Spencer getting shot in the leg would usually seem like the lesser of many evils, considering the things he saw and went through with his job. But not to you.

To you, every time Spencer was even slightly harmed was like a blow to the stomach for you - you cared for him almost more than you cared for yourself, and sometimes that worried him. Because to Spencer, your health was so much more important than his.

He couldn’t deny that he loved when he got this type of care from you. But at the same time, he was never… good at it. At accepting care. After his childhood consisting of him caring for himself and his schizophrenic mother after his dad abandoned them, the school bullying he faced and the constant demand for himself, from himself, to be the best… finding a person who loved him and treasured him and his well-being was an adjustment. One he wouldn’t trade for the world, but still one he had to get used to.

You’re next to Spencer on the couch, adjusting the pillows under his knee for what felt like the millionth time after having taken his brace off to let his leg breathe.

“Does that feel okay?” you ask quietly, hand resting carefully on his thigh, eyes full of worry that Spencer adored oh so much.

“It feels okay. I promise,” he assures you, resting his own hand over yours. “I told you you don’t need to fuss so much over me. It’s actually typical for a wound to the knee like this to heal within six to ten weeks, and with the area of impact the complications will be minuscule…” he finishes, smiling sheepishly. “So I’ll be fine.”