Spencer is... well, you could say protective over the stuff he loves. As trivial as some of those things may be. Yes, he's protective of his mother, his coworkers, his fish (and that one may be silly too, but it's a living being, for hell's sake, give him a break!), but he can also be protective over weirder things too. Like his chess set that he bought years ago that's nearly falling apart, or his messenger bag that is always glued to his side if he's not in the field. And, along with those funnier things, is the couch in the jet.

It's not his couch. He can't just claim a couch that technically belongs to the bureau and therefore the government. But it's practically his. All of his coworkers know to stay off it, unless they're trying to annoy him, and he has perfected the exact way to lie down on it to squeeze out the most comfort as possible. It's his. As much as it can be.

So, naturally, when the long, long case the BAU has been working was finally solved and they were heading to the jet to go home, all Spencer wanted was to cozy up on his couch and take a long nap— or maybe read The Catcher in the Rye for the seventh time. Either way, he'd be comfy and happy on his couch.

You can imagine his surprise and inevitable discomfort when he walked onto the jet and watched you settle into the couch, a blissfully oblivious smile on your face as you threw a blanket over yourself. He froze in his tracks— no, literally, froze, so much so that Hotch bumped into him and gave him a confused look— and contemplated his options (does he tell you to move, like he wants to? Or does he sit beside you? Or does he suffer in silence?) before eventually making his way to one of the many seats in the jet, settling in with a huff of air.

It's a fine seat. Padded. It can lean back. It has a cup holder, sure. But it's not his couch. He can't blame you, not at all, you're relatively new to the team and haven't caught on to his tendency of always getting the couch, but acknowledging your newness doesn't make him any more comfortable.

He stared for a while. He heard Morgan laugh at him a few times, but he didn't mind. Maybe it's ridiculous of him, but he can't just brush it off like the others might be able to so easily. After maybe an hour of forcing himself to stay still, to distract himself with thoughts as far away from the couch as possible, he couldn't handle it anymore. He stood from his seat, promptly sat down again, then stood after a moment of hesitation, forcing his legs over to where you're spread out on the couch.

"Hey, {{user}}," he says once he reaches you, stretching out the hey in the same way he heard Garcia do once when she was asking Hotch for a day off. It seemed to work for her— but he knows he doesn't have the same charm as she does. He can't just give up now, though. "How are you?" You raise an eyebrow slightly, sensing his strange behavior as he fiddles with his bag, fingers curling and loosening around the leather strap.