Essential Listening: Rush, by Dashboard Confessional

The state of Virginia did sultry summer days in a way few other places could, SSA Doctor Spencer Reid mused. It wasn't the urgent, dry heat of the Nevada desert, where he had grown up, or the all-consuming swelter of Florida, but each day of the past few weeks had dawned warm and only grown hotter and sunnier, making suit fabric cling and constrict, and turning every meeting or crime scene the Behavioural Analysis Unit had been called to into a particular trial. The nights were muggy and difficult to sleep through. Soon, there would be a meteorological reckoning, and he was expecting a storm in the next few days.

August was, in some ways, a bit of a month of doldrums for Spencer, since a lot of his calendar when he was actually at home and not flying off to investigate horrible things being done to people was focussed around seminars, lectures and exhibitions held at the local colleges and universities. While the museums of the area around Washington DC did a strong line in summer activities, they were more directed at families with children, and he had a thing about close, personal contact – and how he would rather avoid it.

Which meant, on this particular Sunday afternoon, he was languidly sprawled on his couch – and his best friend was partially sprawled on him. SSA Grace Pearce was one of the very small number of people in the world who Spencer could tolerate the proximity of, and lately, (much to his delight) she had been taking full advantage of that fact. He was presently using her legs as a shelf.

It had been a couple of weeks since he had been declared fit for work, having spent the previous month recovering from a bout of what he had told his mother was flu, but had in fact been weaponised Anthrax, and therefore highly classified. It had been a deeply frightening and unpleasant experience that he would rather forget, which was something of a problem with an eidetic memory. Grace, too, had been infected, though her illness had been much less advanced than his, so for a while they had found themselves with quite a bit of free time together. As their lungs, immune systems and intercostal muscles recovered they had made the most of this, watching their way through The Lord of the Rings (extended versions), all the old Doctor Who they could find, and a lot of British comedy shows that Spencer had hitherto ignored.

Though they were back at work now, the viewings had continued, aided in no small part by the fact that Grace had signed up to a TV streaming thing, so they could watch stuff wherever in the country they were, instead of solely feeding their insomnia with Forensic Files and Dateline, the staples of late-night hotel TV. They had finished the wholesome and wickedly funny Dinnerladies the day before, and were now a good way through Black Books. It was darker and sillier, and he was beginning to appreciate where she got her sense of humour from.

Grace shifted, and Spencer lifted his coffee mug out of kicking range until she'd settled, this time lying flat on her back, her knees against his shoulder and her bare feet wedged between his legs. He smiled, pleased that she felt comfortable enough around him to do it, and balanced his mug on her knees. It was empty, but it provided an excuse for one arm to lean against her leg, steadying it.

"Let me know if you want me to move, by the way," she said indistinctly, and Spencer's smile broadened.

"You're good," he said, running a hand up her calf on the inside of her jeans. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the corners of her mouth quirk upwards.

And this was the problem: 'best friend', while still (and eternally) true, no longer covered what their relationship was evolving into. It hadn't for some time. And if he were honest, they had spent as much time studying each other's responses to romantic stimulus (as he was presently categorising what Grace refused to call anything other than 'snogging') as they had watching TV.

Then again, 'problem' wasn't entirely accurate anymore, either.

One of the benefits of being a behavioural analyst, which could also be a problem at times, was being able to read one another's micro-expressions, so he and Grace could communicate quite a bit without actually speaking. This was rather a good thing, in Spencer's opinion, because they both had a habit of tripping over their own words, and putting their feet in their mouths.

So far, they had not said anything specific to one another about what they felt or where this was going (this time) since they had both thought they were going to die in Doctor Nichols' lab, and Grace had read his garbled confession of love off his face before he had managed to persuade it out of his mouth. Her 'I know', and 'Me too', had told him all either of them needed to know. Thus far, this was working out quite well.

"Just checking," she said amiably. "It's your turn to make a drink, though."

"It is not," he argued, though he knew it was, his eyes never leaving the screen.

"Is too. I made you coffee, even if it does make you taste horrible."

He couldn't stop himself smirking at that. "Well, I made you lunch."

"And I made you breakfast. In your own kitchen, I might add."

"I cannot be blamed for the fact that you could not be bothered to walk home last night," he retorted, "because 'three blocks is too far when you're sleepy'." He put on an approximation of her voice that made her give a loud snort of laughter.

"That is entirely your fault," she pointed out lazily. "You're ever so comfortable. Besides, I sleep better where you are."

They turned to one another and smiled, before both turning back to the screen. While their conversation might wander towards the candid every now and again, they never lingered on it, both aware that had circumstances not pushed them to it, they would not have talked about it yet. That was fine by Spencer; a long, steadily maturing relationship was pretty much his ideal.

"It's still your turn," said Grace, after a while, and Spencer drew a long, lazy spiral on the underside of her calf, his fingers travelling, from memory, to that place near the back of her knee that could make her shriek. He felt her toes flex under his thigh.

"I will kick you," she informed him, but he didn't believe her. She was enjoying this – and where it might lead – as much as he was.

"Uh huh," he said, feigning attention on the screen, though he was no longer following the episode at all – and hadn't been for some time. He put his coffee mug down out of kicking range, then made another circle on the back of Grace's leg.

"That tickles."

"I am aware."

"Spencer…" she warned, through gritted teeth. "You are on thin ice."

The little hiss of air was worth the trouble he would get into, he knew, and when she sat up with a speed belied by her earlier laziness, he was ready for her.

"Two can play at that game," she declared happily.

The resulting tussle was half-wrestling match and half tickling, and accompanied by a great deal of breathless laughter. Somewhat unexpectedly, it ended with Grace flattened against the cushions with Spencer straddling her, each of them giggling like children. He was aware that she was not putting a great deal of effort in to repel him, because she could hand his ass to him on a plate if she chose to, even without using her more clandestine talents.

Grace's fingers still dancing over his abdomen, Spencer paused to take her in, playful and flushed and laughing, pinned to the couch, and –

I love this woman, he thought, with all the certainty he had ever possessed. And she loves me.

There wasn't much time to marvel over it, even for someone with his brain speed, because Grace used his shirt to pull him in for a heated kiss. He melted into her embrace, greeting the pleased little noise she made in the back of her throat with an answering moan of his own. He was aware of her hands sliding between his shirt buttons, undoing them as his travelled beneath her t-shirt. She half sat up as he helped her pull it – and the plaid shirt she'd had on over it – over her head, and took the opportunity to press herself against him for another kiss.

Her hands pushed his shirt over his shoulders as he nipped at the soft flesh of her lips, then she lay back, looking as sultry and inviting as the day, short gold hair in wonderful disarray, cheeks flushed and wearing that wicked grin that never failed to turn his insides to jello. He took a moment to admire the bra she was wearing (light blue and covered with pictures of bees, and so very her, somehow), and rubbed a thumb along the edge of it.

He'd thought about doing this a lot since the last time, when they had barely known each other, in New Orleans, and now they were, for a moment he didn't know what he wanted to do first.

Grace raised an eyebrow, her lower lip caught between her teeth.

Your move, it seemed to say, so he flicked his teeth over the little hollow above her clavicle that he hadn't been able to take his eyes off since the weather had turned warmer and she had started wearing strappier tops to work. She hummed her approval when he grazed it with his teeth and he felt her hand slip into the back pocket of his jeans.

They were both eagerly attempting to divest one another of their remaining clothing when Spencer's cell phone rang.

"Oh, come on!" he groaned, dropping his head into her chest.

Grace made a similar noise of annoyance and regret, but she didn't move her hands, which were resting lightly on his half-unbuckled belt.

He couldn't in good faith not answer it, given their job and the likelihood that it was an emergency, even kiss-drunk and occupied as he presently was. He fumbled blindly for it on the coffee table, which was complicated somewhat because he didn't want to move.

"Hey, JJ," he said, glancing at the caller ID.

"Hey, Spence," she said, in the kind of tone that cancelled plans and curtailed activities. "We've got a case."

"Uh huh," he replied, trying to focus on what she was saying, and not on the fact that Grace had resumed kissing his neck, well aware that she was making life difficult for him.

"It's a –"

"Bad one?" he asked, trying to keep his voice even.

Short syllables, he told himself, unwilling to prevent Grace from doing what she was doing, and she won't be able to tell.

He felt his breath hitch as the woman beneath him ran her fingers softly down his sides, making him shiver. She nibbled his earlobe and he stifled a groan.

"Not sure yet," JJ told him. "A weird one, certainly. Hotch wants us all in, in under an hour."

"Sure, I'll – I'll be right there."

JJ misinterpreted the slight tension in his voice as irritation. "Sorry to interrupt your weekend."

"No, it's okay," he said, somehow maintaining a level voice. "I'll be there."

"Good. Oh, bring warm clothes."

Had he been more capable of thought, he might have asked about that, but right at that moment he was aware that there was a limited amount of time while JJ made her way through her phone contacts until she got to Grace and they would have to stop. With making the most of it in mind, he hung up, tossed the phone onto the floor and pulled Grace closer.

Their kisses were less heated, now – an unspoken acknowledgement that this couldn't go where it had clearly been heading today – but no less urgent or greedy. By the time Grace's cell phone buzzed on the table, she was straddling Spencer instead, giving him the perfect opportunity to get a little revenge as she navigated her way through the call.

Grace closed her eyes and tipped her head back as he trailed kisses down her neck and towards her breasts, but she sounded perfectly normal when she said, "Oh yeah? Where are we going?", even if the hand that was in his hair tightened appreciably. "Canada?" she said, surprised.

As occupied as he was, that caught Spencer's attention. He pulled back a little and met her gaze.

"I thought that was out of our jurisdiction," Grace remarked, and Spencer nodded, frowning. "Okay. Yeah – forty-five minutes. Got it."

She hung up. "So," she said. "Canada."