Pressure

Summary: It’s your birthday and Spencer has a special gift for you. Despite multiple attempts, he struggles to find the perfect time to present it to you.

A/N: Slight warning for very slight mentions of blood - just a smallish cut. Let me know what you think!

Part Two

Masterlist|Requests

Your birthday was often a strange event, as were those of the entire BAU you supposed. Last year you and the team had been chasing an unsub with a penchant for collecting fingernails around Seattle and the year before had been spent liaising with the LAPD to catch a serial arsonist. It was safe to say, that this year your expectations were a little low; you were hoping for a fun drink or two with your colleagues but little else other than a full night’s sleep.

It was surprising, then, and really quite nice that you were not miles from home; for once, there had been no invitations from far away states and you and the team were merely completing paperwork. It wasn’t the most exciting thing you could be doing for your birthday, that was for sure, but you were too used to the wrong kind of excitement to care.

The clack of wheels drew your attention from the wordy document you were currently poring over. “Hey,” you greeted, a warm smile gracing your lips as you looked at Spencer. “You come to help out?” You asked, lifting your pile of yet unfinished paperwork into his eye-line.

Almost shyly, his eyes averted from yours - darting first to his wringing hands before landing on the closed door of Hotch’s office. “I’m kidding,” you gave him, cutting him off before he could awkwardly tell you that it was against some kind of rule.

Relieved he nodded with a chuckle. Spencer, in general, seemed a nervous individual. Although you always considered skittish a better word for him. His social confidence had more than improved over the years, but there were plenty of things - just like anyone else, you supposed - that still melted him back into nervousness. His show of nervousness now, therefore, was nothing particularly new. Why he was so nervous in this very moment, however, you couldn’t quite pin down.

Eyes darting down to his hands, gripping a neat parcel in his lap, you raised an eyebrow. “What’s that?”

Own eyes jumping down to it, he stammered over a response but never quite got the words out. Garcia interrupted him before he could muster a full sentence, announcing her sudden presence with a stream of glitter and confetti pooled upon your desk. “Oh wow,” you tried to enthusiastically exclaim as she also tossed some confetti in a way that ensured it landed in your hair.

“Happy birthday!” She all but squealed as you shook your hair out.

A wry smile overtaking you, appreciating the thoughtfulness if not the gesture itself, you nodded up at her. “Er Thanks, Garcia.”

You and Spencer both leaned back as a large bouquet of flowers was heavily placed on your desk. The smell, while pleasant, was a little overwhelming. As Spencer tried to subtly cough beside you, you grinned at the flowers. There was no question that Garcia had chosen them herself; the petals were a wonderfully soft pink but the most obvious clue was the somewhat garish addition of roses that had been sprayed with gold glitter.

Moving the large vase to the corner of your desk, the flowers still overtaking the majority of the space, you thanked her. “They’re really… something.”

She beamed, not catching the amused glance you shared with Spencer, and waved a hand. “Oh it’s nothing,” leaning in to sniff one of the pink flowers, she continued. “I know you’re not a big birthday kinda person but you absolutely cannot expect me to ignore such a big day!”

Placating her enthusiasm, you stood to make a show of smelling the pungent floral fragrance. “They’re lovely, really, thank you.”

She somehow beamed a little brighter and, gripping your hand and tottering in her heels slightly with excitement, she pulled you alongside her. “There’s more!”

Gracelessly falling after her, you turned your head to shoot a wide eyed grin to Spencer who returned the gesture with a warm gaze of his own.

———————————————————————

Fingers tapping against the carefully wrapped parcel in his lap, Spencer watched you go. A little wave of disappointment crested over him but was overshadowed by what he knew would be short-lived relief. There was both an excitement and fear tied with the gift he was hoping to give you; his ever busy mind harassing him with constant questions of whether he had interpreted your behaviour objectively enough, of whether he was about to ruin your friendship forever, and more importantly whether you would understand the meaning of the gift regardless.

Somehow, he had managed to cut through that whitenoise of uncertainty and follow Morgan’s advice; “they’re being awfully patient with you but I’m telling you now, thats not gonna last forever. You better make a move sometime this century.”

The gift would be his quiet, subdued confession; one more than overdue but still nerve wracking. He loved you and in his own, perhaps cowardly, way he would tell you with this gift. That is, if he were able to ever actually give it to you.

Watching you go had therefore been disappointing but the feeling had been immediately salved as you looked back at him. The look felt like a secret, a glance shared between the two of you like whispered gossip; your thoughts conveyed perfectly only to him with such a simple gesture.

With markedly less enthusiasm, he wheeled his chair back to his own desk, deposited the gift back into his drawer, and stood to join the party now happening in the round table room.

———————————————————————

An hour and a half later, the expanse of time that Hotch was willing and able to put aside for non-work related activity, the party was reaching its close. Spencer admittedly had not been to a great many parties, but he was sure their impromptu gathering could not be accurately defined as one. Still, you seemed to enjoy it; laughing animatedly with JJ as she made some joke he couldn’t quite understand and happily licking the butter icing from the top of your birthday cupcake. The latter action sent an almost audibly sputtered breath from him as his eyes caught sight of your lapping tongue. Things only worsened when Morgan pointed out the icing smeared over your lips. In a single swipe you collected all the icing on the tip of your pointer finger and proceeded to salaciously suck the finger clean. Although, he was certain he were the only one in the room deriving such guilty pleasure from the objectively normal action. When it came to you his thoughts often derailed into either hopeless romance or crimson desire.

Normal work set in quite quickly after that. The usual routine of the office a little lighter after the celebration but the tasks still menial despite the ease Spencer found in them. Even as he flipped through the pages of his last folder, eyes zipping down the last page, he couldn’t prevent a small portion of his attention sticking fast to the gift he was yet to give you. Time was ticking by and he felt that if he didn’t do it today, he would never work up the courage again.

You were at your desk, your hunched figure almost framed by the dramatic floral arrangement still upon your desk. Hand resting upon the gift, as though the item would somehow bestow him confidence, Spencer methodically formulated a plan. He wondered if maybe he should approach under some other guise, add some forced casualness into the giving of his gift, but he couldn’t conceive of a viable option.

He considered making you a coffee, a splash of milk and one and a half sugars just as you liked, but it was past four pm. You never drank coffee after two pm, even when you were miles from home on a case filled with late nights. It was some unspoken rule of yours that he had never seen you break.

He considered bringing a file over to you and asking for help. That ruse would be see through, however. He had never asked you for help before and the mere prospect that he wouldn’t have finished by now would certainly either cause you great suspicion that he was up to something or inspire concern in you that something had happened to his brain.

His lips twitched and fingers drummed against his desk as he considered his options. It seemed, much to his chagrin, that he would simply have to approach you guiseless.

Something Spencer’s wandering mind had somehow not noticed, however, is that in all the time he had been considering his options his eyes had been fixed on you. It was little surprise, really, his gaze found you so often it was likely his eyes naturally rested upon you at this point. Unfortunately, the passive attention had not gone unnoticed. Your lips forming his forename pricked his ears and his eyebrows rose in surprise.

Focusing more intently on you, he leaned towards your desk with a question. “Sorry, what was that?”

You didn’t answer immediately, eyes wandering over his figure in some kind of assessment of his faculties. Eyebrows crinkling together when you rematched his gaze, you stood and moved closer to him. “You okay?” He nodded quietly, swallowing thickly as you stood over him. “You seem a little… lost in thought.”

Gaze dropping from you momentarily, he looked to the gift still beneath his palm. It truly was now or never. He opened his mouth to speak, lifted his hand to offer the parcel to you, but was cut off by a loud and sudden yowl from the kitchenette. The pair of you turned your heads in tandem, the yell so full of anguish it was impossible to resist, the gift hovering between you yet to be accepted.

The source of the yell was Morgan. The man was cradling his right hand as he leaned heavily against the sideboard, pain apparent on his features and continued groans escaping him.

Neither of you moved right away, assessing the situation as best you could from afar but when crimson began leaking from his clenched hand you took off with a muttered curse. Depositing the gift back upon his desk, Spencer quickly sprang from his desk to follow you.

———————————————————————

“Morgan, what happened?!” You asked, voice high pitched and frantic, as you pried his clenched fist open. A large cut was sliced across his palm and as the pressure of his fingers lifted the gory mess worsened dramatically. “Reid, hand me that paper towel.”

“Got it,” came Spencer’s reply beside you. You raised a grateful glance to him as you took the paper towel before concentrating on your task. Pressing the towel over the cut, you encouraged Morgan to use his other hand to apply significant pressure.

“Look in the sink,” Morgan gave eventually, by way of explanation. Peering into the murky depths of the overfilled sink you raised an eyebrow.

Spencer voiced the question on your mind. “I don’t see anything?”

With a huff, Morgan nodded, “exactly.” Nodding to the sink, he continued; “someone,” he stressed the word as though he knew exactly who that someone was, “left a knife in there despite me telling her every week how dangerous it is.”

Spencer grimaced at the sight of blood seeping through the paper towel and leaned closer with crinkled eyebrows. “Let me see,” he requested, frown deepening as he inspected the wound. “You’re going to need stitches,” he asserted, much to Morgan’s clear disappointment.

Morgan looked to you as though in search of a second opinion, you merely shrugged. “I’m not gonna argue with the doctor.”

Spencer gave you a little smirk. A few months ago he might have reminded you that he wasn’t actually a medical doctor but it seemed he knew you well enough by now to recognise the joke.

“I’ll take you,” you offered Morgan with a sigh, already fishing for your keys in your jacket pocket.

Spencer’s voice stilled you. “I can do it,” looking to him, you raised your eyebrows in silent question at this strangely sweet gesture. “It’s your birthday,” he pointed out needlessly, “and there’s only seventeen minutes left to work; you’re going out for drinks tonight,” you nodded in a confirmation of this fact that he didn’t really need. “enjoy your birthday, you don’t get to very often.”

A smile lifted your lips even as you felt guilt wash over you at the prospect of letting Spencer deal with this. Considering, you chewed your lip. Your lengthy consideration, however, seemed to take a little too much time for Morgan. “I’m about to bleed out over here,” you rolled your eyes dramatically at him.

“Are you sure?” You asked, attention back on Spencer, shifting in your heels in premature excitement.

“Absolutely,” he told you, resolute.

You squealed with excitement and, overcome with gratitude, sprang forward to hug the man. He responded with a surprised “oh” alongside an almost nervous chuckle.

“Sorry,” you muttered, pulling back but still smiling up at him. The pair of you remained like that, smiling dumbly at each other, for perhaps a moment too long.

Morgan straightened and interrupted the moment with a clear of his throat. When he had gained your attention, he told you with a smile; “happy birthday, really, but my hand is gonna fall off if we don’t go soon.”

“That’s highly doubtful,” Spencer began, almost looking affronted by the outlandish suggestion, “for your hand to ‘fall off’ it would be necessary to cut through several layers of skin and muscle. Plus-“

“Reid, let’s go.”

Remembering himself, Spencer blinked rapidly a few times before nodding like a bobble head, wishing you a last farewell, and rushing off after Morgan.

Watching the pair disappear you sighed, hands wrapping around your elbows. A strange disappointment that you couldn’t quite place had overtaken you as they had left. Pulling yourself together, wanting to feel nothing but positive on your birthday, you turned your attention to the kitchen.

You cleaned up as best you could, wiping down the surfaces and carefully extracting the offending knife from the sink before draining the ruby tinged water. Within ten minutes the kitchen looked as though nothing untoward had occurred; a miracle really, considering the surprising amount of blood Morgan had produced.

With little time left until you were free to enjoy your birthday to the max, you meandered back to your desk. On the way, the forgotten parcel upon Spencer’s desk caught your attention. Changing trajectory, you stopped at his desk and delicately fiddled with the tag of the gift. Your name was scrawled upon it in Spencer’s familiar, somewhat scruffy, handwriting.

Would it be considered rude for you to take the gift and open it? After all it was clearly meant for you and he had already attempted to deliver the gift himself.

This ‘consideration’ was merely surface level; the gift was in fact already sitting upon your own desk being less than delicately unwrapped by your impatient fingers.

Slowly, a book was revealed. As you turned the tome over a gorgeous floral illustration met your gaze. Running your fingers over the somewhat raised golden lettering, you read the title; “The Secret Language of Florists.”

A few months ago you had been entirely floored to learn the secret messages that could be sent using nothing but a well designed floral bouquet. You could hardly remember what had been the catalyst for the conversation, perhaps one of the BAU’s many unusual cases, but you had been strangely fascinated by the entire concept. A sprig of purple heather to wish the recipient good luck, for example. And, your personal favourite, the inclusion of a single white daisy as a silent vow to keep a secret.

There were so many more that Spencer had entertained you with, but they had fallen from your mind amongst the plethora of white noise that daily life forced upon you.

Excited by this gift, you turned to the first page. Between the cover and the first page, a pressed flower delicately sat; it’s rich red petals striking against the ivory white of the page. As you lifted the flower, wishing to admire its preserved beauty, you inadvertently revealed more of Spencer’s scrawled handwriting upon the page.

A message from me to you.

You grinned widely to yourself, shifting so excitably in your seat that anyone watching would think you were attempting some strange dance. So, the flower was a message - one the book could help you decipher the meaning of. Feeling like a spy deciphering this secret encoded message, you looked to the flower.

Even in its flattened state the flower was clearly a chrysanthemum. Taking care not to tear any pages in your excitement, you found the double page spread devoted to the flower. An illustrated yellow chrysanthemum decorated the middle of the page, providing confirmation that you had been correct in your initial assessment, and you skimmed through the surrounding words.

White chrysanthemums were symbols of truth, apparently, but you skipped past the rest of the explanation to find the meaning behind your red chrysanthemum. As you read the words, you brought the flower close to your chest. Your lips broadened into a giddy grin and your heart felt as though it may burst with sudden fullness.

A red chrysanthemum, very simply, means ‘I love you’.