Without considering any of his costume, Spencer follows his instinct into the men's room. His legs wobble like Jell-O molds as he shifts to this new floor from the restaurant's carpet, and his heel shoes click heavily on the tiles. Even though Garcia gave him lessons in walking properly in these, they pinch his feet and his calves are straining, rigidity and heat blooming venomously through the muscle tissue. Out there, he's hardly touched his drink, he hasn't eaten anything since two in the afternoon, and the waist cincher still might suffocate him. Carelessly, he drops his little purse on the counter. Why women haven't yet designed dresses with pockets just escapes him.
He doesn't even recognize the person who looks back at him from the mirror, behind her cosmetics and her (fake) styled hair. Reflected here isn't Spencer; it's Sophia, and she's a lie. Underneath the little black dress he borrowed from Emily, he doesn't have this little waist or these pad-crafted hips where his sidearm should be. The C-cup bra might contain high-quality falsies or the worst set in existence. They look real enough, and Spencer wouldn't know the difference, anyway. Before three weeks ago, before Derek proposed this misadventure, he'd never considered drag or passing as more than interesting human phenomena. Now his legs have been waxed, something he'll never do again; they're in sheer nylons, only showing to the knees, and they feel naked. Things are worse for his forearms, also waxed and bare until practically his shoulders.
Nothing about his face looks right, which he guesses was the point. Blush, concealer, foundation, and other things from Garcia's bag of trickery have filled in angles, created new ones, changed color schemes, and made him look almost feminine. Were it not for him, the illusion would probably work quite well, but he can't stomach this radical change. He wants to claw off Sophia's fake eyelashes, strangle her with her overpriced scarf (a necessary and dress-matching precaution, Garcia told him; women don't have Adam's apples as prominent as Spencer's), and just be himself... and yet, he can't. Looking like Spencer is right out tonight - a thought that makes him double over. As much as he can in a junior corset, anyway. He keeps his hands on the counter, so he doesn't topple to the floor. Somehow, he doubts that explaining to Hotch and Strauss that he sprained his ankle in heels would go very well.
Grimacing, Spencer catches Sophia's eye in the mirror. Garcia's handiwork is admirable; if he didn't know better, he might actually think he's looking at a beautiful woman. A beautiful woman whose eye makeup seems to be running - damn it. He's an FBI agent, a profiler. He's survived worse, far worse, than getting passed off as a girl at dinner.
The door opens, closes; a pair of solid, flat shoes pad into the room; a lock pops into place. Damn it, he should have thought about that first. And there isn't a negative reaction to seeing a (superficial) woman in here - Spencer can guess who it is before he even opens his mouth.
"Pretty boy?" Derek asks carefully. "You all right?"
"I gotta hand it to Garcia. She really did a great job on this, Sophia."
Derek runs his thumb down Spencer's cheek and, true to their names and promises, the different pancakes on his face stay put there. This isn't an unfamiliar intersection of actions, or something that Spencer would dislike normally, but something's inherently different. Everything feels sick and hazy. Already, his view seems limited - the fake lashes and mascara weigh his eyelids down; they have to, he's sure they do - but now the world all moves slow and sticky. Even through the multiple layers of gunk, each minuscule bit of pressure from Derek's thumb is horrifyingly self-insistent.
Spencer's stomach churns, hurricane violent, and he bolts from the table.
Derek lays his hand on Spencer's elbow; Spencer jerks away, and when Derek speaks again, something still isn't right. He sounds like he has no idea what's going on. "Spencer...?"
"Who's Sophia?" There are no attempts made at pretending to be female. The voice asking is unmistakably Spencer's.
"Excuse me?"
Pushing himself up off the counter, Spencer turns to face Derek, who's still allowed to be in his suit and tie, in his own skin. The dichotomy is attractive, sure; it plays up several elements of Derek's personality and appearance that Spencer loves - that he's so well-built, that he's masculine but so gentle with his hands, that he's always looking out for a chance to take care of Spencer. Everything is brought into stark light and shown off like a trick pony. Spencer thinks he could find it in him to like this idea, but there'd be less underlying disgust if he could have come out tonight as himself.
"Who's Sophia?" he asks again, crossing his arms under the falsies, lest he pop them or something worse. "I mean, you obviously want me to be more like her - tell me what she's like and I'll try harder."
"That isn't funny-"
"Who said I'm being funny?" He isn't. Sardonic, maybe, there's an edge in his voice that surprises him, even though he knows what he's saying. But he isn't being funny. "That's why you wanted me to get dressed up like this, isn't it? Because it makes me look more like her?"
"Spencer - pretty boy, it isn't - it is not anything like that-"
"Then what is it like, Derek? That was my only theory, and no one's buying that I'm a girl - I mean, I'm taller than you without these... these heels, and I can't see what's so great about dragging me out like this, so, you know... an explanation wouldn't hurt right now."
With unforeseen skill, Derek puts a hand at Spencer's side, managing to find one of the only places where there isn't some underthing creating a feminine silhouette. He worms his thumb and two fingers into the chink in the reshaping armor, rubbing the fabric against Spencer's skin as he does. Begrudgingly, Spencer has to admit that the Maggy London, acetate/nylon/spandex blend feels nice where it catches him. Derek's fingers feel better - gentle, like they'd be normally, but the extra force is obvious; Spencer's only logical conclusion is that Derek would prefer it if he didn't struggle.
Only when Derek's other hand repeats this process on Spencer's other side does snaking around beneath his hands seem like a better option than waiting quietly. Each movement drags the cool, soft fabric against his skin, makes the cincher's ties and ribbing try harder to hold on to his waist... and, with each shifting, Spencer feels himself increasingly relax. He's never felt anything quite like the stuff these clothes are made of - different elements are familiar, but the assemblage is all different and unexplored. Breathing slower on purpose, Spencer takes his time exhaling, feeling his stomach press against the cincher again. Shuddering when he next breathes in, Spencer writhes under Derek's hands again.
Derek doesn't kiss him any differently. Aggressive as ever, he leans up and makes the first, open-mouthed move. He doesn't wait very long before running his tongue along Spencer's, along his teeth and the roof of his mouth, leaving behind his particular, familiar taste and traces of the Cabernet he picked. It's all intimately ingrained in Spencer's memory, something to which he's closely accustomed, and his reactions are like the properly contradictory chess strategy. Looking like her hasn't turned Spencer into Sophia yet tonight, and now is no exception. He turns his head so deepening things is easier, and as he forcefully kisses back, the lipstick smears. When he bites on Derek's lower lip, he can taste it, and he feels it between them besides. Not having the sensation of Derek's lips alone is new - were the lines there always in that pattern? Were they always so finely textured, or is that a very recent development?
Spencer's breath hitches and he grabs onto Derek's upper arm, jerks them closer together. He falls back into the counter and sitting on it makes kissing Derek easier in a way they've never had before - Derek always needs to lean up, and they're close to level with each other now. The heels slide out on the tiles; to keep them from escaping and spraining his ankles, Spencer tightens his knees around Derek's legs. Between that and the hands on Derek's arm and tie, Spencer is simply unforgiving in pulling Derek closer to him; wrapping an arm around Derek's shoulders, Spencer keeps him close. Rubbing, grinding up against him is like before, but with the waist cincher between them. For all Spencer feels Derek pressing back, for all he feels more of the cincher on his skin.
Derek's hold on him is firm, even as he slides his hands down the padding on Spencer's hips. Briefly, they stay put, pressing into Spencer as he tries to wriggle around, and then there's something else. One of Derek's knees comes up between Spencer's legs, gingerly forcing up the hemline of his dress until it's high enough for Derek's hands to grab. Bunching the dress up around Spencer's waist, Derek runs the back of his hand down from where the waist cincher ends. His fingers rub against skin and then the tip of Spencer's cock, through the nylons and the panties. It would be easier to moan the way he wants to, but Spencer doesn't want to give in so easily.
So Derek gets to work on earning that reaction. His eyes glint and his smirk gets quite cocksure - but Spencer only shakes his head. He kisses Derek briefly, to acquiesce to something more, but he still doesn't make a noise. Nylons peel away first. Expertly, Derek lifts the inordinately expensive panties off Spencer's skin and pulls them down with the tights. As one entity, they bunch up around the middle of Spencer's thighs. Derek's hand is warm and firm around his cock, but rather than moan, Spencer pulls Derek in for a slower kiss than before. This time, Spencer takes the lead, massaging Derek's lips in time with every stroke up his erection.
Keeping one arm around Derek's shoulders and his legs tight on Derek's, Spencer tilts his hips. His free hand goes to Derek's waist first, and slides the leather belt out of its buckle. As he jerks Derek's shirt untucked and trousers unbuttoned, there's none of the composure he usually tries (and often fails) to have. It's all quick, dirty - and he wastes no time before grabbing Derek's cock. The kiss breaks when he drags his thumb up Derek's shaft. Derek moans first.
"You are so fucking pretty," he manages to say.
"Derek," Spencer tells him throatily, leaning up to his ear. "I want you to fuck me."
Practically, it's an experiment that makes sense: if Derek fucks him all the same, then there's no Sophia to be worried over. Nodding, Derek kisses him again, and Spencer retracts his hand, loosens his hold on Derek's legs. Derek crouches fluidly, rolling the tights and panties further down, all the way to Spencer's knees. One hand on each of Spencer's thighs, Derek slowly spreads his legs and, trying to accommodate him, Spencer leans back, resting his head and shoulders on the mirror. For a moment, Derek pauses and presses a kiss to the base of Spencer's cock; Spencer can't help moaning this time.
Derek's smirk is devilishly self-satisfied. With flourish, he sticks two fingers inside his mouth. Knowing what happens next, Spencer chooses not to watch. He looks up to the ceiling and gasps when, instead of Derek's fingers, he feels his partner's wet lips on his asshole. Derek's tongue comes next, flicking around the hole and surrounding skin. The wetness isn't nearly as important as the texture, and Spencer lowers himself towards Derek's tongue. Before he can really enjoy it, though, Derek's standing again, bending over the counter and positioning himself. Spencer nods at him when Derek catches his eye.
Even though Derek goes slowly, gently, Spencer's breath hitches, and his first feeling isn't as pleasurable as he'd prefer. They don't usually get this far during on-case downtime, they can't, and time between cases has been rare, lately. He shouldn't forget how thick Derek's cock is, but palming it isn't the same as taking it. The shock and initial pain recede quickly, and Spencer shifts his hips accordingly. At his first moan, Derek speeds up his thrusts. They come harder, faster. Spencer tries to keep up, moving himself up and down Derek's shaft.
One of Spencer's hands goes down to his own cock. He wraps his hand around it tightly and his strokes easily fall into rhythm with Derek's thrusts. Spencer curls a hand up in Derek's lapel and the waist chincher makes his breathing speed up faster - Derek's thrusts are faster, harder, and they can't be loud, but-
"Derek!" he moans, his voice low and his tone fevered intensity.
Derek brushes Spencer's hand to the side, takes over stroking his cock - but it throws off the rhythm, and the pressure isn't right. Laying one hand on top of Derek's, Spencer guides him to the proper speed, the correct hold - and the synchrony is perfect. Two thrusts more and they come together. Spencer does so on their hands, and he thinks he can see some on the dress, but he may as well be blind. The pleasure is warm, and overwhelming. For several minutes, all they do is try to breathe.
Then Spencer's phone has to go and start ringing; JJ's ringtone blares through the bathroom. He snatches up the purse and pulls it out, trying to ignore that Derek looks more than a little put out by this. Even though Spencer tells him that the call is important, he's still frowning when Spencer answers it.
"Spence," JJ says grimly. He doesn't like the sound of this already. "Is Derek with you?" Spencer tells her that they were at dinner, and nothing else. "Well, I - I'm sorry for interrupting, and I know it's late, but... the case that just came in is a bad one. I need you two to get in as soon as possible."
Agreeing, and bidding her goodbye, Spencer hangs up and looks to Derek. With a sigh, Derek runs the back of his hand down Spencer's cheek.
"Explaining this to the team is going to be... fun," Spencer says by way of making things less quiet. "This isn't suspension-worthy, is it?"
"Not if we don't make an issue out of it - you know, get dinner packed up and get there quickly." Derek's expression is unenthusiastic at this prospect. "Man, I told you before, pretty boy: every time I get my groove thing going, it's back to the BAU."
"We'll just have to, you know... pick this back up another night." For want of something to do with his hands, Spencer straightens Derek's tie and works on smoothing out his lapels. "There's something I can change into in the car, right? Like, my go bag or something?"
"And makeup remover." Spencer smiles, but he doesn't look at Derek until he feels two fingers under his chin, lifting his face up. "Are we okay, Spencer? No more of this 'who's Sophia' business, right?"
"I know... there isn't any Sophia," Spencer tells him. "This was just trying something new for its own sake?" Derek nods. "Yeah, I - I mean, we'll have to talk about repeating this any time soon, but we're definitely okay. ...Do you think Emily's going to mind waiting to get this dress back?"
Derek leans in for another kiss. "You get straightened up. I'll go get the check and the car.