i.

Spencer pours himself a cup of coffee on the jet. The coffee station is much too small and his bare arm brushes again Derek's. He doesn't mind it, but Derek still apologises, his breath a whisper on Spencer's lips and he inhales the scent of coffee all too readily.

Spencer loves coffee, he consumes and relishes and craves it. He wonders if Derek feels the same. He knows that he fixes a cup every morning as soon as he gets into the office and has seen him pinch his nose a thousand times when he can't make progress on a case and insist that he just needs more coffee. He knows that. But he doesn't know if he does it for the taste or because he needs the caffeine hit to get through the day.

Spencer wonders what his preferences are beyond just a dash of milk and no sugar: whether he mixes it weaker or stronger in his home. He wonders if Derek has just one coffee order – a drink entirely of his own – or if he varies it depending on his mood. He wants to know if Derek has a favourite coffee shop and what it's like and if the people who work at it know him and what they talk about in their snippets of polite conversation.

He doesn't know nearly enough about Derek, and he wants to know everything.

ii.

Spencer's brain feels wooden as he leans against the counter, taking a deep sip of his coffee. His eyes sting, a discomfort he should be used to by now, but somehow isn't.

Derek slides into the room, rummaging in the cupboard for his mug. He finds it after a few seconds, and as he pours his coffee he glances to where Spencer stands, clutching his mug with pale fingers.

"Late night?" he asks, his voice gentle.

Spencer blinks hard. "Yeah," he says. His eyes drift up to meet Derek's and words come against his volition. "I haven't been sleeping too well recently."

Derek simply nods gravely, his lips a thin line.

iii.

Derek smiles as Spencer approaches his desk, but his look quickly turns to confusion when he sees the jittery determination on Spencer's face and the twin cups of coffee in his hands.

"I got you a latte," Spencer says a bit too quickly, setting the cup down on the tabletop. "You like lattes, right?"

Derek's gaze slides towards Emily, who is sitting at her computer about four feet away from them, before returning to Spencer, coming across as a bit too much like a profiler. He looks at Spencer the way that only he ever does; his eyes so soft they send shivers down Spencer's spine.

"Can't go wrong with a latte," he says carefully and Spencer wishes that he wasn't quite as good at hiding his thoughts.

Spencer presses his lips together as he nods, hovering for only a moment before scurrying back to his desk. He pushes his hair back as he pulls a file towards him only to have it fall back in his face. A face that feels entirely to warm. He chances a glance in Derek's direction, and finds him looking strangely thoughtful as he takes a measured sip.

Spencer makes a mental note to try an Americano next time.

iv.

Derek stops him as he picks up his satchel, ready to go to Bennington. "Hey, Reid," he stalls, strangely hesitant. He has that look in his eyes again – the one that leaves Spencer short of breath. He knows he can't waste any time here, but he can't leave.

Derek's eyes search the room for the right words. "Is this what's been keeping you up recently?"

Spencer doesn't reply, which is all the answer Derek needs.

v.

"Oh you've got it bad." Penelope's smile is wide and smug.

"What?" Spencer squawks, knowing (or rather fearing) exactly what she's talking about. They had been in her office going over security tapes of a crime scene, combing the crowd for a possible arsonist. Derek Morgan was currently on the screen, surveying the area with the local detective, and there must have been some involuntary shift in Spencer's behaviour which gave it all away.

"You'd like a piece of chocolate thunder, huh?" She sits back in her chair and seems to test the idea, a bejewelled finger stroking her coffee cup. "I like that mental image."

"Garcia! No, that's-" He wraps his arms around himself. "No. Just no."

She rolls her eyes. "Not like that. Get your mind out of the gutter; I just meant you'd make a cute couple."

Spencer visibly relaxes, the stiffness in his limbs dissipating. He looks to the side, suddenly finding a dinosaur figurine on her desk fascinating. "Well don't expect to see that anytime soon. Or ever, really," he adds, bitterness tingeing his voice.

Penelope looks genuinely confused. "Why not?"

It's Spencer's turn to be confused: he feels like the answer to that question should be clear enough. Derek's alleged heterosexuality was one possible explanation, the fact that he only saw Spencer as a 'kid' was another, his aversion to relationships a third.

He doesn't offer any of those reasons, and instead shrugs. "He doesn't see me that way."

"He doesn't let himself see you that way," she corrects him, her red lips parted in a sleek smile.

Spencer narrows his eyes and a flicker of hope stirs in his chest. "Why do I get the feeling you know something I don't."

"Feels strange, doesn't it?" She crinkles her nose, her tone teasing before she sobers, if only slightly. "You know Morgan: he doesn't hunt close to home."

He raised an eyebrow. "You make him sound like an Unsub," he says sardonically.

Penelope dismisses his words with a wave of her hand. "You know what I mean. You work together. You actually matter to him. He wouldn't risk ruining that."

And somehow he does know. He thinks about Derek Morgan who chases down Unsubs and diffuses bombs and is always the first to put himself in harm's way, all because he never learnt how to rely on anyone other than himself. He shies away from relationships not because of a disdain for them, but because he doesn't truly understand how to open up to someone. He cares about other people so deeply it sometimes leaves Spencer breathless, but he can never bring himself to trust them.

When he glances back at Penelope, her grin is radiant. "He cares about you - that's both a help and a hindrance."

vi.

They're in Atlanta investigating a series of murders when Spencer next brought Derek coffee. He nods in thanks as he accepts the cup and doesn't seem to think twice about the gesture and neither, it seems, does anyone else in the group. Ever the professional, Derek waits until they've finished brainstorming on the case before taking a long sip, and Spencer tries to hide how much pleasure he takes in Derek's small smile.

vii.

Spencer brushes snow out of his hair as he steps into the bullpen, his fingers still numb from the cold. The central heating is at full blast but still he feels the cold in his bones.

He's only just settled in his seat when Derek saunters over, a cup of coffee in his hands. He promptly places it on Spencer's desk, who frowns at it.

"For you," Derek clarifies with an easy smile. "Thought this one should be on me."

"You got me coffee," Spencer asks weakly, still watching the cup with trepidation.

"It's a cinnamon dolce latte with an extra shot."

Spencer finally picks it up. "I've never had that before."

Derek's eyes crinkle as he grins. He doesn't seem put off my Spencer's defensive behaviour, if anything he's amused by it. "I know. I thought it sounded like something you might like."

Spencer feels his intestines knot (butterfly's his ass) and can do nothing but offer a strangely inadequate smile as he picks up the cup. "Thanks. I appreciate it." He takes a big gulp of the coffee, which is pleasantly warm at this stage and melts a path down to his stomach.

Derek was watching him intently as he drank, and seemed pleased by what he saw, looking oddly satisfied as he claps Spencer's shoulder before returning to his desk.

viii.

In Portland they find a coffee shop that's just theirs.

The kidnapping case is wrapped up quickly and effectively, and the team takes victory in it simply because they seldom can. They stay in the city for an extra day, claiming that it's to help the local police build a case while in reality Hotch is the only one who stays: JJ and Emily are out shopping and Rossi takes a local detective out to lunch (working on wife number four, Derek insists).

Spencer and Derek sit by the space heater in the corner of the cafe, talking animatedly as the coffee grows cold between them.

ix.

Derek likes his coffee from the bottom of the carafe where it's stronger and has had time to cool. He gets himself a cup every day at about nine, when the first batch of the day is nearly through and the second not yet brewed. He takes it with no sugar and only a splash of milk, but he'll forgo it on the road if there aren't enough pots of creamer to go around, letting Spencer use it instead. He likes it as strong as he can get it and is a bit of a snob when it comes to coffee beans. He doesn't like his coffee too hot, and puts his mug to the side as he waits for it to cool. He likes coffee but doesn't need it, or at least not the same way Spencer does.

x.

They comb through old police files in the station, Spencer sits in the chair while next to him, Derek leans on the desk with a cup of takeaway coffee in his hand. Spencer thinks he can smell it clinging to the air around them, though he could just be imagining it. His thigh is barely a hair width from Spencer's arm and the warmth sinks through two layers of fabric. Spencer finds himself following the path the cup makes to Derek's lips, and wonders if he'd be able to taste coffee on them.

xi.

Spencer feels a strange surge of courage that weekend as he rinses his razor. It leads him to pull his phone out of his pocket and dial a familiar number, and remains with him as he sets foot inside an unfamiliar cafe. It's quiet and calm and smells like Derek.

"I like this place," Derek explains.

Spencer thinks he does as well.

xii.

After that weekend they would go out for coffee on a semi-regular basis. Spencer would drag Derek to lectures on inane subjects, and as they sat in a cramped campus cafe he'd begrudgingly admit that they did actually pique his interest. Baristas would flirt readily with Derek and Spencer wouldn't blame them for it: he'd do the same if he had the chance and the guts. Derek talks about his future as they sit on opposite sides of a table, and confesses that he really does want to settle down someday, but it's hard for him. He doesn't use gender pronouns and, for the first time, Spencer starts to have hope.

xiii.

They sit side by side on the park bench with twin cups of coffee in their hands. The leaves have turned to red and yellow and the whole kaleidoscope of autumnal colours but the grass remains a vibrant green beneath them.

Very little was said between them, with Derek probably talking more to Clooney than Spencer. They're still reeling from the last few days and Spencer is sure that the nefarious scent of hospitals lingers on his skin. For now they're just content to sit there – safe and together and alive.

Spencer sometimes likes to visualize time, simply because he can and others can't. He sees it as an ocean, ebbing and flowing around him, and often it is in a throws of a violent storm, and it's everything Spencer can do to stay afloat amongst the relentless tempest of time. He spent most of his life fighting against it; racing through school and then college and always feeling like it was never enough.

In that moment he just lets the waves lap around him.

He thinks he's happy.

xiv.

Spencer curses the doorbell as his crutches dig into his armpits. He knows he'll eventually get used to them, but it's taking too long and he's so sore. His knee throbs - the pain only slightly dulled by (non-narcotic) painkillers - and sends a wave of discomfort resonating throughout his entire body.

The sight of Derek on the other side of the door holding two cups of coffee shouldn't have brought a smile to his face, but it did.

xv.

Spencer edges open the door with his cane to find Derek sitting at his desk, pinching the bridge of his nose between a thumb and forefinger. He glances up as Spencer enters the room, a wan smile on his face.

"You're still here?" he asks.

It's well past midnight and the bullpen is empty and eerily silent. Spencer shouldn't still be there; he finished the last of his work an hour ago, and spent the rest of the time dawdling and doing pointless busywork.

"There was the write-up on the Los Angeles case to do," he offered as an explanation as he slides into the chair opposite Derek and places two mugs and a carafe on his desk. "Coffee?" The question is redundant; Derek has scarcely taken his eyes off the coffee since he set foot in the room.

"Read my mind." He pours them each a cup, glancing around for some milk and sugar for Spencer (he has started taking his coffee black himself) and the gesture makes something flutter in Spencer's stomach.

He pulls two pots of creamer and a handful of sugar sachets out of his pocket, trying to fight a giddy smile. He avoids Derek's eye, sure that he would be utterly transparent underneath the weight of his dark gaze, but when he looks up Derek is frowning.

"You don't have to stay."

Spencer distracts himself by stirring sugar into his drink. "I know. I want to," he says after a long moment. His movements are jerky as he pulls a file towards him. "Is this a consult? I could take a look at it."

Derek has stopped drinking his coffee, stopped doing his work, and is just looking at Spencer. A long and penetrating look and suddenly Spencer knows what it feels like to be at the other end of the interrogation table. "This isn't your job," he says, his voice and proverbial blank slate.

Spencer fights the urge to fidget, sitting just as still as Derek. One hand rubs reassuring circles into his knee below the desk, safe from Derek's gaze. "I know. But you didn't ask for this." He flicks the file open and skims through the string of words on the page. Derek's gaze is heavy on him, but he tries to ignore it. "You can kick me out if you'd like," he points out after a few moments.

Derek simply nods, and returns to his own work.

xvi.

Spencer returned to the room the next night as well, two mugs and a carafe in hand, and the night after that and the one after that until Derek finally stopped assuring him that he didn't have to stay and a comfortable silence filled the room.

Silence was never something he tended towards; it always made him feel jumpy and uncertain and he was constantly fighting against it, babbling in a struggle to fill it. He didn't do that with Derek. He didn't feel he had to.

xvii.

Before long they're back to coffee shops and everything is back to normal, only it isn't. Morgan's eyes linger on him and he finds himself wondering why they're still playing this game. He wonders how much longer they'll dance around each other, and how long he'll allow it to go on.

xviii.

In the end it was Derek who made the first move.

The cafe was swarming with crowds seeking shelter from the bitter cold. Condensation misted the windows and the heating was on too high. Spencer and Derek sunk into a booth near the back of the room and quickly shed their coats. Spencer drank his cappuccino in big, greedy gulps.

Derek's hand circling his bare wrist is just about the last thing he expects to feel, but there it is.

Physical contact isn't anything new between them: an arm around his shoulders, a hand on his back, a reassuring pat from time to time. But not like this. Never quite so intimate.

xix.

Derek's lips do taste like coffee, he discovers. A different type of coffee than Spencer is used to; a better one than far. The mixture is altogether headier - rich and intoxicating. Spencer drinks it in.

xx.

Spencer wakes to a different smell, a different sight. Bed sheets and blankets were crumpled around his body and the fabric was soft on his bare skin. He allowed himself a long and languid stretch, running his hand through tousled hair. He was alone, but the other side of the bed was still warm and a familiar scent clung to the pillows and sheets and Spencer.

"Took your time getting up, pretty boy."

Derek had two cups of coffee and a breathtaking beam. Spencer couldn't have stopped himself returning that smile if he tried, which he didn't. Derek climbed onto the bed, keeping the cups perfectly level (one perk of bomb squad training: steady hands). Spencer hums contentedly as he wraps a hand around the mug as heat sinks through ceramic and into skin. Derek presses a kiss into his bare shoulder as Spencer takes a long sip, savouring the taste.

"He was my cream, and I was his coffee - And when you poured us together, it was something."
~Josephine Baker

fin.

A/N: Hope you enjoyed this. Thanks to my friend, Danielle, for all her help and encouragement. It's only my second fic and I'm pretty nervous about all this, so I'm just really grateful that you guys read this. Reviews would be very much appreciated :]