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“And the edges of your soul, I haven’t seen yet. Now I’m glad I get forever to see where you end.” – Noah Kahan, Forever
For a moment, you aren’t sure where you are.
A bed, obviously. You can feel the plush of the mattress hugging your hip. The covers, freshly washed, covering your sleep-leaden limbs. Something’s thumping, steady, under your head. A heartbeat murmuring sweet nothings in your ear. A pair of strong lungs. Inhaling, exhaling. An arm around your waist. A hand on your shoulder.
Your eyelids fight against the last dregs of sleep, and you squint in the unwelcome face of the sun. It spills into the room through the sheer curtains, soaking you in its warmth and blinding you with its light. You shift, stiff joints groaning in protest, and press your face into his chest.
Bells. You remember bells. Confetti; the environmentally friendly kind. A bouquet of purple flowers, frozen mid-air in a hazy memory, landing in the reluctant hands of Emily Prentiss in another.
Something moves. His fingers are in your hair now, brushing through the strands with such painful gentleness it doesn’t even feel real. This is just another later of a dream, more warm and fuzzy scenarios created by your unconscious. It has to be, because nothing that is real could possibly feel so…sacred. It’s too perfect. You feel as though you’re floating, lighter than air.
Until the ache sets in. It’s in your head, dull and heavy, dragging you back down to earth, clouding your mind with a fog that extends beyond simple drowsiness. And with it comes a sore throat. A dry mouth. Can you be hungover in a dream? Surely not, that would just be cruel.
You groan. The sound reverberates in his chest, rattles his tender heart. You hear him chuckle.
“Ugh…time?” you mumble, voice hoarse.
“Ten thirty-two— no, thirty-three,” he says in a whisper, keeping his words soft, inoffensive, like he knows your condition without you needing to complain about it. He sounds awake, and he’s smiling—you can hear it.
With great effort, you raise your head, wincing as the light hits your face. His hand reaches out, casts a shadow over your eyes.
He isn’t smiling. He’s grinning.
“…hey.”
“Hey.” He tucks some of your hair behind your ear, brown eyes turned to gold in the sunlight; honey, like his voice. “How are you feeling?”
You lean into his touch, expression melting into a lazy smile. With a gentle sigh, you let your head sink back against his chest as you murmur, “’m good.”
Spencer’s arms wrap around you, holding you tight as he presses his nose to your hair. “Just good?”
“Great,” you correct, shaking your head. “Happy. The happiest.”
“That’s better.” He kisses the top of your head. “I’d feel like a failure if my wife weren’t the happiest the morning after the ceremony.”
His wife. You swear you feel the world tilt.
“I’d have to find a way to fix that,” he adds, letting his fingers trail down your spine.
“Oh yeah?”
“Oh yeah,” he says. He’s trying to sound serious, and he isn’t doing a very good job. “That’s what Morgan kept telling me yesterday: happy wife, happy life.”
You huff out a short, breathy laugh. “And you’d take advice from Morgan?”
“Is it not true?”
“Oh, it’s true. Just…right message, wrong messenger, I guess.” You lift your head, meeting his gaze with a smile. “But I’m plenty happy. You’ve nothing to worry about there.”
“Good.” He fixes your hair again, smoothing any flyaways as he studies you with this look of intense focus, almost frowning, like he’s struggling to believe what he’s seeing, committing your every feature to memory in case you disappear. “And Morgan’s had some successful relationships.”
You hum. “Define successful for me, hon.”
“Having a favourable or desired outcome,” he says, not missing a beat. “Success is subjective, my love.”
“Mhm.” You nod slowly. “And Morgan’s idea of success is…”
“Intense, short-term relationships.”
“Right, of course. So, naturally, he’s the guy you’d go to for marriage advice.”
“I never said I sought him out,” he says, frowning. “I actually told him I wasn’t interested in any advice, or…pep talks. But he kept badgering me as I was getting ready.”
“That’s what the best man is for,” you muse with a solemn smile, “spewing unsolicited advice as he mops the sweat from your forehead.”
Spencer scoffs. “I wasn’t sweating.”
“You so were.”
“It was hot.”
“You were shitting yourself,” you say, brows raised. “Don’t lie to me, Doctor Reid.”
“Fine, Mrs Reid,” he concedes with a huff. “I may have been…shitting myself. A little bit. Figuratively.”
Mrs Reid. He’s trying to kill you.
You bite your lip, roll your eyes at the sight of his smug little smirk before trailing your fingers down his chest. Your wedding ring glimmers in the light as you draw lazy patterns along his skin. “I was shitting myself, too. Figuratively.”
“I didn’t notice,” he says. When you frown, he quickly adds, “I’m serious.”
“You’re a profiler,” you say.
“And you’re beautiful.”
He says it like it’s a fact. Concrete. Unchangeable.
You laugh. You have to; you might cry if you don’t. “And beauty is enough to render your years of profiling experience useless?”
“Only yours.”
Yup, definitely trying to kill you.
“You…” you shake your head, feeling your smile falter. It shifts into something raw, something fragile.
Spencer cups your cheek, holds you steady. Murmurs “I love you” in this agonisingly tender tone that only breaks you further.
You lean into him, closing your eyes as you admit in this small, quiet voice, “I thought it was a dream.”
“The wedding?”
“Mhm.”
“The whole thing?” he asks, amusement seeping into his tone. “Even the staff threatening to kick Morgan and Garcia out for indecency?”
“I have a…vivid imagination,” you say. You fall silent for a moment, pursing your lips, before adding, “But…I doubt I’d have been able to come up with those, um, vows of yours. You’d have made a fucking incredible renaissance poet. Proper…dramatic.”
He’s grinning again, pride swelling in his chest. “You wanna hear them again?”
“Do you want to make your wife cry?” you ask.
“Only if they’re happy wife tears.”
“Sadist.”
“I said happy tears. Come here.” He grabs your waist, shifts you so you’re lying on top of him, chest to chest. “Let me recite my vows, please.”
You glare at him, barely able to contain your smile. “You just want to show off.”
“Pshh, no.” He shakes his head adamantly. “I just want to make sure that you know just how grateful I am…that I get to be the one to spend forever with you. It’s an honour.”
The way his voice softens with each word has you closing your eyes, fighting back the stupid tears that threaten to spill if you keep looking at him. He brushes his thumb against your cheek, touch so light it feels almost reverent.
“And I want to show off, just a little.”
He laughs as you swat his hand away, hisses like you’ve hurt him. You shake your head, try to speak but your voice comes out all wobbly, so you hide your face in the crook of his neck, and you sniffle when he hugs you.
“…just recite the damn vows.”
“Yes, ma’am. Anything for my beautiful wife.”