— BAUGENIUS, an independent, selective, canon divergent, headcanon based, and low activity doctor spencer reid of cbs’ criminal minds. originally est 2014. current reboot est 2021. primarily set within later seasons ( season twelve → ) with earlier seasons available upon request.
written by megan, 24, she / her, infj, english major
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hey friends. long time no talk for some of you. took me like, 500 years to remember the login for this account, negl. just wanted to pop in to say i’m doing really well now. i got my degree, i have an amazing job, i have the best boyfriend, i have two cats that i love, and i’m honestly thriving. this blog and all of you were here for me through some really hard shit. from all the angst to all the ships to all the weekly trips to oklahoma, all of you gave me a reason to keep going, and putting spencer through torment just to nurse him back to health gave me a very needed outlet for my depression. i just wanted to say thanks to all of you. i legitimately wouldn’t be here without my old friends and this funky little genius. i still love you all a bunch, and my discord remains the same, if any of you that i’ve fallen out of contact with want to chat sometime.
what npc are you? — morally grey magic user who is kind of a hermit.
ah, an intellectual. and morally grey, how sexy of you ;) but in more seriousness, the party of adventurers who run into you and could sorely use your help or guidance have one hell of a time trying to figure you out. you do not find yourself aligning with traditional groups or institutions, but rather wherein your interests lie. you live for doing what you want to do and are just straight vibing. and that confuses a lot of people, but you stay unbothered. that's a magnificent quality about you, that part of you that has learned to not give a shit what other people think because you know that it's a waste of time. you know what you care about and how you want to live and that is what is important to you. while your trust is not lightly earned, anyone who does manage to get on your good side has got themselves a very powerful and very loyal friend. rock on you funky little wizard <|:D — ( x )
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spencer has . . . a lot of scars. yeah not talking mental right now. most of them, he doesn’t mind, and he received due to his efforts to save others, so there’s no reason to find shame in them. a few, however, are a different story.
TRACKMARKS. starting off strong, apparently, but only because i’m attempting to go in order. there are clusters of trackmarks littering the inside of both of spencer’s elbows. he was not a casual drug user, he shot up often, and while they’ve faded, if one looks hard enough, they’ll see those telltale red pinpricks.
GUNSHOT— KNEE. this is one of the scars spencer doesn’t mind. he really . . . messed up his knee when he was shot there, putting him on crutches and a cane for months. he got it saving a life, though, so he doesn’t complain.
GUNSHOT— SHOULDER. he hates this scar. he hates it with a passion. he got it from diane turner’s gun, and he doesn’t have maeve breathing with him to show for it. it is utterly the worst of his scars, and he covers it as much as possible, especially in the months following her death.
GUNSHOT— NECK. again, he doesn’t mind. he got it saving alex blake, and while almost dying wasn’t a very fun activity, he doesn’t carry much trauma with it.
KNIFE— PALM. spencer’s second most loathed. he sliced his hand on the knife that killed nadie ramos in mexico. that wound almost ruined his life, it carries with it an absolute assload of trauma with it. he couldn’t look at it for a long while without flashbacks, and he often pressed on it in prison to attempt to trigger some sort of recall, so it would open and bleed often. then he reopened it freeing his hands in a hostage situation. it’s horrible.
STAB— THIGH & ARM. he tends not to think on these. he created them in an absolute act of desperation. not to mention . . . two separate stabs occurred. only one was necessary. i’ll let you do with that as you will.
SLICE— EYEBROW. a small slit just above his eyebrow, from the believers. it’s barely noticeable, but if one gets in close to him, the faint line of red is there.
“you see, the problem was, you were so smart, you were so brilliant, you really believed that you could solve anything if you just put your brain to it.”
oh heart of ice and mind of gold, what am i to do with you? you are only good in small amounts, bittersweet fledgling, you are hard for most to swallow. your spirit is strong, your wit is potent, your biting essence drives even the most daring away. but why are you hiding your sweetness? i know within you, you are soft, but humanity has made you bitter. you mask your pain and sorrow with spite and sensibility. you say you do not care about trivial things, but don't you? sweetheart relax. you can let down your drawbridge, the waters are not poisoned. i know you have looked monsters in between the eyes and scoffed at them, but please, relax. you think your armor protects you but it is smothering you slowly. little owlet, when will you learn, words can only get you so far? feelings are what makes this world pulse. do not suppress your feelings. your heart can still thaw my dear. trust. — ( x )
It’s almost UNCOMFORTABLE, how familiar he is with this particular image of his brother; gaze AVOIDING eye contact, fingers absentmindedly picking at any LOOSE THREAD he can get them to grasp, head angled in a way meant to CONCEAL any emotions revealing deeply held secrets in the contours of his features. In fact, when he looks up && tucks himself into a ball, chin hooked over his knees, present-Caden is BRIEFLY overlaid with an image of his younger self, curled up on Spencer’s bottom bunk with his hands over his ears to block out the sounds of LOVING parents fighting. He blinks to get rid of the image, a dull ACHE forming in his chest as he’s reminded of all the times his brother has looked so SMALL && helpless.
Shifting to sit beside his OTHER HALF, the ache in his chest grows more INTENSE as he’s told the other couldn’t survive what he has. It shouldn’t be a CONTEST, && the fact there’s enough trauma && heartache in the lives of BOTH Reids is upsetting in && of itself. Then comes the follow up of RIDICULOUSNESS he’s come to expect from Caden when any situation becomes serious, && he almost ( almost ) laughs.
{ ♜ } ❛❛ Nice try. ❜❜ Voice BRIEFLY reflects amusement, though his words are strained && soon the light of humor has dimmed in his gaze && his features transform into a look of open CONCERN. ❛❛ Talk to me, Caden. What’s going on?? ❜❜
CADEN GLARES, and it is very halfhearted. of course it is. his brother is trying to help, and he has never been good at hiding things from the nine - minutes elder, or . . . really from anyone. he wears his heart on his sleeve, much to his own dismay. but when it comes to spencer . . . it’s different. even before he was a profiler, caden swears he was born with this look that just pierces him right into his stupid soul.
so he looks up from his very interesting loose thread, eyeing his twin as he shifts to sit beside him. “nothing is going on,” he very blatantly lies, before biting into his bottom lip, knowing it’s useless. it always is. he thinks mournfully of all the times he’s pried into spencer’s life and problems. it’s not usually the other way around.
he sighs, curling deeper in around himself. “i dunno. i think i have a concussion.” he’s very nonchalant as he says this, gaze on spencer turning wary. he knows that given the right circumstances, spencer can be just as dramatic as he can. “i went into the field, and— i got whacked. you know? it was a plank. a stupid plank. wooden? and i went down, and i thought about all the times you’d gotten shot and were just like, ‘oh, haha, bullet wound, life is fine,’ and i was useless because i got hit by a plank. have you ever gotten hit by a plank? i think it was plywood— . . . don’t touch it. the emt cleared me.” he holds his hand over the back of his head so his twin’s concerned grabby hands can’t reach him.
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❝ i can’t talk about it. ❞ not now. it was too soon after her sister decided to return from the dead. ❝ i guess i don’t have much to complain about, though. it’s not every day you get someone coming back from the dead. ❞ her only responses right now included dry humor or anger, and she isn’t surprised that her distancing herself has caught reids attention.
HE CHEWS HIS LIP. of course she can’t talk about it. he can barely talk about it. months spent sobbing on jennifer jareau’s couch with the aching crave of dilaudid coursing through his veins are piling up on him, and . . . he can’t help it, he can’t help the rage. he can’t help hating months of misery and his loosening grip on sobriety. so . . . he gets it. in a way. maybe not like her. but he does. “we don’t have to talk about it,” he responds, quietly, taking the seat next to her. he wrings his hands, tapping them together anxiously. it’s rare for him to feel . . . vulnerable. but he does. “i’m not normally like this. angry. but i can't feel anything else. is that wrong?” he asks, because . . . maybe she'll understand, and it's uncontrollable, how desperate he is for that. to be understood, just by someone.
There’s a hint of DREAD in brown eyes as he watches his brother navigate to his text history, a million scenarios of UTTER CHAOS swarming through his thoughts; having been on the receiving end of MANY of Caden’s random thoughts taken written form, he’s not too thrilled to learn which of those his UNIT CHIEF has been on the receiving end of.
It’s obvious he was RIGHT to be afraid once he’s shown the message in question; he GROANS, dropping his face into his hands as if he’s just gotten a HEADACHE — in all honesty, he might as well have.
{ ♜ } ❛❛ Because that is ridiculous!! And so is this!! ❜❜ EXASPERATED, nearly in disbelief that the man identical to him is this LUDICROUS. ❛❛ Sometimes I wonder why we gave you our numbers. ❜❜
IS CADEN OFFENDED? not really. is he going to act like he is? absolutely. he lets out a puff of air, clicking his phone until its screen goes blank and shoving it back into his pocket. perhaps his brain functions very differently than most of the general population’s, because he’d be thrilled to receive a doofenshmirtz message in the dead of night.
his voice edges in on that certain high intonation that that he and his twin achieve when either irritated at worst, or overly excitable at best. “it’s not ridiculous!” although, yes . . . there it is. the second comment that filters through spencer’s lips brings a small smirk to lift the edges of his own, as he shrugs noncommittally.
he looks spencer dead in the eye. “i don’t know, spence,” he says, head tilting sideways. it’s very obvious either some caden brand chaos is coming his way, or some caden brand smartass is coming his way. perhaps some blend of both. “maybe it’s because you get injured so damn often that otherwise i’d believe your unit chief’s number were a repeat spam caller.”
⤷ @doctordonovan said: “I was dropped into a cave, and you were my flashlight.”
SHE’S ALWAYS HAD A WAY, that is, of making his heart simply . . . stutter, and stop. phone booth conversations left him wandering wrong directions, stumbling over words that would get caught in his throat. maeve weaves words like they’re a tapestry of her very soul, and spencer blurts his out as if his own soul were weighed down by concrete, straining and jerking to be free. ( it’s not unusual now, then, that maeve has the breath knocked from his lungs, and the words stuck where they sputter and slow at his lips. )
it’s the idea that he is— anything light, let alone her flashlight in a cave, that has him taking pause, because . . . she’d come, she’d come at such a time of utter suffering, of darkness, and for three months that’s all she’d known him as. she’d vanished into thin air and returned as he’d begun fading away. she’d been his light, and he can’t imagine the idea of the seeping darkness he’s only just managed to overcome acting as the same for her. it makes his heart skip.
then, perhaps they’ve both been one another’s flashlights, haven’t they? he’d ached as he’d sat at her bedside, and he’d ached as she suffered through a telephone wire, and yet it was all nothing for how she’d felt. both of them are so plagued by tragedy, held up by thin wires, guided by . . . none other than each other. aren’t they their own lighthouses in the storm?
he settles on a smile, curling in closer around her, but . . . giving room to reach her tea, of course, from her cushion's vantage point. “i’m— . . . not entirely sure i make a very good flashlight,” he says, halfway a self - deprecating sort of tease. still, their fingers intertwine so gently, and . . . he kisses her. it’s still wonderful, how good that feels. “sometimes our light goes out, but is blown again into instant flame by an encounter with another human being,” he quotes softly, gently, words humming and vibrating in calm air. he quotes at her, and he knows she’ll understand, because she always has. obscure reference, literary genius, maeve knows either way. “i love you. and maeve . . . you’re my flashlight, too.”
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hair pulling. hair pulling. hair pulling. tugging at someone's hair to get a better angle on their neck?? feeling someone's fist tighten around your hair as you make out or slip your fingers into them?? god it's SO good
the instinct the need to sacrifice yourself for the greater good for any good for anyone at all, to pick yourself apart just to see if the pieces are worth anything