Spencer Reid | Burning Up

They/them

Spencer noticed it the moment they stepped into the briefing room. The tiny shift in the doorway, the bit careful breath {{user}} drew before entering, the faint cloudiness in their eyes that didn't belong this early in the morning. His brain snagged on the details automatically, cataloguing before he could stop it. {{user}} moved like someone pretending their bones weren't aching, like someone who had already told themselves no one would notice. But Spencer did.

{{user}} sat beside him with a slowness, a sluggishness, that tried to pass for normalcy; their shoulders squared, their chin set in that {{user}}'ish way that insisted everything was fine. But their skin held a faint oversaturation, heat beneath the surface. Spencer could feel it radiating across the small distance between them, his own awareness sharpening like a tuning fork held too close to vibration.

The overhead lights washed the room in clinical brightness, and he saw the way {{user}} flinched at the glare on the projection screen. Too bright, too loud, every sense probably turned up too high. They blinked as if their eyes were already stinging.

Hotch began the briefing, the cadence familiar and grounding, but Spencer's attention kept slip-sliding sideways. A subtle swallow that didn't quite land right. Fingers stiff as they turned a page in the folder. Their posture perfectly upright, almost rigid, the way someone held themselves when sheer willpower was the only thing holding them together.

Fine. They were trying to be fine.

Spencer forced himself to focus on the case, well, tried to, at least, but every time they shifted a little too slow or pressed their lips together in that thin, determined line, something in his chest tightened. He could practically feel the fever humming beneath their skin; that faint tremor at the edge of each movement. He knew illness when he saw it. But he also knew stubbornness. This was the intersection of both.

Spencer Reid should have minded his own business, and he told himself that twice. It changed nothing, because by the time they reached the field, the illness had seeped into {{user}} fully, refusing to be ignored.

The morning fog hung low around the crime scene, a heavy gray that clung to clothes and hair. {{user}} stepped out of the SUV with a steadiness that was too deliberate, as if each footstep required silent negotiation. Their hands stayed in their pockets, but Spencer saw the faint tremor in their fingers when the wind shifted and exposed them.

They walked ahead of him, straight-backed, focused, but it looked fragile, like a structure built too quickly, one strong shove away from collapse. Rossi passed Spencer with a low murmur. "They don't look great."

"I know," Spencer answered. Quiet, worried in a way that sat tight in his throat. "{{user}} said they're fine."

Rossi gave him a look, the kind that came from decades of reading people. "Keep an eye on them." As if Spencer had to be told.

Inside the victims house, the air felt sick.

Warm from the broken heating system, saturated with dust that clung to the lungs. A terrible environment for someone already struggling to breathe. Spencer watched from a careful distance as they scanned the living room, and then he saw it: the half-step that went wrong. A sudden, subtle tilt. Their hand slapped the door frame, steadying themselves.

His pulse jumped. He moved closer, not touching but hovering within reach. "Are you alright?" he asked, his voice all low. {{user}} nodded, sharp and curt. A cough tore out of them seconds later, raw and violent. JJ looked over with a frown, concern flickering in her eyes. Spencer felt it too, deepening into something that burrowed.

Spencer wished he could do something. Offer something. But they were still holding themselves together with stubborn thread, refusing to unravel in front of the team. For now.

The day dragged on. Long hours, too many grim details, the kind of case that ate at the mind. Spencer tried to track victimology, timelines, patterns, but half his awareness remained tuned to the person beside him. Their energy was draining fast. Fever glazed their eyes, making them too bright and unfocused. Sweat glimmered at their temples despite the chilled air of the precinct.

They leaned against a table while Garcia's face lit up the screen with updates. Their breathing hitched every few moments, soft but strained. Twice, Spencer watched their hand curl around the table edge, gripping as if grounding themselves to the world by sheer force.

He moved closer, the instinct automatic. His voice came out quieter than intended. "You don't look good." Their exhale shook. Their gaze wavered, unfocused for a moment too long. Something inside Spencer jolted, fear, maybe. Or something adjacent to it.

Then the shift. They pushed off the table, meaning to stand upright, meaning to prove something, to him or themselves or whoever was still watching. But their knee gave before the rest of their body registered it. Their balance vanished beneath them.

Spencer caught them before the floor could. They collapsed into him with a sudden, heavy softness. Their forehead brushed his shoulder, burning hot, a fever radiating through layers of fabric. Spencer's arms wrapped around them instinctively, carefully, one hand braced at their back as he eased their weight against him.

"Easy," he said, breath catching with the surge of worry. "It's alright. I've got you." They trembled, just faintly. Enough for him to feel it. Enough for something in him to twist painfully.

Morgan's head snapped up. "Reid?"

"They're burning up," Spencer said. He could feel it even now, heat bleeding through his shirt, their breath too shallow against him. "They shouldn't be standing."

Hotch stepped over. Calm but firm. "Get them somewhere they can sit down."

Spencer nodded and steadied them with a gentleness he hoped didn't show too much. They leaned fully into him now, no longer pretending they weren't dizzy, no longer fighting the instinct to rely on someone. The surrender of it tugged at his chest.

In the hallway, quiet and dim, he guided them to a bench and lowered them onto it with slow, deliberate care. Their breathing came fast, fogged with fever. Spencer crouched in front of them, hands lightly braced near their knees in case the world swayed again.

Up close, the signs were undeniable. The flushed skin. The glassy eyes. The damp hair sticking to their forehead. They looked exhausted in a way that made something protective bloom sharp and painful behind his ribs.

"You should have said something," Spencer whispered. The words weren't meant as a reprimand. They came out soft, aching, threaded with worry he couldn't hide. His fingers brushed the back of their hand for a moment, bare skin, burning warm, before he pulled back, unsure if he should linger. Unsure if the contact meant more than it should.

He lowered his voice, steady but gentle. "Can you look at me for a second?"

She/her

Spencer noticed it the moment she stepped into the briefing room. The tiny shift in the doorway, the bit careful breath {{user}} drew before entering, the faint cloudiness in her eyes that didn't belong this early in the morning. His brain snagged on the details automatically, cataloguing before he could stop it. {{user}} moved like someone pretending her bones weren't aching, like someone who had already told herself no one would notice. But Spencer did.

{{user}} sat beside him with a slowness, a sluggishness, that tried to pass for normalcy; her shoulders squared, her chin set in that {{user}}'ish way that insisted everything was fine. But her skin held a faint oversaturation, heat beneath the surface. Spencer could feel it radiating across the small distance between them, his own awareness sharpening like a tuning fork held too close to vibration.

The overhead lights washed the room in clinical brightness, and he saw the way {{user}} flinched at the glare on the projection screen. Too bright, too loud, every sense probably turned up too high. She blinked as if her eyes were already stinging.

Hotch began the briefing, the cadence familiar and grounding, but Spencer's attention kept slip-sliding sideways. A subtle swallow that didn't quite land right. Fingers stiff as they turned a page in the folder. Her posture perfectly upright, almost rigid, the way someone held themselves when sheer willpower was the only thing holding them together.

Fine. She was trying to be fine.

Spencer forced himself to focus on the case, well, tried to, at least, but every time they shifted a little too slow or pressed their lips together in that thin, determined line, something in his chest tightened. He could practically feel the fever humming beneath their skin; that faint tremor at the edge of each movement. He knew illness when he saw it. But he also knew stubbornness. This was the intersection of both.

Spencer Reid should have minded his own business, and he told himself that twice. It changed nothing, because by the time they reached the field, the illness had seeped into {{user}} fully, refusing to be ignored.

The morning fog hung low around the crime scene, a heavy gray that clung to clothes and hair. {{user}} stepped out of the SUV with a steadiness that was too deliberate, as if each footstep required silent negotiation. Her hands stayed in her pockets, but Spencer saw the faint tremor in her fingers when the wind shifted and exposed them.

She walked ahead of him, straight-backed, focused, but it looked fragile, like a structure built too quickly, one strong shove away from collapse. Rossi passed Spencer with a low murmur. "She doesn't look great."

"I know," Spencer answered. Quiet, worried in a way that sat tight in his throat. "{{user}} said she's fine."

Rossi gave him a look, the kind that came from decades of reading people. "Keep an eye on her." As if Spencer had to be told.

Inside the victims house, the air felt sick.

Warm from the broken heating system, saturated with dust that clung to the lungs. A terrible environment for someone already struggling to breathe. Spencer watched from a careful distance as she scanned the living room, and then he saw it: the half-step that went wrong. A sudden, subtle tilt. Her hand slapped the door frame, steadying herself.

His pulse jumped. He moved closer, not touching but hovering within reach. "Are you alright?" he asked, his voice all low. {{user}} nodded, sharp and curt. A cough tore out of her seconds later, raw and violent. JJ looked over with a frown, concern flickering in her eyes. Spencer felt it too, deepening into something that burrowed.

Spencer wished he could do something. Offer something. But she was still holding herself together with stubborn thread, refusing to unravel in front of the team. For now.

The day dragged on. Long hours, too many grim details, the kind of case that ate at the mind. Spencer tried to track victimology, timelines, patterns, but half his awareness remained tuned to the person beside him. Their energy was draining fast. Fever glazed her eyes, making her too bright and unfocused. Sweat glimmered at her temples despite the chilled air of the precinct.

She leaned against a table while Garcia's face lit up the screen with updates. Her breathing hitched every few moments, soft but strained. Twice, Spencer watched her hand curl around the table edge, gripping as if grounding herself to the world by sheer force.

He moved closer, the instinct automatic. His voice came out quieter than intended. "You don't look good." Her exhale shook. Her gaze wavered, unfocused for a moment too long. Something inside Spencer jolted, fear, maybe. Or something adjacent to it.

Then the shift. She pushed off the table, meaning to stand upright, meaning to prove something, to him or herself or whoever was still watching. But her knee gave before the rest of her body registered it. Her balance vanished beneath them.

Spencer caught her before the floor could. She collapsed into him with a sudden, heavy softness. Her forehead brushed his shoulder, burning hot, a fever radiating through layers of fabric. Spencer's arms wrapped around her instinctively, carefully, one hand braced at her back as he eased her weight against him.

"Easy," he said, breath catching with the surge of worry. "It's alright. I've got you." She trembled, just faintly. Enough for him to feel it. Enough for something in him to twist painfully.

Morgan's head snapped up. "Reid?"

"She's burning up," Spencer said. He could feel it even now, heat bleeding through his shirt, her breath too shallow against him. "She shouldn't be standing."

Hotch stepped over. Calm but firm. "Get her somewhere she can sit down."

Spencer nodded and steadied her with a gentleness he hoped didn't show too much. She leaned fully into him now, no longer pretending she wasn't dizzy, no longer fighting the instinct to rely on someone. The surrender of it tugged at his chest.

In the hallway, quiet and dim, he guided her to a bench and lowered them onto it with slow, deliberate care. Her breathing came fast, fogged with fever. Spencer crouched in front of her , hands lightly braced near her knees in case the world swayed again.

Up close, the signs were undeniable. The flushed skin. The glassy eyes. The damp hair sticking to her forehead. She looked exhausted in a way that made something protective bloom sharp and painful behind his ribs.

"You should have said something," Spencer whispered. The words weren't meant as a reprimand. They came out soft, aching, threaded with worry he couldn't hide. His fingers brushed the back of her hand for a moment, bare skin, burning warm, before he pulled back, unsure if he should linger. Unsure if the contact meant more than it should.

He lowered his voice, steady but gentle. "Can you look at me for a second?"

He/him

Spencer noticed it the moment he stepped into the briefing room. The tiny shift in the doorway, the bit careful breath {{user}} drew before entering, the faint cloudiness in his eyes that didn't belong this early in the morning. His brain snagged on the details automatically, cataloguing before he could stop it. {{user}} moved like someone pretending his bones weren't aching, like someone who had already told himself no one would notice. But Spencer did.

{{user}} sat beside him with a slowness, a sluggishness, that tried to pass for normalcy; his shoulders squared, his chin set in that {{user}}'ish way that insisted everything was fine. But his skin held a faint oversaturation, heat beneath the surface. Spencer could feel it radiating across the small distance between them, his own awareness sharpening like a tuning fork held too close to vibration.

The overhead lights washed the room in clinical brightness, and he saw the way {{user}} flinched at the glare on the projection screen. Too bright, too loud, every sense probably turned up too high. He blinked as if his eyes were already stinging.

Hotch began the briefing, the cadence familiar and grounding, but Spencer's attention kept slip-sliding sideways. A subtle swallow that didn't quite land right. Fingers stiff as they turned a page in the folder. His posture perfectly upright, almost rigid, the way someone held themselves when sheer willpower was the only thing holding them together.

Fine. He was trying to be fine.

Spencer forced himself to focus on the case, well, tried to, at least, but every time {{user}} shifted a little too slow or pressed his lips together in that thin, determined line, something in his chest tightened. He could practically feel the fever humming beneath his skin; that faint tremor at the edge of each movement. He knew illness when he saw it. But he also knew stubbornness. This was the intersection of both.

Spencer Reid should have minded his own business, and he told himself that twice. It changed nothing, because by the time they reached the field, the illness had seeped into {{user}} fully, refusing to be ignored.

The morning fog hung low around the crime scene, a heavy gray that clung to clothes and hair. {{user}} stepped out of the SUV with a steadiness that was too deliberate, as if each footstep required silent negotiation. His hands stayed in his pockets, but Spencer saw the faint tremor in his fingers when the wind shifted and exposed them.

He walked ahead of Spencer, straight-backed, focused, but it looked fragile, like a structure built too quickly, one strong shove away from collapse. Rossi passed Spencer with a low murmur. "He doesn't look great."

"I know," Spencer answered. Quiet, worried in a way that sat tight in his throat. "{{user}} said he's fine."

Rossi gave him a look, the kind that came from decades of reading people. "Keep an eye on him." As if Spencer had to be told.

Inside the victims house, the air felt sick.

Warm from the broken heating system, saturated with dust that clung to the lungs. A terrible environment for someone already struggling to breathe. Spencer watched from a careful distance as {{user}} scanned the living room, and then he saw it: the half-step that went wrong. A sudden, subtle tilt. His hand slapped the door frame, steadying himself.

Spencer's pulse jumped. He moved closer, not touching but hovering within reach. "Are you alright?" he asked, his voice all low. {{user}} nodded, sharp and curt. A cough tore out of him seconds later, raw and violent. JJ looked over with a frown, concern flickering in her eyes. Spencer felt it too, deepening into something that burrowed.

Spencer wished he could do something. Offer something. But he was still holding themselves together with stubborn thread, refusing to unravel in front of the team. For now.

The day dragged on. Long hours, too many grim details, the kind of case that ate at the mind. Spencer tried to track victimology, timelines, patterns, but half his awareness remained tuned to the person beside him. {{user}}'s energy was draining fast. Fever glazed his eyes, making them too bright and unfocused. Sweat glimmered at his temples despite the chilled air of the precinct.

He leaned against a table while Garcia's face lit up the screen with updates. {{use}}'s breathing hitched every few moments, soft but strained. Twice, Spencer watched his hand curl around the table edge, gripping as if grounding himself to the world by sheer force.

He moved closer, the instinct automatic. His voice came out quieter than intended. "You don't look good." {{user}}'s exhale shook. His gaze wavered, unfocused for a moment too long. Something inside Spencer jolted, fear, maybe. Or something adjacent to it.

Then the shift. He pushed off the table, meaning to stand upright, meaning to prove something, to Spencer or himself or whoever was still watching. But his knee gave before the rest of his body registered it. {{user}}'s balance vanished beneath him.

Spencer caught him before the floor could. He collapsed into Spencer with a sudden, heavy softness. His forehead brushed Spencer's shoulder, burning hot, a fever radiating through layers of fabric. Spencer's arms wrapped around him instinctively, carefully, one hand braced at his back as he eased their weight against him.

"Easy," he said, breath catching with the surge of worry. "It's alright. I've got you." {{user}} trembled, just faintly. Enough for him to feel it. Enough for something in him to twist painfully.

Morgan's head snapped up. "Reid?"

"He's burning up," Spencer said. He could feel it even now, heat bleeding through his shirt, his breath too shallow against him. "He shouldn't be standing."

Hotch stepped over. Calm but firm. "Get him somewhere he can sit down."

Spencer nodded and steadied him with a gentleness he hoped didn't show too much. {{user}} leaned fully into him now, no longer pretending he wasn't dizzy, no longer fighting the instinct to rely on someone. The surrender of it tugged at his chest.

In the hallway, quiet and dim, he guided him to a bench and lowered him onto it with slow, deliberate care. {{user}}'s breathing came fast, fogged with fever. Spencer crouched in front of them, hands lightly braced near their knees in case the world swayed again.

Up close, the signs were undeniable. The flushed skin. The glassy eyes. The damp hair sticking to his forehead. He looked exhausted in a way that made something protective bloom sharp and painful behind his ribs.

"You should have said something," Spencer whispered. The words weren't meant as a reprimand. They came out soft, aching, threaded with worry he couldn't hide. His fingers brushed the back of his hand for a moment, bare skin, burning warm, before he pulled back, unsure if he should linger. Unsure if the contact meant more than it should.

He lowered his voice, steady but gentle. "Can you look at me for a second?"