Essential Listening: Over You, by Ingrid Michaelson

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SSA Doctor Spencer Reid tightened his grip about the waist of SSA Grace Pearce and grumbled something about their boss probably being unhappy with her medical and life choices if she didn't at least let the paramedics check her over.

The way she was moving, she was probably one big bruise – and he hadn't realised the rogue exorcist had managed to choke her, though he knew the fight had turned physical. He and SSA Derek Morgan had tussled with a couple of the mad priest's attendants and he had several bruises of his own to show for it.

"Hotch is busy," she argued, tiredly, her voice catching on the soreness of her injured throat.

Spencer sighed.

He didn't have it in him to argue with her. She was dead on her feet – but she was right, explaining why someone had left injuries inconsistent with their method of attack was asking for trouble. And the team had been in trouble enough for one day. Trusting that if she had internal injuries it would hurt enough for her to tell him – and that the rest of the team would look after SA Emily Prentiss, who was also having the day from hell – he turned her away from the emergency vehicles and led her across the street.

It was a mark of how much the fight with Father Silvano had taken out of her that she didn't even ask where they were going. She just let him shoulder half her weight and allowed him to walk her under the crime scene tape and off into the night. They stopped about a street away at an unpopulated taxi rank and Grace leaned her head against his shoulder.

He glanced at her: bruised and battered, eyes closed against the falling snow, half mad and definitely more trouble than she was worth, she had seldom seemed more peaceful. Though that could be the exhaustion talking. For a moment, he allowed his own eyes to close, enjoying her warmth and her proximity. Their friendship – and those parts of it that were more than that – had more closely resembled a train wreck than anything healthy for several months. It felt good to just be quiet with one another again, and physically close, even if they'd both had to take a beating to get to this point.

Abruptly, she twisted, burying her face into the thick woollen fabric of his coat.

She's crying, he realised, holding her marginally tighter. But about what? About this? Unlikely…

About me?

Spencer swallowed and stifled a sigh. If it was about him – about them… But then, why should it be? They had both made it clear there was nothing doing, now. While they might be able to be friends (which they had already proved, time and again), they were never going to be as effortlessly close as they had before. He missed the simplicity of their 'frienlationship' (as Garcia had tipsily referred to it when he'd walked her home from a bar) like an ache in his chest.

Grace hadn't moved, her face still buried against his shoulder. She was shaking slightly. He toyed with the idea of rubbing her back, telling her everything would be alright, but what could he say to her? He felt the same way about the walls that had grown up between them – even being this close to her made him feel hollow and dangerously empty. But that couldn't be helped.

You and me, Grace – we're not – this isn't… None of this is a good idea, he thought, fighting the urge to wrap his arms around her and press a kiss into her snow-sodden hair. Wistfully, he remembered waking up beside her, an arm curled lazily about her, his nose in her neck. That smile on her face when she woke. It had just felt so right – and yet…

Even when we try not to, we just hurt each other. Arm's length is just how it's going to have to be.

So instead, he watching the snowflakes carry their little forests of ice to the ground, focussing on keeping his breathing steady and even, refusing to acknowledge the prickle he felt behind his own eyes.

It seemed to take forever for a taxi to pull up, like he and Grace were a little warm island in the thickly falling spring snow, but just when he was about to give in and pull her closer, the twin beams of headlights cut across the street, illuminating the swirls of snowflakes.

"The cab's here," he said, amazed that his voice sounded so normal, and ignored the way she tried to pretend it was snow she was rubbing off her cheeks, rather than tears.

"Hey, man, if she's drunk, you can't get in," said the driver, leaning over the back as Spencer helped her in.

"She got hit by a car," Spencer lied. Well, that's what she had said it felt like, at least. "We – uh – we were just heading back from the doctor's office, but our car broke down."

"Oh man, sorry. That's a rough break. You okay, honey?"

He could feel her eyes on him, even as he walked around the car to get in. It wasn't like him to bend the truth – but then, he didn't fancy their chances of finding another cab in weather like this. It wasn't like she actually had been drinking, and her injuries had been sustained while saving someone's life, after all.

"I've had better days," she said wearily, as Spencer slid into the seat beside her and gave the cabbie her address.

"Good job you got someone lookin' out for you," he said. "I'll try to make the ride as smooth as I can."

"Thanks," said Spencer, already missing the warmth of having her tucked into his side.

It was all he could do not to reach over and take her hand, so instead he turned to stare out of the window, away from Grace.

The forty-five minutes it took to get to Apple Tree Lane passed in silence. Spencer couldn't decide which was worse: the fact that they might talk about the hideous mess they had made of things, or that they never would.

We never do, when it's important…

The cab driver, to their very great surprise, refused to let them pay him, stating that the fare counted as his good deed for the week, and drove off before either of them could protest.

"Well, it looks like chivalry isn't dead," Grace joked, and then coughed.

Her voice sounded choked and painful, and Spencer couldn't help but put his arm around her again. Firmly, he told himself it was because she needed the support.

"Come on," he said, as she leaned into him. "You don't wanna slip..."

He saw her all the way inside, into the kitchen he had spent so much time in, before… Before Vegas and frayed tempers, and that poorly considered accusation and that punch.

"Are you gonna be okay?" he asked, a little brusquely.

He had to get out of here before he did something they would both regret.

"Yeah, I'll be fine," she lied, and he could hear it in her voice. "You know me."

He did – and himself; that was why he had to go. He nodded and made to leave.

"You could –" she began, and he turned back. "You could always stay," she said, looking up at him.

Shocked, he stared at her, a deep frown on his face.

Yes, I could do that – I could, but…

He could see, now she had pulled off her scarf, the dark purple bruises forming at her throat. She looked dangerously vulnerable, though some of her usual strength was there. If it hadn't been, she probably would have been on the floor by now. It did something complicated to his heart, seeing that look in her eyes.

Bad idea, Spencer thought. Better turn her down – better get out of here. Better do it fast.

But his feet were rooted to the spot.

When he didn't answer, she tried again. "I was thinking I'd order takeout." She swallowed. "Maybe that Thai place… You could join me – if you like? My shout."

It was all he could do not to kiss her. He swallowed.

I can't, he thought. Just tell her no and good night, and get out of here, before it's too late…

"Okay," he said aloud. "That sounds – Thai food sounds… perfect."

He knew he had made the right decision as soon as the corners of her mouth quirked upwards. Some of the heaviness she had been carrying with her seemed to lift – and with it went some of his own.

"Great, I'll grab the menu," she said. Then she tried to take her coat off and grimaced.

"Here," he found himself saying.

As gently as he could, he helped her out of her damp, half-frozen coat and hung it on a peg by the front door to dry.

Her hands are so cold.

"Thanks," she said. "And, um – make yourself at home. I mean, you know where everything is."

He did. He peeled off his own coat and followed her into the kitchen, feeling far less bashful and self-conscious as he thought he might, if he ever set foot in here again. It was just the way he remembered it, as if he hadn't stopped visiting all those months ago, and the place had always been a part of the fabric of his life.

Spencer filled the kettle while she recovered the takeout menus, still moving rather stiffly.

"Peppermint or chamomile?" he asked, trying not to watch her too closely.

"Oh, you're a lifesaver, Spencer. Peppermint – or I'll be asleep before the food arrives."

He nodded, thinking that this was probably quite true, and pulled two mugs out of the cupboard so he could join her. They had a brief discussion about whether to get Pad Thai or Gra Pao – deciding to share both – then Grace went upstairs to change into something less frozen.

Spencer wandered into the room that was full of books and looked out into the garden. The snow was falling thick and fast, now, and it was very pleasant to be inside with a hot drink and not outside. And with company – no, a friend.

He glanced towards the stairs. Maybe more.

He wondered whether she, too, felt the sea change in their relationship; it was like they were on the very edge of something tonight, and while he thought it probably ought to make him feel uneasy, instead he felt something closer to hope.

They were trouble though – and they both knew which of each other's buttons to press – but maybe together they could find a way to function better than they did alone. For the first time in a long time, Spencer allowed himself to dwell on what they had had – whatever that was. He still wasn't sure how to define it, or them, or her, but perhaps that didn't matter. He did know that when they had been togetherish it had been the happiest he had ever felt. It had taken longer than he could have imagined to admit to himself that he wanted that again.

Spencer's lips curled into a soft smile, remembering the way she had defeated every last rule he had about not wanting to touch people until it felt weird not to be. His mind dwelling on kissing strange British women in hot parking lots, he almost missed her calling down to him from upstairs.

"Hey, I think you left some of your things over, back when – back in –" She stopped and then carried on, tiredly, "Anyway, if your clothes are as snowy as mine were, they're in the spare room still."

"Thanks," he said, leaving his tea on the table and heading up, glad now he had been too angry to pick them up back in the autumn.

And this was the winter of our discontent, he mused, gratefully pulling on warmer, drier clothes.

He glanced in the mirror, recalling how he had left an old college shirt from Cal Tech and some ancient jeans in the drawer in Grace's spare room after a particularly muddy foray in her garden last summer had meant walking home and back before lunch.

Spencer frowned, pushing damp hair behind his ear. It was funny, he had spent so long avoiding thinking about Grace he had almost forgotten how near one another they lived.

She had lit the fire by the time he got back downstairs, and curled up in an armchair in her pyjamas. He paused in the doorway and smiled at the familiarity of the scene. It just felt so right.

"I missed this," he said, and then went to reclaim his mug, embarrassed that he'd spoken aloud.

Feeling a light pressure on the crook of his arm, he stopped; Grace was looking up at him, her hand still resting on his arm where she'd caught him. "I missed this, too," she said quietly. "Spencer…"

His pulse jumping at her proximity, he allowed himself to be drawn onto the couch beside her. Grace slid her fingers up his bare arm and entwined them with his, the contact making him shiver with a mixture of cold and the memory of contentment.

Spencer licked his lips. "I – uh…"

Whatever he had been about to say – and honestly, he had had no real idea what was about to fall out of his mouth – evaporated entirely when Grace's other hand landed lightly on his chest.

"Let's – let's not do the over-thinking, talking thing," she said. "We're both rubbish at it, and it only gets us in trouble."

Spencer laughed, though only a little. He couldn't take his eyes off hers.

"True," he managed to say, despite the cacophony in his chest. He swallowed. There was so much he wanted to tell her – but she was right. Maybe just this once they could get away without their words messing things up. "Um…"

He sucked in a breath in surprise as the hand that had been on his chest moved gently over to the bruise above his eye.

"He clocked you pretty well, didn't he?" she asked, softly.

"I guess," he said, trying to resist the delicate sensation of her fingers grazing across the area. "I think you came out worse, though," he added, and then gave in, letting his eyelids flutter closed and leaning into her hand.

Opening them again, he touched the collar of her pyjama top, brushing his thumb over the blush of purple there. Silvano must have really been trying to kill her, he mused. Good job she was more than a match for him…

He bit his lip. Even bruised and exhausted, wearing an ancient Garfield shirt and fluffy PJ bottoms, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Without quite meaning to, he reached up and tucked a lock of her honey coloured hair behind her ear.

"Grace…" he began, but then she bit her lip too, and he was lost.

The kiss was soft and delicate, like the barest touch of a feather. Spencer pulled away, suddenly worried that they were on vastly different pages of the weird, convoluted book of their relationship, but Grace was wearing that easy, sweet smile again and his heart turned over in his chest. When he leaned back in he could feel the curve of her smile, pressed against his.

If I could just stay in this moment… he thought wistfully, safe and warm and with his arms around the woman he loved.

"I definitely missed this," she said, and somehow her arms had wound around his neck. Spencer 'mmmed' his agreement, resting his forehead against hers.

He relaxed against her, gently slipping his arms around her waist. She smelled of peppermint and bergamot, with just a hint of that strawberry stuff she put in her hair. Spencer inhaled happily. It felt like home.

Then he frowned. "Do you hear that?" he asked.

"What?" said Grace. "Oh, it's probably just my neighbour's car alarm."

Spencer pulled away, looking around for the source of the noise. "No, it sounds more like – like –"

He turned, and then turned over, and then smacked his alarm clock harder than he needed to; it slid over the edge of his bedside table and onto the floor.

Spencer groaned and lay back, keenly feeling the absence of the madwoman who haunted his dreams. "Like my goddamn alarm clock," he complained aloud, then put his pillow over his head, squashing it over his face in frustration, wishing he could go back to sleep – back to her.

But it was not to be. The dream was already fading, and with it that fleeting sense of contentment – and he had to get up and go to work.

Where Grace would be, distant and cold… because he had said no.

He sighed and made himself get out of bed.

It had been two weeks since the BAU had taken down the dangerous rogue exorcist who had murdered one of Prentiss's old friends and made a run at another, killing two more men besides, and no matter what Spencer did he couldn't get that night – those moments of almost with Grace – out of his head.

He had tried everything he could think of, short of self-hypnosis, from reorganising his kitchen cupboards to wearing himself out chasing after his godson at the waterpark. He had even volunteered to join Morgan for a gruelling run in the woods, and while he had come home and collapsed straight into bed, more physically exhausted than he had been in months, he had still woken with the feel of her skin on his lips.

That time he had dreamt she had gone running with him instead of Morgan… his dream had been an altogether more enjoyable experience than the sweaty, painful, freezing cold reality. It had taken a while for the scent of pine and strawberries to leave him, and he had been incapable of meeting her eyes at work all day.

Spencer brushed his teeth angrily, glaring at himself in the mirror.

Why did he let her get to him like this? It was ridiculous.

Why did she have to ask him to stay?

Why didn't you just say yes?

He glowered at himself and then got in the shower, trying to scrub the question and the possibilities of who might be there with him if he had out of his mind.