The light bulb in Spencer's kitchen flickers, but doesn't die. Not yet. Funny that he keeps forgetting to buy new bulbs when he can never seem to forget anything else. He keeps his eyes down, watching his hands prepare two cups of coffee. He doesn't need to look, could go through the steps blindfolded, but he tells himself that by thinking about how he needs to add light bulbs and maybe toothpaste to his shopping list and focusing on measuring out the right amount of cream and sugar, he can clear his mind and order his thoughts. It doesn't work. When he turns around, Derek's still sitting at his kitchen table, restlessly rearranging his fingers around an empty glass of water.
He doesn't fit. Spencer pauses midstep at that thought and the hot coffee nearly sloshes out to scald his fingers because of the falter, but it's true enough. Derek doesn't belong here in his small, chaotic kitchen. He feels too big, filling the space in a way that shouldn't be physically possible. The chair and table are miniaturized by his broad frame, the refrigerator something from a child's doll house. Strange how easy it is to believe that Derek's taller, bigger than he is when he's been looking down at him for years.
Derek's all strong, sharp lines and he makes the entire room look fuzzy and unreal. Shabby. Spencer feels a sudden pang of shame in his gut, followed swiftly by a flare of anger. How dare Derek make him feel ashamed of anything? He's always liked his kitchen before. It's cozy, eclectic, welcoming. Maybe there's nothing modern about it, maybe the stove doesn't work right and the oven's such a lost cause that he uses it to store his extra linens, but it's his and he likes it, so what the hell does it matter what Derek Morgan or anyone else thinks? Spencer purses his lips and slams a mug down in front of Derek, the force making him jump a little with surprise, his hands falling away from the water glass to press flat against the scarred formica table top. This time some of the coffee does spill over the edge, but Spencer doesn't jump to get a towel and mop it up. Instead, he pushes his-awesome! funky! vintage!-napkin holder over toward Derek so that he can clean it up himself.
Spencer sits, carefully smoothing the fabric of the skirt over his thighs as he does. When they'd first walked in the door, Derek had turned to him with his lips parted as if he wanted to ask a question and his eyes had flickered down over Spencer's outfit, but he'd snapped his mouth shut before the words could slip out. There it was, the small window when he could speed into his bedroom and change, 'make himself comfortable'. Make Derek more comfortable. Spencer had pursed his lips into a thin line and led the way into the kitchen, aware that Derek's eyes were tracking every move he made. Heat rushes through him now at the thought, coloring his face and neck, and he stares hard at the steam curling up from his coffee. Tries to push back the blush like he's trying to push back the embarrassment.
It shouldn't matter what Derek thinks of him, but it does. It matters because of the way that the soft, squishy place in his chest, which had thrilled at every happy ending and clutched at every bitter tragedy that his mother had ever read him, jumps and flips and tightens when Derek makes an noise of approval or gives him a look of disbelief. One word, just one word, is all it would take to make that searing hot mortification creep up from his stomach to claw at the back of his throat. His fingers tighten around the mug until they're deathly white. He clears his throat, takes a sip, shifts so that the hard wooden edge of his chair digs uncomfortably into the back of his bare thighs and proves that this isn't a dream.
Every shuffle and breath seems to echo in the silence. Derek squirms and fidgets like a child who's been caught doing something wrong, but Spencer is too busy taking deep, steadying breaths in an attempt to stop his head from spinning to do anything more than occasionally twitch his foot. Finally, after several tense minutes of carefully not looking at each other, Derek lets out an explosively loud sigh and attempts a rueful smile. It's unconvincing, but Spencer still feels some of the tension go out of his neck and shoulders at the sight. Maybe this won't be so bad after all.
"So, I never would have guessed that that's the sort of thing you're into," Derek says haltingly. He pauses, his dark eyes going wide and flicking down in the direction of Spencer's skirt, hidden by the table. Spencer blinks slowly at Derek, his knee bouncing nervously under the table. He's still wearing his boots and there's a dull thud each time the heel hits the floor. Derek swallows loudly and rushes on. "Clubbing, I mean. You've never seemed to show much interest in clubbing before."
Scratch that, there's no way this isn't going to be painful. Spencer shrugs a shoulder, half in response to Derek's statement, half to help ease some of the tightness there. He taps a fingernail against the cooling ceramic mug, stops after a moment when it starts to grate on his nerves. "I didn't use to," he finally says. "But after...After Hankel, I started."
This time it's Spencer who pauses, only vaguely aware of the unwelcome sympathetic grimace that momentarily flashes across Derek's face. He sucks his lower lip between his teeth and bites down on it hard. For a second, he's back in the club, surrounded by uncaring strangers, his head reeling and his limbs heavy and loose, lost in a chemical nirvana, then he blinks and he's back in his dim kitchen with Derek. He tastes the sharp metallic tang of blood on his tongue and he takes another sip of coffee and swipes the back of his hand across his mouth before continuing.
"It was something to help me forget for a little while. It would have been counterproductive to go out with the team when they were part of what I didn't want to think about."
Derek nods slowly and slowly traces the rim of his mug with the tips of his fingers. "And the clothes," he asks. "What about those?"
"Club wear," Spencer manages to force out. His voice sounds choked even to his own ears and his cheeks burn. "There's no deeper meaning to them, Derek. It's just club wear. They help me blend in."
He lets the words hang in the air between them, not needing to look to know that there's disbelief on Derek's face. They're profilers. They've been trained to see the deeper meaning in everything. For a long, tense moment, he's afraid that Derek will press the subject, even prays to a God he doesn't believe in that he'll let it drop, then Derek slurps at his coffee and his eyes flick from Spencer's face to the table and back again and the moment passes.
Spencer ducks his head, not wanting to meet the gaze that he can feel burning into his skin. It feels like a hand is squeezing his chest, tighter and tighter until he's struggling to breathe. His hand shakes when he pushes his hair out of his eyes and his leg is jumping faster and faster under the table. The room's quiet again, or as quiet as it can be with the noisy hums of his ancient fridge and the even older air conditioner propped up in his window and the sharp, shallow gasps he makes as he forces air past the fist that's closed around his lungs. In his peripheral vision, he can see Derek reaching out, his palm down and his fingers spread, just like he'd been posed at the club when Spencer saw him. A slight tremor goes through his hand and he balls it into a fist like that will stop it.
"Spencer," he says. His voice is low and rough, breathless like he's having as much trouble breathing as Spencer is. Spencer closes his eyes and sees Derek's face the way it had been when he'd turned around. All shadows and angles from the flashing lights, his pupils blown wide, his lips parted and damp. Even with his dark skin, Spencer could have sworn he'd seen a flush on his cheeks. He'd looked shell shocked and feverish. His wrist had been clammy under Spencer's palm when he'd taken it as he stepped in closer and raised his voice over the music to say "Not here." Although that might have been sweat, since his skin had only grown slicker with every second that Spencer touched it while he led the way out of the crowded room.
Spencer's tongue flicks out to wet his lips and Derek inhales sharply. Slowly, Spencer lifts his eyes until he's looking at Derek through the thick fringe of his eyelashes. Derek's fingers convulse against the table like he's fighting the urge to reach out again. Spencer exhales with a faint, barely audible whimper and Derek's fingers twitch and his eyes go even darker.
"Spencer," he says again. Spencer leans forward, until the edge of the table is pressing hard against his stomach. Derek glances down again, then back up again and his breath is definitely faster, his cheeks and ears darker. "I don't think you could ever blend in. You're meant to stand out."
A rational voice in his head is screaming at him, telling him to stop, think about what he's doing, but Spencer tunes it out as he slides his hand across the laminate table top until the very tips of his fingers brush against Derek's. He can feel the heat radiating out from the places where their skin is touching, spreading up and out from his fingertips to his arm, chest, whole body. Spencer shudders at the force of it, his breath hitching when Derek turns his hand so that it's palm up and slides his fingers up underneath Spencer's, his nails skimming the sensitive skin at the inside of his wrist. His pulse races under Derek's touch and Spencer shivers when Derek curls his fingers around his wrist and tugs lightly.
Derek's rising up, halfway out of his chair, when there's a sudden loud crash. They both jump, their hands falling apart, and Derek looks away, his face blank. Spencer sucks in a shaky breath and pulls his hand back to his side of the table. There's another crash, this one quieter and not nearly as jarring, and Derek turns to look at Spencer, one eyebrow arched in a silent question.
"My neighbors," Spencer says, his lips curling in a humorless smile. "I think they're doing some remodeling work in their kitchen and they always forget how thin the walls are."
"Oh." Derek swallows again, looking much more flustered than he had moments ago. There's another long pause, then he shakes his head sharply and frowns. "It's late," He says, his voice soft but firm. "I should really be going."
Spencer jerks at that, his mouth falling open to protest, but he chokes back the words before any of them can slip out. Instead he nods slowly, quietly says, "Okay."
Derek pauses by the chair where Spencer's still sitting. His hand hovers over Spencer's shoulder for half a second before he snatches it back, shoving it into his pocket. "I won't tell anyone at work. I wouldn't do that to you."
Spencer suddenly feels cold everywhere he had been burning before. He presses the palms of his hands against his thighs, half on soft fabric and half on smooth skin, and closes his eyes. He'd forgotten. One touch and he'd forgotten the entire reason that Derek had followed him from the club to his apartment. His lips twitch and he can feel an almost hysterical laugh rising in his throat. Like the words he'd stopped before, he suppresses it. He's good at suppressing things. He glances up at Derek and nods again. "I know."
Spencer's still sitting at the table, staring into his half full mug of room temperature coffee when he hears the front door click shut behind Derek.
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