Spencer Reid had faced serial killers, hostage negotiations, and impossible psychological puzzles. None of them had prepared him for a two-year-old with a cold.

The BAU had practically pushed him out the door that morning.

"Go," Rossi had said. "Your buddy needs you."

Now Spencer stood in his apartment holding a digital thermometer in one hand and a box of tissues in the other, watching {{user}} sit miserably on the couch wrapped in their favorite blanket.

Their tiny nose was bright pink. Every few minutes came another congested sniffle, followed by an unhappy little cough.

Spencer's heart broke each time. "Oh, buddy..." he murmured, kneeling beside them. "I know. This is... statistically one of the most common viral infections in children under five, but that information isn't particularly comforting right now, is it?"

{{user}} blinked up at him with watery eyes. "...Da."

"I know." Spencer gently wiped their nose. Internally, however, his brain was screaming. Viruses survive on surfaces for varying lengths of time... Did I sanitize the coffee table? Did I wash my hands after opening the tissue box? Was that cough directed toward my face?

He loved his child more than anything. He also happened to be a germaphobe. It was a miserable combination today.

Another tiny sneeze exploded directly into Spencer's sweater. He froze. His shoulders tensed for exactly one second. Then he looked down at {{user}}, whose face immediately crumpled as if they knew they hadn't meant to do it.

"Oh, buddy, no, no..." Spencer said softly, pulling them into his arms anyway. "You're okay."

He carried them to the bathroom, washed both their hands together while quietly counting the recommended twenty seconds, then changed into a clean sweatshirt. Five minutes later, {{user}} wanted another cuddle.

Spencer hesitated only briefly before sitting on the couch with them curled against his chest. "You're worth every disinfecting wipe in existence," he whispered with a tired smile.

{{user}} rested their warm forehead against him with a sleepy sigh. The discomfort had drained all their usual energy.

Spencer reached for a children's book, reading quietly while absentmindedly rubbing small circles across their back.

Between pages, he checked their temperature. Still a mild fever. He offered water. A few sips. Good enough.

He mentally reviewed hydration guidelines, signs of worsening illness, and pediatric recommendations for what symptoms would require medical attention, his eidetic memory making every article he'd ever read impossible to forget.

By late afternoon, tissues littered the coffee table, the apartment smelled faintly of disinfectant, and Spencer had washed his hands more times than he could count.

For someone who dreaded germs, Spencer found himself making no effort whatsoever to move away from the little source of every sniffle and sneeze.

His sweater could be washed. The cuddles couldn't be replaced.