Request: post!prison spencer with a dancer!reader, she can be very shy & blushy with him but he finds her refreshing & understanding after everything he's been through so far, just them both overall being soft together bc he deserves happiness
Rating: Suitable for all audiences
A/N: This is very short and basically nothing happens. I wanted to play with how Spencer might view the world after prison.
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'Healing takes time.'
Spencer had heard the phrase before, muttered awkwardly by well-meaning friends or leaving his own lips with what he'd hoped was a convincing show of empathy. The sage advice was also the safe advice. Everyone has heard it before. It was hard to deny, considering every scraped knee and paper cut would eventually fade into a barely noticeable scar, and those marks would weave together to create a new patchwork person, calloused and capable of withstanding deeper wounds.
But Spencer still wasn't comfortable with taking things slow. In his experience, 'slow' was a bad word, an indicator of failure or laziness or greed. It was what people called him when he couldn't live up to unrealistic expectations. When he was more human than machine or number or hired gun. Slow was the worst thing to be.
But then, he met you, and everything changed. It wasn't like he'd expected, nor how the movies had promised him. The changes were subtle and at times frightening.
The first time he noticed it was when you two were on a simple walk. Nothing out of the ordinary happened, but he still couldn't make himself relax. The only thing he could focus on was the movement in his peripherals. The hair standing on the back of his neck and the voices telling him to watch his back. The eyes are everywhere, and they're all focused on him.
All but yours. Because your eyes are fixed forward any time they are not shut with a face full of warm smiles. You are not following your footprints left behind. The only thing you are stuck on is the future, which you skip towards gracefully and without regret.
Spencer envies you for a second, but then he looks down to see your hand is still holding onto his, pulling him along and away from the shadows of the past. The envy fades, and the sun's scorching rays feel less painful with each step.
The next time things changed was at a recital. Amphitheaters are not a friend of his. Even the word makes him cringe; a reminder of the way things are made to sound too loud on purpose. And despite his love for the 'fine arts,' whatever that is supposed to mean, he didn't make a habit of showing up at places like this.
But he was willing, excited, even, to see you on the stage. By the time he got to his seat, he'd started to wonder if he'd made a mistake. If he'd cornered himself in a row of people that wouldn't understand why the stage lights reminded him of spotlights spread over a prison yard. People who would certainly notice the way he hyperventilates when their hands get too close to wrists that feel shackled against the seat.
People who seem less important when you walk out. Slowly, so slowly, in fact, that it's almost like slow motion from the movies. Moving with a purpose that doesn't involve running away from things that follow.
Your movements have no purpose other than to be beautiful, to bring serenity to others that have sought comfort in the warm amphitheater.
And Spencer realizes that he is glad that others are there to bear witness, to hopefully start to understand just how important it is to watch you. To learn from you. To love you, even if it's only reasons are because you move with a purpose that is so selflessly pure.
Healing takes time, Spencer reminds himself.
Time that seems to pass a little bit faster with you.
