Watching the person he hated the most’s demise was what Spencer assumed would be the happiest day of his life, knowing he’d finally bested you. But standing in a bright white and all too clean waiting room with your blood soaking his hands and his clothes had him just the contrary.

The moment you had joined the BAU, he had the compulsive need to one-up you, reluctant to have his intelligence rivaled by a newcomer. His incessant need to prove he was the smartest room in the room and his snide, subtly derogatory comments to you drove your feud. Anytime you proved him wrong, he was left miserable and scouring for a way to knock your ego back down a peg.

But this? This was too far of a fall. He only ever wanted to see your pride take a hit. Watch disappointment flicker in your eyes, the subtle downturn of your lips, and the way he’d find you glaring daggers at him for some time afterwards because, admittedly, the sight sent an unorthodox flutter through his chest. But he never wanted to see you physically hurt.

He wasn’t even sure how it happened. The faint crunch of hay and pine needles beneath your feet as you and Spencer searched the UnSub’s property. A shot echoed and rung relentless in his ears, almost consequentially leading him to miss the collapse of the figure beside him. It was hazy, distantly remembering Hotch telling him the UnSub was dead by his own hand while he stared the red staining his palms as he tried to keep you from bleeding out before the ambulance arrived, blood seeping through his fingertips, messily coating his helpless hands.

He couldn’t sit in that pristine waiting room when you were in surgery, unable to sleep or even stop being restless. It took hours upon hours, but good news was delivered and Spencer managed to force his way to your room. He knew you needed rest but he wasn’t going to let you be alone — really just a cover up because he couldn’t stand the idea of being alone.

He stayed in your room for hours, sleep threatening to take him over, taunting him every minute but he forced himself awake. He pulled the chair beside your bed, holding onto your hand just to remind himself you were really there.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered after quite some time, tears pooling in his eyes as his throat closed up. He gripped your hand carefully, bringing it up to his lips, careful to avoid your IV. “I’m so sorry,” he repeated, his words nearly imperceptible, not even sure you’d hear him.