Spencer, admittingly, was having a rough night.

The cravings he'd been hoarding off for almost three years were coming back in loud, painful pangs like gongs in the back of his skull. He'd gotten three dinner proposals from all the people he didn't want to see, his case files were beginning to pile up on his desk like mountains of nightmares that Spencer wasn't ready to face. The filing cabinet of his brain had been viciously knocked over by a climactic end to a case that he knew wouldn't end well anyway. Memories, facts, statistics scattered around the tile floor of his head and he'd been off all day because of it.

All he wanted to do was sleep. Belly flop onto his bed and cry until he was so exhausted and dry that he slept. But there were dishes in the sink, his main room was a mess, his life was ripping stitches with every other step. There was no way he'd be able to sleep with all of the disorganization that surrounded him.

He texted Morgan. He texted JJ. He texted Emily.

Sarcastic reply. Date night with Will. No answer.

So there Spencer was; sat in the middle of his living room in a crime scene of books that had been read and read again. No matter how many times he took a melatonin pill, the energy of destruction just came back. He cleaned the dishes and the sink itself. He sat on the ground with his eyes closed, letting the gravity of Earth pull him downward as he placed all of his mental files back into their respective drawers. He drew everyone on the team three times. He wrote a sonnet. He cut his hair. He hemmed the pants he'd been meaning to mend for awhile. He tried on clothes that were gathering dust in his closet and color coordinated his wardrobe. Again.

Nothing was working. Every coping skill, every odd idea that came to him on a desperate whim, failed and only seemed to substantially increase his frazzled state of mind.

He texted Ethan. Hey, I need ya.

Within fifteen minutes came the reply; I'm sorry. I'm late.

Only fifteen minutes. You're a lot better than the others, Spencer replied. He knew where the conversation would end. A successful synopsis could be drawn out on a seventh-grade plot map. He'd initiate. Ethan would be kind. Spencer would flirt the sadness away. So would Ethan. Ethan would transition into deep self-deprecation. Spencer would have to help him. Ethan would fall in love temporarily.

But what else could he do?

They talked for an hour. Spencer gathered up the unmeant compliments like flower petals and hung them around his neck like a trophy. Ethan told him he loved him, and Spencer said goodnight. He threw his phone across the room, landing on the couch cushion with a thud. He couldn't function. He didn't want to call Hotch. His emotional response was never a good one to bear; if he called Hotch, his feelings would divulge through passive-aggressive statements and everything would be ruined.

He didn't have to. Hotch called him.

"Reid, what's going on."

"What do you mean?"

"The texts you sent. You're upset and you need someone, so why didn't you just ask them outright?"

"Hotch..." Spencer rubbed his eyes with his free hand, "I asked what they were doing. Morgan is out with girls. JJ is on a date night. Emily is dead. I ask what they're doing as to not embarrass myself."

"Then why did you ask Emily?"

Spencer shook his head and brought the phone away from his ear to hit the END CALL button. "Thanks for calling."

He paused as he heard the distinct, loud and stern voice of Hotch. "If you hang up the phone, I will call the SWATS."

"You have no cause?"

"FBI agent mysteriously hides his feelings, sends questionable messages to his colleagues, becomes a recluse? That's a cause. That's worthy of a raid."

Spencer heard the playful tone lingering behind Hotch's words, and although he didn't appreciate it, he understood that there was no intent to be harmful. "Okay, Hotch."

"So what can I do?"

"I don't know," Spencer sighed out, looking into the mirror across the room and adjusting what little bangs he had left after his impromptu haircut. It wasn't bad. Made him look like he was in an early 2000s boy band. It worried him that he knew what they looked like. "I just need someone to distract me."

"How?"

There was hope in Hotch's voice. Something Spencer hadn't heard before. Not necessarily hope in a lustful intention, but it was definitely noteworthy. While he'd doubted himself in answering the phone, and doubted Hotch himself for calling. The final straw was the characteristic of a trembling voice, the hint of norepinephrine that made his heart flip in a way that worried him. Spencer stared at himself in the mirror, his phone held to his ear, "You tell me."

The confidence had Hotch's breath taken away from a moment, Spencer could hear it as it vacated the premises of his throat. His self-esteem rose steadily as the sound of Hotch mumbling nervously hit his ears. Even on the phone, he was somehow able to get Hotch uncomfortable, and that was a great sign toward how the night would end.

"Considering I've just cleaned my entire household a few times and I'm dawning a new haircut," Spencer said slowly, practically sauntering himself over to look at himself more clearly. He looked like a new person. A person that would advocate for a relationship with his boss without a single doubt in his mind. "I wouldn't be opposed to company."

The itch in his veins went away. The oblivion melted away and he recounted every time he'd mistaken Hotch's loving gaze for a smear of ketchup on his face. All of the times Hotch had practically carried him out of dangerous situations, every roundtable meeting that Hotch and his eyes met for more than a second. It was clear. A drug addict wouldn't be able to make that distinction. Then again, he wasn't a drug addict; not anymore. There were more important things to focus on, now.

"On my way."