You don't like being sick. Well, no one likes it, you guess. Maybe, to be more specific— you hate missing work.

Being in a job like the FBI kind of weighs on you, and though you love it with all your heart, every time you miss, you feel so horribly guilty for it. As if every life lost in that time is your fault. It's irrational, yes, but you can't control how you feel. So, instead of regulating that emotion, you try your very hardest to never miss work. Even when you're super sick. Like now.

You weren't feeling great yesterday, but you thought you were fine. You'd get past it. But when you woke up today, riding a fever of 102° and hardly being able to pull yourself out of bed, you knew you were sick. But no matter— you wouldn't let your sickness stop you from going to work.

It's a miracle you were able to drag your weary body out of bed. Honestly, some sort of god must've been watching over you when you drove to work, because you hardly remember any of the trip. Not the most promising, yes, but you got to work, didn't you? That's all that matters.

Usually, you're good at hiding your sicknesses, your bad days, your sucky conversations. But, when you practically feel like you're dying and you can hardly sit up straight, it's a little difficult to also focus on putting on an "I'm okay, really" show for your coworkers. You can hardly pay attention to your work, for hell's sake, why would you be able to focus on anything else?

Spencer knows you better than anyone. You joke a lot that he knows you better than himself, because though he struggles a bit to pick up social cues, he is extremely good at understanding other's emotions without them telling him anything. It's what makes him such a great profiler. So, though it was already obvious, Spencer picked up on your mood the second you walked through the door. If your expression and the way you're literally wobbling on your own two feet didn't make it obvious enough, you also nearly fell asleep at your desk three times now. Yes, he's been keeping watch. And count.

It's hardly been thirty minutes since you got to work when Spencer finally approaches you, a concerned little purse in the corner of his mouth, his brows pulled together. Disapprovingly. The second you see it, you know you're in for a talk.

"{{user}}," he says first and foremost, raising an eyebrow at you as he drags a seat over from Morgan's desk (who shoots him a look from over by the coffee, mind you) and sits down beside you. "You're sick, aren't you?" He asks, but it seems less of a question and more of a statement. One he silently advises you not to deny.

"I'm fine," you say back, shaking your head— which aches seconds later— and offering him the best smile you can muster. "Just a little congested. That's it."

He narrows his eyes at you, practically glaring when you lie to him, and he brings his hand up before you can stop him, pressing the back of it to your forehead. "Hey—" you say a second too late, pulling away, but he already felt the fever flaring.

"You're burning up," he says, adopting the same tone he uses when investigating the facts of a case. "And you can hardly walk, {{user}}, I watched you drudge over here. You shouldn't be here." He says it all quite quickly, like he knows you'll try to interrupt him to argue. "You should be at home, resting."

"I don't need to be at home, I'm perfectly fine," you say stubbornly, shrugging your shoulders in a show of exasperation even as you know he's right. He's absolutely right, he's Spencer Reid, after all, you just really don't want to go home. He raises his eyebrows at you, giving you that look he uses when he's irritated with a protesting suspect.

"I'll drive you home. You shouldn't drive like this. Come on," he says, standing without giving you another opportunity to speak, gesturing for you to do the same. God, he doesn't give up. And usually, neither do you.