas would give him those big blue cows eyes, and he’d be toast.
He’d gone over his explanation time and again in his head. He knew that he would have to eventually tell his friends about Spencer’s job, especially if they ever got serious. He just thought he’d have more time.
“No, he doesn’t,” Sam said, dumping both his fruit cup and his spoon into the sink, no longer hungry, “he knows me as Sam Campbell, he doesn’t know that’s not my real last name.”
“Would he though, if he found out?”
“Probably.” Shrugging his shoulders, Sam jammed his hands in his pockets and looked down at the floor like a kicked dog, “He’s got an eidetic memory and he profiles serial killers for a living. If he doesn’t know my dad, then he knows the name Winchester, at least.”
Kevin groaned dramatically, dropping his head into his hands and leaning up against the wall, while Jack just looked around nervously, unable to get a read on the room. He was gnawing at his lip nervously when Cas tossed him his wallet and told him to wait for the pizza man, and once he caught it, he was all too happy to leave the crowded kitchen full of angry, frustrated people that he didn’t understand.
“Are you going to tell him?” Cas asked.
“Of course not!” Sam laughed bitterly, “It was a struggle just asking him out! I don’t think telling him that my father was a serial killer who brainwashed me and my brother from birth would make for good first date conversation.”
“He’s going to find out eventually,” Cas said, as calmly as ever, but Sam saw him out of the corner of his eye, picking at the torn knees of his jeans. It was a nervous habit of his, usually as a precursor to what Jack affectionately referred to as “Cas’ Shame Cigarettes,” and he only ever did it when he was feeling worried, guilty or both.
“Cas is right,” Kevin agreed, “Jessica didn’t work with the FBI and she found out. So did Ruby. And what if things get serious? What if you move in together? He’s going to notice the salt and the cache of weapons eventually!”
“I thought you said that didn’t matter?”
“It doesn’t.” Cas snapped a string from the frayed knees of his jeans, absently watching as he let it fall to the floor, “And what happened to Jessica was tragic. But with Ruby…”
“She tore you apart, man,” Kevin finished for him, and Sam clenched his jaw, biting back the indignant denial that threatened to spill past his lips. “She found out about your dad and your brother, and what it did to you, and she used that to hurt you.”
“You were a mess, Sam. You almost lost your internship because of it.”
“How do you know that won’t happen again?”
Sam suddenly kicked his heel back, slamming it against the cabinet behind him as he shouted, “I don’t!”
Both Kevin and Cas startled at his outburst, and even Jack, who was flipping through TV channels in the living room, went quiet.
“I don’t know what will happen if— when Spencer finds out about my dad.” Sam took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. His right arm trembled as he strained to keep still, to keep from tapping his finger off the counter top, and Cas tracked the movement subtly, frowning. “But,” he said, exhaling slowly and tapping his finger in his pocket to circumvent the need to do so where Kevin and Cas could see, “you two were the ones who told me I needed to stop being a coward. And now that I have, I really need you to not take that back.”
He looked between them, and watched as a shadow of guilt passed over their faces.
“I’m terrified,” Sam said, gritting his teeth as his arm shuddered against his side, “And if I didn’t like this guy so much, I wouldn’t bother.”
“But you do,” Cas said, hopping off the counter and gently tugging on Sam’s arm, pulling his hand out of his pocket and placing it on the counter top, “and you’re trying. And that’s a good thing.” Sam relaxed, tapping his ring finger off the scratched-up Formica, and Cas smiled sadly, “I’m sorry.”
“Me too,” Kevin said, all the bluster and indignation gone from his slender frame, “I’m sorry too. I just get worried.”
Sam nodded, “I know you do. Look, guys, I don’t—"
The doorbell rang suddenly, and Jack was at the door in a flash, paying and enthusiastically chatting with the pizza man. Kevin groaned and, smelling the pizza from inside the apartment, seemingly floated towards the door, following his nose and taking the conversation with him.
Cas and Sam both shook their heads, watching him go. “It’s amazing you two are still alive,” Cas said, crossing his arms over his chest, “when all you eat are fruit cups and pudding.”
“Thanks for dinner, Cas.”
“Can’t let you starve,” was his glib reply, the mood totally shifting with the promise of food. Sam moved towards the door, intending to relieve the poor pizza man from Jack’s good-natured, but long-winded banter, when Cas caught his arm, “Wait.”
He paused, turning at the waist with his eyebrow crooked, and he paled at the serious expression on Cas’ face. Sam thought they were finished with this conversation. “What is it, Cas?”
“Just be careful,” Cas said, letting go of Sam’s arm but still holding his attention, “and don’t get yourself hurt.”
“Not planning on it,” Sam replied, and Cas smiled, satisfied for now.
“Good.”
October 23rd, 2006:
“Someone’s in a good mood,” Morgan said as he walked back to his desk, smiling amusedly at Spencer as he watched him pack his bag.
Spencer hummed in response, unable to keep the silly little grin off his face as he flitted about the office, grabbing casefiles he needed for the weekend in a veritable daze. Emily smiled at him from her desk, and then looked over a Morgan, shrugging her shoulders. They were used to his floaty good mood by now, having dealt with it for the past three days, though none of them had asked why. It wasn’t like Spencer was ever in a bad mood, or hard to get along with, but it was rare to see him so excited over something he didn’t immediately tell them about.
Morgan chuckled as he sat on the corner of his desk, shaking his head in bemusement, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Pretty Ricky has a date.”
Emily clicked her tongue and shot Morgan a withering look, silently telling him to be nice. It might have bothered Spencer at one point that the thought of him having a date on a Friday night was so outlandish to his teammates, that they’d immediately assume the mere suggestion of it was meant to tease him. But not today. Today they were wrong: he did have a date, and before Morgan was finished laughing at his own joke, Spencer looked up and said, “I do.”
Emily frowned, “Do what?”
“Have a date,” Spencer replied, before slinging his bag over his shoulder and heading towards the elevators, “Have a good weekend!”
Though his back was turned, Spencer could hear as Morgan clambered off his desk, calling after him, “Hey, wait!” There was a rustle of papers, and then the sound of his feet stomping after him, echoing in the empty halls of their office, until he finally came to a stop beside Spencer. Not looking up, Spencer pressed the button for the elevator, twisting at the strap of his messenger bag, suddenly feeling incredibly boxed in as he heard the click of Emily’s boots approaching behind him.
“Reid,” said Emily, a teasing lilt to her voice and Spencer turned, looking over at her before glancing towards Morgan, “You can’t leave us hanging like that, and expect us to not have questions.”
Spencer pressed the elevator button again, a little more forcefully this time.
“Yeah man,” Morgan said, nudging him in the shoulder, “Who’s the lucky lady?”
“It’s not a big deal,” Spencer murmured, playing with the front pocket of his bag, “We only met a few weeks ago.”
“So, this is the first date?” Emily asked, and Spencer bit his lip and nodded, willing the elevator to hurry up, “Where are you going? Do you have anything planned, or are you just winging it?”
Morgan leaned up against the wall, situating himself between Spencer and the elevators call button, forcing Spencer to look up at him. “You’re not wearing that, right?” he chuckled, smiling playfully at the flush that forced itself to the surface of Spencer’s cheeks, “Can’t go rockin’ the stuffy professor look on a first date.”
Thankfully, the elevator dinged, and Spencer let out a sigh of relief. “Duly noted,” he said dryly, hopping onto the elevator and furiously pressing the “close door” button, “Goodnight guys.”
“C’mon, man!”
“Reid, we were just teasing!”
The doors closed, and he slumped back against the elevator wall, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. Whatever had possessed him to tell them he had a date was beyond him, but even the incessant prying into his personal life couldn’t put a permanent damper on his good mood.
The train couldn’t get him home fast enough. He all but sprinted the ten minutes to his building from the station. And he did sprint up the four flights of stairs to his walk-up apartment, unlocking and throwing open his door in record time because the second he exited the office, he realised that Morgan might be on to something.
He didn’t have anything that looked like it came from this century to wear.
Dropping his stuff by the front door and carefully locking his sidearm up in his safe, he hurried to shower and change. When was the last time he’d been on a date, he wondered as he furiously shampooed his hair? It was so long ago he could hardly remember, but it had been largely uneventful, ending in a tentative, awkward kiss in the passenger seat of their car and being told they’d call, only to never hear from or see them again.
What was he going to wear? Was there a dress code? He chastised himself for not asking what they were doing. He had no clue if they were going to a movie, to dinner, or something else. What if he was going to be walking around? What if he needed to bring something? He really needed more information; as it was, he felt woefully underprepared.
He decided, after drying (and attempting to style) his unruly hair, and brushing his teeth for the umpteenth time, on jeans and a button up shirt, forgoing the tie but unable to keep from adding a cardigan. He still looked like a “stuffy professor,” as Morgan had put it, and the jeans were stiff from only having been wore three times, but when he glanced in the mirror, he thought he looked alright. He didn’t look half bad, and he tried once again to tame his hair, but a quick look at the clock told him he didn’t have time to bother. Five more minutes and Sam would be there to pick him up, and he was already far too jittery and nervous.
Five minutes to calm down then, he decided. He paced across his living room, plucking a book off his coffee table and sitting down in his armchair, flipping it open to a random page to distract himself from fretting. He could hardly focus, forcing himself to go at a much slower pace than was normal for him, trying to get caught up in the words on the page, rather than his incomprehensible nervousness.
It was just beginning to work when his cell phone rang.
Frowning, hoping that it wasn’t JJ saying they had a case, he flipped it open and said, “Reid.”
“Hey, Spence.”
He couldn’t help but smile at the sound of Sam’s voice. He’d been elated, positively giddy all day long about their date, about seeing him outside of their morning coffee shop meetings, that even talking to him on the phone was enough to start Spencer’s heart racing. “Hey Sam,” he said and looking up at the clock, realizing it was two minutes to seven, asked, “Do you need me to buzz you up? The door should be propped open.”
Sam didn’t respond right away, instead his voice caught when he tried to speak and he paused to heave a small sigh, and Spencer’s good mood was gone as suddenly as it had appeared. “You’re not coming, are you?” he asked.
“I’m so sorry,” Sam said, and Spencer bit his lip, trying to fight back the aching disappointment that churned in his gut, “but I got called into work for tonight. A good chunk of interns dropped out or transferred recently, and they’re undermanned. I tried to get out of it, but—”
“No, don’t be ridiculous,” Spencer interjected, and damn it, he meant it, “you’re a doctor, if you’re needed at the hospital, then you’re needed. I’m not going to expect you to put a date over your career and patients.”
There was a disbelieving huff on the other end of the line, and when Sam spoke again, he sounded relieved. “You’re amazing,” he said, seemingly without meaning too, as he coughed sharply, stuttered and added that, “I-I, uh, I’m not letting you off the hook, either.”
“I’m sorry?” Spencer asked, his cheeks burning red and suddenly very grateful they weren’t face to face for Sam to see him.
“Our date?” Sam was smiling, Spencer could hear it in his voice, “If I haven’t completely soured you on the whole experience. Would next Friday work?”
“Barring the BAU doesn’t get invited in on a case, yes.”
“Okay,” said Sam, and asked, “Will I see you tomorrow morning? I’d like the chance to apologize in person.”
Spencer smiled, “Of course.”
“Great.” Spencer heard a loud beep, the sound of a car door slamming shut, and suddenly Sam’s voice was amplified, louder in the enclosed space of his car, “Thank you, Spencer. I hope you have a wonderful night.”
“You too,” Spencer said softly, saying his goodbyes and flipping his cell phone shut. His apartment was suddenly too quiet, the only sound his own breathing and the faint murmur of his downstairs neighbours drifting through the floorboards. He sighed, dropping his phone on the coffee table and immediately shimmying out of his uncomfortable jeans. He wasn’t going anywhere that night; might as put on sweats and order too much Chinese take-away to sate his disappointment.
October 24th, 2006:
It turns out seeing each other in the morning was going to be more literal than Sam had meant it.
As Spencer approached the coffee shop, he spotted Sam standing outside, nervously shifting between his feet and holding two disposable coffee cups. One was for him, as it was normal person sized, but the other was undoubtedly for Spencer: the extra-large cup and domed lid were like his caffeinated calling card.
Sam shot him an apologetic look the second he saw him, and Spencer knew he couldn’t stay long. He was already wearing scrubs (worn scrubs, by the look of the stains and wrinkles marring the front of his shirt), and he was checking his watch repeatedly, so he was obviously going to work.
However, Spencer couldn’t muster the heart to be upset even if he wanted to. The bags under Sam’s eyes were visible from across the street, and despite the nervous jittering he looked to be dead on his feet. He wondered if Sam had even gone home after his shift last night, or if he came right to the café, directly from the hospital.
“I’m so sorry,” Sam said once Spencer was in earshot, thrusting the extra-large caramel macchiato into his hands, “but I can’t stay. I’m technically on a split shift, so I only had two hours free, and it takes half an hour to get here from the hospital, so…”
“So, you need to leave,” Spencer finished for him, taking a sip from his cup to mask his disappointed frown, “that’s alright.”
“Is it?” Sam asked, “Really? ‘Cause from where I’m standing, I’ve bailed on you twice in under twenty-four hours, and you don’t need to be cool with that.”
Spencer smiled, charmed by the guilty look on Sam’s face, like a puppy caught chewing the couch. “It’s fine,” he assured him, reaching out and patting Sam on the arm on instinct, “Really, I understand. You know what my job is like, and you know my hours. It could have just as easily been me who was called into work last night, and this morning. Besides, you look exhausted.” He pursed his lips, looking Sam up and down, “You should have used your two hours to sleep, instead of coming down here.”
“I needed to see you,” said Sam, smiling bashfully and ducking his head, his hair falling in front of his face as he stared down at his feet, “I needed to apologize in person and just make sure that we,” he gestured back and forth between the two of them, “were okay.”
In a fit of bravery, Spencer reached up, skirting his fingertips along Sam’s cheek as he gently tucked his hair back behind his ear. “Never been better,” he said softly.
Sam looked up at him, his expression unreadable, and Spencer took a step back, pulling his hand away when Sam reached up and grasped his wrist. Coffee still in his other hand, Sam locked eyes with him, pressing his forearm against the slope of Spencer’s lower back and pulling him in gently. Spencer gasped when their thighs brushes, their hips bumping clumsily together as Sam relinquished his hold on his wrist, sliding his fingertips down the length of Spencer’s arm and up his neck, tangling in his hair.
And then he tugged Spencer forward, closing the scant inches between them before kissing him softly.
It was a chaste kiss, nothing more than an innocent press of their lips but the instant they touched it felt as if Spencer’s heart stopped beating. All thought ground to a screeching halt, and for once his mind was silent, struck dumb with surprise. He stiffened, standing still in Sam’s arms with his hands and coffee cup pressed uselessly against Sam’s chest, his eyes wide as he realized he couldn’t seem to will himself to move, to reciprocate, to do something.
Once Spencer got his brain working again however, it was too late. He felt Sam shift backwards, pulling his hands back and looking down at Spencer guiltily, his brow furrowed as though he thought he’d completely misread the situation. He stammered, took a step back and began to utter an apology, and that just wouldn’t do. Spencer had been agonizing over his feelings for him since their first introductions, was too elated at the fact that Sam was actually interested in him, and too stunned that he had kissed him to let Sam assume he’d done anything wrong.
Spencer reached out with his free hand, twisting his fingers in the front of Sam’s scrubs before he was even aware he was doing it, and hauled Sam forward and down, forcing the taller man back to his height. Lifting up onto his toes, and managing to close his eyes this time, he used Sam’s sharp inhale as his guide, seeking out his softly parted lips with his own.
There was only a momentary pause while Sam presumably got his mind on board with what was happening, and Spencer could feel the shift. He could feel the tension dissipate under his palm as he pressed against Sam’s chest, as he slid it up to grasp at his broad shoulders. He felt as Sam moved, winding his arms gently around Spencer’s waist tentatively at first, as thought he were afraid to scare him off, and then more forcefully, his hands squeezing at Spencer’s hips and pulling him in close, preceded by the sound of a coffee cup splashing off the sidewalk. And he felt, with an elated thrill, when Sam kissed him back.
His heart was beating so wildly Spencer could only take little sips of breath, sighing contentedly when their lips parted, only for a moment. A part of him was vaguely aware they were standing on a busy street, in front of multiple passersby and a busy intersection, and that Sam was going to be horribly late for work. But the part of him that was enticed by the feel of Sam’s lips against his, warm and soft, and the way he rolled Spencer’s lower lip between his teeth had it completely overruled.
It wasn’t until a car horn blared, and some asshole screamed a gross slur at them as he sped away, that they managed to pull away from each other.
Sam chuckled as he took a step back, his cheeks red as he struggled to relinquish his hold on Spencer’s hips. He was smiling bashfully from ear to ear as he said, “I’m gonna be so late.”
“You’re also down a coffee.” Spencer looked over his shoulder and down to see Sam’s poor cup lying in a pool of coffee on the ground, then back up to Sam with a shy quirk of his lips as he handed him his own, “If you can handle the nauseating amount of sugar, you can take mine.”
Barking out a laugh, Sam rubbed at the back of his neck. “I don’t know if I can,” he said, covering Spencer’s hand with his own and guiding it back towards him, lingering longer than necessary to timidly stroke Spencer’s knuckles with his thumb, “I’ll put up with nurse Mosely’s sorry excuse for coffee, so you can keep yours.” He took his hand back, and looked at his watch, grimacing, “Shit.”
“Go,” Spencer told him, gesturing towards the metro up the road, “I’ll see you on Friday.”
He wasn’t prepared for the blinding smile Sam gave him, but he appreciated it, his blood thrumming so fast he could hear it coursing through him. With a nod, and a hesitant step backwards that told Spencer he would rather be there with him, just standing in the street, than anywhere else, Sam agreed. “See you Friday,” he said, before turning around and jogging up the road to the subway, crowds on the sidewalk parting swiftly out of his way.
Spencer watched him go, his stomach twisted up in nervous, giddy knots, until he heard a rattling sound to his left. Glancing over, his eyes widened in surprise when he saw Lisa tapping at the window, grinning at him. He waved timidly, embarrassed when she gave him an over the top thumbs up and he sighed, forcing himself to smile politely back at her. He didn’t think they’d had an audience, but he did suppose she’d had ring side seats to the Doctors Campbell and Reid Show for the past month now; he couldn’t blame her for being invested.
It didn’t kill his mood, either. No, he basically floated to work, smiling stupidly throughout his entire train ride, prompting other passengers to give him a wide berth (another bonus!). And by the time he got to work, he had almost forgotten the conversation he’d had the previous night with Morgan and Prentiss, the date that never was, and the missed connection coffee. He was still drifting in his head, lost in memories of Sam’s hands pulling him close, his heated gaze and the feel of his lips.
That was until he got to his desk, however, and both Morgan and Prentiss descended on him like vultures.
“So?” Morgan asked, cocking his hip and perching on the corner of Spencer’s desk.
“So, what?” Spencer replied, playing dumb as he sipped at his coffee.
Morgan rolled his eyes, “So, how was your date?”
“Oh, I didn’t go,” Spencer said, slipping out of his jacket and throwing it over the back of his chair, “Sam got called in to the ICU and had to cancel.”
“Finally!” Morgan exclaimed, clapping his hands together once and grinning, “We have a name, and an occupation!”
“Timing, Morgan,” Prentiss admonished, giving him a little shove before turning her gaze onto Spencer, “I’m sorry Reid.”
When Spencer just shrugged and sat down, Morgan cocked his head to the side, observing him a moment before mentioning, “You don’t seem too disappointed.”
“I’m not,” Spencer said, and glancing up at the two of them, seeing they were definitely not satisfied, sighed heavily and explained, “We rescheduled.”
“Well then, that’s good news,” Prentiss said with a smile, tugging Morgan away by the crook of his arm in a silent bid to leave Spencer alone, “Come on, let him get settled.”
“Hit me up if you need restaurant recommendations,” Morgan called over his shoulder, “I know a guy!”
“Of course you do,” Prentiss said, patting him on the back and laughing when he waved her off.
Spencer smiled as he watched them go, still flying high and totally unfazed. He’d spent the better part of last night trying to eat his way through any lingering disappointment, and the morning worrying about Sam changing his mind. But now? He’d had his fears dashed so completely, his perceptions upended in a matter of days, and he found himself thinking that Friday couldn’t get there soon enough.
October 30th, 2006:
Sam was passed out in his bed, pillow over top of his head to block out the late afternoon sun, when his phone rang.
He groaned, clapping a hand over his ear (over top of the pillow). He just got off a night of being on call, wherein he only managed four hours of sleep stretched out sporadically over four hours. He’d been on his feet for (basically) thirty-six hours straight, and he’d only managed to fall asleep…
He lifted the pillow and glared over at his alarm clock, which blinked four-thirty at him.
… three hours ago.
Rolling onto his back, he stared up at the ceiling, debating whether to let his still ringing phone go to voicemail. He needed to get at least two more hours in before his date that night, or he’d be piss poor company. But if it was a work emergency, they would just keep calling till he picked up, and if it was Spencer, he’d feel like a dick, so with a frustrated sigh he grabbed his cell, flipping it open and answering, “Hello?”
“Hello, Sam?”
He sat straight up, his pillow flying off the bed and landing on the floor. “Hey, Spencer,” he said, brushing his hair back from his face and clearing his throat, chasing back the fog of sleep that still hung over his head, “Yeah, hi. Hello.”
“Did… I’m sorry, did I wake you?”
Sam smiled into the receiver, picturing the furrowed brow and nervous lip bite that most likely accompanied Spencer’s question. “No— I mean, yeah,” he said, not wanting Spencer to feel bad, but not willing to lie, either, “I was on call last night, but I needed to be getting up soon, anyways.” There was a curious hum on the other side of the line, and a pregnant pause, so Sam asked, “What’s up?” Another hum, and a strange rattling sound, “Where are you?”
Spencer sighed, “On a plane to Guantanamo.”
Slumping back against his head board, all Sam could say was, “Oh.”
“I shouldn’t have told you that,” Spencer said quickly, his voice suddenly hushed, “It violates seven-point-one terms of my contract with the FBI, and two federal laws.”
“Seven-point-one?”
“Section F, subsection b, doesn’t deal explicitly with extra-departmental confidentiality, but makes mention of it.”
“Wow,” Sam said, rubbing sleep from his eyes with the back of his hand, “That’s specific. You really weren’t joking about the whole eidetic memory thing, were you?”
“Why would I joke about that?” Spencer asked, and Sam could hear his tone of voice change. He was getting his back up, but he didn’t sound insulted, he… sounded embarrassed.
No shit, Sam thought, mentally chastising himself. This was the guy who thought Sam was playing some cruel joke on him for weeks, just because he was paying attention to him. They never spoke of it, but it was clear Spencer had experienced his fair share of teasing and bullying by virtue of his intellect. The kid graduated high school at twelve, and just surviving public school was difficult. Sam couldn’t imagine how hard it must have been to not only be super smart, but a child in the veritable lion’s den.
“I’m sorry Spence, I’m still half asleep,” he said, grunting as he flopped back down into bed, “I didn’t mean it as a bad thing. It’s fascinating.”
“What’s fascinating?”
“You,” Sam corrected, biting his lip when he realized how that must sound, “You-your memory. Your brain, I find your… intellect, fascinating.”
“Oh,” was Spencer’s hesitant reply, and Sam held his breath through another long pause, until he finally added, “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it,” Sam said, eager to change the subject, “So, if you’re headed to… you know where right now, I’m gonna go out on a limb and assume you’re not going to be back in DC for seven, huh?”
“No,” Spencer said, sounding crestfallen, “I’m sorry, Sam, I tried to stay behind on the off chance we’d wrap up early, or that they wouldn’t need me, but—”
“They need you,” Sam finished for him, “of course they do. Without you on the case, they’d be sailing the ship with only half the crew.”
“I think you’re giving me too much credit.”
“And I think you’re not giving yourself enough, Doctor.”
Spencer laughed at that, and Sam couldn’t help but chuckle along with him. His laugh was infectious, even over the phone, and Sam could almost see the shy smile that accompanied it. That was enough to send a thrill of affection surging through him, warming his cheeks with a traitorous blush he was so glad no one was there to witness.
Though Sam missed him terribly in that moment.
“It’s alright,” he reassured Spencer, “We’ll reschedule. Friday’s clearly don’t work, so let’s try a Tuesday. Nothing bad has ever happened on a Tuesday.”
“It is the safest day of the week to drive, statistically speaking. But I think you’re forgetting about Black Tuesday, and theft such as pickpocketing and grand theft auto spikes at around mid-afternoon every week on Tuesday’s, and—”
“Okay, I get it,” Sam said, cutting Spencer off mid rant, “Tuesday’s can be bad, too. But I’m usually free then, and if one of is presumably available, then that cuts the chance we’ll have to cancel in half.” He smirked, asking, “Right, Mister statistician?”
“Not technically,” Spencer replied teasingly, “but close enough.”
“I’ll take it.” Sam rolled over, stretching out his stiff, sleepy limbs with a short groan, “I should probably get up, and you should get back to… whatever you’re doing.” Spencer hummed in agreement, saying his goodbyes, but before he could hang up, Sam assured him, “I’ll see you on Tuesday. Seven o’clock, come hell or high water.”
“See you then, Sam.”
As soon as the line went dead, Sam clambered out of bed, tossing back the sheets and pulling on a pair of sweats before bee-lining straight into the living room. His bedroom door slammed open, and Kevin looked up from his place on the couch, startled away from his soap operas and medical textbooks. “Oh, hey,” he said, “I didn’t think you’d be up yet.”
“I got a call, and I need a favour.” Sam flopped down onto the couch next to Kevin and asked, “You’re Doctor Fitzgerald’s favorite, right?”
Kevin eyed him warily, “I wouldn’t say I’m his favorite. I was just the only newly minted medical intern to place a Foley cath without assistance on their first attempt. That hardly qualifies as ‘favorite’.”
“But since then he’s paged you in on all of his complicated patients, and you’re the first one he looks to for an opinion,” Sam looked at him pointedly, and added, “or for suggestions.”
“What do you want, Sam?”
“I need next Tuesday off, guaranteed.”
“No,” Kevin said, glaring at him, “I’m not calling in a favor with our attending just so you can go to some dumb foreign movie or sports… thing.”
“It’s for my date with Spencer.”
Deflating a little, Kevin pursed his lips and studied him. He knew that Sam had to cancel twice already, but he had to ask, “I thought that was tonight?”
“Spencer is headed somewhere highly classified for a case, and he’s not going to be back in DC for a while.”
“You guys are pretty bad at this, huh?”
Sam nodded, “Terrible. That’s why I need a sure thing… a day where I’m not going to be on-call or scheduled for a late shift, guaranteed.”
“If I do this,” Kevin said, taking his time and mulling over the conditions of his acquiescence, the devious look in his eyes enough to make Sam nervous, “then I’ll need you to do me a favour.”
“Name your price.”
“You have to be my medical geek the next time I need to write a paper,” Kevin decided with a curt nod, “and you have to present it with me, if it gets selected.”
Sam bit his tongue to keep from outright refusing on the spot, and Kevin cocked a brow, challenging him. Kevin knew he hated public speaking, and they learned their first year of medical school that when it came to working together, it was like mixing oil and water. Kevin was a perpetual planner, so hyper organized that he even had their pantry alphabetized. Sam, on the other hand, was a scattered intellectual, his desk and notebooks existing in a state of organized chaos. When they worked together it was hell, each of them butting heads the whole time until they were finished.
But, even though they didn’t mesh well together, they were both good at what they did and took their work seriously. Their collaborations were always impeccable, and Sam knew that, were they to write a paper together, it would absolutely, one-hundred-percent be selected, and he would have to get up on a podium in front of a jury of his peers to stammer and sweat through an awkward, uncomfortable presentation.
Kevin knew what he was doing, too. Ever the overachiever, the twenty-four-year-old doctor and surgeon, the wunderkind from Quaints-ville, Michigan, Kevin had been saddled with more work than he could handle as of late. Working with Sam would guarantee a load off for him, because he could trust Sam to do a flawless job on their paper, and it would look good on him when, upon seeing poor Sam struggling through his presentation, Kevin could swoop in and save the day like the good, benevolent doctor he was.
He was an evil mastermind, but he was still his friend. And since Sam was desperate for this favour, he eventually agreed.
“Great!” Kevin said cheerily, shaking his hand, “I’ll put in a good word for you with Doctor Fitzgerald tonight. Can’t wait to work with you again, roomie!”
As Kevin hopped off the couch, whistling happily all the way to the kitchen, Sam slumped back, surprised to find he was still in as good a mood as ever. He was guaranteed Tuesday night, and barring Spencer was needed out of town for a case, he’d finally get to take him out on this date, that had been almost a month now in planning.
Come hell or high water, he’d said, he was gonna date the hell out of Spencer Reid.