dead to me| 2- s. r

TWENTY-SEVEN

For the next couple hours following Spencer's abrupt appearance at your apartment, you spend the rest of the evening curled up against one another on the couch. You make sure you're extra careful to avoid Spencer's injuries, not wanting to hurt him anymore, to which he would always respond with something along the lines of it doesn't matter if it hurts as long as he can be close to you. This man is the cheesiest person you've ever met.

After finishing an entire season of a tv show, you finally glance at the clock and realize how late it really is. You glance over at Spencer who's comfortable on your couch, his crutches leaning against the armchair in the corner. You ultimately decide that Spencer's in no condition to be taking care of himself, not with healing ribs, a broken wrist, and a gunshot to the foot.

"Where are your keys?" You ask, turning your head to face him, lowering down the volume on the television.

He glances at you curiously, pointing to his satchel in the corner. You walk over and pull the daisy keychain with his apartment key on it and sliding it in the pocket of your hoodie. "Why do you need them?"

You gesture to his entire body, "You're no condition to be on your own yet. So, I'm gonna go grab you some clothes and shit from your place so you can stay here."

"You don't have to do that, I'm fine on my own," he persists, waving you off with his hands.

"Oh, yeah?" You challenge, humming when he nods his head. "If you can get up and grab your crutches then I'll leave you alone." You point to the chair a few feet away from where he's sitting, crossing your arms over your chest while you wait.

He scoffs and shakes his head, "I can do that," he replies. He braces his good wrist on the arm of the couch and stands up on his good foot, balancing his weight on it before trying to slowly hop toward the chair, his tongue poking out of the corner of his lips in determination.

Thankfully you have quick instincts and are close by when he trips on the carpet, nearly tumbling over face-first onto the floor, most likely injuring himself more. You catch him as he trips, wrapping your arms under his armpits and helping him back down onto the couch.

"Yeah, that's not happening," you instruct, grabbing a throw pillow from the chair and lifting his injured foot, apologizing when Spencer winces from the suddenness. You adjust his foot so it's elevated onto the pillow and grab his crutches from the chair and place them in your bedroom.

"Where are you going with those?" He shouts.

"I need to make sure you don't get up while I'm gone. So I'd suggest you stay put unless you want a repeat of what just happened a few seconds ago," you warn. He rolls his eyes and nods his head, "I wasn't going to get up anyway."

You scoff in disbelief, "Okay Mr. Independant, we both know that's not true. Now, shut up and let me take care of you."

"I thought I was the doctor here?" He pouts, scrunching his face up when you ruffle his hair, making it messier than it already is.

"Is there anything specific you want me to grab from your place?" You ask, avoiding his question entirely. He ponders the question for a moment, "Just some clothes, a toothbrush, my shower stuff, and a few books if you don't mind. I don't care which ones you pick."

"You already have shampoo and a toothbrush here, remember? Is there anything else you want?"

"From my apartment or in general?" He asks for clarification.

"Is there something you want that isn't from your apartment?"

He tuts his tongue, shaking his head, "I wouldn't call it a something but rather a someone-"