Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

By the time Reid gets out of the shower and dry enough to pick up the phone, it's on its fourth ring. Not the most auspicious start to a Saturday morning, though the unfamiliar caller ID (the only upside of the answering machine Garcia made him get) at least means there's a chance his weekend plans of staying home and reading all day are still intact—even if JJ or someone was calling with a new case, he's pretty sure none of them have ever lived in New York, so they wouldn't be doing so from a 212 number. It's probably a telemarketer, but since he always feels bad about how people tend to treat them, he'll pick up anyway.

"This is Dr. Spencer Reid speaking."

"And for a second there I thought I'd got it wrong," a familiar voice drawls on the other end. "But I was right: you kept your home number somehow."

For a second, Spencer just stands there, bewildered, hair dripping all over the hardwood, before he can manage to form a thought. 

"Ethan?"

"I kinda assumed it'd belong to a strip mall now or something," the man in question continues, "but I thought I'd give it a shot anyway. If anyone could figure out how to swing that cross country, it's you."

"I had it transferred when I got into the BAU," he replies by rote while the majority of his brainpower is dedicated to catching up with the fact that he is, now, talking to Ethan. Who did call. And who remembered his childhood phone number. "It's the number my mom remembers. My colleague worked it out." By which he means Garcia wiggled her way through some back channels a few weeks after they met, but Ethan doesn't need to know that. "What would you have done if I didn't pick up?"

"Don't worry, agent, I've still got your card. It's the weekend, though. Was just about to write you an email when I realized I still remembered your home number from way back when."

It's been almost a week. Eight days, two hours, and fifty-two minutes since Spencer waved down a taxi outside Ethan's apartment in the French Quarter, clothes wrinkled from the rain of the night before and their subsequent hours spent on Ethan's floor. He's been trying not to think about it but has been failing miserably. At least it's a little better than the last thing that happened to him on a case that he'd rather not think about, but still, not his favorite subject. It's just shame, guilt, and inner conflict in a different context, underscored by the fact that, as bad for him as it is, he wants to go back to that feeling again. (And then he realizes he's comparing Ethan to drugs and has to take a good, long look at himself in the mirror, metaphorically speaking. That's got to be a new low for him.)

"Since when are you in New York?"

He stutters, realizing it's a non sequitur, but before he can backtrack Ethan is explaining, "It's an old number. Though not as old as yours."

"Right."

"Not what you were expecting, huh?"

"To say the least. But I, uh. I'm mostly surprised you called at all," Spencer says without meaning to. Once it's out, though, it's out, so he doubles down and continues, "I mean, you didn't for five years, so."

"Harsh but true," Ethan concedes. Something shifts in his tone, but it's too ambiguous to pinpoint what with only inflection to go off of. As much as his existing knowledge of Ethan and his body language, tone of voice, et cetera, is an asset right now, it can only do so much. New scenarios. New reactions. Hard to predict. "Maybe I just figured I better before you get the NSA on my ass."

"I wouldn't enlist the NSA to track you down just for not calling me," Spencer tries to defend. It doesn't come out all that convincingly, though, when he knows that he would just eventually cave and ask Garcia to check if anything happened to Ethan. Just to make sure it wasn't him.

"Right. You'd just hunt me down yourself. Again."

"You really weren't that hard to find. All I had to do was type your name into a search engine. Even I can do that." With some coaching. "But you called."

"But I called," Ethan agrees.

"Why?"

"Ah! Because I have news." A car honks on his end, bringing the faint sound of traffic to the forefront. Someone shouts in the distance, though Reid can't make out what exactly they say. "So a buddy of mine's going on a little tour and their keyboardist just dropped out. Home, Atlanta, a couple of Carolinas, and DC."

"Oh."

"Yeah. Oh. I figured it would probably be rude to be in your neck of the woods and not mention."

"That would probably be rude, yeah." He thinks for a moment but all he's getting is static with the occasional blip of pilomotor alertness at the knowledge that he's, one, definitely going to see Ethan, and, two, much sooner than he thought. "You should bring a coat. And probably a scarf. While DC is a humid subtropical climate, March is still cold, especially considering wind chill."

The other end of the line is muffled briefly, but Spencer can still make out Ethan's laugh. "Thanks, doc. I'll keep that in mind."

"Did you say next week?" That's probably enough time to get his heart rate under control, or at least allow him to get used to it. Besides, the likelihood of the kinds of crimes they investigate increases with average temperature, so even a week later betters the odds he'll actually be out of town on a case.

"Well." Ethan falters for the first time—not in this conversation but also, Spencer realizes with distant interest, since they met again. "I'm actually on the road out of Atlanta right now, so it's more like this Friday."

"This Friday," he repeats. "As in the Friday of this week. Six days from now. That Friday."

"That very Friday," Ethan agrees.

Still processing this, Spencer says vaguely, "I guess the coat advice wasn't too helpful then."

"Eh. It's the thought that counts."

Even through the phone, Reid can tell that he's smiling as he says it. He's not sure how he knows—the minute difference in the shape of his mouth coloring the pronunciation, maybe, or just memory of what he's experienced in person with visual cues—but he does, and the knowledge suffuses him with tangible warmth.

"I remembered that on my own, anyway," Ethan continues, "so it's all the same. But yeah. No hard feelings if you've already got plans. I know it's last minute."

"No, that's—" Though a moment ago he had been hoping for any such excuse, hearing it out of Ethan's mouth is different. To be at work knowing that Ethan is in his own backyard is suddenly anathema to Spencer. His response is already decided, but he asks anyway, "When on Friday?"

"Early afternoon, if we hit the road on time." Once again, a voice in the background shouts—someone else, Spencer realizes, in the car. There's a scuffle as Ethan presumably covers the receiver, then he returns to add, "The first show is Friday at a place on U Street, but we'll be there for a few days."

"Maybe we'll just leave you there," someone calls out. Reid can't tell if it's the same person.

"Shut up," Ethan calls back. Then, more reasonable, "Sorry about that. We're all crammed in one van, I think we're getting cabin fever."

"That explains the ambient noise."

"Yeah. Though there might be less of that by the time we reach you. A few more days of this and I might snap."

"Well, if you do, try to keep it within state lines. I wouldn't want to be conflicted out of a case."

"I doubt my crimes would be interesting enough for your guys."

"Don't sell yourself short."

It's only when Ethan doesn't immediately respond, breaking their rhythm, that Spencer realizes this conversation could be considered flirting. Extrapolating the conversation, based on tone and his own knowledge of Ethan, he sees the next response: "Flattery will get you everywhere," or something along those lines. He sees it even more clearly when Ethan's actual response is to clear his throat, bringing to mind the fact that (at least on his end) they have an audience.

"Well, I suppose you're the expert. On this topic, at least."

"I'm an expert on every topic," Reid fires back by reflex. Though he'd normally demure or point out the numerous things he is patently not an expert in, something about Ethan makes him immediately fall into the competitive mode they thrived in as kids. The one that insists anything you can do, I can do better. The one that drove Spencer to first kiss him, surprising even himself, mid argument, all those years ago when they were just two smartasses in a tiny Massachusetts apartment.

(The one that even, in a weird way, made him look Ethan up last week and email him, though instead of pushing each other farther, it was more that he was hoping Ethan might be the only one to push him back, away from the ledge, having been driven that far himself before.)

"And yet I bet I could still beat your ass at chess."

"That's because it's hard to play against an opponent with no sense of logic or strategy."

"Unpredictability is a strategy," Ethan counters, "you just refuse to acknowledge it because it's the only one that works against you."

"Touché." Though he tries to bite it back, the smile that covers Reid's face is almost certainly audible. If there was one thing he'd forgotten, it was how oddly charming Ethan could be, even when he was ostensibly being annoying. Though he'd relearned that quickly in New Orleans, the lack of exposure to it the last eight days has put Spencer back at a disadvantage. At least he has the rest of the week to get his facial expressions under control. "So, Friday?"

"Friday," comes Ethan's echo again. Though he can't know for sure without astral projecting, Spencer gets the feeling his face is doing the same thing. Three out of three. "You can play tour guide. And, now you've got my number, you can text me your address. You know how to text, right? I know you have a cell phone at least."

And just like that, he's back to being actually annoying. It's almost impressive, really, how quickly he switches from one to the other.

"Yes." The fact that he's saying this into a rotary dial phone is besides the point and not something Ethan has to know.

"Cuz, I mean, this is the Reid who had a dot matrix printer in college, correct?"

"Goodbye, Ethan."

Though it's hard to keep frowning at the sound of his genuine laughter, Reid still tries, in case that's audible too.

"Yeah. See you soon, Spence."

The low tone that awaits him on the other side of the click is inexplicably soothing, like a gradual reintroduction to the world around him, the same and yet significantly brighter. A much less pleasant reminder of reality is the puddle that's formed around his feet because, as he definitely forgot, Reid just got out of the shower. And has been standing here for several minutes. Dripping onto the hardwood floors.

"Shit."

•••

There's something universally disappointing about Saturdays in JJ's experience. She's never been sure why: probably the fact that they don't feel like a day off when she always has to spend it doing all the errands and chores she's been putting off during the week, if she even gets the day off at all. It's still a day about getting things done—if anything, somehow more stressful because she knows she only has two days, instead of the whole week. Sundays are disappointing for a similar enough reason (genuinely restful but gone as soon as they arrive) but that feels less personal. Saturdays feel like they're out to get her.

Today, it's noon and she's barely had time to do the laundry, check her answering machine, and finally take care of the dishes she inadvertently left behind, uh, long enough ago that she really doesn't want to think about it. When they left for New Orleans, it had already been... Yeah. She's not thinking about it.

"And this is why I don't have any plants," she mutters to herself as she finally clicks her tiny dishwasher shut. It's about the size of a suitcase, par for the course for her shoebox apartment, but it gets the job done. Once she remembers to fill it.

Next on the list of things to do is check her personal email, which will undoubtedly be as filled by her mother's inane attempts at conversation as her answering machine was, and then maybe, maybe, she can get to her Tivo backlog. Screw working out or dusting or whatever else she should be doing, she's missed Project Runway. She's missed TV in general, or at least, the kind that doesn't have either gory details or her face in it.

She gets ten whole minutes in before the phone rings. See what she means? They didn't even get out of Mood. Fucking Saturdays.

JJ allows herself a long, dramatic sigh before extracting herself from the couch, though she pauses the TV before she does, not banking on being back soon enough. She's still a realist.

Something else she isn't expecting: she recognizes the number. Not that she didn't think she would—that is, she was half expecting it to be someone from the office, calling her back in—but because it's a number she should not have already known well enough. She only got it earlier this week, after all, and it's not like she purposefully memorized it. But when she sees it, she knows: It's William LaMontagne Jr. The one and only.

With a last, calming exhale, she picks up. "This is Jennifer Jareau."

"Well hello, Jennifer. I'm hoping it's not too forward of me to call already, but I figure your having a free weekend is probably a rarity, so I thought I'd seize the opportunity."

"Hello, Detective LaMontagne." She hopes it comes off more wry than smitten, though she's not altogether confident in that.

"I'd say we're past that, wouldn't you, Agent Jareau?" It's the fact that so many places in New Orleans have French names, that's all. That's the only reason it sounds so different when Will says her name. Which doesn't explain why it affects her as much as it maybe does, but that's besides the point. "Besides, as I understand it, where you come from it's not exactly gentlemanly to flirt on the job. Wouldn't want to give you any cause for concern."

"Okay then. Hello, Will."

It isn't until she says it that she realizes it's implicitly encouraging the whole flirting thing, but admittedly, she did give him her cell number before leaving. It was already pretty clear this was an extracurricular thing. But hearing it aloud makes her more than self conscious: hyper aware of everything she says, how it's read in that light. And, she realizes, she likes it, in a way she usually doesn't. It's not the utilitarian social dance that they all do to signal and indicate and say without saying, all to get to this end point they all want, this happily ever after. It's the things everyone else says flirting is: the thrill, the spark, whatever you wanna call it.

Which is when she realizes she's really in trouble.

"So how are you doing today, Jennifer?"

She manages not to laugh, instead restraining herself to an inaudible smile. An unexpected benefit, JJ is now seeing, of talking to LaMontagne— Will —over the phone as opposed to in person is that it's slightly easier to hide her reactions. At least this way she only has to control her voice and not her facial expressions too. 

"I'm doing alright, thanks."

Will hums. "And what does a weekend look like for Jennifer Jareau?"

"Uh, chores, mostly. Errands. And then, if there's time, a deliberate attempt to not do anything. A lot of TV."

"I gather by the verb choice that doesn't happen much?"

"You're surprised?"

"More like sad."

Well, now she's surprised, for real. "Sad?"

"Seems a shame, is all. A woman like you not getting to enjoy herself."

There's gotta be a God out there somewhere, because before JJ has to come up with a response to that ( how does one respond to that?), there's a distinct bark on the other end of the line.

"Do you have a dog?"

"Not usually, no. But a friend of mine's on vacation and asked me to watch him." Something jingles on the other side of the phone. "You like dogs?"

She used to. She doesn't know what her answer is now, though, so she ignores the question. "Who's the friend?"

"Buddy I used to work with, Charlie. He changed precincts a little while ago, moved out to the suburbs. He's always coming back, though. Seems you can't ever give up New Orleans." His pause is delicate but, as this job has taught her, deliberate. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

Again, she's very glad he can't see her face. "I've only been there the once, and I can't say I was really there."

"That's true. You didn't get to see much of New Orleans in the end, did you?"

"Outside of crime scenes, no, not really." She can already tell where this is going, and some practical part of her is already boggling at the thought of flying halfway across the country to see a guy she knew for maybe seventy-two hours tops, but she still asks, "Why, what did I miss?"

"I guess you'd have to be the one to tell me if you really missed it, but believe me, there's more than boozy alleyways. Though that's an important part too."

JJ laughs then, too loud. She really doesn't mean to, but there's something about the way he says it that sneaks right past her usual defenses. It's the fact that it's not intended to be a joke, she's pretty sure—he isn't saying to be funny, or if he is, it's not because he wants to be seen as funny, it's just that he wants to make her laugh.

"That's more a fourth date kind of outing, though."

"We'll work up to it." She knows she's showing her hand, but she has to.

"Well alright then." There's a smile in Will's voice then, unmistakable. Something about the way he continues on blithely tells her the following is, in fact, a deliberate change in subject. "So Saturday afternoon means TV, huh? What are we watching?"

We. "Well, unless you also happened to tape last week's Project Runway, I'm not sure how that's gonna work out."

"I think I missed that one," Will replies easily, "Catch me up."

There's no way—and she can tell for certain by the way he says it—that he's ever seen the show before, and she's not particularly invested herself, and it's a silly little show, a stupid thing, reality TV, but she takes him up on the offer anyway. Then, when that episode is finished, they watch the next one on her Tivo, until Will is called in to work.

JJ tries not to think the rest of the afternoon is too quiet. The fact that she gets so much done doesn't help as much as it should. In a way, this makes it yet another disappointing Saturday.

•••

By the time Friday rolls around, Spencer still isn't sure how he feels about the compressed timeline, but there it is. Worse, he can't decide whether or not it's lucky that he's suddenly sent home early when Gideon decides they could all use a break after the recent run of cases, but it certainly is the truth. There was no real way he was ever going to get his emotions under control before Ethan got there, but the sudden time to kill kind of makes him feel better about it. At least he can honestly say his plans were thrown off by no doing of his own.

He texts—yes, he knows how—Ethan the update while on his way home, since all he knows is that Ethan was planning to arrive in DC vaguely sometime before Reid got home from work. Maybe the winds of change have found Ethan too and he's actually running late, and then by the time he arrives, they'll have gotten a case and he won't have to live through the awkwardness. Because no matter what happens, it will be awkward. That's just how it is for Reid.

Alas, this is not the case. In fact, Ethan is just a few minutes away, their van having gotten slightly lost on the way to their first stop, the venue. Because Spencer has terrible luck, as always.

And of course Spencer already sent his address, which means that once he's sent his own ETA, Ethan is promising to meet him there. Great. Oh god...

The thing is that he isn't actually dreading it. That is, Spencer wants to see him. He does! As awkward as it will be (because, again, it's him), he does want to see Ethan. Reid likes him. He likes being around him. He's just... never quite sure what's going to happen. He never knows what to do with his hands.

Spencer has been home exactly long enough to take his shoes off and lock up his gun before he starts checking the window. Frankly, that's longer than he would have predicted; he was checking his phone the whole walk home, just in case Ethan texted again, in case he got there first. The street below his apartment is as it always is. No ex-slash-current-somethings. Should he change his clothes? But what if he's shirtless or something when Ethan arrives?

His phone vibrates aggressively in his hand. Why is every other street one way? Think I finally found it, one sec.

It's not dread, Spencer realizes then. It's excitement. Nervous excitement, yes, but excitement nonetheless. Because when he reads this, his heart skips several beats, but he's grinning too, teeth and all.

He risks another glance out the window just in time to see a van pull up, idling at the curb only a moment before the door slides open. All it takes is a single shoe and Spencer knows it's him. He ducks back from the curtains once he has confirmation, willing himself to relax, but honking brings him back to the window in time to see Ethan turn around and give the middle finger to whoever is behind the wheel. He looks slightly off: possibly the black boots he has on meddling with his height, or maybe his hair is different. It could be something in his body language, but Reid can't tell from this distance if that is anything to do with the people in the van or if it has to do solely with Spencer himself. All Reid can say for certain is that there is possibly a dress shirt collar hidden beneath his jacket, his shoulders hiked high for some reason. Because of the cold, his bandmates, the prospect of seeing Spencer? He has no way of knowing. All he can see from this distance is that Ethan's shoulders are at his ears. Further interpretation will have to wait. Reid tells himself that over and over.

The phone rings and he answers without looking. He doesn't have to. He can see exactly who's calling.

"I'm pretty sure I'm here," Ethan says in greeting.

"You are," Spencer replies, forgetting to pretend he wasn't watching the street. "I'm on the second floor."

"Cool."

Then Spencer hangs up, walks to the door, and stands there.

He has no idea why he's making Ethan come all the way to him. Maybe it's to give himself a last chance to figure out how to do this: what to say, what to do, or maybe even get the upper hand to give him time to actually observe Ethan first. There's still the lingering question of why he looked so tense coming out of the van, even though his voice is steady and even over the phone, even as he makes his way up the stairs. Reid can hear him from the other side of the wall.

"Knock knock."

And in the end, it doesn't matter. Spencer completely forgets to investigate his hypothesis almost the second the door opens and he sees Ethan face to face. He can't exactly help automatically cataloging in the basics—the boots do make Ethan slightly taller, the shirt under his jacket is dark purple and pinstriped, his cheeks are red—but it all falls to the wayside as they're falling into each other, over the threshold, through the apartment, into bed.

At least they manage to close the door behind them.

Five minutes of keeping his eyes trained on the bedroom ceiling in silence is all Reid can take before he clears his throat.

"You're staring."

"Uh huh."

He turns his head to stare back at Ethan sprawled across the head of the bed next to him. Not the pillows: those went, um, somewhere. Most likely on the floor on either side of the bed. They end up there sometimes when he has a nightmare or something like that. This is... not the same thing, obviously, but in terms of... activity, he would say it's seismically comparable. Isn't that a thing people say? Earth shattering?

It's definitely metaphorically so to see Ethan in his space. Upsetting, in the classical sense. The two spheres don't really want to coexist in his mind: past and present, there and here. It's like trying to see both the vase and the two faces at once. That's not even getting into the rest of it, Ethan being in his bed, looking like this, because of what they just did. He's never really done anything like that, just fallen into bed with someone immediately without words. It's the kind of thing that happens in movies, and maybe even to real people but not to him. Spencer Reid doesn't exactly inspire that kind of, uh, passion.

Except for how apparently he does. Ethan is still looking back at him, maybe waiting for Reid to follow up on calling him out or maybe just continuing to stare for whatever reason he was in the first place. If it's the latter, Spencer has no idea what it is. If it's the former... Honestly, he doesn't know that either, now. Every thought in his mind has been drowned out by the way the afternoon light falls across the other man, casting odd lovely angles across his face and catching all the different undertones in his hair: reddish, blueish, brownish, black. A single color, a single face, and yet so many things to look at ever closer. Spencer may have just answered his own question.

And Ethan is still staring.

When Reid mentions as much, words faint and automatic, his only response is to shrug. The sound of his shoulders against the sheets scratches pleasantly at the back of Spencer's endorphin-soaked brain.

"Sure."

"Why?" Spencer finally remembers to ask.

"Why not?"

"Staring is often considered rude, an invasion of privacy in many social contexts."

"Is this one of them?"

A little bit, kind of, but it's hard to make that argument when all boundaries between them were just pretty memorably eviscerated. He doesn't think he could say yes with a straight face given that he basically attacked Ethan mouthfirst at the door and dragged him all the way into Spencer's bedroom. That's a bit too much intimacy to make the politeness of staring sound like anything other than a completely transparent excuse.

Instead, he says, "It can also be a sign of attraction and a nonverbal form of flirting."

Ethan hums, shoulders settling back against the mattress. "I'd say that sounds more accurate, wouldn't you."

"Probably."

It wasn't like this before. When they were teenagers—even last week, things were either shrugged off without a word or immediately followed by sleep. There was never a moment for introspection (other than intense self doubt), and boy is Spencer introspecting now. Lying there in the light of day, in his own bedroom, the deepest part of his inner sanctum. Talk about invasion of privacy.

Spencer is brought out of his rapidly spiralling thoughts on symbolism when Ethan pokes the side of his face.

"Hey."

"...Hey?"

"Susie B for your thoughts?"

Reid laughs like a wheeze. He forgot about that: how a teacher had once offered a penny and he'd asked if that was the going rate for all thoughts, leading Ethan to tease that his were probably worth at least a dollar. Then they'd argued about whether the medium was important, finally landing on the dollar coin, which would be differentiated by calling it— It was all so stupid and pedantic, and he hasn't thought about it in years. A stupid little phrase and it's too much. It's unnerving and exciting all at once. It throws him off just enough to tell the truth (which, he'll realize later, may have been the point).

"You're thinking hard about something. Give it up."

"Was that okay?"

At first, all Ethan does is raise an eyebrow and look skeptically at their surroundings. It takes two seconds of attention for Reid to catalog the plethora of evidence they've generated: the pillows which, yes, are mostly on the floor, although one is stuck under Ethan's knee; the disarray of the bed Spencer had actually made this morning; the absolutely random collection of clothes lost around the room and those still on their bodies, with no rhyme or reason as to what ended up in which category. There's enough clues on Ethan himself, face flushed, hair awry, breathing still labored. His mouth is red and half open as he stares back at Reid. The answer is pretty obvious, if the "that" in the question refers to the sex.

It doesn't, though.

"Not that," Reid says as he turns back to the ceiling. The swath of white is as uneven and familiar as ever and definitely doesn't lead his memory down rabbit holes the way the unbuttoned edge of Ethan's jeans does. The dull thud of his knees hitting the floor. "I mean before. How I..."

"Jumped me at the door?" Ethan supplies. "I'm pretty sure it was mutual enough you don't gotta worry about it."

"I didn't know that was gonna happen," he admits before glancing back at Ethan again. "Did you know that was gonna happen?"

At this, Ethan finally looks away, taking his turn to stare at the ceiling for a second before he levers himself upright. "Not exactly."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I didn't know," he says as he fishes his shirt up from off the floor and puts it on, not bothering to button it, "not for certain, and it wasn't like I planned it any more than you. But I considered it a possibility."

It doesn't make any sense. Well, it does, considering their history and the undeniable tension in their recent phone conversations, not to mention the established implications of Ethan coming to stay with him in his one bedroom apartment. But there's still an underlying reasoning that's always evaded Spencer: some kind of alchemy that happens between the fact of Reid, being who he is, and the idea that Ethan is attracted to that who that he is. Something happens there to turn lead into gold that he's never seen but assumes must happen. He only knows in its absence, the Higgs Boson of interpersonal relationships.

Then, to add to the nonsensicalness, Ethan does not get up from the bed and rather lies back down, shoulder to shoulder, Reid's mirror image. No longer staring, but just as intent.

Though the warmth of his body lying so close practically demands immediate attention, Reid follows his gaze up to the ceiling. Brighter sunlight flickers across it, reflected off a quiet car on the street beneath the window, and the silence between them is companionable, if contemplative on Spencer's part. He's considering Ethan's answer—not that he thought it might happen, that much is understandable, again, given their history. But the fact that he also didn't know. That that wasn't his sole intent in coming here. That Reid surprised him.

Unpredictability is a strategy, he said the other day. Spencer just didn't know it was one he was also capable of—especially not when it comes to things like this.

"So..." Spencer blinks up at the ceiling. "What now?"

Ethan hums, staring right alongside him. "You said something about the sights? A gallery, Joan of Arc?"

"The National Gallery of Art. It closes at five." Reid lifts his arm from the mattress. His watch glints in the afternoon light when he shakes back the sleeve of his sweater, which has somehow slid out from underneath it even though he's still, embarrassingly, wearing both. "Which is in three hours."

"You wanna go?"

"Do you want to go?"

"Your city, your call, man."

"Your— visit, your call," Spencer eventually fires back. It doesn't work.

"Thought you were gonna be my tour guide. Or did that just refer to your bedroom?"

"That's not..."

He's suddenly hyper aware of how close they are, even now, even without touching. There are still grooves in Ethan's thick hair the size and shape of Spencer's fingers, still flushed spots on his neck the shape of Spencer's mouth, not even bruises yet. Is he getting closer? Everything seems too big, from Ethan's eyes, pupils black, to the feeling percolating in Spencer's stomach. He has the sudden, foreign sense that if they don't get out of this bed now, they never will. The problem is, he can't find the will to get up.

As if hearing this thought process, Ethan props himself up on one arm so he's lopsided and craning into Spencer's airspace. The shifting of weight dips the mattress enough to roll them closer, but at least the vertical difference puts some distance between them. It's like with every inch of fresh air he can think clearer, shifting the odds that the he'll find the will to escape their joint gravitational orbit. 

If he was telepathically listening in on Reid's internal debate, though, Ethan certainly came to a different conclusion, as he then leans down to kiss him, slow and involved. Their black hole gravity is back with a vengeance, like a lava flow when something is thrown into it, slowly consuming but impossible to escape from the first brush.

It's also, like lava, paralyzingly hot. As such, the only thing Spencer manages to do in response is lift one hand to rest against the back of Ethan's head, not pulling him closer but letting gravity suggest it in his stead. That heavy hand is all Spencer can do as the kiss crashes over him like a wave. A wonderful kind of wave.

It's only one kiss but it's enough to keep Reid laid out where he is when Ethan leans back. Not that he goes far—only just enough for Spencer's eyes to focus on his face. Like maybe he doesn't want to move either.

"For the record," he says, "I wouldn't've gone with 'staring.' 'Basking,' maybe. 'Admiring.'"

"Wh—?"

Another kiss comes down, giving Reid a moment to connect the dots in silence and without an audience watching. When he does, though, he comes alive. He can't help it. Pushing up into the touch, his hand lands awkwardly but insistent on Ethan's shoulder as he struggles with competing urges to both pull him closer and try to play it cool. 

No matter this insistence, though, Ethan is pulling back after only a moment—all the way back, actually, and off the bed.

Reid blinks. "Where are you going?"

"Living room."

Kiss dizzy, the only response he can think of is, "Why?"

"What do you think, profiler?"

Spencer grimaces, remembering when they first started living together during PhD number 3 and every sentence of Ethan's ended with "doc" for a month. At least this time he can't escalate to the level of counting every degree, ending every sentence with a string of doctor doctor doctor.

"This is going to be a thing, isn't it."

"You bet your sweet ass it is."

By the time the words register, Ethan has already left the room, leaving Reid to ask his back, "I bet my what?"

"I said what I said!"

Without Ethan in the room, Reid feels suddenly twice as aware of himself and his body. Which makes no sense, really—his proprioception should be more acute with another body in the room to keep track of himself in relation to, but Ethan takes up so much space, metaphorically, that he's too busy to pay attention to every inch of his body. Now, in the vacuum, it's all he can think about. The sweat gathering on the back of his knees, the rawness of his lips, his tangled sweater with one sleeve pushed up and the other loose. He feels blown apart and ridiculous for it, but somehow proud, too. Uncomfortable with his bodily disarray but also, just a tiny bit, reveling in it.

Briefly torn between the fear of letting Ethan go through his apartment unsupervised and the urgent desire to change his pants, Reid ultimately chooses the latter. At least he's conveniently already in the room with all his clothes—convenient, also, that he's the one who's least undressed, since he's pretty sure Ethan didn't bring a change of clothes. Because why would he? He also didn't know this was going to happen.

(Though he had some kind of bag when he arrived, Spencer remembers belatedly, but he doesn't remember what kind. Just that there was a delay in getting Ethan's jacket off, after which it didn't matter.)

By the time he catches up, he finds Ethan poking around and surveying the living room as expected, though thankfully not too in depth. Nothing has moved at least.

"What are you doing?"

Ethan's head turns up with a faint roguish smile. "What's it look like? I'm profiling."

"Oh, you are, are you?"

"Yep. For example..." He gestures at the faded Navajo blanket on the back of the couch. "Doesn't match the rest of the professor look you've got going on, and it's old, obviously used a lot. So it's sentimental. You can take the boy out of the desert, but you can't take the desert out of the boy."

He's more right than he knows, considering that blanket spent most of Spencer's life in the trunk of the family car, largely only coming out when his mom would take him out to the desert to look at the stars. She got it on her honeymoon in Santa Fe. It took a while, but he finally got all the dirt and sand out of it without washing it to pieces, which is the only reason it's on the couch and not in a box somewhere, safe and airless.

"I believe that's what they call insider trading," is what he says out loud.

"I'm using all my available resources," Ethan counters, moving to the bookshelves. "Big reader, I see."

"Wow. Are you sure you're not psychic?"

"But look at you, you've got music too. Records, which could be another sentimental thing, but there's no dust on them, so you actually listen to them. Let me guess: Beethoven, Bob Dylan, Beatles," Ethan lists, pointing at each shelf as he goes.

"Just because that—" Arguing is futile. Better to take the proactive route. "Okay. And I guess you still listen to Weird Al all the time too."

"You'd be surprised. Speaking of..." His eyes skid over the rest of the shelf, apparently picking up on the organization system and skipping genres. "Aha. You always were more of a Tom Lehrer guy." He lifts up a record and continues, "Remember that time your mom walked in right as he started doing 'Smut' and y—?"

"No," Spencer lies. "Are we going?"

"Come on, I'm not done my analysis. It takes us amateurs a little longer."

Though his teasing expression doesn't change, Ethan's posture relaxes into something intentionally nonthreatening. Part of Spencer still tenses up on principle, but a larger part recognizes it for what it is: a gesture of goodwill, friendly camaraderie to lighten the mood.

And, he realizes with a start, not just for his sake. As Ethan now moves on to the fireplace mantle, Spencer retroactively recognizes now the look on his face before he left the bed, the flicker of vulnerability between his little semantics lesson and the second kiss that left Reid dizzy on the bed.

'Basking,' maybe. 'Admiring.'

Maybe not profiling at all.

It's with that theory in mind that Reid bites his tongue and lets Ethan continue poking around.

"This is recent," he remarks, picking up a picture frame from the mantle. Spencer doesn't have to look to know which one it is, but Ethan turns it his way anyway as he asks, "How is she?"

"Good."

It's only mostly true, but it's hard to say anything else when faced with proof like this. Spencer's own face and his mother's stare up at him from behind the glass, somehow happier than they've ever been. Penelope took it the one and only time his mom came to visit (so to speak). She took two photos actually: one of the both of them with identical awkward smiles, then another, when she pointed out they both looked like they were in pain. Spencer had laughed then, for real, and apparently his mom had turned to smile at him, genuine and absolutely doting. That second photo is the one that he has framed, that he carries in his wallet, though he had Garcia print him multiple copies of both. He sees it at least twice a day, when he needs his SmarTrip card to get to work, if not more often. He knows what Ethan sees now: their body language, clear as day, reads as awkward in the direction of the camera but turned inwards toward each other, her hand on his knee and his arm around her shoulder both protective. Slightly estranged but sincere in their care. All the things other than ink left on the photo paper if only one knows to look for it.

Which is exactly what Spencer has been trained to do. For Ethan, it seems to come naturally. "Man, you guys are so related."

"Huh?"

"You and your mom," Ethan says, waving the frame at him one more time as evidence before considering it again. "I mean, you always looked like her, but Jesus. You've got matching haircuts and everything."

Something crosses his face as he looks at the photo, complicated and not easily picked apart. Spencer files the image away for future deconstruction as Ethan sets the frame back on the mantle, exactly in its place.

"So she's good, you said?" He asks as he picks through the rest of the frames and trinkets around it.

Reid takes a second to check he doesn't have out the photo Ethan gave him in high school, which he dug up after seeing a copy in New Orleans, before answering more truthfully, "Mostly. She seems so in her letters, at least. In person, it's easier to tell."

"She still in Vegas?"

Guilt tugs at Spencer's collar, begging for attention. "Yeah. Did you actually want to go to the museum?"

"Sure. Why not?"

"I mean, you don't have anything else to do? With your show and all."

Ethan shrugs. "I play the keyboard. All I gotta do is turn up five minutes before showtime to plug in and I'm good to go."

"Or we could do something else," Reid tries also, though he's fairly sure anything else he could offer would be equally lame. "If you want. Nothing's set in stone, I mean. I wasn't sure if you guys had plans. If there were... tour things." He doesn't know anything about this kind of stuff. "Or social plans."

"They might. I don't know." Ethan raises one eyebrow skeptically. "Why? Do you not want to?"

"No, I do, but—" Though he tried not to put too much emphasis on the subject of the sentence, it's clear by the dawning understanding on Ethan's face that he's putting at least some pieces together, so Spencer just skips to the end. "Do you want to?"

"Yeah," Ethan replies, and the kicker is that he means it. He actually does want to go to a stuffy museum with Spencer when he could be hanging out with his invariably cooler musician friends, who probably already have plans in a local nightlife that Reid, who actually lives here, has no clue about. Ethan could just as easily ditch him (especially since they've already had sex) but he's choosing to do Reid's nerd thing with him—because he's a nerd too, but also, quite possibly, because it's with him. While he only might care about Joan of Arc and early 20th century art, he definitely cares about... Spencer.

"Okay," he says with the weight of this theory pressing on his chest. "We can take the Metro. I have an extra card."

He has a drawer full of them, actually. Tourists are always pawning them off on him for some reason, something about him approachable and yet pitiable enough to make them want to give him cards with an odd amount of leftover change on them at the end of their vacation. It'll be nice to actually use one for once, instead of letting them gather dust as he sticks to his one card and its monthly transit pass. It's not like he gets a lot of visitors, after all.

Ethan has other plans, though, apparently. As he pulls on his coat again, he asks, "Do they still do the paper tickets?"

"Why, do you want one for your scrapbook?" Spencer asks it to mask the way his heart skips at the thought. Much more cynical conjectures come on its heels (a paper ticket is less permanent, less of a commitment) but the fact that they weren't his first thought says enough on its own. His brain is an afterglowing scramble.

Whatever Ethan's actual intention, he'll never know, as Ethan just shrugs, pulling his belt back on, having found it somewhere Reid is trying not to think about. "What can I say? I like the little pandas. Come on."

"Alright, just..."

Suddenly glad he thought to change earlier, Spencer tries to assemble himself as quickly as possible without actually looking like he is. Shoes are easy enough to find, as are the general accoutrement that fill his pockets (sans extra SmarTrip card), though he figuratively stumbles when it comes to picking out a jacket. The good thing about the time limit is he doesn't have time to agonize over the choice of every piece of clothing. The bad thing is that he still feels like it's somehow important what he wears and now he only has seconds to decide. 

Feeling ridiculous, Spencer grabs the first thing he sees, which happens to be his favorite jacket but is not chosen out of any superstitious sentiment. Neither is his scarf, also his favorite, the really nice purple one his mother got him for his first post-secondary graduation. Again, it's just convenient. And that's it. As he leaves the room, he shoves his hands in his pockets to keep them from fidgeting. He feels naked leaving the house without his bag, all his usual things, but at least it's coat weather so he has all his pockets.

When Spencer returns, Ethan's moved on to the books. There's something different about it. It's like the performative aspect of earlier. Unobserved, his attention is quiet and genuine. The unknowable pang that goes through Reid's heart is something he'll be thinking about for a while, but for now, he's sticking with quiet appreciation rather than contemplation.

Both of them are startled out of it when the phone rings.

"I knew you'd have a rotary phone," Ethan says as he tries to bolt across the room without making it look like that's what he's doing. "Dude, is that Bakelite?"

"Maybe." The answering machine says it's Garcia. "Um. One second. Hello?"

"Hey!" Penelope starts, and she doesn't stop. "You were out of there like a bat out of hell when Gideon gave us a half day, I didn't get to ask if you wanted to hang out. Me and JJ were gonna go to Georgetown, window shop and regular shop and then do dinner. There's actually a place I've been meaning to show you, cuz I know you need a better shampoo, that's—"

"That sounds nice, Penelope, but..."

"And there's this new bakery by the Exorcist steps that's supposed to have great banana bread. Which. You know I love banana bread. Which means I need supervision to not buy, like, all of it, and you're great impulse control. You wanna come?"

"Uh—"

For someone whose life has not infrequently depended on his ability to bluff, Spencer isn't particularly good at doing so in average social interactions, especially when it comes to his friends. The fact that he can see Ethan moving around in the corner of his eye like the goddamn spectre at the feast doesn't help matters.

Still, he tries.

"I already have plans, actually. Sorry."

Anyone else, that might be answer enough, but it's Penelope. "Ooh, what kind of plans?"

"Um. A museum."

"At least tell me it's a fun one. Is it the Spy Museum? I haven't been there in a while, maybe—"

"It's not," Spencer interrupts. "It's a boring one. Definitely a boring one. You wouldn't want to come. Anyway, listen, Penelope—"

"You're being weird." He knows her well enough to hear her furrowed brow over the phone. "Why are you being weird?"

Spencer can't help the way his eyes immediately go to Ethan, who thankfully isn't looking his way, instead reading the many spines on Spencer's bookshelves. For a moment, he gets caught in the rarity of looking without being looked at in return—it seems like Ethan is always the one studying him, seeing through to the core of something Spencer didn't think was visible, and it's intriguing to be on the other side of it—before the silence has gone on long enough that Penelope asks again.

"Reid? What's up?"

"Nothing. I just..."

"Why do you have a copy of Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul ?" Ethan asks, talking to himself but close enough Spencer has to wonder if—

"Ohhhh! Oh -kay!" This time, Penelope's voice carries the connotations of a different facial expression: sly amusement. "I see how it is. You have 'plans' at some 'boring' 'museum'. I get it."

"Get what?" Spencer asks, like an idiot.

"Don't worry, I'll tell JJ you're busy. I don't kiss and tell—by proxy at least."

"Wait. That's not..."

"Ciao, lover boy! See you Monday!"

And then she's gone, leaving Spencer to frown at the silent phone in his hand like it could possibly hold the answer he wants. The problem with Garcia is that it's hard to tell if she's actually divined what the other voice in his apartment means, or if it's just the way she talks. Some of her signoff had romantic connotations, yes, but that's par for the course with her—she has, as she calls it, a "flirtatious nature" in general. It doesn't mean she was somehow able to divine over the phone that the voice in the background belonged to someone Reid had just had sex with and was trying to keep a secret from everyone. Besides, even if she was insinuating something, that didn't mean she actually knew or even suspected it was true. Right?

"All good?"

Spencer's head snaps back up to see Ethan, jacket and shoes on, fiddling with a camera. That, he finally pieces together, is what the bag was.

"Uh, yeah." At least he now knows that two of his coworkers will be on the opposite side of town where they can't run into him.

Ethan glances up. "You got a case?"

"No."

"...You ready to go, then?"

"Right." Spencer opens the door—which he realizes now was unlocked the entire time, mortifyingly enough—but stops. "Wait. What about your 'profile'?"

Ethan smiles as he slides past him into the hallway. "Top secret."

The Metro is just a few blocks away, not quite enough time for Spencer to think too deeply about that. Ethan does, in fact, buy a one off paper ticket, which he stashes in his jacket before going back to fiddling with his camera while Reid does his nervous tour guide spiel as best he can without adding too many uninteresting details.

"And, well, it's too early for cherry blossoms, unfortunately. But you can see some of the monuments. The Smithsonian castle. Uh... there's pretzel carts?"

"Can't go wrong with a good pretzel cart."

"There are plenty along the mall. Usually between five to eight of them, depending on the weather. And that's on the actual mall alone."

As he says it, the lights in the floor start blinking. A hollow honk echoes out of the tunnel as Ethan raises his camera to take a picture of the lights' reflections in the wet floor of the track.

As they shoulder onto the train, settling into opposite seats in the mostly empty car, Spencer asks, "You still do that?"

"What, take pictures?" Ethan's brow furrows unselfconsciously. "Yeah. Why would that be a surprise?"

"Not that part. I meant taking that camera everywhere with you." It's not the same one but it's familiar enough: big, black, hanging off the same braided strap he got in college. Reid knows instinctively that the bag on his shoulder contains another handful of film canisters, some already filled and some waiting in the wings, and at the knowledge, Garcia's spirit possesses him. "Most people have gone digital by now, you know."

"You got a problem with film, Doctor Analog?"

"No," Spencer retorts, "I just thought you would, Mister... MySpace."

"Oh yeah? You spend a lot of time over there? Who's in your Top 8?"

Spencer looks up to give him an unimpressed look, only to find the lens waiting for him. Click.

"Hey!"

Before he can do anything so embarrassing as lunge across the train to try to—Reid doesn't know, take the camera or something—the train pulls into Dupont to a full platform. Whatever happens on Reid's face in response prompts Ethan to follow his gaze.

"Scoot."

"Doors opening. Step back to allow customers to exit."

"What?"

"When boarding, please move to the center of the car."

Ethan falls into the seat next to him as the car starts to fill around them. Their knees knock immediately, but any annoyance is undone by the way that Ethan drifts into his space, elbow on the back of the seat, face almost but not quite too close. It feels blatant, though Spencer knows that to everyone else they just look like two friends talking. He knows, though, that it means something that Ethan shifts up to sit sideways on the seat, his knee tucked against Spencer's hip like a secret.

"Fancy seeing you here," he says once the immediate hubbub of boarding has passed.

"Yeah," Spencer replies, "it's almost like we got on at the same stop. And are going to the same place. Together."

In lieu of reply, Ethan raises his camera and takes a picture of him, up close.

"That's not—" He does it again. "A response."

"Everybody needs a hobby, Spence." The lens lowers. "There's a lot worse things I could be doing."

Spencer looks away from the thoughts crossing Ethan's face, only to hear another snap and look up to find the camera covertly pointed his way again. Spencer sighs.

"Have fun wasting all your film on blurry pictures of me, then."

"I sure will." Ethan lifts the camera properly this time, taking care to actually frame the shot, though the only thing in it at this distance is Spencer. Before he hits the shutter, he adds, "Besides, who says it's a waste? From where I'm sitting, it's worth every exposure."

If his plan was to get a completely unguarded picture of Spencer's face, he got it, though Spencer has no idea what that face actually was. The sound of the shutter rings in his ears as the train comes to another stop. The shuffle of passengers on and off gives him a bit of cover, all the motion and sound drawing attention, but not from the person whose attention actually matters: Ethan. As it is, the two of them sit in a bubble of quiet, unbothered and unwavering. It's not something Spencer thinks he's ever experienced before—because it's not a silent conversation. Nothing is being exchanged. It feels more like the conversation has happened and they're sitting in the mutual understanding on the other side.

When the hubbub dissipates, Ethan says, "So. Tell me about the Metro."

And Spencer happily obliges, uninteresting details and all.

•••

"I told you not to let me wear heels in Georgetown!"

"I sincerely doubt anyone has ever been able to tell you how to dress."

"Fair enough. But you know what this means, don't you?"

"You have to buy more shoes," JJ fills in.

"I have to buy more shoes," Penelope confirms.

Even as she continues hobbling across the cobblestones, both of them laugh into the wind. March is being uncharacteristically kind to them today, but it might just be that the sun feels warmer, the breeze milder, because they weren't supposed to be out here today. It reminds JJ of skipping class in high school and the way everything feels brighter when you're not really supposed to have it. Penelope had tracked her down in the bullpen with a similar giddiness when Gideon sent the BAU team home early for the weekend, which is why they're both grinning despite the cold. That, and the indulgently fancy coffees in their hands.

"Okay, but seriously, how you been?" Penelope asks once her accessory conundrum is solved. "I feel like you guys have all been in and out every other day, I miss stealing you for extensive coffee breaks."

"Good thing we got this afternoon-long, off-campus coffee break, then," JJ replies, tilting her cup Penelope's way. "No, you're right, it's been nonstop lately. I'm not sure what time zone my body thinks it's in anymore, but it's never the one I need."

"As jealous as I am of the glamor of the private jet, I will say, I do not begrudge you that aspect. Let's see, it was... Arizona yesterday, then that tiny town in Iowa earlier in the week, then there was one weekend off after New Orleans, right?"

Just hearing the list again makes her need more coffee. "Sounds about right."

"Okay, so, start from the beginning. New Orleans."

Actually, JJ regrets taking that sip now, as just the mention of the city has her choking. She manages not to, well, actually choke, but it's a close thing, and she has to clear her throat before saying, "Um."

Too late. Garcia and gossip are like a shark and blood. The second she smells it in the water, there's no shaking her.

"Oh, that's a story and a half. Okay. Tell me."

"Tell you what?" JJ tries to cover.

"Whatever it is that just made you almost drown in your peppermint mocha with extra whip." Penelope's eyes narrow. "Is it a guy? Please tell me it's a guy."

"It's not a guy."

A gasp.

"It is so a guy!" She stops dead in the middle of the sidewalk, grabbing JJ's elbow for good measure. A gaggle of college students morphs around them, but even that is not enough to break Penelope's concentration. "Who is he. Oh my god, please say it's the detective with the dreamy accent. He called me 'sweetheart' and I almost melted right out of my ergonomic chair."

"Wait, what? When did you talk to Will?"

"Oh, so he's Will now," Penelope counters with a smile. "He called me to get his dad's ex-partner's contact info, said time was of the essence and you all said I was the best. Which, obviously, is true, but based on how red your face is getting already, I'm thinking maybe he thinks you're even better."

"It's not that big a deal—" She starts, but even to her it rings false immediately, so she stops with a sigh.

Penelope shoots her a sympathetic look. "Man, you've got it bad, huh?"

"I can't figure out why!"

"Okay, hold on."

Once they're parked on a bench by the canal, bags at their feet and hands wrapped around their cups for warmth, does JJ start to get her words in order.

"It's crazy. I mean, we worked together for 72 hours, we talked on the phone once last week, we've texted a bit, but here I am checking my phone every thirty seconds hoping it's him."

"Is he cute?"

JJ groans, head falling back. "The cutest. And he's charming, and he's sensitive, and he's emotionally available."

"Oh no." Penelope rubs her back.

"The case we were working on, it was the last one his dad was on before he died, and... Just, the way he talked about it, about him, you could tell he loved his dad so much. There wasn't any of that macho posturing bullshit, you know? He wore his heart on his sleeve. For everybody—even the unsub." Wind whistles down the empty canal. "And then we had dinner one night and he just... Ugh. I feel crazy."

"Yeah, Jayge, crazy in love. I'm talking tennis-shoes-don't-even-need-to-buy-a-new-dress levels."

She groans again, louder once she realizes there's nobody around and she can actually let it out. Penelope laughs lightly, under her breath, but it really does make her feel at least a little better.

"What about the long distance thing?"

"I really don't know," JJ admits. "It feels ridiculous to even think of it that way. I mean, we've talked for a handful of hours at most."

"Yeah, but it seems like you could really be falling for this guy," Penelope points out with a look that's halfway between a grimace and an encouraging smile. "I can't believe I'm having to be the pragmatist between the two of us, but it's better to figure out where you stand on stuff like that up front. Believe me."

"Okay, so first things first, after this you're gonna have to tell me the story behind that," she says even as Penelope nods along. "As for the other thing... I don't know. Something about him just makes all rational thought fly right out of my head."

"Been there also. Hey." Penelope raises her undoubtedly cold coffee for a toast. "To boys."

"To boys," JJ echoes. She then takes a sip out of reflex, only to grimace and add, "And to getting something actually warm to eat."

"Yes! And new shoes."

•••

It didn't occur to Spencer that the train would be spitting them out onto 12th street until his eyes immediately snap north towards McPherson Square.

"Which way?"

"Uh. North."

He hasn't been around here since there were prostitutes being murdered on seemingly every corner, though admittedly even then his attention was more focused on the nervous teenager they thought might have done it. If there weren't any buildings in the way, he could turn his head back another fifteen degrees and see the church he found Nathan in. Even in the light of day, what feels like a lifetime later, he still expects to see yellow tape and blue and red lights—still expects to see a familiar pale face and dark eyes, even though he knows they won't be there, that they're locked up in a hospital somewhere in Delaware. He hasn't heard from Nathan since finding him with his wrist slit, and he only heard from Nathan's mother once, passing along a forwarding address in the hopes that "whatever possessed you to try to help my son persists." Reid has no idea if Nathan is even still alive, just like he still has no idea if he even made the right decision. If he could go back to that night in the church, would he do anything different? He can't help wondering.

He has to stop wondering, though, when Ethan nudges him lightly with his elbow.

"Hey."

Spencer shakes himself back to the present in time to catch the moment the wind shifts and Ethan tries to duck himself into his collar. On autopilot, he takes his scarf off and holds it out.

"Thanks," Ethan says as he loops the scarf around his neck. He tucks the ends into his coat, dodging the zipper's teeth with an amount of care belying his casual air. "Very chivalrous of you."

Uh oh. Knights and ladies' favors. That's a fairly decent point, which Reid cannot unsee now, and implies a degree of insight into his own motivations that frankly Spencer himself does not have, which is a bit unsettling. He's definitely going to have to think about this more later.

"I'm just more used to the cold," he counters, but there's no real point to it. They both know he doesn't mean it, just as they both know Ethan does. Though it wasn't his intention, he can't help hoping slightly that this will distract Ethan from whatever he was clearly about to ask. It's a misguided hope, but it's still there.

"Everything alright up there?"

"Yeah. You said pretzels, right?"

"Sure."

Though it's an agreement, and Ethan follows him easily along the blonde gravel of the mall, Reid can tell he hasn't taken it as an answer.

"So that's the castle..." 

Spencer points out all the requisite buildings, waiting at all the right moments for Ethan's questions or responses or photos. Without the cover of trees or buildings, wind skirts around them without being too sharp or loud, especially with the mall as empty as it is. He's always appreciated the pre-Spring Break, pre-cherry blossom season lull. It's nice: like they're in their own little bubble moving down the road, everything said and thought and done evaporating as soon as it leaves their airspace. It's nice, but there's clearly something underneath the words—that lingering moment of pensiveness on Reid's part that won't go away, both because it's weighing on him, to feel so free and content in this moment when someone else he's cares about is so not, and because it's clear Ethan hasn't forgotten either. He feels it coming when they pause at the pretzel stand, identical to every other one in the city and so cohesive with the landscape it's as if it grew out of the ground.

"Alright," Ethan says once his wallet is back in his jacket and he's got a good handle on his pretzel. "So what's up?"

"Nothing," Spencer says, only because he has to. It becomes immediately clear that it isn't enough of an answer, so he adds, "I was just... thinking about a case we had recently in the neighborhood."

Not buying this at all, Ethan eats his pretzel in silence until Reid elaborates.

"I gave a lecture at Georgetown a couple months ago," he starts, "and this kid tracked me down afterwards because he was having dark thoughts. He wanted to kill women. We thought he might have. And it turns out he was just a witness, but after we caught the guy and let Nathan go, he tried to kill himself."

Ethan is looking at him, but he doesn't look back.

"How'd you find out?"

"Well. He... I guess he used my business card as a suicide note? So the sex worker he was with called. We ended up beating the ambulance there and... and I guess I kept him alive until they arrived."

"Shit."

"Yeah." Salt skitters off the side of Spencer's pretzel when he fiddles with the wax paper. He tries to catch it and fails. How's that for a metaphor? "He's in the hospital now. They're not allowed computers, so I wrote him a letter. He hasn't written back." He shrugs as nonchalantly as he can, which is not very much in this moment. "I don't know if he'll ever get better. I don't know if I did the right thing. But I did it."

Only when the silence continues arrhythmically, a palpable lack of a response, does Reid look up. He finds Ethan's eyes on him with an odd expression. "What?"

Ethan shakes his head and looks back at the wide span of dead grass, the cold tourists. "Nothing."

"I may not know what that look on your face means," Spencer says as he rescues some pretzel salt from his coat in an attempt at looking nonchalant, "but I know it's not 'nothing'."

There's a huffing sound out of the corner of his eye—Ethan laughing, somehow wry in all of half a second's expression—before he hears clearly, "You're a good guy, Spencer."

It's not anything he'd prepared himself for. It's not any of the dozen arguments he's had with himself in his head: not a moral calculus, not a question of whether he's being weird and overbearing, taking on responsibility for something that's nothing to do with him, obsessive, guilty, projecting. "Huh?"

Mouth full of pretzel again, Ethan hums before he can clarify.

"You know, when you decided to apply to the FBI too, I admit, I was a little surprised. You're not exactly cop material. Detective, sure, but in a Sherlock Holmes kind of way, not like a police detective."

A fair enough assessment: even his mom was surprised, and she's the person who knows him best in the world. Spencer would be lying if he didn't say he, too, felt out of place at times, when taken out of his element and transplanted into more traditional cop spaces on cases and whatnot.

"And I think what you said at the time," Ethan continues, "was something about practical application of psychology or something, which I guess was enough for me to accept."

"Where are you going with this?"

"I'm saying I think I get it now. What you were really saying."

Reid doesn't interrupt this time, too invested in what comes next. Because he doesn't know: not what Ethan thinks, yes, but not what he himself meant by that, really, back then, nor what his answer to that question would be now still. Why are you in the FBI ? Maybe he's not over his crisis of faith after all.

"You're a nerd, yeah, but you were never really content with just sitting in a lab or a library. You like doing things. And you like to help people. You helped that kid, yeah? That's not something that happens in a lab." He glances over then, too casual for the atom bomb of understanding he just dropped on Spencer. "Like I said: you're a good guy."

It's hard to take, right now, with the month he's had. Most days, Reid doesn't feel like an especially good guy. At best, he's not good enough, unfocused and irritable and nowhere near the top of his game. At worst, he feels not only criminally negligent at his job, but outright criminal and guilty about what he's doing to cause all these problems. He has no confidence in himself anymore. Every thought ends in a question mark, never a period. Even being here, now, with Ethan. Even then. These days he's always either isn't sure if he's made the right decision or is dead certain he made the wrong one, with no in between. He wants to be a good guy. He really doesn't know if he is anymore.

All this makes Ethan's certainty more unimaginable. Spencer can't help wanting to believe it, finding himself already half convinced by the possible argument that Ethan's opinion is worth more because he has a set of data spanning decades to conclude from. It just makes logical sense. It doesn't, of course, but for a moment he can pretend it could.

With all this in mind, the best Spencer can come up with is, "If you say so."

"I do," Ethan replies, almost too serious but light enough that they can both pretend not to hear it. With that same blend of casualness and gravity, he asks, "Is that when you started?"

"No." Reid doesn't have to ask for clarification, but he doesn't have to answer either and he starts walking towards the museum again as he continues, "I think we'll both be done eating by the time we get there now."

Ethan doesn't push back, following without comment. Well, not without comment, but without pressing that particular issue. "So Joan of Arc?"

A short exhale. "Joan of Arc. They're in the galleries that are otherwise a lot of sculpture mostly, but the rest of the building has everything up to Impressionism. Modern art is in the East building. I don't know if you have any preference, but..."

"It's your show," Ethan says with a shrug. "Whatever you want."

"I don't have any preference."

Lie. He has so many preferences—if it were up to him, he would spend the entire day taking Ethan from painting to painting and telling him all about them and then seeing what he thinks in return. But he understands that while that may be his idea of an ideal afternoon, it isn't most people's.

Though Ethan doesn't say anything about it, the way he raises a silent eyebrow Reid's way says he agrees with everything he just thought. Still, he just changes tactics to say, "Alright, highlight reel then. Come on, you're supposed to be my tour guide. What do you got?"

How much time do you have? Oh. That's a good point.

"Well, when do—" He almost says we but manages to course correct, "you have to be back at the venue?"

Ethan hums, having just taken a bite of his pretzel. "Yeah. I wasn't joking earlier: I really don't have to be there until basically showtime. There were a couple people in the scene here that I wanted to meet up with eventually, could be a bit before, and the owner of the joint sounded cool over the phone, but even then, I've got a couple hours."

"Cool." The word feels uncomfortable in his mouth, but Ethan doesn't say anything, just nods along with him. "I probably should have asked before, but do I have to buy a ticket?"

"Oh, it's cool, you don't have to come."

Though it's said with the exact same tone as the rest of the conversation, something tells Spencer it's different. Maybe he's just already so familiar with Ethan and his body language and his lexicon that he's already attuned to the tiniest of changes, so he's paying attention without paying attention. Whatever it is, it stops him in his mental tracks, though he manages not to do so literally.

"...Oh?" Cool. That's the word that's tripped him up. 

"Yeah." Ethan is being very normal: cool, one might even say. "You're not gonna be missing out on anything, believe me. The whole tour's been a nightmare. Save yourself the trouble."

He can be cool. He tries to think of what Morgan would do in this moment and mostly fails to conceptualize it, but it's good enough direction. What would Morgan do? Be cool. Chill. Casual. So, so what if they had sex earlier today already? It's all... cool. The sun is shining against the wind, winter bright against the clouds. Everything is good.

"Right. Sure. I get it."

"Trust me, two seconds of Luke's untuned sax and you'll be wishing you'd taken the out."

Beneath the charm lies something else, but the day has been so good, the sun is so warm, that Spencer is either unwilling or unable to prod further. "Okay. Well. A new comic book store opened around the corner from me that I've been meaning to check out."

Ethan's smile blinkers into something genuine. "Well now you're just trying to make me jealous. Now come on. Culture me."

He's not sure when was the last time he went to a museum with someone else. He took an art history survey in his second undergrad. Before that, a school field trip, probably. He knows his mom once took him to the Georgia O'Keefe museum when he was too young to remember. Never as an adult, to be certain. Reid spends most of his time outside of work alone, and he likes it that way.

This, walking the hushed halls with someone to talk to, he's not sure about. It's more jarring than it has any right to be, but he maybe likes this too. It makes even his benign tour guide remarks feel like a thrilling secret. Like talking in a library, which Ethan could also always get him to do, to the same result of guilty thrill.

It starts raining, cold and heavy, not long after they get inside, and the sound of it ricochets off the recessed windows in the sculpture gallery with an immediacy that almost feels like it's on purpose: like the clouds had been waiting for them to get inside before unleashing and are now in the middle of a storm that should have started hours ago.

The noise fades as they wind through the rooms to the Joan of Arc paintings, but it's still enough that Reid feels less self conscious speaking.

"There it is," he says when they find the right room, hands purposefully still in his pockets. Lately, as part of a broader initiative to be more sociable, he's been trying not to gesticulate as much, and it's certainly helping his attempted coolness right now. At the very least, he stands a chance of not just coming off like the nerdy professor. One in a million is better than none.

Even with the rain in the background, Joan, in a field, glints.

He really does like this painting. Something about them reminds him of book illustrations: paper thin, delicate, but magical and deep enough to fall into. Which makes sense, of course. Louis-Maurice Boutet de Monvel was a children's book illustrator who often worked in watercolor, so it makes sense that even something like this feels light and childlike. But Spencer came to that association of his own accord, before reading up on the paintings, which is possibly why he likes it so much. He knows there's no real right or wrong answer with art, but it kind of feels like he got the right answer.

He keeps all this inside, though, conscientiously letting Ethan take in the art himself. He does so for a moment, head moving back and forth in a way that Spencer knows is following the shine of the gold leaf. It's endearing. It's also nice to be the one doing the watching: waiting for Ethan's response, watching him think, staring. Maybe, yes, admiring.

"I see why you like it," Ethan says quietly, not hushed but simple.

"I really do."

His eyes finally leave the painting to look at Reid, sharp and eager. "Yeah? Tell me."

So Spencer does—slowly, with his hands in his pockets, an abridged version of all the things he knows about these paintings. Late medieval composition and perspective, basilicas and frescoes, media, influences. He tries not to get too into it, but there's six paintings, and sooner rather than later he gets to talking about Jules Joseph Lefebvre's painting of Lady Godiva and Fra Angelico and vanishing points.

It isn't until they're standing in front of the last painting and he's talking about lighting that Spencer realizes how long he's been talking without interruption. When his next sentence ends, he looks around the room, noting a couple other people in the gallery, both of whom have rain on their coats and are maybe listening in, which makes him even more chagrined.

Ethan doesn't see any of this, though, looking closer at the canvas and saying, "I see what you mean about the watercolor thing. It doesn't really look like oil paint, yeah."

"It probably had a lot of turpentine added," Reid mumbles back. "A lot of abstract expressionists in the 1950s did something similar."

"Rothko. I know that one."

"Helen Frankenthaler too. There's some of her work in the East Building."

"Didn't people use to drink turpentine as medicine?"

"It was also used to treat lice. It's still in Vicks VapoRub, actually."

Ethan looks at him then with a bit of gleeful disgust. "Seriously?"

"It was also used alongside regular motor oil in the engines of the first Honda cars, due to oil shortages in Japan after World War II."

"Cool," Ethan says.

And it is, kind of, cool. They smile at each other in agreement for a quiet moment, a long silence of warm eye contact.

As if agreed upon, they both turn back to the last painting. Spencer has always found it sad: Joan just outside the light, the only person in her defense, the bishop glowing ominously in the corner. She was only nineteen, facing things too enormous, too dire for a teenager—he knows how that feels. She heard voices—he's always been afraid of knowing how that feels too. It's still a sad painting, he finds, but maybe there's something else to it. He looks at the man sitting right behind Joan, the almost thoughtful look on his face. Like maybe he believed her too. Maybe she wasn't alone in that room.

"I like that it doesn't end with her dying," Ethan says. "Seems like that's always all anyone wants to talk about."

"That's true." He hadn't thought about that part. "It's almost ironic, in an overly convoluted way."

"What is?"

"Us, being here, looking at these paintings." He's gesturing again, he knows, but he can't help it. "The artist was from Orleáns, like Joan of Arc, and these were originally supposed to be in a church there, but the only finished set of the cycle was painted for a Senator here. And you live in New Orleans, but you're only getting to see it because I live here."

"I love that you know more than whoever wrote the little plaques," Ethan says, completely amused.

"I don't know if that's true—I just don't have the same word count constraints," Spencer demurs. Still, the comment worms its way into somewhere quiet and hidden in his memory, to be examined and admired like a prized marble. "I'm sure the archivist that wrote these knows much more than actually made it into the description."

"Oh yeah? Prove it." He gestures at the next nearest piece, a sculpture in the middle of the room. "Tell me every single thing you know about this one."

So he does. Everything he can think of. It doesn't go on for too long, though, before he notices the silence and breaks off to say, "You aren't listening."

"Course I am," Ethan retorts. "I told you, I'd listen to you read the phonebook."

Reid does, indeed, remember him saying that, and though a part of him immediately begins to replay the exact circumstances under which they had that exchange, he focuses on the present, training his eyes on the sculpture before them. "There's a difference between hearing and listening, and you aren't even looking at the art."

"Believe me, I am."

The tone of his voice is off, not to mention the directionality, but when Spencer turns to see Ethan already looking at him, he figures it out fairly quickly.

He looks back at the sculpture and tries to will both smile and flush from his face. "That was terrible."

"That's the idea."

"Truly awful."

Still staring militantly at the painting, Spencer ignores Ethan's tauntingly slow lean into his space, though he doesn't miss it when he darts in quickly to kiss Spencer's cheek. While not the first time he's done so in public, it's the first time with a possible audience; though neither of them are looking there way, there are at least more people in the gallery than there were when they fell into each other in that alley in New Orleans, or the hallway outside Spencer's apartment. He can't help feeling it's somewhat meaningful. It's something they didn't even do much in college. It's new and familiar, simple and significant, all at once.

It's also, inexplicably, what makes Spencer finally realize this is a date. He probably should have noticed earlier, if not when they started off with sex then at least when Ethan insisted on buying both their pretzels. It's unmistakable now. He can't unsee it. And, if he's being honest, it's pretty romantic, with the freezing rain held at bay by the gallery windows, sealing them off in their own little world with only the art and each other to look at. Though they aren't holding hands, their shoulders are tucked together, sharing breath. There's only two—one, now, as the man in the corner moves on to the next room—other people there, so few enough they may as well be alone and so few, even, that Spencer hadn't even thought about it as he played into Ethan's... flirting. And then Ethan kissed him while doing the activity which would constitute the date, all of which makes for pretty convincing evidence that not only is this a date but it's a good one thus far.

Still standing there like that, shoulders overlapping, heads turned in, Spencer wants—no, needs to do something in return. Something that shows he knows this time. He didn't know five years ago, but he knows well enough now to do something about it too. And he's staring at Ethan's hand hanging between them, just a few inches of air around it.

He vaguely remembers having to hold hands with a girl in elementary school for the school play, before he started skipping grades, and he used to hold his mom's hand to calm her down, but that's really the extent of his experience with this. Ethan is an entirely different matter; from the second he starts to consider it, Reid is all too aware of the size of his useless fingers, the air between them, the way that Ethan's hands are so close to his sides he'd have to approach at just the right angle to hold one and Spencer definitely doesn't have the fine motor coordination to pull that maneuver off, so he's honestly better off not even trying, actually, to spare his ego, but...

But he thinks about it again, in a lull where they're both quietly looking at the art. What it would be like. He thinks about how Ethan would probably let him, even if he laughed a little because it wasn't quite graceful, the same way he already has a dozen times today. He thinks about not taking but holding Ethan's hand, the aftermath. On the other side of the bravery, the stillness and solidity and warmth. And he wills his hand to drift close enough that the backs of their hands touch, and then he gets his hand on the other side of Ethan's, and then they are holding hands.

Spencer tries not to look over. He tries really, very hard. He lasts all of fifteen seconds before his instincts finally win out and his head jerks sideways, fast and fleeting but too sharp to miss. It only takes a moment, but a moment is all it takes: with Ethan already looking at him, there's no way he would miss it. But he's already turned away just as reflexively, so there's no choice but to stick with it and stare unseeingly at a random painting.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Ethan do the same, though more convincingly blasé. Enough seconds pass that Spencer thinks maybe he's gotten out of this without comment when...

"Smooth."

"Shut up."

Ethan hums, nonchalant, looking for all the world as if he is merely studying the art. That is, until he starts to swing their hands together.

" O kay," Reid starts with prickly embarrassment, but before he can pull his hand away, Ethan redoubles his grip and tugs their joined hands closer to himself.

"Hey." It's to get his attention, and it's sincere.

When Spencer looks back up, Ethan is already looking at him again. This time, neither of them look away. The gallery is quiet and empty.

"I wasn't being sarcastic, you know," he explains, head tilting in towards Spencer's with total sincerity. His hand is warm and pleasantly heavy, keeping their clasped hands in balance between them without seemingly any effort at all, oblivious to the tension running through Reid. Or maybe not so oblivious, as Ethan makes himself look lightheartedly chagrined when he adds, "It was pretty smooth."

"Okay," Reid repeats in an entirely different tone. He intentionally relaxes his arm as best he can. "If you say so."

Ethan gives him another tiny tug. "I do."

"Okay." He's managing to keep his face from breaking out in the grin of a lunatic, but his close-mouthed smile probably says enough. Ridiculous juvenile butterflies whirl around his metaphorical stomach and there's nothing Spencer can—or frankly wants to —do about it.

Of course, then Ethan leans in again, eyes sparkling, and continues, "I mean, as the expert between the two of us..."

"Shut up," Reid says even as he pulls Ethan by their still joined hands to the next painting, the next gallery, the next floor. There's so much more to see.

By the time they stumble back to the surface, rain gone and afternoon winds having gentled but replaced by the setting sun's chill, Spencer is a lot lighter on his feet, though he sinks slightly as he remembers what comes next. A part of him wants to try the issue again and at least insinuate he could come to the show, but a larger part is wary of breaking the fragile happiness that's otherwise colored their afternoon together. 

Still, as they make their way back to the Metro, hands to themselves in their own pockets to try to stay warm, each step feels heavier than the last. There's a silent battle playing out in Reid's head between the afterglow of the afternoon and the uncertainty of what comes next. Wind snaps the flags over the empty Navy fountains, drained for the winter. They'll get on at Archives–Navy Memorial, either yellow or green, then transfer at Gallery Place, Ethan one direction on the red line and Reid the other. Then...

"So," Ethan says when the platform has mostly cleared. They're still there, though: stuck at the crossroads, each headed for opposite sides of the platform above. "Comic book store, huh? Maybe you'll find something good."

"I'm hopeful, yeah." He doesn't not mean it, though the reminder of that conversation doesn't sit with him too well.

Still, he's being cool. Casual. Not like a sad, lonely geek. He has other friends, even. He's cool. It's whatever. So Reid clears his throat and purposefully unfolds his arms—defensive—and tucks his hands in his pockets instead—laidback.

"Actually, I just remembered my coworker who called, earlier, asked if I wanted to meet her and another friend in Georgetown. So. I might go have dinner with them."

"Yeah?" Ethan nods back at him. "Well, either way. Here."

In one swift move, he pulls Spencer's scarf from around his own neck and tucks it back into its rightful place. The pashmina is warm and newly imbued with the smell of Ethan's aftershave, but it's the latter that has Spencer's face already heating. He lets Ethan give him a little tug as if to make sure the scarf is in place, too embarrassed to protest the ridiculous gesture. A double favor.

"You need it more than I do," Ethan explains, "if you're gonna be walking around."

"Thanks." He means that too, slightly more than before with the proxy weight and warmth around his neck. Above them, a train rattles into the station. No matter which way it's going, one of them should be on it, yet neither of them moves. "Well. Good luck, tonight. Break a leg."

"Thanks." The side of Ethan's mouth quirks up like he can't help it. "Glenmont to New York Ave, right?"

"Yeah. Shady Grove goes the other direction. That's me."

"Gotcha."

They're still just standing there. Uncomfortable, yes, but it's not like Spencer can think of anything else. The problem is, he's never been good at letting go. He wants to hold on to everything.

The lights on the floor start flashing: another train coming in, more people to witness them standing there staring. They catch Spencer's attention first, then Ethan's as he follows his eyes, and they look at each other without acknowledging it.

"Okay," Ethan says eventually. "Hey."

Then he steps in, one hand on Spencer's shoulder as he kisses his cheek.

"I'll call you later, yeah?"

"Sure." When Ethan then kisses him on the lips too, he makes sure not to move any more than necessary. He's not being clingy. He's casual. Cool.

In the same vein, they part, with only one last nod. Spencer doesn't turn around on the escalator. He doesn't turn around once upstairs. It isn't until the next train to Glenmont pulls in and the movement catches his eye that he sees Ethan on the platform right across from him.

And he waves, a second before the train gets in the way. And when he gets on the train, he sits by the closer window with his camera. So Spencer waves back. And then he's gone.

•••

Though she feels marginally better after her afternoon with Penelope, JJ can't exactly say she has it all figured out by the time she gets home. Will hasn't called today, just texted once or twice in the morning, casual things that didn't need a lot of thought. She has a lot to think about now: what Penelope said about long distance relationships, her own temporary insanity whenever he's involved.

Once she hangs up her coat and scarf, JJ sighs and shakes her hair out. She stands there in the middle of her dark living room for a quiet moment. Somewhere else in the building, someone's shower starts running, the pipes in her own walls creaking ever so briefly before everything returns to normal. Then it's just JJ again. Quiet.

Unfortunately, there's no chores to occupy her tonight. No dishes in the sink, no laundry in the hamper. There aren't even any voicemails waiting for her, home or cell, which feels like a concerted attack from the universe to force her to sit with her thoughts. And she already watched this week's episode of Project Runway too.

So she sits herself on the couch with a glass of wine and thinks. And thinks. And then she picks up her phone and starts typing.

•••

The train gets all the way to Van Ness, then further, into Maryland, before Spencer gets off. He stands on the red line platform in silence for eight minutes before getting right back on the next train going the opposite direction. Bethesda, Friendship Heights, Tenleytown. Farragut North, Metro Center. New York Ave.

It isn't until he's getting off the train again, feet automatically taking him towards the address he pretended not to have looked up online before Ethan even entered the city, that he thinks about what he's doing. What he's doing, which is insane.

He ducks down the alleyway at the last minute, hiding himself around the last corner before he makes a fool of himself in front of the normal people going about their Friday nights on the busy street. His breath clouds around his face, catching foggily in his scarf until he tilts his head back to stare at the night sky. Oh, he's an idiot—and because he's such an idiot, he's been standing ten feet from the back door of the club without noticing. A back door which someone is currently standing at, smoking. A someone who is Ethan, because of course it is.

And then Reid remembers why he does not do things like this, which is that this is not who he is. He's not a smooth talker. He's not romantic. He's not cool. He never has been. And here he is desperate to look it in front of someone who not only knows him better than that but is, himself, the epitome of cool. Though Spencer can't remember any specific instances of it actually happening, he still thinks of Ethan as the type of person who would know how to blow a smoke ring.

Even standing here, now, he half expects it. There's something so effortless about Ethan standing there under the exit light, one heel against the wall behind him, face in shadow as he looks down to shield his cigarette. It's like a different universe, far removed from Reid's. It's like a movie on a screen. Unimpeachable.

He's about to finally talk himself out of doing something stupid when his name cuts out across the empty street.

"Spencer?"

Distantly, he wishes that he'd joined the CIA instead of the FBI, so at least he'd be better at covering and could pretend to be just some stranger continuing down the road. Profiling isn't exactly helping him right now.

"Hi."

"Hi," Ethan repeats mindlessly, cigarette smoking itself in his hand. He looks like a movie, shot perfectly framed. "What're you doing here?"

"I, um." He's still standing in the street. He manages not to do that anymore. "I realized I didn't ask what you were doing tomorrow. Or if you wanted to do anything after your show—and, actually, if you still wanted to stay at my apartment, which we talked about in passing before but never really made concrete plans about. Or. Um."

No. There's not anything else he can think of.

"That's it," Spencer finishes. 

There's a pause before Ethan finally finds a reply. "You could've texted."

"That's... true. Honestly, it never occurred to me."

This, inexplicably, makes Ethan laugh, a faint thing that still disrupts the smoke curling around his face. The illusion dissipates with it, making the whole thing real enough that Spencer manages to take another couple of steps forward.

Ethan raises the cigarette his direction, but Reid shakes his head, hands never leaving his pockets. Still, he does let himself actually enter Ethan's orbit. Not yet his personal space, but closer. They're under the same streetlight at least. In conversation.

"I'm trying to quit." It's true, as long as he doesn't specify what it is he's trying to quit. Even then, Ethan seems to hear through the words to the truth of it. "I don't mind if you do, though. But preferably not in my apartment."

Ethan nods, apparently unperturbed by the accidental implication that he'll be back there at some point. "Wouldn't want to risk the first editions. All that prestige up in flames."

"I'm more worried about smoke damage generally."

"Yeah, but don't tell me you don't have some good ones. Let me guess: Bradbury? Once and Future King ?"

"I have a signed copy of A Brief History of Time too," Spencer admits as he watches the glow of the cigarette brighten. It illuminates Ethan's face from below in perfect chiaroscuro, like something out of the Baroque gallery just this afternoon. Caravaggio would be proud. "I mean, with his thumb, obviously, but... I got to meet him at an AAAS conference a few years ago."

"No shit. Congrats." He really means it. "You'll have to give me a tour. Honestly, I'm surprised you haven't already, but I guess we were kind of busy." 

"So you don't have plans with your bandmates."

"I don't actually know them that well," Ethan says with a shrug. "They're more... acquaintances of acquaintances. Someone I owed a favor owed them one too. Even if I knew them enough to like them before, I sure wouldn't after a week in a van with them. I wasn't kidding about snapping sooner than later."

"Then why come?"

"Unlike an airline, they'd pay me. Not that I wouldn't've come anyway." Ethan cuts a look sideways at him as he takes a drag. "But this opportunity presented itself first."

It takes a moment (longer than Spencer would like to admit) to get what he isn't saying, but when he does, it shuts him up thoroughly. Other pieces start to fit together: every time Ethan has come back or responded in a way Reid didn't expect, the way he was so adamant he was fine with whatever Reid wanted to do today, him inviting himself back to Reid's not a moment ago. He would have come anyway. Just to see him.

Something in Spencer's chest swells, lurching forward like a wave. It's yearning and cautious and wants so much to touch him, even as it's afraid it won't be enough, won't be the same, won't be allowed. Ethan came because he wanted to see Spencer, and that knowledge burns through him, but even then, he's cautious, because even if Ethan came to see him, he still sent him away.

With all of that in mind, Spencer stands there in the silence for a moment more before deciding what to do. His fingers stretch out slowly, conscious of the way Ethan has done this to him several times already and jealous of the fact that he's never thought to do the same in return. Admittedly, he hasn't had as many opportunities, given the way Ethan wears his hair, but in this streetlit moment this late in the day, the stage is set. He must be just outside Ethan's peripheral because the man in question doesn't look over until Spencer's hand is almost at his ear. With a final (hopefully inaudible) breath, he tucks Ethan's hair behind his ear for him, revealing his face.

It only makes sense for his hand to then fall to Ethan's shoulder, somehow entirely at ease against the cold leather. It only makes sense, too, to lean up and kiss him, the pathway clear and the target at the ready. It's the first kiss he's initiated since mauling Ethan at his door and it's so different it feels as though it must have happened to someone else entirely. Where that was frantic enough that there was no time to think about the act beyond its physical reality, this is so slow that every muscle moved is full of intent. It's clear that he means to do this: that he's bringing them together, hand on Ethan's shoulder, because he wants to. 

When Ethan kisses back, nothing much matters anymore. The awkwardness of the fact that Spencer even showed up here at all, deeply uncool, is totally negated, as is the fact that these people who know Ethan (even if he doesn't like them) could walk by at any moment. Even the cigarette disappears, Spencer notices belatedly when he realizes both of Ethan's hands are cradling his head. Quiet and cold and careful.

His own hand drifts downward to clutch at Ethan's lapel, fingers sheltering from the wind against his body. Not that it matters; the last thing Reid is thinking about right now is the cold. How could he when instead his senses are filled with Ethan, the way he smells, the way his body moves? How could he care about anything but the hands at his nape, holding him close?

With one shift, though, the cold fingers of those hands slip past his hair, a shock to the skin that has Spencer flinching just enough to break the kiss. And with it comes reality.

"Sorry."

He kisses Reid again in apology, but some spell has been (if not broken) bent enough that he can think again. Whatever possessed Spencer in the moment is crowded out once more by the million things they aren't talking about in favor of the wordless communication of bodies. Because, yes, it means something that Ethan came here just to see Spencer. But it also means something that he still sent Reid home anyway.

"What is this?" He asks when the kiss falls apart again in favor of air. Between the wind and the kiss, his lips are already tingling, but even that isn't enough to stop him worrying at the edge of the realization he came to earlier: the date. Their date. Their good date. Then the emptiness after. Then this. "What are we doing?"

"Pretty sure they still call it kissing."

"No, I mean—"

"I know," Ethan sighs before he kisses Reid again, the taste of smoke gone and replaced with only warmth. "Listen. I don't know what this is, but I missed you. And I'm glad to be here."

Spencer bites his tongue to stop himself letting out a childish plea for reassurance. Still, it vibrates around his brain like a bug trapped in someone's car, asking, Did you really, did you really miss me, really, really, you're sure? There are no indications that Ethan is lying, not even a single microexpression, as Reid could hardly miss them at this distance. There's no reason not to believe him and yet Spencer can't help doubting.

"But what does that mean," he can't help asking, even as it comes out so flat and quiet it doesn't really sound like a question. "What does— What's the word for this?"

Before Ethan can answer (or not answer, as the case may be), light cuts through the alley. Spencer steps back instinctively, giving Ethan enough room to turn so they're both squinting into the light.

"Hey."

Ethan sighs, dropping the hand he'd been trying to shield his eyes with. "Hey, Luke."

Right. Luke, who plays the saxophone and is always out of tune. Spencer can at least see the outline of him now that his eyes have begun to adjust, though not too much as he leaves the door open behind him, keeping his face in shadow. He can only assume that Luke looks as tired of it all as Ethan does looking at him.

"We're headed over to Alison's," he explains, only a bit derisive. "You coming, or are you staying with your boyfriend?"

There's a flicker where Ethan clearly considers correcting him—a conflict Spencer echoes, equally undecided on the answer—but he just turns back to Spencer, asking an unspoken question.

Not entirely sure which part he means to agree to, Spencer nods. Ethan holds his gaze for a moment longer before turning back.

"You guys go on ahead. I'm set."

"Alright," Luke says. "Let us know if you need a ride to Adams Morgan tomorrow and we can swing by. Same place, yeah?"

"Yeah."

Luke raises an eyebrow, like he was expecting otherwise, but doesn't say anything further and turns back to the ajar door. Before he can get too far, Ethan calls out.

"Hey. Keys?"

Luke lowers one eyebrow just to raise the other. Ethan rolls his eyes.

"My shit's in the van."

"They're already loading," Luke explains. "Should be open."

And then he's gone again, somehow leaving things weirder than they already were.

March wind fills the brief silence as Ethan glances over at Reid before getting stuck, studying his face. The conversation Luke trampled on hangs between them, under layers of new, compounding questions.

Whatever he reads in Spencer's face, Ethan decides to start with the simplest of those questions. "You sure? If I recall, Alison's got a futon I've heard a lot about, and Luke only sometimes kicks in his sleep."

"I was already pretty sure before I knew that was the alternative, but now I'm confident," Spencer responds. "Although I can't guarantee I don't also kick in my sleep."

"Hate to break it to you, Spence, but you totally do."

"Hearsay." He pauses, thinking, then adds just to be safe, "You'll still have to share, though. Since I don't have a guest room."

"I remember." Their shoulders brush, reminding them both of how close they are standing, how they have been this whole time. "I've even seen, now. Seems like a nice bed, though. And it's got you in it, so how bad can it be?"

It's still not talking about it, but it's something. It's enough for Reid to nod and follow Ethan to get his things, then back to the train, all standing just as close as they had been in the alley without knowing.

When Spencer unlocks the door, they enter the apartment in a way completely opposite of the last time—only this afternoon, he's baffled to remember. It's not even just that they still aren't touching, though that's part of it. It's more how deliberate and thoughtful each movement is: calm and certain, untying shoes, shedding coats, everything in its near place. No whirlwind to be seen. And when they kiss, it's quiet and slow and doesn't go anywhere.

In the end, the fact that the bed is still unmade makes it that much easier to crawl under the covers without ceremony. Spencer is too tired to get into his usual discomfort with having outside clothes in bed, though that may also be to do with the fact that they're mostly undressed by the time they find the sheets.

He can't sleep yet, though. The day has been too big. While on paper it should pale in comparison to any day in the field, it matters more. It matters to Spencer, and so—because it matters—he has to think through every possible facet and angle. Which takes some time, even for him. 

Once he's fairly certain Ethan is asleep, he says under his breath, "I'm glad you're here too."

"Promise?"

It doesn't sound like a joke, but for once, Spencer can tell it's supposed to be. Or maybe he just knows Ethan well enough to expect a joke in response and grafts that onto the moment. Either way, he can hear both that it's supposed to be funny and that it's sincerely meant, and in response folds himself closer until their knees knock, bodies tangling. His face fits into the space between Ethan's chin and shoulder, his forehead flat against Ethan's shirt as he breathes out.

Spencer nods. Ethan's arm follows the line of his shoulders. Friday becomes Saturday with the sound of two steady sets of breath.

•••

JJ only has to look at her phone for a second before answering it with, "Is this going to become a weekly thing?"

"If it wouldn't come off creepy, I'd make it a daily one," Will answers. "Well. And if I thought you'd let me."

The toaster pops up a pair of crappy but delicious cinnamon waffles as JJ tucks the phone against her shoulder. It is another Saturday, and apparently another call from Will.

She feels marginally better prepared for it this time, both because of Penelope's homework and because she's actually well rested this time. She's got her coffee, she's got her negotiation terms, and now she's got her waffles. Bring it on.

"Like a hotel wake up call? My schedule's pretty all over the place, I don't know how much that would help."

"I was thinking more like a standing date."

It's exactly what she was expecting, of course, so she's ready. "Why don't we try a first date and see how that goes?"

"I take it you have some more criteria than last week would qualify for?"

"Yeah, I think one of them's definitely gonna have to be 'in the same physical space', in which case this week doesn't count either."

"Well what are we gonna do about that?" Will asks.

"Something different." She takes a deep but silent breath and tries not to imbue it with too much significance. "What are you doing next Friday? I seem to recall something about the New Orleans sights I missed."

There is a second, just a second, one moment too long, before he replies, "I think we can arrange something."

Before they can, however, JJ's phone starts buzzing against her ear, and she sighs heavily.

"Aw, no," Will is already saying as she checks the caller ID. It's Anderson's extension, though. She has to answer it.

"Duty calls," is all she can say. "I'll call you when I buy a ticket, okay?"

"Long as you buy it, I can't complain."

Anderson is still ringing in, but JJ can't help taking a little moment to smile to herself. "Well then, I will let you know. Bye, Will."

He reciprocates and she hangs up but doesn't set it down. Duty calls and so does she.

•••

Spencer's Saturday morning starts both completely unlike the one before and startlingly similar to it. On the one hand, he's still waking up in the same bed, same pale March sun waiting for him. Again, his morning is interrupted at about eleven o'clock by his phone suddenly going off with a change of plan.

It's just that, this time, he's still in bed at that point, and he's not alone. The person who was on the other side of the call last week is lying next to him, wrapped up in not just the sheets and blankets but Spencer himself, the both of them having gravitated towards each other at some point during the night (or maybe earlier, he can't quite remember yet). The point is, the last person to call him this early is clearly also asleep.

So then who the hell is it?

When the ringing jolts Reid from his relatively deep and untroubled sleep, this is his first bleary thought, his subconscious cataloging information and skipping ahead to the first conclusion it can come to. His first act is similarly reflexive, which is to spit out what of Ethan's hair has stuck to his lips in their sleep, but it isn't until the phone rings again that he actually wakes up enough to comprehend any of it.

Even awake, though, he can't move to answer right away. The arm he has under and then around the back of Ethan's head is almost completely numb, not to mention the fact that his legs are pinned underneath the sprawl of the other man's. Last night comes back to him, all the way to the end, the soft landing of Ethan's last, quiet suggestion that he wants to be where they are. He did, in fact, imply he cares if Reid wants him here. He's wound up in Reid's arms.

And he moves closer when he feels Reid awaken, following slowly behind. Half conscious and trusting. He's glad to be here.

A stupefying, addictive, viral brightness spreads through Spencer, even as Ethan fidgets awake to the phone ringing, making Reid's arms fall lax around him but not retreat. They're face to face before he even opens his eyes, giving Spencer an extra second to stare at him with blank awe. This doesn't help the brightness.

"Hi," he says stupidly.

"Hi," Ethan parrots. Less awake, he doesn't sound like as much of an idiot, though hopefully it also means he can't tell how ridiculous Reid is definitely being.

The phone rings.

"I think I have to get that," he says with absolutely no conviction behind the words. How could he, when Ethan's eyes are now properly open and watching him intently?

"Okay."

It's not exactly calling his bluff, but it's not not doing that either. At best, it calls attention to the prolonged silence between them as Spencer continues to not do anything. The phone rings again, an insistent interlocutor, but it's in the other room. Unimportant. Far, far away. It doesn't have be addressed. Much more interesting is the way that Ethan's slide up the bed has put them not only face to face but knee to knee, hip to hip. Their legs have stayed interwoven throughout, but every minute shift is now like an earthquake.

The phone is still ringing.

"It's probably work," Reid says. It's actually pretty impressive, considering he isn't breathing anymore.

"Mhm." The corner of his mouth is upturned slightly, only enough that it could be coincidence as easily as it could be a smile.

"So I should probably. Get that."

"Alright." Ethan closes his eyes again, hands loose and warm against Spencer's shirt. "Have fun."

Reid starts to pull himself free—yes, he's the one clinging to Ethan, but it somehow still makes sense—getting so far as to set his feet on the cold ground, when the phone stops ringing. Though he's not one to believe in providence or signs, Spencer still feels grateful for the timing when it allows him to sink into Ethan's warm arms. This time they're back to front, heartbeats aligned. He can feel Ethan's chin against his shoulder. It feels indescribable. Spencer wants to never feel anything else until he can find the words for it, which is never.

"I missed it," he explains unnecessarily.

Ethan's face shuffles deeper into his shoulder, warm and heavy. One of his hands finds its way under Spencer's shirt against his stomach. "Oh no."

Suddenly warm becomes hot; what air there is between them is sweltering, body heat refracting endlessly, slow movements barely enough to disturb it. The tension that infuses Reid's frame isn't a negative, then, as his stillness makes for a contrasting background to when he finally pushes back into Ethan's body behind him. The warmth and looseness of sleep that he exudes is contagious and makes it easier for Spencer to become malleable again. From right angles to rounded edges. He turns to look at Ethan over his shoulder in a way that should be uncomfortable but isn't, especially not when Ethan's eyes open to meet his from inches away.

And then a phone rings again—this time, Spencer's cell, which is (based on the wooden vibrations that accompany it) somewhere on the floor next to the bed.

Ah. Back to reality.

"Okay. I definitely have to get that."

When Ethan collapses back against him with a grumble, it's almost distracting enough to get Spencer to forget the ringing phone again, but the immediate followup call means it's definitely a case, so unfortunately he has to shrug Ethan off and not think about his voice rattling through both their chests.

"Sorry."

He emerges from the sheets Reid somewhat dumped him into, voice low and mesmerizing when he asks groggily, "Someone dying?"

"Probably," Spencer says as he reaches over the edge of the mattress for his pants. It's uncharacteristically thoughtless of him not to have actually put them away last night, but at least it's convenient. Aside from the fact that there are actually two pairs of pants and he has to enlist his glasses from the nightstand to differentiate which are his; this part, he quickly compartmentalizes for later examination, embarrassment, and thrill. 

The caller ID does, in fact, say JJ, and despite how incredibly awkward this is going to be answering the phone like this, Spencer can't exactly ignore it. The thing is, it really is probably someone dying.

At his reply, Ethan wakes up a bit more, sitting up with eyebrows furrowed until he processes Reid's utter nonchalance. Dots visibly connect. "Ah. Right. Real fun job you've got."

Reid shushes him halfheartedly before answering the phone. "Good morning, JJ."

"I know, sorry, it's just this one's time sensitive," JJ starts, though her voice quickly fades into the background when Spencer's eye is drawn to the movement of Ethan collapsing back into the bed with a sigh, disappearing in the sheets. It's incredibly distracting, but Reid comes back to Earth when Ethan's forehead collides with his hip.

"Ow."

"Everything okay?" JJ asks in his ear as Ethan reemerges to mouth, "Sorry."

"I'm fine," Reid answers both of them as he holds Ethan's gaze. The collar of his shirt is pulled askew by all the shuffling around and his hair is a staticky mess against the pillows and yet it's his eyes that Spencer can't look away from. "It's... nothing. I, uh. Bumped into something."

Ethan's smile is too sharp for this early in the morning. Well, it's not actually that early, but the point still stands. In Spencer's ear, JJ is still saying things about the case or traffic or something, but Spencer doesn't hear any of it. It's hard to think about anything beyond the way that Ethan is sitting up now, very close, chin against Spencer's shoulder.

"Sorry," he says again, aloud but low enough not to be heard by the phone and close enough to feel.

"Sorry about your weekend," JJ unknowingly echoes. "Believe me, I wouldn't be calling if I didn't have to."

"Uh huh."

"Hey. Let me kiss it better?"

"Uh—"

Before Reid can finish reacting, Ethan kisses the side of his head. When he turns to give him a look—one he intended to be stern but probably comes off more like a deer in the headlights—Ethan kisses his shoulder through the thin barrier of his shirt, then his elbow, before sliding back down against the headboard. Which would be fine if it weren't for the way he holds Spencer's eyes the entire time.

"Emily already left for New York, so she's gonna meet you guys there."

Covering the receiver with his other hand, Spencer says bewilderedly, "Where are you going?"

"And apparently Gideon had a dentist appointment, so he wanted to brief on the plane."

"To keep my promise," Ethan says, lax against the pillows just like he was a moment ago and yet, somehow, insidious. He waits until he's settled again to lean forward and kiss right above the spot on Spencer's hip that he knocked into. He doesn't move away. He just moves... down. One centimeter at a time.

Spencer is thinking very, very hard about not thinking anything at all.

"...Sorry, who's a dentist?"

Mouth still pressed to Spencer's clothes, Ethan laughs, sharp and loud. Though Reid immediately covers the phone again, it's too late. He's trapped between Ethan's half chagrined smile and the weighty fact of JJ on the other side of the line.

"What was that?" She asks, clear enough to be heard even with the phone held up above him, where it ended up in a desperate attempt to distance the two opposing forces.

"Nothing!"

Ethan looks like he's about to laugh again so Reid makes a desperate decision and slaps his hand over Ethan's mouth.

This inadvertently makes sure he does laugh, but at least it's muffled enough. Doubly so when Reid blurts into the phone a split second later, "Neighbors. You said we're briefing on the plane?"

Even under Reid's wide eyed glare and with a hand over his mouth, Ethan manages to smirk at that. His voice is too high, words too clipped, but at least they're out now, moving the conversation along hopefully to its blessed conclusion.

Then, of course, Ethan kisses his hand. 

"Yeah," JJ says, an ominous tinge of skepticism in her voice. "I'm just waiting for the faxes to—"

"Okay, see you there, bye."

Spencer manages to hang up before things (namely, his own sanity) unravel any further. He removes his hand from Ethan's mouth only to shove him deeper into the mattress. It's relatively easy to smother someone. As a bonus, it's faster than manual strangulation.

"I'm going to kill you," he says, flatly but with promise.

"No you won't," Ethan says with confidence as easy as the way he swats Spencer and his weapon away.

Hands thus freed, Reid uses them to keep himself from falling over when Ethan uses his shirt to bring him at least down to his level. It's even harder to resist at this range, but he manages to keep one hand braced against the sheets to avoid being (fully) sucked into Ethan's orbit.

"You're impossible."

"Thanks."

"I used to wonder if you were built in a lab to torment me," Spencer says honestly. "Now I'm thinking I was completely right."

When Ethan runs a hand through his hair, he both means it all the more and completely changes his mind. "Man, it's not my fault you're cute when you're freaking out."

Unsure which part to object to first and frankly unable to process anything with Ethan's hands on him, Spencer ends up only spluttering, "That— I'm not..." before trailing off completely.

Ethan just smiles. "Exactly."

It's not something Spencer stands any chance of deciphering, let alone correcting, so he gives up in lieu of giving in, kissing Ethan into the mattress. It's a lot better as a tactic for getting Ethan to shut up, though it's slightly inconvenient in that it gives him silence in which to think. How, exactly, does he get through the next awkward situation?

Actually, another point for kissing, because it gives him the ability to delay said conversation until he has an answer. He forgets to come up with one, though. So maybe not a great tactic.

Unfortunately, Ethan does not, despite giving as good as he gets. He hangs his arm up around Reid's shoulders even as he asks, "Aren't you supposed to be doing something?"

Reid's forehead falls against his with a sigh. "Yes."

When he sits up, Ethan follows, awaiting his cue. Spencer really wishes he wasn't, because he doesn't have a clue what that will be.

"There's a case," he tries.

Not exactly the best opener, he'll be the first to admit. Is there a good way to do this: kick someone out of your bed because you have to go chase a killer across Kansas? From what he understands, Morgan must have to do this a couple times a month at least. How does he do it? Maybe it's easier with a stranger. (Not that Reid is going to ask, he'd rather die first, but it's something to think about.)

"Yeah, I heard. Jet leaves in an hour."

"Right." Good thing Ethan did, because Spencer definitely didn't, or if he did he did not retain it as meaningful information. Certainly not when compared to Ethan's mouth against his skin. "So I— It's not that I want to, you know, but I have to... It's not that I'm kicking you out. But."

"You're kicking me out," Ethan finishes.

"Yes."

Though Spencer grimaces as he says it, Ethan doesn't look bothered by the notion—quite the opposite, actually. He looks faintly amused, though that may be more to do with how Reid is going about this rather than what he's doing. Spencer can't exactly blame him, what with the way he's sitting there in half his pajamas, hair probably insane and hands flailing everywhere, but he kind of wishes there was nothing else to take into consideration so he could see Ethan's reaction to the basics of the situation in a vacuum, without the influence of his ridiculous presentation of it.

"Gotcha."

"I just don't— I mean— You know, it's not anything personal. I don't want you to think that... it is. Because it's not! But I have to go, it's—"

"Hey, hey—" He sits up fully to grab Spencer's fluttering hand, pinning it to the mattress before grabbing his shoulder. "Reid. I get it. It's the job."

Spencer's hands fall limply to the bed. "I've never done this before."

"Yeah, I got that impression." Ethan half smiles, quirks his head. "Hey. I'm honored."

He might even mean it.

"What I'm saying is I don't really know what the procedure is here," Reid continues. "I mean. Because I have to go to work. So usually I would take a shower and pack my things and eat something on the plane. But it seems impolite to just... I mean, do I do that while you're here?"

Ethan somehow takes all this in stride, even as he pauses to consider it. "Well, you could."

"What about you? Because I have to go, but I don't want you to— It feels rude."

"I mean, I don't really care, but if you're that worried about it, we could always share."

A... not nervous, exactly, but surprised laugh escapes Spencer, though based on the way Ethan only just barely smiles in response makes him feel that was the intention.

He continues, "Really, Spence, I know it goes against your instincts, but you don't gotta worry about manners with me, alright? Especially not here. Like I said: I get it. If you've gotta push me out the door before I get my shoes on because people are dying somewhere, I can't exactly fault you for it. I've been kicked out of bed for worse."

"Okay, well, I'm not doing that."

"See? Already above expectations."

Ethan biffs his nose with a kind of casualness that boggles the mind a little bit. It's just not a level of confidence most people have when invading Spencer's space—very, very few people take for granted that they can touch him, and for good reason, but Ethan is one of them.

"You should have higher expectations."

"Oh, I do. You're just really good at meeting them. Consummate overachiever."

"So that's it? Everything is fine?"

"Everything is fine," Ethan confirms, though he adds, "But you might wanna take a look in the mirror before you go."

"Ha ha." It does, though, put Spencer somewhat at ease, enough that he can slip out of awkward panic mode. "Well, I don't have to leave immediately. I mean, if you want to— have breakfast, or something. There's..." He mentally goes through his kitchen. "Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Or actual toast. I don't know if the milk is good. And coffee, of course."

"Of course," Ethan agrees easily. 

"But there's a bagel place a few blocks away, on the way to the Metro. They have pastries too."

"Room service?"

"Not that high."

There's a moment where they just smile at each other before Spencer says again, more quietly, "I am sorry."

"I told you, it's fine. I get it."

"I don't—" He bites back the words he wants to say, afraid that they'll be true. "I wish I could stay. I want to stay."

"Yeah, but you wanna get the bad guy more," Ethan says easily. No hard feelings lie behind the words: no resentment, no implication that Reid is wrong or weird or messed up or cold for these priorities. It's just a fact. "I get it, man. You're fine."

Then Spencer realizes the words will be true whether or not he says them, so he finishes, "I don't want to go."

It's never been true before. Even on the worst days, when no bad guys are got and no people are saved and everything ends in blood, he's always wanted to do his job. Especially after a weekend away, he's always ready, if not eager, to get back to work. He likes helping people and he likes the puzzle and he likes feeling like he's doing something with people he enjoys being around. He's never shied from the start of a case, when the optimism is still there and everyone is well rested and ready. But here, now, he doesn't want to go.

Ethan's head tilts ever so slightly. "Is this the crisis of faith?"

"I... don't think so." It's hard to explain without admitting that at least part of it is because he feels like there's something (at least right now) in his life outside work that's worth it, which is objectively pathetic, he's pretty sure. "I think... Is this how people normally feel about weekends?"

Though Ethan had looked ready to say something, his breath escapes him in a huff that's the barest suggestion of a laugh. "You've got a case of the Mondays?"

"It's Saturday."

Ethan doesn't even try to clarify or argue, just laughs more clearly and pulls Reid into a kiss. It's light and simple but sincerely meant, smiling lips and morning breath and both of Ethan's hands on Spencer's cheeks. It's only a moment, but it's at least enough to halt Spencer's thoughts in their tracks. Maybe not so pathetic, then—or at least an endearing kind of pathetic. He's been told he's good at that. He's glad it works on Ethan too.

When he pulls back, Ethan says, "Go. Be the good guy. There'll be other Saturdays." He's looking him dead in the eye, and for once, Reid doesn't try to look away. "But you really should take a look in the mirror first. Do something about your hair and..." He gestures. "All that."

"Like you're any better," Spencer replies, gesturing up at Ethan's own bedhead. It doesn't seem to phase him, though. 

"A, I never said I was, and two, I didn't say it was a bad thing. Just... obvious. So, y'know. In case you wanted to avoid that in front of your coworkers."

Squinting, Spencer turns to the nearest mirror, which is the one hanging above his dresser on the adjacent wall. "Oh."

It doesn't take a genius to see what Ethan means. Between the wrinkled impression of Ethan's hair on his cheek, the way his lips are still red from earlier, the shadows of bruises along his neck that he must have missed under his own collar the other day. At least that hopefully means they'll be easy to hide again. He tries to stay focused on that, but it doesn't help as Ethan's word choice stays rattling around his head.

Obvious. Spencer honestly can't tell if he's deeply embarrassed or maybe something like pleased. Either way, the description is apt. He feels obvious: like everything about him is screaming "morning after". There's even a smudge on his glasses from where he kissed Ethan so completely that the other man's eyelids were pressed to the wrong side of the lenses, a detail which would be almost impossible to recognize without already knowing the context but makes Reid's internal temperature kick up a notch or two. Even once he cleans them, he knows he won't be able to unsee it. Alright, so today is a contacts day.

Looking back at Ethan, he sees complementary evidence: instead of creases in his skin the shape of Ethan's bedhead, they're of the fabric wrinkles of Spencer's shirt, et cetera. There's even a mortifying blotch of drool on the shoulder of his shirt that Reid quickly pretends not to see. The hickies are the same, though, if more thoughtlessly placed.

Not that Ethan seems to mind; he's sitting there without a care in the world, yawning as he shakes his hair out of its sleep-stiff peaks. (This, bizarrely, makes Spencer want to crawl all over him like a clinging monkey, an urge he quickly swallows but can't totally forget.) Spencer's pretty sure he's absorbed all the self-consciousness in this interaction, which would be fine and frankly par for the course if it weren't for the fact that he still has to run away now to go to work. There's no real graceful exit from this situation, but being called away mid-morning-make-out to hunt down a serial killer doesn't help matters.

Oblivious to Reid's internal debate over how to proceed, Ethan asks, "Is my stuff still in the living room?"

A mental rewind of the night before: Ethan's bag hitting the sofa cushions, the lights never being turned on, their bodies meeting, and then the rest fills itself in. He remembers a belated, sleepy joke about Ethan remembering to bring his toothbrush and everything, all for naught. He remembers laughing quietly.

"Yes."

"Alright. You want the first shower?"

It takes Reid a moment to follow the train of thought, which is a testament to how frazzled he is right now. It doesn't help that he's also coming upon an obvious solution he really should have come up with sooner.

"Oh. I— Wait right there."

The good thing about the delay of the realization is that once he has it, it's easy for Spencer to act on it quickly enough that he doesn't have time to feel self conscious as he scrambles out of bed, bare legs and all.

He knows exactly where he's going: the junk drawer in the kitchen, wherein lies his one and only spare key. He's had two copies ever since he moved in, both handed over unceremoniously by his landlord on a cheap color-coding key tag. Though one was moved onto his own keys, the other stayed with that flimsy blue tag in the same drawer as his extra Metro cards, both destined to lie in disuse for what he assumed would be eternity. As Spencer fishes it out now, he quickly works the sad plastic tag free, opting instead for the robot keychain in the same drawer, given to him ages ago by Garcia.

It's not— He's just thinking in terms of logistics, of course. But for a second he slips in the privacy of his own mind and refers to it internally as "Ethan's key" and has to quickly bury the thought. Not right now; he's already back in the bedroom. That's a thought for later. He'll dwell on it when he's stuck on the jet. 

"Here." He's being so normal about it. "That way I can leave first and you can still lock the door. Problem solved."

"Sure." Ethan takes the key with a simple nod, genuinely normal. "I'll slide it under the door behind me or something."

An absolutely insane part of Spencer wants to tell him to just keep it, but even he knows better than that. "Sounds good."

"I like the robot."

"Thanks. And—" Whatever impulse control his newly awake mind had was spent on not telling Ethan to keep the key forever, and so none is left to stop his mouth from saying, "You can just stay here. I mean. While you're in town. If the alternative is someone's futon and people you might murder."

"You're alright leaving me here unsupervised?" Ethan asks, amused by not just the notion but something else too.

"I'm pretty sure you already know my deepest, darkest secrets," Reid fires back with a sarcasm that only sort of lands. It is true, after all. Besides, after yesterday, he's starting to think it might not be so bad, someone knowing him so well.

"Well, in that case..." He takes the one pillow left on Reid's side of the bed and adds it to the pile before collapsing back into it. "You can definitely shower first, cuz I'm going back to bed."

Even with the newfound distance, Spencer has to kiss him again, though he tries to keep it brief. He's working on it, okay? He's being cool. The fact that he's now leaning over Ethan so closely it causes a total eclipse of the window's light is irrelevant.

Luckily, he manages to retreat wordlessly, if not exactly shamelessly. Ethan lets him go without fuss, lying back down with his eyes purposefully closed. It's a clear, silent message that he's not going anywhere—and, true to his unspoken word, he is in exactly the same position when Spencer returns from his shower as when he left, though he does crack one eye open when he hears the dresser drawer.

By the time he's dressed, all his things in order, shoes on and coat over his arm, Ethan is sitting up again, watching him openly. They both know what comes next, but as Spencer stands there, trying to figure out how, it's clear Ethan isn't going to be much help anymore. He's just looking at Spencer. It's unnerving, but almost pleasantly so.

"So." He's holding the strap of his bag a bit too tight, he knows, but it's grounding. "You have the key."

Ethan holds up the little robot. "Yep."

Spencer checks his watch. "Okay. Well. Here I go then."

"There you go," Ethan echoes, but before Spencer can wonder if he could, let alone should, cross the distance between them, he's swinging his legs out of bed and continuing, "Hey, hold on a sec."

Spencer follows him into the living room, where he starts digging in his bag. He has to marvel for a moment at the fact of Ethan, barefoot, in the middle of his living room. It's mortifying to admit, but aside from Elle driving him home one night after he got shot at and Gideon when Reid lent him a book, this is the first time someone from the outside world has been in his apartment. Someone not a plumber or his landlord. Someone he knows. And it's Ethan, bedhead and boxers and all too comfortable.

That changes when he sees the camera's return. He sighs, but Ethan just responds, "Hold on, alright?"

"You don't have enough mementos?"

"Not even close." He gives Spencer a brief, cheeky smile as he swaps in a new roll of film, in blatant contradiction to what he just said. "C'mere."

Spencer sighs again but does, in fact, go there, if reluctantly so. Ethan doesn't raise the camera immediately, though, and hangs it around his neck as he reaches up towards Reid's face.

"Glare," he explains, tilting Reid's head slightly. He pushes around his hair a bit, brushes his cheek, taps Reid's chin up with a smile. "Hey. Say cheese."

"Absolutely not," Spencer tries to say flatly, but it doesn't come out that way, warped by the smile he can't help. Still, he tries.

Ethan has his camera loose in one hand, still messing with Reid—his collar now, then his hair again. When he finally just pushes Spencer's nose in with one finger, Spencer smacks him away with an uncontrollable laugh.

Which is, of course, when the shutter clicks.

"Are you happy now?" Reid asks as he smooths his hair back, trying to feel some level of composure. "I have to go."

In lieu of an answer, Ethan kisses him, one hand on Spencer's hip and the other on the base of his skull. Their lips part around each other's instinctively at this point, close even with the camera between them, the slats of Ethan's ribs fitting in the space between Reid's fingers. It's a kiss so slow and uncomplicated it's more like breathing than anything. Except...

Oh, but there's a longing to it, a tugging pull that tells Spencer to lock the door again and never leave. A case of the Mondays indeed.

In the end, Ethan has to be the one to break the kiss, though he leaves a parting brush across Spencer's cheek to soften the blow. When he pulls away fully, he tugs at Reid's tie, his coat, the strap of his bag, until he gets swatted away.

"Have a good day at work, dear."

"Can I have my key back, actually?" Spencer asks. He doesn't mean it.

"No way, baby." Ethan swings the keyring around his finger obnoxiously. "I've got snooping to do."

It's obnoxious, but as he ducks in to kiss Ethan's cheek this time, part of Spencer doesn't care if it's a joke or not. Maybe it's alright having somebody know him like that, if it's Ethan. Someone he trusts, maybe more than the should with the distance of time. At least for the weekend, he means.

And like that spare key, for the first time since he's lived in this apartment, he doesn't lock the door behind him because he knows there's someone still in there, taking care of it.

Chapter Text

Spencer's apartment is, in fact, empty when he gets back.

Obviously. He knew that would be the case before he even left DC, considering Ethan had an established departure that it was unlikely any case other than a spree killer would be solved before. He's known for half a week, and he accepted it long before they solved the case the same day Ethan went home.

And still Spencer half expects to see him when he opens the door. It shouldn't make sense that a handful of hours of having him there should outweigh years of memories of being the only person ever in his place, but it does. Recency bias, maybe, but he suspects it's more to do with the vibrancy of that short time, like the space was more full with Ethan in it.

Instead, all is quiet and in its place. Aside from Ethan's absence, everything is as Reid left it; the way he's left it every other time before.

Well, almost as he left it. Because the bed is made (and it wasn't, oh God) and there's a note against the pillows, robot keychain propped up in front of it. He picks it up carefully by the ring when he sees the perfect impression of a fingerprint on the metal.

His first thought is that it would yield an absolutely perfect impression for AFIS. His second thought is questioning whether that's an insane first thought. His third is that he should read the note.

Hey, doc. Guess since we didn't overlap again, you'll have to settle for my remote Yelp review: four stars (which he drew), great host, if a little absent.
Your paranoid android wouldn't fit under the door, so I separated the two. If I ended up sliding the key inside too hard and it's under the couch, sorry.
Call me when you get this, if only to complain about me eating all your cereal (guilty). See you soon, Spence.

And then he's signed it, simple as anything.

It takes a significant amount of willpower for Reid not to pick up the phone immediately, more than he would ever in his life admit to. It feels ridiculous to even imagine, but he really does want to call Ethan, right now, and talk about cereal and everything and nothing forever. It's that same feeling that made him want to tell Ethan to keep the key forever. Whatever that feeling comes from, it's so disused it hurts. But in a good way, the way people who actually like exercising say it feels like to stretch muscles just a touch too far. Feel the burn, as they say. It's the only way to build.

But he's not going to call Ethan just yet. That would still be ridiculous. First thing in the morning, that would be too much. He'll... unpack, start his laundry, make coffee, and eat, and then he'll call.

He should probably also retrieve the key from under the sofa before it slips his mind. It has nothing to do with the fact that he feels the need to keep that key and that keychain together, where they belong.

So now Spencer is crouched in the middle of the living room, not dialing the phone, not thinking about anything. Before his hand reaches the key, though, it glances off something too light, too skittering. His fingers light upon metal and he sifts around a bit before knocking the other thing out the other side of the sofa.

Key thus retrieved, Spencer cranes over the cushions to see what this mystery object is.

"Oh."

He recognizes it immediately: the roll of film Ethan replaced that morning before Spencer left; that he'd replaced in order to take a picture, two, of Spencer before he left, his wry smile and bedhead on the other side of the lens. It's not one of Reid's, long lost. Nondescript, yes, but dust-free and the wrong color, it's got to be that one.

"Great distraction, Reid," he mutters to himself. "Definitely not thinking about him now."

But he still holds onto it as he goes about his post-case routine. And he's still thinking about it. As he starts the laundry, as he opens his mail, as he puts the key back on its keychain: a low thrum underneath everything, a constant impression in his hand, in his pocket, a weight, a presence, an itch at the back of his mind telling him to run to the phone. Not right now, though. Right now, Spencer has shirts to fold.

Only once he runs out of chores does he let himself actively think about it, bed made and mail sorted. It's easy enough to find a spare film canister for it, but after that, he doesn't know, and then Spencer finds himself standing in the middle of the living room with the film roll in his hand, eyes towards the bedroom. He can't see it from here, but he knows behind that door are the sheets he carefully straightened with a blank mind despite not needing to, the pillow he didn't smell in a moment of weakness.

His hand closes carefully around the canister. He's thinking, collecting data, not dragging his feet. He's just in the evidentiary phase, that's all. The fact that the evidence is question is distracting and not useful for his actual dilemma is besides the point.

He should mail it back, obviously. It's only right. But then the film could be exposed in transit and then it's ruined, which seems too on the nose as a metaphor for why this long distance.... whatever this is is a bad idea. 

And Spencer is overthinking it, he knows. But it matters. It matters to Reid. It feels significant. Like he's holding onto a piece of Ethan himself: proof that he really was here, that Spencer hadn't imagined the whole thing, that the absence he feels in his empty apartment now isn't just a figment of his imagination.

He doesn't want to let it go. The evidentiary phase and all.

So, for a while at least, he doesn't. Though eventually he calls (alright, texts, painstakingly slow but at least unobserved) Ethan as requested, Spencer doesn't mention the film, and continues to do so for several days even as he carries the tube around with him all the time. It rattles almost silently in his fist in his pocket, on the train, at his desk, as he sits on the couch and tries to read. It's a nice change of pace, considering the other cylindrical companion constantly on his person. The tell tale clink of glass against emptying glass in the bottom of his go bag—kept in the bottom drawer of his desk, locked, his only concession to his self-made rule of no drugs in the office—is a lot less comforting. And he knows it's not great that he's essentially trying to almost literally substitute Ethan for drugs, but as far as coping methods go, well, it could be worse, right? Obsessing over a roll of film is a lot better than his last fixation, to say the least. And if he has to keep his hands deep in his pockets when crime scene photos start looking more like memories, well, at least he's sober at work more days than not again.

It's after one such moment, working on a consult, that he goes to get away from his desk and ends up eating lunch with Penelope in her lair. She's talking about something—a TV show he doesn't watch—while he studies the collection of things that populate her desk.

One of them, he hadn't noticed before, is a box made of old slides, glued together to make a pencil cup. Huh.

"So they're still trying to figure out who the guy from the warehouse was, right? Which is when..."

He remembers, then, Penelope asking for advice on how to turn her tiny guest room into an amateur photography lab or her hobby-of-the-week. While it does increase the likelihood of someone who knows him asking what this is about, it increases the possibility no one else will look at the photos. He could do it himself, alone , while still having someone on hand to make sure he doesn't mess it up. Perfect.

"Hey Garcia?"

"Mm?" She says, forkful of salad still in her mouth.

"Are you still pursuing photography as a hobby?"

Penelope, somehow, lights even more up.

" Yes ," she says with a barely controlled lunge forward in her chair. "Are you finally going to join me in my darkroom, Doctor Reid?"

Ignoring her question (and thus also her somewhat threatening tone), he continues, "Can you tell me how to develop a roll of film?"

"Well, I mean, it depends."

"On what?"

Garcia huffs a laugh. "Well, for starters, what kind of film it is, how it's processed, how old it is. I mean, if it's a roll you found under the couch or in the back of an antique shop somewhere, it might not turn out like you hope. My printing setup isn't as good, I'll admit, but I've got the gist."

She breaks off to smile conspiratorially, for some reason. "I've made so many forum friends."

"No prints," Reid blurts.

Penelope blinks up at him. "No prints?"

"No, it's, um. For a friend."

"For a friend," she echoes slowly. "And does this... friend have a reason they don't want these photos printed?"

"It's a real friend."

"Okay."

"He left it at my place and I wanted to develop it before sending it back," Reid explains. "You know. In case something happens in the mail. At least they won't get accidentally ruined."

It's apparently just awkward enough to be believable, as Penelope simply awws. "That's very sweet. Okay, yes. Show me."

Thankfully, Reid had his bag on him, so it's easy to dig out the film in question. On the way into work he'd gotten a bit worried and wrapped it up in the extra scarf he'd had in his bag, which seems like overkill now but made sense at the time, he'd swear. He manages to mostly unwrap the ridiculous outer layer with his hands in his bag, hopefully without Penelope hearing it too, before he hands it over.

"Ooh! I know this one!" Roll of film in one hand, she spins back around to the monitor on the far right, open (as it usually is) to Wikipedia. "It's color reversal film: Kodachrome, old timey slides, that kind of thing. It prints the actual photo on the film rather than a negative, so you don't have to do anything to it, just slide it into a projector. They're really good at accurate color too, since there's no fixing stage. Here, look."

She turns the screen so Reid can read over her shoulder. Though he doesn't recognize the exact terms of art, the process seems reasonable enough in terms of the chemistry. Still, he really wouldn't want to ruin them. "Have you done this one before?"

"Yeah, actually. My grandma always shot slides, so it was one of the first kinds I learned."

"Could you teach me?"

He asks it with a slight grimace he can't control, unavoidably worried at the prospect, and Garcia picks up on it immediately.

"I mean, I could just do it, if you're worried about ruining them," she offers. "Promise I'll do my very best, most diligent work. And I won't even charge you, how about that?"

Her sincerity is contagious, making it hard to turn her down. Still, the question remains. "...Can you develop them without looking at them?"

Penelope blinks. "Uh, probably. Why?"

"I just... want to respect his privacy." Good enough answer, and not even technically a lie. Also true, albeit not completely: "I don't know what the photos are of."

There's a moment where she obviously wants to make a dirty joke—a horrifying possibility that Spencer has no clue how to respond to—before she looks at him again, more closely. The last trace of joviality in her face falls away into plain earnestness.

"Yeah, sure. Pinky promise."

Then she actually holds out the finger in question and waits until he reciprocates. Silly as it is, it kind of does make him feel better. Once she's got him in her grip, Penelope ducks forward and kisses her half of their linked pinkies.

She doesn't let go until Spencer does the same.

"There! Now we are bound by a solemn, unbreakable vow, so even if I accidentally get a peek, I am pre-sworn to secrecy." Then she bumps their fists together and adds, "Wonder Twin powers, activate."

Reid nods along. He tries to shake the feeling that he's signed his own death warrant. It doesn't exactly work.

•••

I have a question for you, Jennifer

Hopefully, I have an answer, William.

Whats your feeling on movie first dates?

Planning something?

Never was a boy scout, but I still like to be prepared

Movie date depends. Can't be too pretentious, but blockbuster action movies don't give you much to talk about. Mostly I think it's just a really efficient way of figuring out if you can actually stand to talk to someone.
Plus, at least if the guy is insufferable you've spent most of the date in silence already.

Interesting
Good to know

Now what does that mean?

Means i think your theory is interesting is all

I feel like this was some kind of test and I can't tell how I did.

You couldnt fail, no matter the answer
If it makes you feel better

I can't tell how I feel about that either, to be honest.

Give it time

•••

Spencer tries to forget about it. The whole thing, honestly. He manages for most of the first afternoon, given that there's still plenty of paperwork and follow up from their last case to focus on.

Really, all he has to get through is this first afternoon, because before he ever even had plans with Ethan that the case then interrupted, he'd originally had this trip with Gideon planned for the middle of the week, which is now tomorrow.

Gideon had been invited to speak on the anniversary of a notable case in Michigan, and he invited Reid to come along in an unacknowledgedly odd move. He'd be the one picking Spencer up early the next morning on the way to Union Station. It's something they've done dozens of times before, up and down the east coast, the west, everywhere between, and the routine rhythms of the journey are calming now. It's easy to forget how much his life has kind of turned upside down once more (and, perhaps the worse part, maybe even for the better) in the past few weeks, when this trip could be one of any over the years, all the way up to his front door again two days later.

So he forgets that he's supposed to be nervous about leaving the undeveloped film with Garcia, at first for a few days while he's gone, but then again when they get back and there's another case to follow. Actually, it's also pretty easy to forget about when Garcia hasn't said a word—which frankly should be suspicious, but it slips his mind in lieu of the new case files to absorb.

All of which is to say that when he circles back to grab his jacket before they follow a string of suspicious deaths to Akron later that week, and there's a tiny gift bag on his desk, bright blue and overflowing with crinkly strips of paper, it shocks him into total stillness.

Right. That.

Just that is enough to give him a clue as to who it's from and, thus, what it is, so he stuffs the entire thing in his bag without looking before anyone can ask about it.

Reid waits until they're on the plane, briefed and assigned and thus simply waiting for the flight to end, before he tucks himself in the bathroom and opens the bag.

The first thing he finds is a note, scrawled in matching blue gel pen with characteristic Garcia flair. He had already assumed he'd have a conversation awaiting him when they get home, but the contents of the note solidify it:

All peeking was accidental, promise! But you should keep whoever took these around. He gets your good side.

Though there are no prints, Spencer sees why she felt so confident in her assessment when he opens the canister. Even just tipping it out into his palm, he can tell. They aren't negatives—right, like Garcia explained—and the quality is objectively stunning, even before he holds them up to the light. It isn't until he's gotten that far, squinting up at the little cels, that Spencer realizes he is now also peeking, but he's beyond deniability at this point, so, in for a penny...

The first few shots are unfamiliar: a dangling fire escape, a group of friends (sans Ethan, who is presumably still behind the camera). New Orleans. Then are a few Spencer can only assume are from the first half of the tour, as he recognizes both the faces of the other musicians and the mundane beauty of American roadsides. There's one of a balloon string caught in a tree that looks just like the kind of pictures Spencer watched him develop in high school. The rest, though, are of DC—and more specifically, of Spencer.

And they really are of Spencer. This is what he recognized immediately. Sure, there are a few still lifes interspersed: the arched ceiling of the Metro platform, a starling on a post outside the Smithsonian castle, what Reid immediately recognizes as one of the metal vent covers at the museum. But as he moves from frame to frame, backlit by the bathroom light, more often than not he finds his own face staring back at him in miniature, his presence somehow only further magnified by those rare shots where he's absent.

Even worse is that he doesn't recognize most of them—not even the first, which is in his own apartment, before he even knew Ethan had brought his camera. He tries not to cringe at the obviousness of his hair and rumpled clothing (and he hasn't even begun to connect the dots that he's not the first to see these) and focuses on figuring out how it was taken without his notice. It must have been right after Penelope called. It's the only time he can think of where his attention wasn't 100% on Ethan, and the way his brow is furrowed in the picture could be from when he was thinking about the conversation that just ended. He realizes then what Penelope's note meant: it's all in the angle of the photo, the way he's framed just so the light is almost behind Spencer's head but at just enough of an angle to illuminate his face, that says somehow more about the author than the subject. It's so... careful. Deliberate. It's a beautiful photo of what Spencer wouldn't ordinarily consider a beautiful subject and that's a testament to the creator.

And every picture is like this, all remaining 30 exposures. Reid on the train. Reid on the mall. Reid trying not to lose all the salt off his pretzel and fighting a losing battle with the wind. Reid in front of Her Appeal to the Dauphin . Reid on the train again and, last but not least, Reid on the other side of the glass, hand lifted in a stationary wave as they parted ways at Gallery Place.

(There's actually one frame in the roll that isn't of Spencer, but his absence is unmissable too. That odd one out is actually a poorly composed shot of Ethan looking unbearably fondly at something off camera. He has one hand up to push his hair out of his face, mouth open in a forgotten sound that failed to be memorialized the way the smile underneath the words did. A smile, it's clear, at Spencer, who was clearly in the same room one shot before.)

In the window of the train, Spencer can now see the faint reflection of the lens in the foreground, Ethan's head ducked behind it the way Spencer remembers from his own point of view. He doesn't remember making that face: not polite and normal but genuine, with a tender undercurrent he can't control. Something in the eyes that reveals more than he intended. Something too true.

Now, on the plane, Spencer looks at that last frame, but he doesn't see a goodbye all over again. Instead, he realizes that it wasn't until Ethan tried to take another picture of him the next morning that he realized the roll was finished. The associations quickly follow: meaning he didn't notice the night before; meaning he didn't find anything worth documenting, coincidentally in the only period in which Reid wasn't around; supposition being that the two facts are connected, even if correlation doesn't equal causation.

It's hard, Spencer is realizing, to convince oneself of an action's innocuousness when one's job is centered around applying meaning into human behavior. Hard to tell yourself you're reading too far into something when reading too far into things is what you do for a living.

A knock on the door interrupts.

"Fall in?"

Emily's voice carries easily through the flimsy door and for a second Reid feels the panic erupt that he's become conditioned to feel whenever someone comes to find him because he's taken too long. At least this time it isn't drugs he's trying hurriedly to stash in his bag. This time. Not that it helps the overall perception.

Emily is still standing there when he opens the door, albeit on the other side of the hall. It's not actually that much of a difference, but Spencer knows what it means as a gesture, which is underscored by the gently concerned look she's giving him.

"I'm fine," he tells her immediately, but it's a familiar enough line that it feels like a lie even though it's not this time. The knowledge that it will, sooner or later, be a lie again doesn't help. "I got distracted washing my hands. Do we know if the unsub was right or left handed yet?"

"Uh." Emily glances back to her seat where her copy of the file sits. "I don't know."

"I think he might be forcing his victims to write the suicide notes in their wrong hand."

"Which would explain the weird graphology," Emily agrees. "But that could be a lot of things."

"Historically speaking, it's only relatively recent that left-handed children were no longer forced to learn to write with their non-dominant hand, especially in religious schools. People thought for a long time that left-handedness is related to witchcraft. It's where sinister comes from."

"And the bruises on the right hand." She tilts her head at him knowingly. "Nuns with rulers. That's good. You got all that from washing your hands?"

"Yeah." Reid carefully leaves out the bit where most of that reasoning was subconscious until this moment as he was more preoccupied with his love life. It's nice to know he can still do his job.

It's with that in mind—and with a solid day of groundwork behind them—that Spencer lets himself finally call Ethan back that night from the hotel in Akron, even though it violates his personal rule of not thinking about anything other than a case when he's on one.

If he's being honest, he's been putting it off. He texted when he got Ethan's note (loathe as he is to ever text) but he hasn't let himself call, even though Ethan made it clear he at least would not mind. But something about hearing his actual voice, not to mention speaking himself, is different. More real, yes, but also more vulnerable. No printed words to hide behind. Every inflection, he knows all too well, is telling, and Spencer isn't sure he even knows what he'd be telling, which is the point.

But he wants to— He'd like to hear Ethan's voice. Even if it means breaking his own rules. Because now that he's actually alone, he keeps seeing the photos in his mind, keeps imagining the one photo that isn't there but is back with Ethan, that last morning. It was a really good morning, so good he's not sure it was even real.

Ethan's voice would make it real.

Before he can think about it any longer, Spencer pulls out his phone and calls the first contact he's had to add in a very long while. It rings, and rings, which makes sense, considering that this is around the time that Ethan is likely working, and anxiety ratchets up slowly, only to break with the announcement of the answering machine picking up.

"Hey. You actually haven't reached Ethan, which is why you're hearing this. Leav—"

As Spencer prepares himself to start, he and the message both are interrupted.

"Hey, Spence."

"Oh." There goes the words on the tip of his tongue. All Spencer's planning, gone out the window already. "Yes. Hello. I was just calling to let you know I got your note. And the key. Actually, I also found a roll of film that I'm pretty sure is yours. Um."

After a pause on both their ends, Ethan says, "Wanna start again?"

Spencer's eyes squeeze shut. "Hi, Ethan. How are you?"

"I'm good, thank you," Ethan says back with equal ridiculousness. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?"

He doesn't laugh, but the smile that breaks across his face is just as involuntary. Spencer is suddenly very, very grateful for the medium of the telephone, probably more grateful than anyone since Alexander Graham Bell managed to get his patent filed first. Different circumstances, of course, but he's grateful.

"You already proved you can text," Ethan continues, and at that, Spencer does laugh, though it's more a defensive huff than anything.

"Yes, thank you." He is still absolutely smiling, and the words are undoubtedly colored by this fact, so Spencer can only hope Ethan doesn't notice. "I'm actually calling you from a cellphone right now, I'll have you know. It has buttons and everything."

When Ethan laughs, it's loud and unobstructed, filtered only by the phone line between them. And everything Spencer was worried about before—what to say, how he sounds, whether it's weird to be calling from a hotel room in Akron—melts away.

"Shit, buttons? Who are you and what have you done with Spencer Reid?" There's a shuffling on the other end of the line, drawing Spencer's attention to the quiet there otherwise. He's not at work, then. Spencer tries not to imagine him at home. Comfortable. On the sofa he knows the exact texture of, the same soft lights Ethan was looking back at him under not two weeks ago. "I assume that means this is the notorious cellphone. Hold on, let me rewrite my mental image. I was picturing the rotary dial."

"Yes," Spencer answers, idly wishing that he had a cord to fiddle with. He's carefully not thinking about that last sentence. "I was in Michigan for a bit, which is why I didn't call earlier. Although now I'm in Ohio, actually."

He definitely shouldn't have admitted that, Spencer thinks immediately, because then it means that it's clear he didn't just find the film. Meaning he's been holding onto that knowledge for a bit—and sure, maybe Ethan will think it just slipped his mind, but he also definitely won't think that because he knows Spencer.

"Geez. Sorry to hear that."

Spencer smiles, just a little, where no one can see. "It's fine. It's Ohio."

"That's why I said it." The shuffling returns for a split second. On second thought, Spencer would very much like to know what it is, if only because then he won't be wondering . "You've got a message waiting for you on your answering machine, FYI."

"Oh." His heartbeat doesn't stutter. "Sorry."

"Don't be," Ethan replies, easy as ever. "I assume you're not in Ohio for fun. So what was that about film?"

Right: the reason he called. Spencer pulls the phone away for a second to see how long the call has been going on, only to find, embarrassingly, that it's been barely a single minute. He very purposefully does not think about his own eidetic memory and returns to the mental script he'd been writing as the phone rang. 

"I found a, uh, cannister, that must belong to you. I had it developed, so I can mail it to you if you want, and you won't have to worry about them being accidentally exposed in transit."

There's more to it, but as he's saying it aloud, Spencer finally realizes how acutely ridiculous the amount of thought he put into the situation really is. 

"Smart," Ethan agrees, but there's something underneath the agreement that Reid can't quite... "You could've just brought them with you next time, but I should've known you'd already have thought ten steps ahead."

"The next time...?" The words finally register, then compute. "Oh. Okay. Right."

"Or just hold onto them til I'm back in town," Ethan continues. "But I figure it's your turn to come down here. Not like you got to see much of the city last time, being on the job."

"Right. That makes sense."

"Okay. Cool."

Reid's whirring subconscious finishes its analysis at that moment and announces that what he was picking up in Ethan's voice was hesitation. He was nervous. Their conversation in Reid's bed that last night comes back to rearrange the puzzle pieces: Ethan, uncertain about implying they'll continue to see each other relatively frequently; Ethan's voice, in the dark, saying he was glad to be there. I don't know what this is, but I missed you . Then the way Ethan kissed him that last time the next morning, that same camera between them, holding a picture of Spencer that was just one of dozens, it turns out.

"I'm actually on a case right now," he blurts before he can overthink it, "but— I mean, since my schedule is so variable... The next time I'm actually home on a weekend, I could just. Get on the next plane."

"How's the calendar looking, by the way? Think you'll be free this weekend?"

"Maybe." Spencer's heart beats an extra emphatic thud. "Ah. Hopefully."

Garcia's gift bag sits knowingly on the table. Without looking back, Spencer nudges it onto the chair below, out of sight. Of course, he'll have to deal with it eventually, this being a hotel, but all that matters is he doesn't have to think about it with Ethan in his ear saying:

"Well, let me know the tail number and I'll be in the pick up line before you can say Slartibartfast."

"I can't remember the last time someone quoted Hitchhiker's Guide to me."

"Maybe that's why you're all so depressed. Jesus, haven't you heard of the healing power of comedy? A laugh a day keeps the PTSD away. You'd think you guys of all people would get that."

"A laugh a day is about all the Medicare mental health benefits cover," Spencer fires back. It has the added bonus of being tragically true.

"Jesus, Spencer."

"Too much?"

"Only if it isn't true."

Unfortunately, it is, so all Spencer can say is, "At least it's better than AA."

Ethan's answering laugh is sharp and honest. "At least it's better than AA."

In the moment of silence, Reid knows, inexplicably, that Ethan is smiling. He doesn't know why he thinks that, or how he's so certain that it's right, but he does, and he is. It's with this in mind that he switches back to the original topic, even as he nervously tucks his hair behind his ear over and over. Because even with that, he's smiling too. "But, um. I'll let you know. About the weekend."

There's half a noise, almost startled, before Ethan responds, "Yeah. Do that. So, you're, uh, in Ohio now? Do you ever get to sleep in your own bed?"

"Not as often as I'd like, to be honest."

"Mm. Well, you did always want to travel."

"Not to Ohio." He can't exactly pinpoint why, but Spencer has a broad dislike of the Midwest. He likes the snow in Minnesota. The rest is so... bleak. 

"So what's got you up there anyway?"

"Do you... really want to hear?" Not in the least because most people wouldn't, but also because he knows specifically Ethan didn't, once upon a time, and he really doesn't want to relive that experience.

But there isn't a hint of hesitation or deception, or anything other than casual sincerity, in Ethan's voice when he says, "I want to hear you, whatever it's about."

So Spencer tells him, until sleep is unavoidable. He dreams of snow in Nevada and the white noise of silence over the phone.

•••

It's not quite like a floodgate opening, because it's not like JJ is suddenly inundated with texts from Will after that first call, but it is fairly regular contact. In general, JJ kind of hates her phone; having to be constantly available ot everyone may be her job description, but that doesn't mean she has to like it. At this point, even hearing her personal cell going off (different ringtone, she tried that, and yet) makes her sigh up at the ceiling automatically. But not for Will, it seems. And given the frequency with which he's now the reason for the ring, her instincts may be turning, singing a different tune.

Unfortunately, even if her Pavlovian reaction is changing, it's still pretty obvious—at least, in her line of work.

"Alright, who is texting you so much?"

These people... She really needs to work on her poker face again.

JJ startles but manages not to whip around and take a swing at Derek behind her on reflex, though it's a near thing. Still, small victories. Maybe less so when considering she's still jumping at shadows some days.

And the best she can come up with is: "Huh?"

That response was never going to work, but Derek graciously only raises an eyebrow, which isn't as bad as it could be.

"You're always glued to that thing," he continues, "but I don't think I've ever seen you smile at it like that, so I know it's not work. So who is he?"

JJ gives him a flat look for the pronoun. "My mom, actually."

Apparently, that's where Derek draws the line at humoring her.

"JJ, if texts from your mom have you looking like that, you've got bigger problems."

"That's not— Shut up!" She refuses to blush, and tries her hardest, but it's clear from the way Morgan smiles then that it wasn't convincing enough. In her defense, she still has Will's text ringing in her ears, confirming plans for—

JJ honestly can't believe herself, but she's going to New Orleans in about a week and a half, two Saturdays from now, to "see the sights" without a murderer pulling focus. Which is to say... To see Will. The only concrete plan she actually has after her flight in arrives and before her flight out leaves. The whole thing is crazy. JJ is crazy.

And yet here she is.

All of this is to say she's at a bit of a disadvantage in this conversation, alright? And that's not even getting into the fact that she's the only person here not diligently trained to analyze human behavior—really, they should all be cutting her some slack.

But not her coworkers, of course. No way.

Of course, because Derek is as nice as he is a jerk at times, this is when he raises his hands apologetically, making her feel guilt on top of everything else.

"Didn't mean to pry. Just curious."

"You so meant to pry," JJ points out, and he nods.

"Alright, yeah, I did. But I thought I was just teasing." He's sincere, she can tell, because his volume drops easily, considerate without drawing attention to it. Alright, he's still a good guy. "If I touched a nerve..."

"It's not that," she finally admits. After a quick look around that she hopes is also inauspicious, she walks them back a few feet around the corner, half tucked into a less crowded hallway. There, she continues, "It's personal, but not... personal . I... have a date this weekend."

As soon as she says it, she doubts the word choice. That is to say... Well, it is a date. But it isn't either: that is, it's not a date like any other JJ has had, or something she would ordinarily consider a date. Flying somewhat spur of the minute to see someone she's met once before to.... She doesn't even really know what, other than not for a first date and not for a fiftieth.

Derek just raises an eyebrow. "Okay. And? You've never hesitated before to tell us about the weird guy your friend set you up with, or the cute coffee shop guy who ended up being a total jerk. Why are you being so sneaky about this one?"

Because those didn't matter , comes her first thought, which she absolutely doesn't voice. Because it's not like she knows that this one matters yet. It's been a couple of weeks: two phone calls and a handful of texts. They've been in the same place once .

And yeah, she bought a plane ticket, but that's all it is so far. Some conversations and a future date. What's there to hide?

"You know, we don't all have to know everything about each other," JJ tries to tease, but there's no way that Derek is buying that either. She follows just as quickly with the more genuine, "I don't know. It feels different."

She isn't really sure how to explain it. It's not obvious, or logical. It's not like there was a specific moment or thing about Will that pulled her to him; sure, they have chemistry, and he's cute and kind and smart, but so are a lot of people, and it's not like something exceptionally noteworthy happened to tie them together in those 72 hours in New Orleans: some death-defying, close encounter, a significant charged moment, something like that. JJ hasn't kept in contact with, really, any local cops on any cases they've taken, beyond follow-up paperwork and shit like that. There's no real reason, and yet here she is, with a flight booked to go see a guy she knew for a handful of hours and hasn't stopped thinking about since.

It's... She doesn't know what to call it, which seems to be a running theme. Not a date, not a spark, not a pinpointable moment of bonding or attraction that's enough to drag her to another state to see a guy she spent a handful of days working with. JJ kind of thinks she's going crazy.

And she's not sure she doesn't like it.

A smile tugs at the corner of JJ's face, absolutely without her permission, and Derek mirrors it instinctively.

"Well alright then," he capitulates. "Good luck. I hope it's a good kind of different."

JJ taps her phone into her palm, again and again, the solid weight of it. Not buzzing yet, but ready.

"Yeah. Me too."

•••

They don't quite make it back by Friday. The unsub slows their pace at their arrival, and the whole thing drags out. Spencer breaks his rule again and calls that afternoon from a storage closet at the Akron police station while everyone else breaks for lunch. It actually snows in those last few days, and if Spencer were superstitious, he'd think it was some kind of cosmic punishment for still being in the midwest when he could be home (when he could be somewhere else, with someone else). As it is, he deliberately doesn't think of anything but the case until it's over.

It ends as well as it could, with Emily and Derek heading off to interview someone they think could be a lead, only to find out they're talking to the unsub. It ends a lot better than the last time that happened to one of them—he's not thinking about it, though the dry, winter grass of Ohio looks a lot like Georgia in a certain light—with Emily taking the guy in easily while he was distracted by Derek. They're done by two in the afternoon, back to Quantico by four thirty, just in time to wrap up their reports at their own desks.

Penelope is there at the elevator to greet them, just like always, normal as ever—which is to say, as abnormal as ever, in her Penelope way. She isn't acting any different, aside from a few weighty glances Spencer's direction through the crowd of the team, and a wave of gratitude washes over him. It was ridiculous to overthink the whole film development thing, he knows, but in a way he's grateful that it led to him telling Penelope. And so he smiles back at her, over JJ's head as Penelope squeezes her, and waits patiently for a squeeze of his own.

They wander back into each other's orbits an hour later, after everyone but Hotch and Gideon have gone home. Spencer is at his desk when the muffled clack of heeled boots starts to echo through the bullpen, a sound that is only Penelope.

"What's up, doc," she says as she sits on the corner of his desk.

"Hi, Garcia." The empty office is comfortingly quiet, only the sound of a vacuum down the hall and a TV somewhere else playing the news, and Spencer doesn't feel the need to lower his voice. "I'm good, how are you."

It isn't a question, the same way her greeting wasn't either: rhetorical, meant more as a social signifier of caring. But he still means it.

Penelope fidgets with the cup of pens on his desk. "Are you mad at me?"

Now that one is a question. "For what?"

"I totally snooped."

"Oh." It's the furthest thing from his mind, frankly, but now that she's said it, he can read the hesitancy in her body language, the less-than-boisterous tone of her voice, the subdued and slow click of her shoes crossing the floor. "No."

Penelope sighs, a huge production: shoulders sagging, head thrown back, the sound fills the empty office so completely Spencer has to laugh. And granted, the laugh is hardly more than a huff of air, but it's enough to catch Penelope's gaze again as she continues:

"Oh thank god. Because I was worried— I mean, not that I expected it to come up when you guys were calling about the case or anything, but when you didn't mention it, I kinda thought you were mad, or at least, I don't know, hurt maybe? Betrayed? Because I know I promised not to, but okay, I'm nosy, we all know that, that's the job, basically, and—"

"Garcia."

The office is empty, but not that empty.

"Right." She course corrects with a deep breath back into something more restrained. "Sorry. It just seemed like a big deal, when you asked for privacy. I didn't want you to think I..."

"No, it's okay. I was being dramatic."

Penelope smirks, a ribbon in her hair bouncing as she tips her head. "I would've said nervous, but okay."

"I wasn't nervous," Spencer has to defend, but it falls flat instantly at her quirked eyebrow.

"You so were."

"It's just— Well."

He doesn't have an end to that sentence, actually.

And eventually Penelope seizes the opportunity.

"Sooo... This totally real friend."

He should've known she would hold onto that. "Yes?"

"Is that why you've been different lately?"

"Different how?"

"Kinda lighter? Less gloomy. And, uh," Penelope grimaces even as she continues, "hair more regularly washed."

"Uh. Yeah. Well."

"No, I mean— I like it for you. I'm glad." She waits until Spencer lifts his eyes to hers before telegraphing the movement of her hand wrapping around his. She squeezes meaningfully, still making eye contact. Reid both dreads and is delighted by it: his friend, happy for him, seeing through him clearly. "I meant it. He gets your good side."

At that, he can't help but wince. "How much did you see?"

"Oh, not actually that much." Penelope waves him off as she comes around to lean against his desk too, their knees perpendicular. "I really didn't look on purpose. I just recognized you and it caught my attention. But I didn't go frame by frame." 

He mostly believes her. "Thanks."

"But there was..." She trails off in a way Reid immediately knows is calculated. "There was one shot in the middle that caught my eye. If you wouldn't mind me taking a look? Sate my curiosity and all?"

It's the single real photo of Ethan, he knows, that Garcia is talking about, but he feels magnanimous (and secure in the otherwise empty office) enough to show her anyway. Besides, she's kept her silence so far.

Without a word, he hands her the film. Penelope immediately lunges for the lamp at his elbow, clicking it on as she pulls a loupe on a chain out of her pocket, which of course she has. Spencer already knows what she's seeing in vibrant miniature, but he sees it fresh in Garcia's eyes: the comfortable stillness with which Ethan watches Spencer behind the camera, content to hand over the reins because there's nowhere else he'd rather look. The trust. The understanding. And yes, he sees Ethan's eyes and his handsome chin and how soft his hair looks, Spencer isn't an idiot, but it's the rest that draws him into the picture, and it's the rest he's beginning to think, the longer she looks, that Penelope is looking for too. Maybe even she's finding it.

Whatever she sees, after a long moment, Penelope sits back and replaces her usual glasses with an air of decision.

"Well done, doctor," she says approvingly as she holds back out the film.

All Spencer can think to say is, "Thank you," but it makes her grin as she walks away back to her lair.

On the train home, he catches his reflection in the window between flashes of light underground. He's smiling too. He's still smiling when he gets off the train. There's a message for him to listen to when he gets home.

He should probably thank Penelope for the answering machine too. Next time.