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behindyourbarrette · 3 years

Text

like you a latte - peppermint tea

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pairing: spencer reid x reader

word count: 2k

warnings: discussion of illness (its like the flu lol), but other than that none

a/n: hiiii discokitchen here! new url but same series :)) hope u guys enjoy this chapter! pls pls pls leave me feedback or reblog if you liked, it helps me out so so soooo much and i appreciate u endlessly

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Twilight Time is incredibly short-staffed.

Tyler called to tell you himself, in hysterics. You had to comfort him over the phone, rolling out of bed and tugging your uniform on as he panicked. You made your way through your apartment, stepping over the mess of textbooks and notes on your floor to reach the door. It's been a busy few months at school, and when you’re stressed chairs feel like an inconvenience.

“I can come in, yeah. No, I’m not sick. I’ll be fine.”

You’re already afraid of what you’ll find waiting for you at the store. Flu season has ravaged Quantico. Between college kids spreading mono like the plague—you cringe as you recall your own excruciatingly painful and embarrassing brush with Epstein-Barr in high school—and the bacteria-growing capabilities of autumn, the city has become a breeding ground. There’s at least two viruses going around, not including strep. All of your coworkers have been bedridden, intermittently, for the past few weeks. You haven’t seen Spencer much, either. What used to be near-daily visits have stretched into every few days, then once a week. It stings in a way that it shouldn’t.

You bike to the store quickly, ignoring the nagging feeling in your chest. You can easily work a double, but something about today feels off. You get inside the storefront and set up, and it’s only a few minutes before a very rare sight greets you.

It’s Spencer, of course.

Something is wrong. He enters quietly, and doesn’t meet your eye until he’s at the register. When you notice him, mid-scribble of a customer’s name, it’s clear that something is different.

You’re no profiler, but some things are said without words. His eyes are red. He looks paler than usual, and he’s sniffling. There’s a five o’clock shadow ghosting across his jawline, and you gulp. Despite how distracting the latter is, you manage to put the pieces together.

Fuck. Spencer Reid is sick.

You finish up with your customer, reaching for a cup.

“Can I get the chai-“ “I’m making you peppermint tea. Caffeine can’t help. Why aren’t you at home?”

You pour hot water over two tea bags and wait, eyeing him suspiciously. He averts your gaze, shrugging his shoulder in the most disinterested gesture you’ve ever seen Spencer make.

“I’m fine. I’m headed into work.”

You can’t mask the distaste and shock on your face. This man will be the death of you.

“You aren’t a medical doctor. I call bull. Sit down and wait for your tea to steep.” You don’t like bossing people around, but the feverish sheen of his skin worries you. To your surprise, he listens, plopping into the seat at the bar that you have grown to expect him in. His shoulders slump as he fixes his eyes on the tea.

“Aren’t you going to tell me about how peppermint is a natural anesthetic? Or how it’s antimicrobial and good for your gut health?” You add a sprig of fresh mint to the top of the drink, drizzling honey over it. You’ve never stepped into this role before, taking care of anyone but yourself. It’s strange to wonder whether his throat hurts, whether he’ll tell you what’s bothering him, how you can make it better. You ignore all of the above in favor of placing the cup in front of him and urging him to take it. It’s probably for the best that you stick to what you know.

“You sound like me.”

His voice is raspy and hoarse, light with his attempt at humor, and it sends a sinful wave of something down your spine. It’s immediately followed by guilt; he’s sick, for fuck’s sake, and you shake the feeling off as you watch him angrily sip at his tea. He can’t joke his way out of this.

“Maybe we’ve been spending too much time together.”

While you intended it as a joke, his face falls, and he covers his mouth with his mug. You falter, stammering to form a response.

“I’m kidding. But really. You can’t go into work like this.”

He frowns, wrinkling his nose. You lean forward, trying your hardest to keep your face level and your tone firm.

“They need me. Profilers don’t take sick days.”

You scoff, untying your apron with deft fingers. He cocks an eyebrow at you, watching as you hang the apron up on its hook.

“That’s dumb. I’m only here because all of my coworkers are out with,” you wave your hand in his general direction, “whatever’s going around. It’s not your choice to be sick. They should understand.”

He shrugs, eyes faraway. He stays zoned out until you cross the coffee bar, standing before him with your hands on your hips.

“What are you doing?”

You roll your eyes. He scans your face, eyes a little panicked as you speak.

“I’m taking you home. Come on. I can call you a cab.” He shakes his head, quick to offer a string of excuses and “I’m fine’s” and reasons to leave him be. You grab his arm, encased in a puffy winter jacket, and tug him towards the door. As you push him out of the shop, you flip the switch and the ‘Open’ sign falls dark.

“You have to work, you can’t just leave—“ He’s acting like a child, dragging his feet as you urge him onto the sidewalk. You laugh.

“I’m taking the day. Tyler will deal.”

“Who’s Tyler?” He rasps, and you laugh. It’s only after you’ve successfully hailed a taxi that Spencer enlightens you with the fact that he lives in the apartment building across the street.

“Oh.”

After explaining the situation to a very disgruntled taxi driver, waving him away, and asking why Spencer never mentioned that sooner, you manage to cajole Spencer across the street and up a few flights of stairs. His apartment is on the third floor, situated on the corner. It’s a nice apartment building—the doorman eyes you dubiously before Spencer assures him that you’re a friend. Once outside his door, he fishes in his pockets for his keys, clearly stalling, before you speak.

“I’m sorry if I’m intruding. I’m just worried about you. I can, uh, go now.” You shove your hands in your pockets, the reality that you’ve just invited yourself in—and probably derailed his plans for the day— setting in. He sniffs in response, the tip of his nose a sickeningly adorable shade of pink.

“No, ’s fine. You’re right. As usual.” He finds his keys, shoving them into the lock and opening the door with little ceremony. It swings open to reveal Spencer’s apartment, lightly cedar scented and dim.

Spencer stumbles inside, kicking off his shoes and sinking into the couch. You follow, his tea in hand, trying not to noticeably gawk at what you see. He could probably start his own personal archives, given the quantity of books on the shelves and newspapers scattered across the room.

You move to sit next to him, but he waves you away. Fear pulses in your throat, but as he rubs at his temples, he opens one eye. Upon seeing that you haven’t moved, he continues.

“Keep your distance. I’m probably contagious.” A small smile blooms on your face, and you shake your head.

“I don’t get sick.”

This is a blatant lie, and while you’re happy to tell it Spencer doesn't seem delighted to hear it. You take another step towards him, and he shrinks even further into himself. One hand clamped over his mouth, he waves you away.

“Seriously. I don’t think you understand the consequences of airborne particles." It’s clear his concern is genuine; you remember that he doesn’t shake hands, and seems generally concerned with germs. Instead of humoring him, you offer no reaction, your face blank as you stand before him. He shifts, trying another tactic.

“Everyone gets sick.”

You shake your head, revealing the tea in your hand. From an adequate distance away, you hand it to him.

“Not me. Immune system of steel.”

He doesn’t laugh at your joke, and your heart sinks as you begin to realize that something is very wrong. His eyes are absent, and he’s sipping at his tea in a way that allows him to move only centimeters. He’s clearly in pain, and he doesn’t want you to know.

You decide that in order for this to work, you have to catch him off guard. Instead of pushing the limits now, you opt to poke around his apartment instead.

Well. Not really his apartment. You tell yourself you’re only looking in his medicine cabinet for a fever reducer, and maybe a cough suppressant, but it’s hard not to absorb the rest of his home.

It’s ridiculously in character; the whole apartment feels dim and cozy, dark browns and greens coating the decor and feel of the rooms. There are books and newspapers all over every free surface, arranged intentionally but in an order that is lost on you. He collects vinyl—you spot an extensive classical music section, with Dvorak and Vivaldi and Elgar records popping out at you. To your surprise, there’s even a Nat King Cole original pressing, tucked into the corner of the stack.

You return to the couch, where Spencer is sitting upright. He’s finished his tea, and is now flicking through a book. He’s not really reading, though—you know when he is, and can tell when he’s lingering too long on one page. This fact makes you smile as you sink into the couch beside him, tucking your legs beneath you.

In any other circumstance, you’d ask.

You don’t. Before he can object, you reach out and press the back of your hand to his forehead. The gesture is gentle, and you can feel heat burn against your skin as you linger. A little distantly, it occurs to you that this is the first time you’ve touched.

“You’re burning up. At least take an Advil.” He doesn’t say anything. His hair falls into his face as he takes the pills, sipping at a cool glass of water. You watch, trying to memorize the way his chest rises and falls, how…disarmed he looks. It’s clear that this place is home to him, and you feel strangely honored to be inside.

He has a TV, to your surprise. You fumble with the remote for a few minutes before you manage to put on a movie, and Spencer sinks into the couch cushions. You keep your distance, perched on the arm, while he falls asleep. He looks peaceful in sleep, in spite of his fever, and in the very back of your mind you wonder how it would feel to wake up next to him.

Oh.

What an alarming thought. You nearly tumble off the couch with the force of this realization, but recover quickly enough to land on your feet. You have to go. It’s easy to justify your exit; technically you’re still on the clock, and Tyler may quite literally kill you for leaving the store unattended. The humor of the fact that Spencer would probably catch anyone who played a part in your demise isn’t lost on you, and you stifle a laugh as you collect your things. You leave a note on his kitchen counter, scrawling the message with care before you rush out of the door.

I left a few tea bags. Stay at home!!! No working until your brain is healed.

Get well soon. Really.

Y/N XOXOXOXO

You only fully grasp the hold he has on you a few days later, when you’re curled in bed with a terrible headache. Luckily, Sally can cover your shift. You’re on your side, nursing a bowl of soup when you catch sight of a book on your nightstand. It’s Spencer’s—you’ve been meaning to return it for weeks, but you’re not sure if you’re ready to give up this piece of him. Groaning, you close your eyes.

Fuck. You’re gone. Off the deep end, head over heels, irreparably far gone.

And to him, you're just friends.

taglist:

@everyonesfavoritepipecleaner @coldlilheart @idonotexiste @aberrant-annie @onyourfingertips @bakugouswh0r3 @uptowngotmedown @infinite-tides @chaosconcerns @littlewritersinspace @okivia @forever-not-gonna-sink @insert-gay-here @just-another-persona123 @winniemjf @jammiebirch @thedancingnerdmermaid

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