not calm, nor a doctor!

Upon arriving in her tech lair, Spencer rushes to defend himself before he can get chewed out. “You know I want to, Garcia! Of course I do! I just don’t want to mess things up.”

At the glum and guilty look on his face, Garcia softens. “And you know I love you and want you to succeed too. It’s so obvious that she feels the same way about you, and it would make both of you so happy to be together. You know how badly I want you to be happy, angelfish!”

Spencer gives her a hug, because he does know.

The singular time he does manage to get close for confession purposes is the next day, and it doesn’t go well for him then, either. You spot him before he can launch into his memorized speech, and greet him obliviously.

“Hey, Reid! How are you doing today? Didn’t stay up too late researching nuances in diagnosis and classification of personality disorders, I hope,” you tease.

Spencer is thrown off entirely. How is he supposed to respond to this, smoothly enough that you want to continue the conversation, and then somehow bring it around to a spot where he can say what he came here to say? He doesn’t know. He can’t do it.

“No! No, I-I slept, I promise. Did you? Sleep, y/n?” He’s so stupid, so socially inept. Why are those the words that came out of his mouth? Out of all of the words it could have been? You giggle and take a breath to respond, but luckily, just at that moment, JJ comes by waving case files.

“There’s-a-case-and-we’ve-got-to-go,” he spills out, relieved. He should’ve known he wouldn’t be able to do it.

Every little thing she does is magic

Everything she do just turns me on

Even though my life before was tragic

Now I know my love for her goes on

Spencer can’t help but notice countless aspects of your personality, your habits, little tidbits that make you who you are. And he especially can’t help but love them all. He loves the way you merely exist, laugh, smile when the weather gets dreary. He loves the rainbow of post-it note pads you have arranged in order across your desk, and the way you alternate colors when you need to use them. He loves the way you curl your feet underneath you when you get the chance to sit on the couch of the jet. He loves the way you try to hold in when you find something truly funny, because he can see through it anyways. He even loves the way you walk to the beat of whatever song is playing in your headphones, which isn’t something anybody else would realize, he knows, but it makes your steps so purposeful (and who would just naturally step in 6/8 time?) Spencer hopes it isn’t creepy that he’s picked up on that, and all of these things, but you’re truly entrancing. He can’t help but analyze your every footstep, because he loves each one of them so much. And his memory means that he keeps them forever—he just can’t get you out of his head.

Sometimes, Spencer imagines. He thinks about what it would be like to be a seamless part of your little routines and customs, how it would change his own life to be intertwined with yours. What it would be like to have those brilliant smiles directed at him, to be the cause of your laughter. For your bright sticky notes to appear on his own desk, with little notes detailing your love (not, of course, that he can imagine what exactly they might say; but he knows he’d cherish them forever). He’d let you—invite you, even—to curl your body into his on the jet, and probably near about faint if you fell asleep on his shoulder. To see you look up and meet his eyes when you’re trying not to burst out laughing, because you know he’ll understand. To dance in an apartment that you share to the same songs you always have playing into your ears, and go on dates where your steps match each other’s as you stroll around the Smithsonian National Zoological Park.

Just when he thinks you can’t get any more intoxicating, he thinks about what his life would be like with more of you in it, and Spencer nearly explodes from the serotonin and dopamine that floods his brain. He hopes you don’t notice, but thinks it might be unlikely. You’re a profiler, and there’s no chance you miss the lovesick looks he gives you when you do, well—everything. Everything he stands the chance to gain if he finally tells you how he feels, and everything he stands to lose if you’re uncomfortable around him afterwards.

So, no, Spencer can’t find it in him to confess. Not when there’s a possibility of never being around you and all the little things that bring him so much happiness. No, he can never tell you at all.

Do I have to tell the story

Of a thousand rainy days since we first met?

It's a big enough umbrella

But it's always me that ends up getting wet

Spencer knows the old adage that if you truly love someone, you’re always happy to see them happy. Which he is! You seem happy to him, at least. But at the same time, pining after you has given every single day a melancholy tinge. You love looking out the windows of the jet at the summer storm, and Spencer loves looking at you looking, and wishes you would look at him like that. He loves being your friend, don’t get him wrong, but it makes him a little sadder with each day that passes that he doesn’t get to hold you close and tell you exactly how precious you are to him: how beautiful he thinks you are, how comforting when the world is just too much. How all of your insecurities are completely unfounded; you are perfection itself, and nobody else could ever compare.

So when you call later that evening, breathless and sounding like you’re about to break down, how can Spencer do anything else but beg you to come over and let him take care of you?

It hurts him that you think little of yourself, and he’s forced to keep all of those things he wants to say inside. It’s terribly difficult for him to make his soothing words platonic-sounding, and he can tell that they usually fall flat. Despite how honored he is that you seek comfort and understanding in his home, in his arms, he loathes himself for not being better for you when the downpour in your mind becomes too much. For not knowing what exactly to say to make you feel better without giving himself away.

“Spencer,” you say breathlessly when you arrive, “thank you so much.”

He wordlessly hands you his softest towels, warm from the dryer, to blot at the rain you love to look at, but can’t stand the feel of in your clothes. It’s you who speaks again, “I can’t tell you how much it means to me that you’re so willing, always, to comfort me on nights like-nights like these.”

The wetness on your face isn’t from outside anymore. Spencer gathers you into his arms, murmuring how what happened on the case wasn’t your fault, you aren’t responsible for the people who died. You’re a good agent, a kind person, a wonderful friend.

By the time your sobs have subsided and you’re merely hiccuping into his chest, Spencer is left feeling like your sadness and insecurity have only transferred onto him. How could he ever be worthy of you? You who are so empathetic and caring? You who smell so good as he holds you close, and offer to call and pay for takeout to thank him? He doesn’t know. He’s sure he never will be.

Even on other days, when the mood is light, he can’t help but feel gloomy. Every time the two of you are hanging out and you look so content, like there’s nothing you could possibly want to add to your friendship, his heart breaks a fraction more. Just friends. You’re happy, and in a way, so is he, but he’s also going to let a few tears slip out as soon as the door shuts behind you.

Every little thing she does is magic

Everything she do just turns me on

Even though my life before was tragic

Now I know my love for her goes on

Sometimes Spencer feels ashamed of the fact that he has virtually no personal life. He works, of course, and oftentimes he guest-lectures at the academy, and when he’s available he speaks at chemistry or math conferences (most engineering conferences tend to be filled with technology types, and Spencer has enough experience with the ultimate tech type, Penelope, to be very wary of them). And his hobbies, while numerous—for example, reading, knitting, and chess—are largely solitary activities. So he wouldn’t say that he’s very social, outside of work. And some of the other team members gently rib him about it, which only makes him feel worse.

But, miraculously, this has been different ever since you joined the team. Suddenly there’s someone he feels comfortable inviting for movie marathons, asking for help with cooking, making joint work clothes shopping trips because he hates trying on clothes so much. Spencer feels okay doing this, because for a while, you were the one asking him to hang out every time. You asked him to teach you how to make geographic profiles so quickly one day after work, and then took him to dinner at your favorite cafe. You wanted book recommendations from him, you wanted to show him the block a few streets away from headquarters with no fewer than three used bookstores. You even invited him to spend a Thanksgiving with you when you found out that neither of you had a place to go, that first year after you were hired. So at a point, Spencer decided that you wouldn’t laugh at him for asking you to spend time with him, and you immediately become a valued, cherished part of his brand-new personal life.

And there are a million other things you do to make him happy; things that he isn’t sure whether you even think about, but mean the entire world to Spencer. The other members of the team are fine with his infodumps until they devolve into details that are irrelevant to the case, and then come the eye-rolls, the dramatic sighs, the reminders to stay on task. But you, you’ve never done that to him. Whether you’re alone or with others in the room, you nod and smile as he rambles on, even asking questions when there’s an appropriate break. You never make Spencer feel like you don’t have time for him, ever. You care about what he has to say.

When he gets headaches, it seems second nature for you to reach into your desk or your purse and pull out a travel-sized ibuprofen. Spencer isn’t even sure how you always know that he’s in pain, but somehow, some way, it only takes one look, and then you’re handing him a water bottle and medication to give him as much relief as you’re able to provide.

And, in what is perhaps not such a little thing that makes his life better, but a rather big thing, you’ve now become Spencer’s designated Vegas travel buddy. The first time it was because his mother had been having more bad days than good and you were worried about him going alone and just sitting up in a hotel room the whole time dwelling on her situation. But now it’s habit–he thinks you might even be offended now if he booked one ticket instead of two. He can’t begin to tell you how much of a relief it is to have someone by his side on the plane and at Bennington. Because when you’re next to him, no words are needed. Although your support of him is silent, it radiates off of you at all times–and Spencer always understands.

I resolve to call her up

A thousand times a day

And ask her if she'll marry me

Some old-fashioned way

Spencer decides that it’ll be easier if he tells you on the phone. He won’t have to deal with the expression on your face, or try his best not to constantly read your reactions. On second thought, though, maybe that added social pressure is a good, necessary thing. Maybe if he isn’t as nervous, doesn’t have the same in-person repercussions, he’ll lose it entirely and just propose to you right there over the line. He goes back and forth on whether or not expressing his affections over the phone is a good idea, and regularly finds himself holding his ancient flip phone in one hand, your number showing on the display, his thumb hovering over the call button. But the more he thinks about doing it, the more concerned he becomes that he’ll go overboard if he ever does get up the courage.

He can picture it now.

“Spencer!” You’ll say when you pick up, surprised. “Is everything okay? What can I help you with?”

And the words will come out before he has the chance to stop them. He has these thoughts so often that he won’t be able to contain them. “I love you, and I have for a long time. There is no doubt in my mind that we were predestined to be together, we’re-we’re soul mates.” In your shocked silence, he’ll remember the proper order of things. “Would you like to go on a date with me sometime?”

This will never do, never. So Spencer never actually follows through with the idea of telling you on the phone. Not like it would make you more likely to reciprocate, anyways. (Spencer has thought those probabilities through very carefully.)

But my silent fears have gripped me

Long before I reach the phone

Long before my tongue has tripped me

Must I always be alone

Spencer feels, when he’s with you, that he is completely made of anxiety. His prevailing emotion is always fear, and this is what makes, as Emily so bluntly put it, his IQ drop from 187 to 60. You’re just so gorgeous, you’re just so clever, and next to you Spencer just feels so inadequate. He stutters, he forgets what he was going to say, he spouts vocabulary lessons instead of socially appropriate responses to the things that you say. Spencer bothers you, he’s sure of it. He knows that nobody, least of all you, could ever want him in the way he wishes you could.

The first time he thought he found love was with Ethan. Ethan was smart, exactly like Spencer; he was ambitious and talented and didn’t mind hanging around with a prodigy because he was near being one also. Together they shared so many first experiences: kisses, intimacy, the struggle of being young and figuring out who they were when all of the other PhD students had families and lives of their own. But then Ethan dropped out of the academy his first day at Quantico, and now he almost never writes Spencer anymore. Ethan had no more need of Spencer—he left him alone.

The second time he thought he found love was with Lila. He could hardly believe it–a gorgeous, famous Hollywood actress, interested in him? But she insisted that she was, and she kissed him, over and over in her pool on the Los Feliz hillside. He got to be her hero for the night, and even her obsessed stalker believed they were in love. Spencer tried telling Lila that it was transference, but her protests and sweet parting moment convinced him that it wasn’t. And then she never returned his call. Lila wanted someone better than Spencer—she left him alone.

It was very similar with Austin. Looking back, Spencer doesn’t know why he didn’t learn his lesson from before. But she liked him before he was directly involved in saving her; she expressed interest in him when she only knew him as a gangly, awkward FBI agent looking for a witness in her bar; she noticed him when he was next to Morgan. Austin asked if she could call Spencer even if she didn’t have any information: she wanted to see him again. Then he was the one to realize she was in trouble, he was the one to carry her away from the danger. She even called him afterwards! She sent him her card with a lipstick kiss on the back, of all things! And then she decided they lived too far away from each other for a real relationship, for the thing both of them were looking for. Austin didn’t feel Spencer was worth the distance—she left him alone.

But at this point, Spencer knows what’s going on. He sees the truth now. He simply isn’t destined to be anyone’s great love, despite how badly he wants to be. He’s too awkward, too messy, too traumatized, too stuck in his own head to ever be the object of someone’s affection and desire. And if he sees all this in himself, he’s sure you’re able to see it too. You’ll find someone more deserving of you than Spencer—you too will leave him alone.

On and on and on and

Every little thing, every little thing

Every little thing, every little thing

Every little, every little, every little

Every little thing she does

Every little thing she does

Every little thing she does

Every little thing she does

Thing she does is magic

Every little thing, every little thing

Every little thing she do is magic, magic, magic

Spencer did not sleep last night. He’s never been terribly good at regulating his emotions, and they were just driving him too crazy to let him fully relax and drift off. The thoughts of you won’t leave him alone for even a few hours. So now, on top of everything he’s still feeling, he’s running on a severe lack of sleep (even more than usual, which is saying a lot for him). The edges of his desk are so sharp—have they always been this way? And Garcia’s outfit is just so colorful as she presents the newest case, and the fluorescent lights of the bullpen are emitting the most maddening hum in the entire world that Spencer just can’t seem to ignore, not even from inside the conference room where the wattage itself is a little more forgiving.

He’s shifting his weight from side to side in his chair, determinedly looking at everything else in the room except you (and, more noticeably to Hotch, his case file), and offers absolutely nothing to the team’s usual preliminary spitballing session. No relevant facts that turn into rambles, no slightly related side information, not even a reference to the serial killers of yore. Spencer is off his game—he’s not even on the right field, and everyone can see it.

Too far inside his head to think about anything except the way your perfume smells and how very exhausted and overstimulated he is, Spencer hardly takes notice when he feels a hand guide him out of the conference room after the rest of the team. Assuming it’s only Garcia, he allows himself to be led, but it’s a thorough shock to his system when he realizes why his heart is beating as fast as it is—it’s you with your hand on his elbow, you steering him into an empty office and sitting him down in the comfortable desk chair, you with a concerned look in your eyes and a water bottle that you’re setting in front of him.

“Spencer,” you coo. “Honey, is everything okay?”

It’s too much. The “honey” is what does it, it’s too much and Spencer’s brain is not working and all he can do is say the one thought he’s really sure of, possibly the only thought he’s been sure of his entire life.

“I love you.” The words slip out before he fully realizes what he’s saying, and then, terrified mouth still hanging open, he’s left with the silence hanging in the air between the two of you. He’s really done it now, Spencer thinks. He’s finally messed up the best thing in his life, just as he always knew he would.

But instead of widening in shock, your eyes soften. “I know. I love you too. Come here, it’s alright,” you say, pulling him to his feet. And your arms wrapped around him, the scent of your shampoo in his nose, your gentle exhalences drifting across his elbow, it’s all magic. It’s magic.

taglist: @reidyoulikeabook @emilyprsntiss @therealchickenjoe @muffin-cup @spookydrreid @ellesgreenaway @thosecriminalminds @averyhotchner @reidingmelodies

Today, you wake to a dreary, dismal sky. It’s the kind of day that makes you want to pull the covers over your head and pretend the outside world doesn’t exist for a while. You do the next best thing—hit snooze on your alarm until you’re running late. You shoot off an apology text to Hotch and curse at yourself under your breath as you rummage around in your go bag for your umbrella. You’re never late (well, hardly ever, you concede) so you’re less concerned with his response and more preoccupied with the fact that this means you won’t have time to stop for a decent cup of coffee before heading to the station.

As you step out of the SUV onto the rain-soaked pavement, a familiar metallic flash catches your eye, and you walk into the local precinct with an uncharacteristically broad grin on your face.

“Woah, what’s with you, little miss sunshine? It usually takes until at least your fourth cup of coffee for you to crack a smile like that when the weather’s this bad,” Derek observes.

“Found a penny, looks like I’m in for a lucky day,” you quip as you shrug off your jacket, hearing the faintest jingle of the new penny mingling with the one from the day of your interview. You still carry it with you everywhere, the copper starting to patina from how often you run your thumb over its reassuringly cool surface.

You find it hard to believe it’s only been three years since you joined this team. Barely any time in the grand scheme of things, and it astonishes you how quickly they became like a second family. Sometimes you’re tempted to think it’s just the nature of the job—that you have to be close since you trust each other with your lives each day. But you can have that sort of trust without intimacy, have respect without devotion.

You think back to that final interview with the BAU, the firm handshake Hotch gave you in congratulations, welcoming you to the unit. How in your excitement and urgency to text the good news to your family you didn’t look where you were going and ran smack into one of your new coworkers, inciting a scene of flying limbs and scattered files. As you scrambled to help clean up the mess, the apologies spewing from your lips stopped short when you found yourself staring into Spencer’s warm hazel eyes for the first time. In the midst of the nervous laughter, you felt drawn to him in some inexplicable way. And, despite the awkward introduction, the two of you became fast friends.

Eventually that initial connection you felt grew into something more. You can’t even pinpoint the exact moment it happened, you just know that you revel in your every interaction. Your simplest conversations leave you glowing for the rest of the day. You love existing in his world—a world of kindness, intelligence, patience. You love him, though you’ve resigned to never admitting it, too afraid of risking the friendship that means so much to you.

Emily pokes her head up from behind a mountain of file boxes, interrupting your reverie, “Do you really believe that old superstition?”

You give a noncommittal hum, “I don’t put a lot of stock in it, but in a way, yes. I think it comes down to the thrill of possibility. The brief instance where you think that you might have the best day of your life simply because you found a penny. If picking it up helps you prolong that mindset, it makes sense that good things will follow—because you’re open to them.”

“That’s absolutely right!” Spencer spins around from the map where he’s working on the geographical profile to face you, nodding intently. “Studies have shown that lucky charms create an illusion of control for the person who believes in them, which boosts confidence, ultimately contributing to their own success. There’s no tangible thing for what we call ‘luck,’ but we can create one by transferring the concept to an object.”

You try your hardest to pay full attention to what he’s saying. You’d think that by now you’d have learned to focus solely on his words instead of getting lost in the way he gestures with his hands when he gets excited, how his whole face lights up when he shares something from his infinite vault of facts and anecdotes. You love listening to him when he gets like this, brain running at full speed and his mouth just trying to keep up. God, you’d listen to him talk forever if it would make him happy.

“And the origins of pennies being viewed as good luck are fascinating. According to one theory, the thought stemmed from religious beliefs. Folklore from ancient civilizations said that metals—like copper—were gifts from the gods intended to protect people from evil. And this fueled other superstitions like charm bracelets and metal horseshoes,” he finishes, slightly out of breath from the infodump.

That is interesting, Spence,” you reply. You don’t always know what to say in response to his tangents, but you hope that your tone conveys how much you genuinely enjoy hearing them.

The beaming smile he gives you lets you know that it does, and you feel that familiar heat rise to your cheeks. It’s the way you always feel under his gaze, a reminder that your feelings for him were inevitable.

Smiling back, you allow yourself to get lost in the possibility of a life where Spencer Reid knows how hopelessly in love you are with him, if only for a moment. You’re too busy staring at each other to notice the knowing smirk that Emily and Derek exchange, the moment only broken when Derek clears his throat to suggest it’s time to get back to work.

“I’m gonna grab coffee, anyone else need some?” You ask before settling in.

“Oh!” Spencer interjects, “Here—I got you a latte when we stopped on our way in. I know how tough days like this can be for you, thought you could use the extra pick-me-up.”

Your fingers brush as he hands you the cup, leaving you unsure if the warmth you feel spreading through your body is from the first sip of the coffee or his touch. When you murmur a heartfelt thank you and give his forearm a light squeeze, you catch Derek nudge Emily with his elbow and her failed attempt to turn her chuckle into a cough. You shrug it off and think that maybe you’re in for a lucky day after all.

By mid-afternoon the torrential rain has let up, replaced by a light mist that clings persistently to your windbreakers as the team piles into the SUVs. After poring over the evidence and with the help of the one and only Penelope Garcia, you’ve got a name and address for the unsub and are en route to his apartment.

When you arrive, Hotch directs you, Morgan, and Reid to cover the back in case he tries to make a run for it. You’ve barely gotten into position when you hear commotion on the fire escape, followed by a figure leaping from the second story and taking off down the alley. Your heartbeat hammers in your ears as you sprint after in hot pursuit when he suddenly stops and whips around, gun aimed straight for your chest.

A shot rings out.

Everything seems to come to a halt as the bullet hits its mark, blinding pain exploding through your body. You’re knocked off balance, head slamming against the concrete as you fall to the ground. Your vision blurs and you feel yourself teetering on the edge of consciousness as you struggle to breathe.

Through the haze you hear Spencer yelling into his com, “Agent down! We need medical–now!” before you feel his hands on you, frantically scanning your body for injuries.

“Y/N, hey. Hey. Can you hear me?” He asks, panic evident in his voice.

You cough and sputter out a gasp, still trying to catch your breath from the impact, “Vest caught it. Go.”

“Morgan’s on it, and JJ isn’t far behind. I’m staying with you. You know they’re more useful than me in a chase, anyway,” he tries to joke, but the unsteadiness in his voice breaks through.

“Don’t–don’t worry about me. Told you, my vest caught it.” you pant, hearing the faint sound of sirens in the distance.

“Bulletproof vests aren’t actually bulletproof, though. They just rapidly dissipate the energy from the bullet. You could have cracked ribs, or a concussion depending how hard you hit the ground, or a myriad of other internal injuries,” he lists off as he wraps his arms around you, gently helping you sit up.

“Reid. I’m fine,” you stifle a wince, only drawing further concern from him.

You offer a strained smile in a feeble attempt at reassurance, met by an unreadable expression. His eyes are wider than normal, cheeks pink and brows slightly furrowed. You notice how his hand shakes as he brings it up to gingerly touch the back of your head.

“Y/N, I—you need to know something...”

You look at him curiously and wait for him to continue. His eyes dart to yours for a fleeting moment before dropping to the ground, but you note how they burn with a sense of urgency.

“What is it?” you ask softly, taking his hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“I just—I can’t go another day without telling you how much I care about you,” he starts. When he looks back up and locks eyes with you, you find yourself lost in his gaze, basking in its warmth and adoration. He doesn’t continue talking, but he doesn’t need to. Because that look is one that you’ve found yourself wearing more often than not when in the presence of Spencer Reid. It’s a look that sets off somersaults in your chest, knowing that he’s just as hopelessly in love with you as you are with him.

You’re not sure who closes the distance first, but suddenly you're pulling each other into a deep kiss and all other thoughts have melted away. The feelings for him that have been clawing at your chest for the better part of three years have finally been released, and you find yourself wondering how you ever kept them contained in the first place. You’d imagined this moment so many times, but the real thing far exceeds those wistful daydreams.

When you finally pull away for air you can’t control the smile that breaks across your face, a similar one spread on his. He leans away from you and takes a deep breath, “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve thought about doing that. Well, actually I could—eidetic memory and all—but I won’t because I know that’s weird and I don’t want to freak you out and–”

Your hands find their way to his face and you cut him off with a firm kiss. It’s one of the few times you’ve interrupted his ramblings, but will definitely be your favorite way from now on.

When you break apart again he’s looking at you like you’re the night sky, continually searching for a wonder he hasn’t yet seen.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” you tease.

His eyes remain focused on yours, “I’m still kind of trying to convince myself this is real. I can’t believe I kissed you. And you’re kissing me back,” he breathes, nothing short of awestruck.

Your heart swells in your chest as you beam at him. Your next words come tumbling from your mouth without a second thought. They’re the words you’ve been holding back for so long, and finally saying them extinguishes the fire they’ve been burning in your throat, “And I can’t believe how in love with you I am.”

“Spence, from the moment we met I knew you were special. I’ve searched for the words to describe it but I keep coming up empty. You’re just so... you. You have the biggest heart of anyone I know, not to mention the most brilliant mind. I could listen to you talk about the latest philosophy book you read for hours, I love the way you purse your lips and scrunch up your nose right before you make a breakthrough on a case, I-“

“Monday, April Twenty-Sixth. Eight-fourteen AM,” he interrupts.

You blink back at him, confused, “What?”

“The moment we met. I was making my way to Hotch’s office when the door flew open and I was knocked to the ground by the most intimidatingly beautiful woman I’d ever seen.”

“Spencer...“ you flush at the memory, but he continues, his own thoughts he’d pushed down long ago finally rushing to the surface.

“When our eyes met, you smiled that perfect smile of yours and that’s when I knew... there was no stopping me from feeling this way. And those feelings have only grown the longer I’ve known you. I never believed in the notion of ‘love at first sight.’ I mean, by the very definition, love is an intense feeling of deep affection—and how can you have affection for someone without knowing them at all? Oftentimes what most people experience is lust at first sight and they call it love because they don’t understand simple emotions and their chemical responses. But,” he pauses to collect his thoughts, “the first time I laid eyes on you, you defied all my understanding of love, of lust, of any sort of logic or fact or definition. You made me realize that not everything can be explained.”

He envelops you this time in a slow, gentle kiss, your lips dancing delicately together, communicating the depths of your feelings without words. You don’t think you’ll ever get tired of kissing him.

You smile as you pull away, “See, I told you I was going to have a lucky day.”

“Are you serious? Y/N, you just got shot! You could–you could have died!” Spencer screeches.

“I could have, but I didn’t—good luck,” you deadpan, biting the inside of your cheek to stifle your laugh.

The look of utter disbelief he gives you lets you know he’s about to reprimand you for being so cavalier about the incident, so you put him out of his misery.

“Spencer, I’m kidding!” you exclaim, landing a soft hit to his chest with the back of your hand. “But I did get to kiss you, which I think more than makes up for the attempt on my life.”

He lets out an incredulous laugh, shaking his head with that smile of his. You know as long as you can keep making him smile like that everything will be okay, and you feel pretty damn lucky to call him yours.

i appreciate each and every one of you for reading!! feel free to let me know what you think, or just come say hello <3

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You read once that crying is a way to restore emotional equilibrium. Whereas continuous tears contain 98 percent water, emotional tears contain stress hormones and other toxins. Basically, our bodies get so overwhelmed that we have to let that emotion out somehow, and crying acts as our bodies’ way of recovering from experiencing such strong emotion.

So you can’t help but wonder why after almost two hours of this, your emotions still haven’t reached equilibrium. Why instead the wet, bitter sobs have simply morphed into you tearlessly gasping for breath. You bet Spencer would have an explanation.

Spencer.

It’s like his name flips a switch that puts your body on autopilot. You grab your keys from the kitchen counter and pull on your jacket. If there’s any part of your brain telling you that people who are “just friends” don’t show up on each other’s doorsteps unannounced after 2 AM, you're well past the point of being able to listen to it.

Your frantic knocks are what finally draw you out of your haze. Just as your brain catches up to your body and you realize where you are, the door cracks open mid-knock, revealing a sliver of a sleepy and utterly confused Spencer Reid.

“Y/N?” He questions before opening the door fully, taking in your red-rimmed eyes and tear stained cheeks, unsure if you're really there or something out of a dream. Or more likely, you figure, a nightmare with the way you look right now.

“Do you remember when you told me that if this job ever got to be too much, I could always talk to you?” you ask, the words unsteady. He nods and steps aside, gesturing for you to come in and shutting the door softly behind you. When he turns to face you, he gives you a look of such deep compassion and understanding that you feel the walls you've built fracture under its weight. “It’s too much,” you confess as your voice breaks and the tears begin to fall again.

“Hey, hey, come here,” he pulls you into a tight hug and wraps his arms around you, the simple gift of his company soothing your aching soul. It’s the only time you've felt right the past few days. You find that it’s easier to breathe when he’s around, the panic in your chest dulls a little knowing he’s here. Things don’t seem as scary in his presence.

And through your broken sobs and his hand tracing comfortingly down your back, you hear yourself think, “I’m in love with you.”

There’s no fireworks, no fanfare. Just the quiet realization that you've never felt more at home than you do when you're in his arms. You think you've been in love with him for a long time—so long that you can’t pinpoint the exact moment it started.

It’s a thought that terrifies you as much as it thrills you, because when you open yourself up to love, you open yourself up to hurt. You pull away from his embrace and start to wipe your tears away with the back of you hand.

“Spencer, I–“ you feel the telltale warmth of I love you dancing on your tongue, about to slip past your lips. But you force the words back down, throat burning on their descent. You couldn’t stand to lose him, to jeopardize how happy you are with your friendship by saying those three little words if he doesn’t feel the same way.

You feel his honeyed gaze, waiting for you to finish, so you tell him the truth—the palatable part, anyway. “I can’t imagine my life without you.”

A contented smile graces his face. “Can I tell you something?” You nod in response and he continues, “I used to be lonely a lot. But I’ve never really felt alone since I met you. I don’t think I’ll ever feel truly alone in this world again as long as you’re in it.”

Your heart catches in your throat, and you bury your face back in his chest to breathe in his familiar scent. Someday the weight of your feelings may become too much to bear. But for now, this is enough.

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