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visceravalentines · 3 months

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a goddamn break

that's right boys it's a saw fic from me, the clown

2.5k words. neat n tidy little character study of my favorite guys in loathe with each other. no content warnings. not explicitly coffinshipping but anything's coffinshipping if you glare at it long enough. I fucked with the timeline of saw iv to make this make sense but literally time isn't real especially in these movies. hope you like it!!

Peter Strahm tells his doctor he doesn’t smoke, and if he were hooked up to a polygraph, it would read as true.

That’s because he knows how to lie in a way that makes the words fact, at least in that moment and the one that comes after. It’s because he quit in college, cold turkey, the day after he got his diploma, and the doc doesn’t ask if he used to smoke.

It’s also because the battered pack of Camels he keeps in the pocket of his suit jacket doesn’t count. That’s for emergencies only.

Today constitutes an emergency. The last two weeks have been a goddamn emergency. Every waking moment since he set foot in the Metropolitan Police Department has been nothing but dead ends and incompetence. Today is one of a long string of days he’d rather fast-forward through to get to the good part, the part where he wins.

He’s never had a liaison turn casualty before. Detective Kerry had a good head on her shoulders, knew which way was up. She’d reached out to the FBI for help on the Jigsaw case, not the other way around. That was the mark of a good cop. One who knew when they were out of their element.

Strahm isn’t ready to admit he’s out of his element. Not yet. Because he isn’t.

He just needs a smoke.

His jacket is slumped over the back of his garbage office chair in the shitty little temporary office he shares with Perez. She clocks him rifling through the pockets, raises a sympathetic eyebrow.

“Don’t,” he warns before she can open her mouth.

She puts her hands up like she’s negotiating with a terrorist. “I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

“It’s been a rough couple of weeks,” she concedes.

“Understatement.” Strahm shoves a sigh out through his nose. “I wanna talk to Jill Tuck again.”

“I know you do.”

Her tone borders on consolation. Strahm shoots her a look. “She’s the key, Perez.”

“She’s a big shiny window and you’re a bird flying at top speed,” she replies. “There are other avenues.”

Strahm shakes his head, taps the pack of Camels against his palm. “I wanna talk to her again.”

Perez rolls her eyes, mutters a curse, and he feels a surge of pride. He's rubbing off on her. “I’ll bring her in.”

“Has forensics pulled their heads out of their collective asses yet, or is that too much to ask for in this shithole precinct?”

Perez smiles beatifically. “I’d rather not answer that.”

Strahm makes a sound like a shoe in a dryer. “I’ll be back in five minutes.”

“Take fifteen.”

He grumbles something unintelligible even to himself and stalks out.

There’s a door to the alleyway near the men’s room. Strahm knows this because the two aren’t clearly labeled and he’s gone through the wrong one twice. As he turns down the hall he sees that someone has propped open the external door with a rock to keep it from locking behind them, probably some other idiot chipping away at their respiratory health.

He almost reconsiders, almost turns around to find his way to the front of the building. But that’s stupid. He can stomach five minutes five feet away from another person.

Strahm pushes his way through the door, descends the stairs to his left, rounds the banister to the right, and stops cold.

Hoffman turns that dead-eyed stare on him, blows a lungful of smoke through those Hollywood housewife lips. “Agent Strahm,” he says in a monotone that conveys the most mild surprise conceivable.

Strahm considers walking back in the building for five whole seconds. He has no qualms with casual incivility. But he sees Hoffman doing the same math, catches the twitch of a smirk that may as well be a gauntlet thrown at his feet.

Peter Strahm is many things, but never a coward.

He slouches over begrudgingly, finds a section of wall, gives Hoffman a noncommittal grimace and dares to hope, just for a moment. It would be possible for this interaction to pass in silence, incredibly possible. Painless, even.

“Didn’t know you smoked,” Hoffman remarks, and Strahm grinds his teeth.

“I don’t.” He digs in his pocket for his ancient Bic lighter. He picked it up at a gas station in St. Louis years ago, never saw the need for an upgrade. Bic makes quality products.

Hoffman takes a drag, watches him pull a cigarette from the pack. “My mistake,” he says in the back of his throat. Smoke wafts loose from his mouth.

Strahm strikes the lighter once, twice, thrice. It sparks, but no flame except a flash of white-hot irritation.

He pictures Perez telling him to picture a beach.

He strikes it six more times even though he knows it’s not going to work, tries to count to ten in his head and fizzles out around four, remembers now the last time he lit up in Baltimore and thought to himself I better fill ‘er up.

He did not, of course, do that. Unfortunately.

Strahm straightens his head and looks hard at the brick wall across the alley and waits for it. He can feel Hoffman savoring the moment, knows exactly the sanctimonious look that’s plastered on the detective’s smug fucking face.

If he makes him ask for it, on his sainted mother’s grave, Strahm will shoot him.

Hoffman exhales serenely. “Need a light?”

Somehow that is worse.

Strahm keeps the cigarette pressed between his lips and his eyes straight ahead and holds out his hand to the right. He’ll be goddamned if he lets Hoffman light it for him. He feels the brush of the detective’s fingers on his palm and the familiar weight of a Zippo, uncomfortably warm from Hoffman's pocket.

When he flips it open he sees an engraving, worn down by what appears to be the frequent back-and-forth rub of a thumb across the letters. Saint Mark. He doesn't want to know.

Strahm lights up and hands the Zippo back to Hoffman like it might carry some disease. He fills his lungs with a bittersweet buzz and lets his head drop back, blows smoke to the sky. “Thanks,” he mutters.

“Anything to help the FBI,” Hoffman replies, and Strahm really can’t tell whether or not he’s trying to be more punchable than he already is.

He inhales again and holds it as long as he can. Enough time has passed since the last time he smoked that it goes right to his head, makes his brain hum behind his eyes. He feels better immediately. The smell always whisks him back to his undergrad days, to the stairwell outside the campus library where he used to take study breaks. Cold night, dark clouds, sodium street lamps. A certainty about himself and the future. A support structure. Simpler times.

“Made any progress with Jill Tuck?”

His pleasant memory gets shredded like paper through Hoffman's weird little teeth and he’s back in an alleyway that reeks of trash and vice, stomach acid creeping up his esophagus. Strahm taps his finger, watches flecks of ash spiral down and disappear near his shoe. “What do you think?”

Hoffman takes a thoughtful drag like he’s never heard of a rhetorical question. “She's a deeply troubled woman.”

“Great insight,” Strahm snaps, “really valuable stuff there, detective. Why am I even here?”

“I just figured with your expertise, you might be more successful than me.” Hoffman wears a look of such mock deference Strahm wants to gag. “I'm sure whatever training you get at the FBI is unmatched.”

“Don’t give me that shit.” Strahm doesn't want to play this game, not in this city, not this time. “Look, I know you don't want me here. I know I stepped on your toes at Detective Kerry’s crime scene. That's my job. I come in and stomp around until something shakes loose.”

“Oh, I understand perfectly. Please don't mistake me for someone who intends to make your role in this harder than it needs to be.”

There's something besides cigarette smoke behind the words, something weighty. Something that gets Strahm to look directly at the detective for the first time.

Hoffman looks back, unblinking, and Strahm thinks of a shark behind glass. He thinks about perspective and how an object seems motionless when it's coming straight at you. He thinks all this too fast to parse meaning, but his instincts are good, have always been good, and the hair on the back of his neck wants to stand up.

“I think you’re a good cop, Hoffman,” he says carefully. He’s swimming slow back to shore. “I think your department has been sacrificed on the altar of obsession one by one and you’re still here.” No splash, no wake. “Whatever else that means, it means you’re smart.”

Hoffman blows smoke and gives Strahm a look of gratitude so patronizing it makes his skin crawl. “I appreciate that, Agent Strahm. The past several months have been…taxing.”

The past several minutes have been taxing, but Strahm keeps that to himself. He can't shake the feeling that something big just passed him beneath the surface, barely missed him.

“What’s your instinct?” Hoffman asks. “How much do you think Jill knows?”

Strahm scoffs. “Plenty. Enough to write a trashy memoir and disappear from the public eye if she really wanted to. But she hasn't. Why?”

“Because she's involved. Anything she says could incriminate her.”

“No shit.” Strahm sucks on smoke. “And no offense, detective, but I've seen those interrogation tapes. You're too fucking soft on her. You want juice, you gotta squeeze.”

“With all due respect, I'd like to see you try.”

Strahm bristles, shoots him a glare. “Is that a fucking challenge? You think I'm gonna meet my match in Jill fucking Tuck?”

“You misunderstand me, Agent Strahm.” Those eyes glitter with something like mirth. “I mean I truly would like to see you try. Jill Tuck has been a hurdle since the start of all this. Like it or not, we're all players in this game. It's about time she gets pulled off the sidelines.”

Strahm examines him with interest. “You make it sound personal.”

Hoffman breaks eye contact, settles his gaze on some invisible point down the alley. A look of remorse slides over his face like a shadow over the sun. “At this point, how could it not be?”

Whatever else might be going on here, even Strahm has to concede that’s a reasonable response. His mind conjures up memories of closed-casket funerals past and he thinks of his colleagues back at the home office. He thinks of Perez. He clenches his jaw, remembers he’s supposed to be relaxing, takes a hard drag and is rewarded with a wave of nausea.

Hoffman is talking again. “Have you had a chance to look through the case files for the last three Jigsaw games? I think there were ten victims total. If you're right and John Kramer's health has kept him from hands-on involvement, maybe there might be something we missed, something–”

Strahm holds up a hand and exhales around his teeth. “Can we not do this? I just–I need a break from this Jigsaw bullshit. For like thirty seconds.”

“Sure thing,” Hoffman says amicably. He stubs his cigarette out on the wall, leans back against the brick, purses his lips. For a few blessed seconds Strahm thinks he might let the silence stand, or even better–leave. But then: “Got any plans this weekend?”

Strahm pounds his closed fist back against the wall with a little more force than he means to, closes his eyes, chews on a sigh. “No,” he says loudly with what he hopes is sufficient finality.

“Do you fish?”

“Do I what?”

“Fish. Go fishing?”

Strahm groans. “No, detective, no, I don’t fish. I spend enough time sitting waiting for lower life forms to take the bait in my professional life, thank you very much.”

Hoffman lets out what might be a laugh. “Fair enough. You strike me as more of a hunter anyway.”

“Never been,” Strahm says dismissively. This is a lie. He knows the woods of rural Vermont blind. The first time he shot a gun he was seven and the kick knocked him flat on his ass.

“I like to fish. Head down south when I can find the time. You ever been to Bass River?”

Strahm grunts, gives up, slumps against the wall mirroring Hoffman’s posture. “No.”

“Beautiful country. When this is all over, you and Special Agent Perez oughta make the drive down. Worth the detour.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Where are you and Perez staying in town? Maybe I can make some local recommendations, help you make the best of your time here.”

Alarm bells again. Something in the water. Something coming at him. “I don’t know,” Strahm deflects, “some place downtown. Old as fuck. No water pressure.”

Hoffman chuckles. “Sounds like my last apartment.”

“Yeah, you guys have a real issue with property values up here.” Strahm examines his cigarette, figures he can get one more pull off it. “Have you considered razing all the abandoned buildings so Jigsaw runs out of chessboards?”

Something like a smile twists Hoffman’s lips. “Arson, special agent?”

Strahm flicks his filter across the alley. “Whatever works.”

“Litter, too,” Hoffman observes.

Strahm rolls his eyes so hard his neck kinks. “This has been fun, but I’d better start combing through the four thousand page report your medical examiner handed me this morning. I’m sure I’ll see you around.” He stands up straight, winces at the tweak in his back, stretches his arms behind him.

“See you around,” Hoffman says.

Strahm makes it halfway up the stairs to the landing before Hoffman calls after him. He almost ignores him, thinks better of it. Gritting his teeth, he leans over the railing. “Yes, detective?”

Hoffman regards him coolly, his gaze like a blunt steel blade. “I'm sure it goes without saying, but…be careful who you trust. If there is an accomplice, we ought to proceed with caution.”

Strahm resists the urge to sneer. “No disrespect to your department, but I’m here because I’m competent. Some chemo-addled freak and his band of misfit toys? I’m not exactly shaking in my boots.”

He could swear Hoffman smiles, just for a second. A flash of teeth that doesn’t reach the eyes. “I understand. It’s just I would hate to see you…how did you say it?” He bites his lip thoughtfully. “Sacrificed.”

Strahm decides, once and for all, that Mark Hoffman is spooky.

“I appreciate your concern.”

He flings the door open and ducks inside without waiting for a reply.

For the rest of the afternoon and into the evening, Strahm submerges himself in the cold, clinical mire of half a dozen autopsy reports. In the back of his mind, behind the descriptions of catastrophic injury inflicted on the human body, he is elbow-deep in a dissection of his own.

He replays the conversation in his head again and again like a microcassette tape, trying to pinpoint the moment when Hoffman shifted in his estimation. He tries to reconcile fact and gut feeling and is left wanting from every angle. The thing about fishing–you only ever see what takes the bait. What passes it by lives on unknown.

All the while, from the time he shuts himself in his office to the moment his head hits the hotel pillow, Strahm tries to shake the feeling he's being watched.

He doesn't succeed.

#peter strahm #mark hoffman #peter strahm fanfiction #mark hoffman fanfiction #saw fanfiction #literally so jittery about posting this sksnfjdndks it's not even x reader!! it's just new and scary!!!#it was so much fun to write tho. oh google docs we're really in it now

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pastanest · 1 year

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Spencer Reid x she/her!reader

A/N: I am currently obsessed w the premise of a reader who is just totally smitten by the super shy and introverted Reid from early seasons bc he deserved SO MUCH MORE APPRECIATION it upsets me at least thrice a day!

gif creds: @themoontaxi

Heaven Sent

“There’s an old Buddhist saying that, when you meet your soulmate, remember that the act to bring you together was 500 years in the making.” Spencer tells you with a thoughtful expression as you perch on his desk, smiling down at him in his office chair, your heart lifting in your chest as he continues. “So always appreciate and be kind to each other - there’s a corollary for friends!” And just like that, your heart falls back into place, but your smile doesn’t falter, there’s no way that it can when you’re still looking at him. “When you meet a true friend, you will be bound together through space and time for 500 years.” Spencer ends his tidbit of trivia with a smile that very nearly sends you flying from his desk and into orbit.

As per usual, you try to keep your cool, offering him a beaming smile. “Bound together through space and time for 500 years, eh? For a Buddhist quote, that does sound a bit Doctor-Who.” You tease lightly, and when Spencer’s eyes crinkle with a laugh that you have brought him, you feel all 500 years spent drifting through space to find him, smack you right in the chest.

“It does, actually, you make a great point!” Your favorite genius chuckles up at you, a look in his eyes that has you reaching the same conclusion to the age-old philosophical question of whether heaven is real, because every time Spencer Reid looks you in the eye, you know you could argue to the ends of the earth with any philosopher that tries to tell you it isn’t.

“Alright, Doc, I’m gonna go take a scheduled pee break but I expect another fascinating fact from you on my return!” You order playfully as you hop off of his desk, never any malice or sarcasm in your voice when you regard his seemingly endless knowledge. Spencer feels the sincere love you have for his facts, something few people have shown him.

“I’ll try my best, but I can’t promise anything!” Spencer calls after you as you stroll towards the bathroom, your phone already in your hands, frantically typing a few texts to your best friend.

You: good god

You: I want him

You: so bad

Spencer’s retort catches you off guard, your thumbs slipping on your phone as you turn to look back at him, walking backwards and continuing to type without looking.

“Spencer Reid, if there is ever anything that you can promise me, it’s a new fact with a few minutes prep, don’t lie to me!” You joke right back to him, the two of you sharing a laugh across the office as you reach the bathroom and disappear behind the door.

As you lean against the bathroom door, you release the breath you were holding in your lovesick chest and smile so hard your face hurts. In the midst of your recovery from such a wholesome interaction with your favorite person, you hit send on the text you’d typed, your eyes closed as you relive Spencer’s smile again and again.

You: it physically hurts

Then, your phone makes a peculiar sound that causes your heart to sing. Spencer’s text tone, specially selected so that you never get your hopes up at anyone else’s text tone coming through. As if your thoughts summoned him, Spencer has texted you, despite the fact you were speaking to him mere seconds ago. However, as you glance down at your phone to see his message, your blood runs cold. Much to your absolute horror, you have somehow managed to send that last message you typed and sent without looking, not to your best friend like the previous messages, but directly to the subject of the conversation.

Spencer: What physically hurts? Are you okay? Do you need help?

The panic response in your body is so real it’s scary, every fiber of your being screaming in utter hysteria as you run your hand through your hair with eyes like a deer in headlights. This is the worst possible mistake to have made, but, maybe you can white-lie your way out of this, since that message didn’t mention Spencer by name. Frantically, you type out your response back to him.

You: Spencer I am so sorry omg Im fine that message was not meant for you

Nodding to yourself, you take some deep breaths. Spencer is never one to invade a person’s privacy outside of it being professionally required to do so and by revealing so little in your reply, you are communicating that the matter is private and was unintentionally, partially revealed to him.

Spencer: Oh, okay. Still, if you are in any kind of pain, please let me know; if there is anything I can do to help/anything I can get you, I will.

And, of course, Doctor Spencer Reid manages to make you smile like an idiot with such a simple, sweet text.

You: thanks, Spence, that’s really kind of you. Im ok tho, I promise!! :)

Spencer: Hold on, you went to the bathroom and complained of pain - is it your menstrual cycle? I have towels and tampons in my desk.

Your eyes widen at his boldness, but also sweetness, to ask such a thing. How cute, he thinks you’re embarrassed to admit to him that you are on your period and not at all completely humiliated by your massive crush on him, almost being exposed in its entirety because you were, ironically, distracted by him.

You: nono, trust me, Im ok!!

Frowning in sudden confusion, you are quick to type out another text before Spencer responds to your first one.

You: why do you have those?

Spencer: I am a doctor, I work with people who menstruate and should not have to pay for such things if I have some that I can provide for free.

And he has you smiling like a lovesick idiot. Again.

You: wow, that’s really sweet Spence :’)

Spencer: Is It? Thank you! B)

Another confused frown furrows your brow as you stare at your phone screen quizzically.

You: what’s “B)”

Spencer: Sunglasses face. A cool guy. B)

God bless this man and his total inability to use actual emojis, you are having to stifle your laughter with a hand over your mouth because otherwise you are certain the entire office would hear you.

You: omg of course it is! so cute!!

Spencer: B)

The second you see it on your screen again, you are trying to contain your laughter a second time. His ability to be completely and utterly adorable is unmatched.

Spencer: You have been in the bathroom for some time and have not yet clarified the reason for texting someone that you were in physical pain. Are you absolutely certain that you are alright?

Panic begins to set in again as you consider your options, none of which including confessing the truth from within the bathroom stall you are hiding in.

You: look, I cant tell you the reason I texted that but I promise you I am absolutely fine!!

The moment the ‘read’ symbol appears by your last text, there’s a knock at the bathroom door.

“Hey sweetpea, boy-wonder told me you were in some kind of pain, is everything alright in there? Do you need a tamp? A hot water bottle? Some soup? A-” While your dear friend, Penelope Garcia, continues to list things that you could possibly need, through the bathroom door, you are frantically typing to Spencer again.

You: did you send Pen over here

He responds diligently, of course.

Spencer: I am sorry if I have breached your privacy at all, I thought you might feel more comfortable talking to Penelope about whatever is going on, but I hope you know you can always talk to me about anything.

Sighing and closing your eyes in a pained blink, you call out. “I’m fine, Pen, seriously!”

But, ever the carer of the team, Penelope will not let that slide. “Well, I’m not leaving until you come out here and prove it to me.”

Now, you are physically and emotionally cornered. There is absolutely no way that Penelope will let you out of here without an explanation, and there is absolutely no way that you can lie to her, either. Alright, time to bite the bullet.

“Pen…if I come out, you must promise to take me straight to your office and I’ll tell you everything, but you cannot tell a soul, okay?” You ask her through the door, and you can practically hear the gossip-loving cogs in her brain turning on the other side.

“You got it, sweetness! C’mon out!” Penelope calls, and you take a deep breath, shoving your phone in your back pocket before unlocking the door and stepping back into the office.

Immediately, Penelope swings an arm around you and leads you to her office with haste. All the while, you can feel a certain pair of very attractive, swoon-inducing eyes on you, worrying after you.

The second you are alone together in her office, Penelope sits you down and pulls her chair up to sit opposite you, taking ahold of your hands.

“Spill it!”

You sigh, avoiding her eyes. “This is about to be the most humiliating confession of my life.”

Penelope’s eyes widen, her pupils practically dilating at the raised stakes of what this gossip could entail. “No, no, come on, this is a safe space!”

You nod. “I know, I know, but…admitting aloud to any member of the team is something I hoped I’d avoid forever.” You chuckle in disbelief. “Basically, I was texting my friend some very private things and then got distracted by Spencer and accidentally sent him one of the texts- it’s probably just easier if I show you.” You decide, retrieving your phone and showing her the texts you had originally been sending to your best friend, then the one you accidentally sent to Spencer.

Penelope’s jaw drops. “Oh my goodness! Who are you talking about in those texts?!”

You roll your eyes playfully. “Go on, Pen, take a guess. Who is the one person I wouldn’t want to find out about my crush, except for the crush himself.”

And Penelope Garcia’s jaw has hit the floor, she is in a state of shock. So severely, in fact, you have to wave a hand in front of her face.

“Earth to Penelope?” You ask, amused.

She blinks rapidly at you, her spirit seemingly returning to her as she starts to squeal. “Ohmygosh, ohmygosh, ohmygosh! I knew it, I absolutely knew it!”

Then, your phone dings, a text tone that sends goosebumps rippling up your arm.

Spencer: Is everything okay? I am sorry if I upset you by telling Penelope, I was just concerned for you. Can I talk to you before we leave for the day, please?

Without hesitation, you show the text to Penelope, seeking her moral support in your time of need. “Now that you know what’s going on, please help me, what the hell am I supposed to do?!”

The technical analyst spins in her chair, typing away on her keyboard before bringing up a direct feed of one of the security cameras inside the main office. The two of you can see Spencer, sitting at his desk with his bag and coat on, ready to leave for the day, but glancing between his phone and the text he’s sent you that’s now showing as ‘read’ and Penelope’s office door, with a worried expression.

“Honestly, sweetpea, I don’t think you’ve got a choice but to tell him. The two of you are so close, he’ll see right through any white-lie you tell him and worry even more that he’s done something to upset you. The most painless way out of this is to just tell him the truth.” Penelope says, wincing at her own words as she looks at you because she knows how much it would hurt to have someone tell her that, if she were in your situation.

Looking back up at Spencer on the monitor, seeing his worried expression, your heart aches at the thought of making him overthink about something he’s said or done, never wanting to cause him that kind of distress.

Sighing in defeat, you nod. “You’re right, Pen.”

Fixing your gaze back on your phone screen, you start to type, not missing the way Spencer’s eyes light up on the monitor at the notification of you typing back to him.

You: sorry Spence, I didn't mean to worry you, I'm all good! now coming :)

As silly as it is, the smiley face you send him brings a small smile to Spencer’s actual face, and that gives you the only confidence you need to rise from your seat.

“Good luck, sweetness!” Penelope squeals, pulling you into a hug before practically shoving you out of her office.

Stepping into Spencer’s line of sight, he immediately starts walking over to you.

“Hey, I’m so sorry that I told Garcia, I know I shouldn’t have-” He begins to ramble, but your smile stops him in his tracks.

“You don’t need to apologize, Spencer, I promise, everything is fine. Are you ready to head out?” You ask him as he follows you over to your own desk, so that you can collect your own jacket and bag.

“Y-Yeah.” He replies nervously, very obviously still worrying because you haven’t told him the whole truth yet, rendering him unable to settle.

The two of you walk to the elevator in silence, but as the doors close, isolating the two of you, you take a deep breath.

“You’re going to think my explanation is ridiculous, just to pre-warn you.”

Spencer frowns seriously, turning to face you, giving you his full attention. “Nothing you say is ever ridiculous, not to me. What’s going on?” His voice is so soft that it has you weak at the knees, which does not make this any easier.

“I was texting a friend of mine and then carried on typing when I looked back to answer you, meaning I accidentally sent the next text to you.” The explanation is simple, in essence, but Spencer is nodding along like you are reciting some holy scripture. Biting the bullet completely this time, you pass Spencer your phone with shaking hands, allowing him to read the texts you sent your friend.

“But…you sent these after talking with me? While still talking with me?” He asks quizzically, for a moment blinded by his own obliviousness and a sadness settles in his heart because he truly believes you were thinking of some other guy when just speaking to him, but as the more logical conclusion presents itself to him, Spencer’s eyes widen.

You are unable to look at him, your gaze fixed on the closed elevator doors in front of you as you gently take your phone and conceal it back in your pocket. “Yep.” Is, somehow, the only word you can muster.

Spencer parts his lips to speak, but the elevator doors open, and you all but make a break for it.

“Sorry. See you tomorrow, Spencer.” You blurt out hurriedly as you speed walk out of the building and into the parking lot, feeling physically sick as tears blur your vision, knowing you have single handedly ruined whatever wonderful friendship Spencer appreciates you for sharing with him, knowing your fate of a tear soaked pillow awaits you the second you arrive home.

“(Y/N), wait, please!” Spencer calls out after you, his voice alone strong enough to stop you on your march.

Turning to face him, Spencer’s heart breaks at the sight of the tears escaping your eyes. “Spencer, I am so, so sorry. I know you don’t like physical contact, I know you have never so much as glanced at me in the only way I’ve ever been able to look at you, and I want you to know I tried absolutely everything to stop myself falling for you because I didn’t want to put you in an uncomfortable situation like this, but every new thing I learn about you just makes me love you more than I thought possible and every time you smile at me you remind me what the definition of beautiful is, as though I’d ever forget when you exist to be just that in every conceivable way, and I’m so sorry or making you worry and care for me and that now you’ve got no choice but to process all of this and with your eidetic memory you’re not going to be able to forget it which makes things even more awkward for you and-”

Spencer interrupts your breathless, tearful ramble by pulling you into his arms, tucking your head into his chest.

“Breathe, (Y/N), please.” He asks, so softly, with such care and compassion you can only cry into his coat.

For a few minutes, that is how you stay, crying in his arms as he holds you there, gently shushing you, one hand rubbing your back and the other holding your head to his chest, his fingertips caressing your hair in a way that makes it very difficult for you to focus on anything else. But, when Spencer hears your tears settle into sniffles, your breaths returning to normal, he parts his lips to speak.

“500 years through time and space.” He says, a small smile curling at the corner of his mouth.

Unfortunately, in your heartbroken state, you don’t quite catch on. “Yeah, friends have always got to be kind and appreciate each other, I remember.” You nod, pulling away from Spencer to wipe your eyes.

As your vision clears, you see the smile on his face, and Spencer shakes his head at you. “The saying is specifically tailored to soulmates, I only added the friendship clarification because I didn’t want to be too forward.” He holds your gaze, reading your eyes as you return to the wavelength you’ve always shared. “Actually, the next fact I was going to tell you when you came out of the bathroom, the new fact you asked for on your return, was going to be that a study conducted by the University of California found that when someone is in love, their heartbeat synchronizes itself with that of the person they are in love with. And I was, then, going to ask to check your heart-rate, because I am a Doctor, after all.” He chuckles bashfully, pulling the stethoscope from his bag and shyly hiding it in there again once you acknowledge it.

There’s no way you can keep your cool at this point, the bright smile on your face is impossible to conceal. “How long have you had that stethoscope in there in preparation for telling me that fact?”

Spencer does not hesitate with his answer. “4 months, 18 days and 6 hours.”

You nod slowly. “So, you’ve been sure for a while, then?”

Spencer nods back at you, his own smile widening. “For 4 months, 18 days, 6 hours and 3 minutes, to be exact.”

You can’t help giggling at that. “500 years, 4 months, 18 days, 6 hours, and 3 minutes later, here we are. Sorry, I took the long way round.” You joke, taking a nervous step towards him, and Spencer meets you halfway.

“I think we both did.” His words are quiet, his breath on your lips as he leans down to you, smile to smile and heart to heart for the first time in your lives.

It’s you that rises to your tiptoes to close the final gap between you, your lips meeting his and immediately sighing against them, truly feeling that you have waited each and every one of those 500 years for this kiss alone. Spencer’s large hands cup your face so gently, and your hands hold his there, stars and butterflies whirling around you in a bliss shared between two souls that took their sweet time in coming back to each other.

As a thought enters your mind, you break away from the kiss to laugh lightly.

“What is it?” Spencer asks quietly, but he’s already laughing with you.

“Two hearts, beating together?” You say, giggling to yourself as the realization flashes in Spencer’s eyes, too, so much so that he finishes the thought for you.

“You’re absolutely right, that is a bit Doctor-Who!”

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