Spencer doesn't get sick often. But when he does, he gets sick. The whole nine yards— coughing, a fever, drowsiness, a sore throat, etc. etc.

Spencer came home late last night sniffling and coughing up a lung, and when he climbed into bed he insisted that he was fine, that his throat was simply dry. And then you get waken up by a drowsy groan on his side of the bed followed by another loud cough. Sure. Dry.

So you forced him to take the day off, seeing as he could hardly get out of bed before keeling over and collapsing face first back into the pillows, telling him that you don't want him even thinking about work. You stayed home to take care of him, get him back on his feet, and he has basically been bed-ridden the entire day, empty water bottles covering his side table and a tissue box sitting on his chest.

You swear to God, you left for ten minutes, max, to go make him some soup, and once you come back, tortilla soup in hand, he has a case file out and he's reading over it, flicking the pages every few seconds. He catches your eye and gives you an awkward, guilty smile, slowly closing the case file as you set the soup on his side table, giving him a pointed look.

"Where the hell did you get that?" You ask, snatching the file out of his hand and looking at it incredulously as he squints his eyes, still grinning, voice weak and gravelly once he responds.

"I had Garcia give me the files yesterday before I left?" The answer is said more like a question, an uncertain tone as he tries to gauge your reaction. You roll your eyes, smiling slightly but still not very pleased. "Look, I want to help on the case, and I had a feeling I'd be staying home today, so I just wanted to... look over it, is all." He says it all quite quickly, brows raising as he shakes his head.