NOW SHOWING: SPENCER REID
âËârequests open! but I don't do smut :(
love me not â cm!spencer reid x teacher!reader
summary: spencer and you used to be best friends in college during one of his many degrees. but things ended badly when you overstepped, leading to a clean break after he graduated. years later, you catch up during one of spencer's work trips, and a few months after, you're moving to washington for a job. perhaps it's a sign to give this friendship a second chance?
set during s1-s2, mini-series with four to five parts.
1. oh, it's hard to see you
â” spencer reid hasn't thought of his old college friend in ages, but when his coworkers' mini celebration of his birthday brings up memories of the time you spent together, and fate decides to send him on a case to your hometown, he decides it might be a sign to catch up.
if you look at me with what i know is in you â dbh!connor x reader
on hiatus!
1.the colour of my mind
2.wine through water
3.dreams that have stayed
4.take care not to smile
5.i shall still continue to be
moonlit recollections â arcane!viktor x reader, college au
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
Summary: just because you and Spencer have gotten together, does not mean the fun fact challenge is over to you (fluff, established relationship)
Note:Â Thank you for all of the love on fun fact. You guys are the best xx. In honor of fun fact hitting 1K notes, here is a bonus bit that did not make it to the final draft bc of the big word count (I was so sure not many people would read an 11k long fic, but thank you for proving me wrong).
Word count: 1k
You walked into the office, shrugging off the purple cardigan that was slightly bigger than your usual size and draping it over your chair. As usual, you placed your bag under your desk and turned on your PC before settling down, ready to focus for the day. Though, the second you spotted Spencer approaching, you instantly announced your daily fun fact.
âDid you know that peanut butter can be turned into diamonds? Fun fact.â From the corner of your eyes, you saw Emily pause at your statement. Spencer, on the other hand, grinned at your words.
âGood morning.â Spencer placed his coffee cup down on his desk first before coming to your side, holding yours out for you. You carefully took the ceramic vessel from him, muttering gratitude at his kind action. His other hand lingered on your back before withdrawing out of respect for the fact that you were both clocked in at work.Â
His eyes soon noticed the clothing item that hung on your chair.Â
âWas wondering where that one went,â your boyfriend murmured.
Boyfriend. Even after three months and having grown used to calling Spencer by that title, you still feel giggly at such a term. In fact, your lips curled right then while thinking of the word again.
You took in Spencerâs attire, specifically, the way that his purple button-up (coincidentally) matched the purple cardigan you had stolen from him two weeks ago. For a split second, you considered coordinating outfits deliberately with him, but in subtle ways.
âHold on a second, peanut butter can what?â Emily double checked.
âI know, right?â you breathed out before reaching under your desk and pulling out an information-packed tome, dropping the heavy object onto the furnitureâs surface.Â
It was Rossiâs courtesy. A month and a half ago, the old man decided to give you a fact book in hopes you could still win this bet before eight months were up. Unfortunately, his gift was unable to aid you much in your intellectual combat against Spencer, and thus, failed to prevent Rossiâs loss of his bet on a victory before the eight-month mark.Â
You carefully opened to the page where you had seen the fact and held it up for Emily to see.
âWell, would you consider having a peanut butter diamond ring?â she joked, though Spencer quickly jumped in.
âActually, I would advise against it. Oftentimes, the lab-manufactured results are small. So theyâre unsuitable for proposal rings.â His words almost felt personal with the way Spencerâs eyes fell to your hand, and you smirked teasingly.
âWhy? You think I should have a big diamond instead of a small rock?â Instantly, your boyfriendâs ears grew hot, and you almost laughed at the way he started stuttering.Â
âWell, I justâon average, women tend to prefer a sizable diamond ring when proposed to. But also, likeâwell, I meanâyouââ
âMe?â
âWith your finger sizeââ
âHow do you know my finger size?â
âYour ring was next to a couple of coins the other dayââ
âOh? And you decided to notice and remember this information, why?â You smirked, enjoying the way your relentless teasing was turning Spencer into a mess. But in all honesty, you were not that surprised. Spencerâs brain often stored information that most tend to overlook.
âYeah, Spencer. Planning to drop down on one knee soon?â Emilyâs added effort to poke at Spencer only made him more flustered, though the genius eventually was able to overcome it and continued speaking.
âWith your finger size, the most suitableâpreferences asideâwould be a 1.0-1.5 carat diamond ring, and the peanut butter manufactured ones would be nowhere near that. Besides, diamonds made of peanut butter are often discolored largely due to impurities such as hydrogen and nitrogen, which are non-carbon components, getting trapped during diamond formation processes that involve high heat. Meanwhile, diamonds are mainly made of carbon atoms.â
âWould you like to know my diamond size preference, Spence?â was your only reply, and those words had Spencerâs face blooming bright red. Once again, he stammered to organise his words, yet a sentence could not be strung together.
Together, you and Emily burst out laughing at Spencerâs speechless state. Though the two of you began shifting to get back to work. Emily returned to her own desk, amusement lingering on her face. Meanwhile, you slowly spun your chair back to your PC, your laughter replaced by a full-on smile.
Yet, Spencer did not move from his spot. In fact, the sight of you smiling and your eyes crinkling had Spencerâs gaze softening.
Eighty seven days since he had told you that you were his favorite fun fact, a title Spencer continued to frequently refer to you as.
Prior to the prospect of you two, Spencer had made peace with a mundane dating-less life, living in a repetitive monotone manner. But now that he has you, that kind of life sounded dreadful. With you, mundane things became highlights of his day and the staples of his boyfriend-adjusted daily routine.
But above all, every day, he got to learn new things about you, like where you like to read in your apartment, how you like to separate your laundry, or your preferred side of the bed. Each and every new detail he discovered folded into the wrinkles of his brain like all along, the organ was made just to hold facts about you.
The genius bit back a smile.
That afternoon, Spencer walked you to your car like always. But instead of saying goodbye and heading off to the metro station by himself like before, the genius got into your passenger seat, and the two of you left the office together. As you were driving both of you back to his apartment, Spencerâs eyes darted to your hand again.
Calling you his forever favorite fun fact instead?
Spencer found himself really liking the sound of that.
The corner of his lips lifted before he looked away.
Maybe someday.
ă»âă»âă»âă»âă»âă»
⥠navigation â masterlist
⥠spencer reid masterlist
⥠join my spencer reid tag list (or to remove yourself from)
summary: you wake half-convinced that yesterday was a dream, but spencer reid and his shiny new wedding ring are quick to reassure you that it was all realâand forever has never looked so good.
genre: fluff | word count: 1.2k
tags: fem!reader, husband!spencer, newlyweds, just straight fluff, spencer is a wife guy, he's so in love it's disgusting, cuddling, title from a noah kahan song (duh), not proofread
notes: i don't usually write wedding/marriage fics, but i make an exception for spencer reid. he'd be such a whimsical little wife guy oh my god i hate him.
"And the edges of your soul, I haven't seen yet. Now I'm glad I get forever to see where you end." â Noah Kahan, Forever
For a moment, you arenât sure where you are.
A bed, obviously. You can feel the plush of the mattress hugging your hip. The covers, freshly washed, covering your sleep-leaden limbs. Somethingâs thumping, steady, under your head. A heartbeat murmuring sweet nothings in your ear. A pair of strong lungs. Inhaling, exhaling. An arm around your waist. A hand on your shoulder.
Your eyelids fight against the last dregs of sleep, and you squint in the unwelcome face of the sun. It spills into the room through the sheer curtains, soaking you in its warmth and blinding you with its light. You shift, stiff joints groaning in protest, and press your face into his chest.
Bells. You remember bells. Confetti; the environmentally friendly kind. A bouquet of purple flowers, frozen mid-air in a hazy memory, landing in the reluctant hands of Emily Prentiss in another.
Something moves. His fingers are in your hair now, brushing through the strands with such painful gentleness it doesnât even feel real. This is just another later of a dream, more warm and fuzzy scenarios created by your unconscious. It has to be, because nothing that is real could possibly feel soâŠsacred. Itâs too perfect. You feel as though youâre floating, lighter than air.
Until the ache sets in. Itâs in your head, dull and heavy, dragging you back down to earth, clouding your mind with a fog that extends beyond simple drowsiness. And with it comes a sore throat. A dry mouth. Can you be hungover in a dream? Surely not, that would just be cruel.Â
You groan. The sound reverberates in his chest, rattles his tender heart. You hear him chuckle.
âUghâŠtime?â you mumble, voice hoarse.
âTen thirty-twoâ no, thirty-three,â he says in a whisper, keeping his words soft, inoffensive, like he knows your condition without you needing to complain about it. He sounds awake, and heâs smilingâyou can hear it.
With great effort, you raise your head, wincing as the light hits your face. His hand reaches out, casts a shadow over your eyes.
He isnât smiling. Heâs grinning.
ââŠhey.â
âHey.â He tucks some of your hair behind your ear, brown eyes turned to gold in the sunlight; honey, like his voice. âHow are you feeling?â
You lean into his touch, expression melting into a lazy smile. With a gentle sigh, you let your head sink back against his chest as you murmur, ââm good.â
Spencerâs arms wrap around you, holding you tight as he presses his nose to your hair. âJust good?â
âGreat,â you correct, shaking your head. âHappy. The happiest.â
âThatâs better.â He kisses the top of your head. âIâd feel like a failure if my wife werenât the happiest the morning after the ceremony.â
His wife. You swear you feel the world tilt.
âIâd have to find a way to fix that,â he adds, letting his fingers trail down your spine.
âOh yeah?â
âOh yeah,â he says. Heâs trying to sound serious, and he isnât doing a very good job. âThatâs what Morgan kept telling me yesterday: happy wife, happy life.â
You huff out a short, breathy laugh. âAnd youâd take advice from Morgan?â
âIs it not true?â
âOh, itâs true. JustâŠright message, wrong messenger, I guess.â You lift your head, meeting his gaze with a smile. âBut Iâm plenty happy. Youâve nothing to worry about there.â
âGood.â He fixes your hair again, smoothing any flyaways as he studies you with this look of intense focus, almost frowning, like heâs struggling to believe what heâs seeing, committing your every feature to memory in case you disappear. âAnd Morganâs had some successful relationships.â
You hum. âDefine successful for me, hon.â
âHaving a favourable or desired outcome,â he says, not missing a beat. âSuccess is subjective, my love.â
âMhm.â You nod slowly. âAnd Morganâs idea of success isâŠâ
âIntense, short-term relationships.â
âRight, of course. So, naturally, heâs the guy youâd go to for marriage advice.â
âI never said I sought him out,â he says, frowning. âI actually told him I wasnât interested in any advice, orâŠpep talks. But he kept badgering me as I was getting ready.â
âThatâs what the best man is for,â you muse with a solemn smile, âspewing unsolicited advice as he mops the sweat from your forehead.â
Spencer scoffs. âI wasnât sweating.â
âYou so were.â
âIt was hot.â
âYou were shitting yourself,â you say, brows raised. âDonât lie to me, Doctor Reid.â
âFine, Mrs Reid,â he concedes with a huff. âI may have beenâŠshitting myself. A little bit. Figuratively.â
Mrs Reid. Heâs trying to kill you.
You bite your lip, roll your eyes at the sight of his smug little smirk before trailing your fingers down his chest. Your wedding ring glimmers in the light as you draw lazy patterns along his skin. âI was shitting myself, too. Figuratively.â
âI didnât notice,â he says. When you frown, he quickly adds, âIâm serious.â
âYouâre a profiler,â you say.
âAnd youâre beautiful.â
He says it like itâs a fact. Concrete. Unchangeable.
You laugh. You have to; you might cry if you donât. âAnd beauty is enough to render your years of profiling experience useless?â
âOnly yours.â
Yup, definitely trying to kill you.
âYouâŠâ you shake your head, feeling your smile falter. It shifts into something raw, something fragile.
Spencer cups your cheek, holds you steady. Murmurs âI love youâ in this agonisingly tender tone that only breaks you further.Â
You lean into him, closing your eyes as you admit in this small, quiet voice, âI thought it was a dream.â
âThe wedding?â
âMhm.â
âThe whole thing?â he asks, amusement seeping into his tone. âEven the staff threatening to kick Morgan and Garcia out for indecency?â
âI have aâŠvivid imagination,â you say. You fall silent for a moment, pursing your lips, before adding, âButâŠI doubt Iâd have been able to come up with those, um, vows of yours. Youâd have made a fucking incredible renaissance poet. ProperâŠdramatic.â
Heâs grinning again, pride swelling in his chest. âYou wanna hear them again?â
âDo you want to make your wife cry?â you ask.
âOnly if theyâre happy wife tears.â
âSadist.â
âI said happy tears. Come here.â He grabs your waist, shifts you so youâre lying on top of him, chest to chest. âLet me recite my vows, please.â
You glare at him, barely able to contain your smile. âYou just want to show off.â
âPshh, no.â He shakes his head adamantly. âI just want to make sure that you know just how grateful I amâŠthat I get to be the one to spend forever with you. Itâs an honour.â
The way his voice softens with each word has you closing your eyes, fighting back the stupid tears that threaten to spill if you keep looking at him. He brushes his thumb against your cheek, touch so light it feels almost reverent.
âAnd I want to show off, just a little.â
He laughs as you swat his hand away, hisses like youâve hurt him. You shake your head, try to speak but your voice comes out all wobbly, so you hide your face in the crook of his neck, and you sniffle when he hugs you.
ââŠjust recite the damn vows.â
âYes, maâam. Anything for my beautiful wife.â
summary: what starts as an academic crush on your painfully observant professor becomes significantly harder to survive after spencer reid signs a piece of feedback with âI remain yours sincerely.â unfortunately, you make the deeply questionable decision to keep it tucked inside your phone case.
includes: no use of y/n, professor!spencer reid, student/teacher dynamic, mutual pining, slow burn, academic yearning, intellectual intimacy, awkward flirting, emotional repression, praise kink if you squint, small age gap, office hours tension, accidental confession, unresolved sexual tension, humiliation as a love language, reader is down catastrophic, hopeful ending
based on this request
By the second semester, you know three things with absolute certainty.
First: Dr. Spencer Reid writes on whiteboards like heâs racing a clock only he can see.
Second: nobody voluntarily sits in the front row because itâs psychologically exhausting to be perceived by him for extended periods of time.
And third:
You are developing a deeply academic crush that is rapidly mutating into something clinically embarrassing.
The lecture hall hums softly around you with the sounds of backpacks unzipping and laptops waking from sleep. Rain taps against the high windows in restless little bursts, turning the late afternoon light silver at the edges.
At the front of the room, Dr. Reid is already halfway through uncapping three different markers at once.
Heâs wearing a charcoal cardigan today.
You notice because of course you do.
Not in a normal way, either.
In the kind of way where your brain stores the information carefully like it might appear on an exam later.
âStatistically,â he says without turning around, âmost people remember information better when thereâs contextual novelty attached to it, which is why you all remember where you were during emotionally significant events but not what you ate last Tuesday.â
A beat.
Then he glances back toward the class.
âUnless it was tacos. People tend to remember tacos.â
A few students laugh.
You do too, unfortunately loud enough that his eyes flick toward you automatically.
There it is.
That tiny spark of recognition.
Not dramatic. Not cinematic. Just enough to say I know you.
Which is worse.
Much, much worse.
Because youâve taken two semesters with him now. You go to office hours. You answer questions when nobody else will. Once, during your first class, you made an offhand comment about eidetic memory research and his entire face lit up like someone plugged sunlight directly into the national power grid.
Since then, youâve been doomed.
Utterly doomed.
You try to focus on the lecture.
Really.
You do.
But Dr. Reid teaches like a man accidentally possessed by forty-seven documentaries and an anxiety disorder. He paces when he gets excited. His hands move constantly while he talks, long fingers stained faintly with marker ink. He veers off-topic in fascinating directions and then somehow circles perfectly back without notes.
It should not be attractive.
And yet.
Here you are.
Again.
Second semester.
Same problem.
Maybe worse.
âNow, if we look at the correlation between environmental instability and cognitive adaptation,â Dr. Reid continues, already turning back toward the board before the class has fully caught up, âthereâs a measurable increase in hypervigilant pattern recognition in subjects exposed to inconsistent formative environments, which sounds complicated but is actually just your brain becoming an overachieving raccoon.â
Marker squeaks across the whiteboard in frantic slanted lines.
His handwriting is terrible.
Not objectively unreadable, exactly. More like every word is trying to outrun the next one. Sharp angles, crowded letters, arrows shoved into margins as though his thoughts physically cannot remain in a straight line.
You stare at it anyway.
Fondly.
Which feels like a personal failing.
He writes faster as he talks, cardigan pulling slightly across his shoulders when he reaches higher on the board. One sleeve has ridden up near his wrist, exposing the thin line of his watch and a faint smudge of ink against his skin.
You should be taking notes.
Instead, your brain is busy cataloging details like you'll be taking a quiz on his anatomy.
Then he steps sideways to underline something, and your gaze drops completely against your will.
Oh no.
Oh, thatâs unfortunate.
Because apparently Dr. Spencer Reid has a nice ass.
Not in a dramatic way.
Not in a âmale model carved from marbleâ way.
Just⊠unfairly nice for a man who spends most of his time talking about psychology and forgetting to eat lunch.
The slacks help.
Which feels hostile, honestly.
You blink hard and jerk your attention back to your laptop with the violent internal energy of someone trying to slam shut fifty browser tabs at once.
Focus.
Academic environment.
You are a serious student.
A serious student who absolutely did not just spend several seconds staring at her professorâs ass while he explained trauma responses.
Jesus Christ.
âRepeated exposure to unpredictability,â he says, still writing, âcan create compensatory behaviors centered around control, organization, or information gathering.â
A few tired chuckles.
Then the clock clicks over.
Immediate chaos.
The lecture hall empties like someone pulled a drain plug.
Students flood toward the exits in clusters of conversation and damp jackets, the noise swelling briefly before dissolving into the hallway outside. Within less than a minute, the room goes from crowded to echoing.
You stay seated.
Not intentionally.
At least thatâs what you tell yourself.
Your laptop suddenly needs to be shut very carefully. Your charger has apparently tangled itself into a knot requiring advanced engineering. Your pens must be arranged with the precision of ceremonial artifacts.
At the front of the room, another student has stopped to ask Dr. Reid something about the midterm.
You try not to stare while pretending not to listen.
Itâs difficult.
Because listening to Spencer Reid explain things is like accidentally falling into a Wikipedia rabbit hole narrated by a very pretty insomniac.
ââŠthe issue isnât the terminology,â heâs saying, already rifling through papers again while the student nods along. âItâs application. Most people can memorize diagnostic criteria. The harder part is recognizing behavioral variance in context.â
His sleeve slips down slightly as he gestures, revealing ink smudged along the side of his hand again.
God.
You wonder briefly if thereâs a psychological term for being attracted to a man who looks like he's constantly five minutes away from a lecture.
Probably.
Heâd know it.
The student thanks him and heads out, disappearing into the hallway with everyone else until suddenly itâs justâ
You.
And him.
The room feels different when it empties.
Too large. Too quiet.
Rain patters softly against the windows.
Dr. Reid glances up from stacking his notes, clearly registering your continued existence only now. âOh, you're still here. Perfect.â
Your stomach drops so fast itâs honestly impressive.
Perfect?
There is no version of âperfectâ that has ever ended calmly for a student being addressed by a professor after class.
Your brain immediately begins cycling through possibilities at medically concerning speed.
You plagiarized accidentally somehow.
You cited the wrong edition.
You hallucinated an entire journal article in APA format.
Youâve been academically excommunicated.
âMe?â you say brilliantly.
Dr. Reid blinks once. âYes?â
Excellent start.
You shove your charger into your bag and stand quickly enough that your chair squeaks against the floor.
The sound echoes.
Violently.
You briefly consider walking directly into the rain and starting a new life elsewhere.
Instead, you manage a strained little, âSorry. Uh. Yeah. Whatâs up?â
Dr. Reid gathers a few loose papers into a stack before pulling one free.
Your paper.
You recognize the bent corner immediately because you spent three straight hours staring at it last weekend in a caffeine-induced fugue state.
âI finally finished reading these last night,â he says, tapping the packet lightly. âYour section on adaptive masking behaviors was particularly good.â
The panic in your bloodstream stutters awkwardly. ââŠgood?â
âYes.â He looks faintly surprised by your surprise. âVery good, actually.â
Thereâs something deeply unfair about receiving praise from Spencer Reid specifically. He says things too earnestly. No performance to it. No academic politeness. Just direct sincerity delivered with terrifying eye contact.
You feel your nervous system fold like cheap lawn furniture.
âYou made an interesting connection between hypervigilance and social mirroring,â he continues, flipping through the pages. âMost students approached the assignment from a purely diagnostic perspective, but you framed it as a survival adaptation first, which is considerably more accurate.â
Your heart does an embarrassing little cartwheel.
Because this is the problem.
Not just that heâs attractive.
Itâs that every time he talks to you, it feels like heâs opening a secret door in your ribcage and switching on all the lights.
âOh,â you manage intelligently. âThanks.â
âAnd your question here.â He points suddenly to a paragraph halfway down the page. âAbout whether prolonged masking eventually alters baseline identity perception?â
You nod slowly.
He looks delighted.
Actually delighted.
Like you handed him a particularly interesting puzzle and not a half-panicked essay written at two in the morning while eating stale pretzels.
âThatâs the kind of question people usually donât ask until graduate-level behavioral analysis,â he says. âThereâs still ongoing debate about it, especially regarding prolonged trauma adaptation and identity diffusion.â
You try very hard to remain normal about the fact that Spencer Reid is complimenting your intelligence in an empty lecture hall while rain taps softly against the windows like a movie determined to make things worse for you personally.
âMost current models oversimplify the distinction between performed identity and integrated identity,â he continues, already slipping fully into Lecture Mode again. âHumans are actually much more context-dependent than people like to admit. Personality isnât nearly as fixed as we pretend it is.â
He flips another page absentmindedly.
âYou also cited Dr. Nakamuraâs 2018 paper, which almost nobody finds unless theyâre specifically looking for it.â
Your mouth opens before your brain catches up.
ââŠyou noticed my citations?â
Dr. Reid looks up.
Thereâs a tiny crease between his brows now, confused in the gentlest way possible. âOf course I noticed your citations.â
Well.
Thatâs going to live in your skull forever now.
He says it like itâs obvious. Like naturally he paid attention. Like naturally he read your work closely enough to recognize specific research choices.
Meanwhile youâre trying not to ascend directly out of your body.
âYouâre one of the strongest writers in the class,â he says, matter-of-fact. âYour arguments are usually more structurally complex than your peersâ, even when you seem unsure of them.â
The room abruptly feels too warm.
You grip the strap of your bag tighter. âI didnât know you thought that.â
Because thereâs something unbearably intimate about being understood academically by someone you admire. It feels dangerously adjacent to being seen naked. Like heâs looking directly at the shape of your thoughts with careful hands.
Dr. Reid glances back down at your paper again, seemingly unaware heâs currently causing neurological events.
âI did mark a few places where your transitions got rushed,â he says, pulling a pen from behind his ear. âMostly because I think you were thinking faster than you could physically write.â
You laugh softly before you can stop yourself. âThat does happen.â
âYes,â he says immediately, almost too quickly. âI know.â
Silence.
Tiny.
Strange.
His expression shifts a fraction afterward, like maybe he hadnât meant to say that out loud.
Rain rattles softly against the windows again.
And suddenly you become acutely aware that you are alone with Spencer Reid in an empty lecture hall while he holds your paper like itâs something fragile.
Dangerous situation, truly.
Then he uncaps the pen and scribbles something quickly across the last page.
His handwriting slants wildly across the margin.
Fast. Crowded. Ink-smudged.
You watch his hand move despite yourself.
When he finishes, he folds the packet once and offers it back to you.
âThere,â he says. âI added a few additional reading recommendations if you want them.â
You step forward to take it, fingers brushing briefly against his.
Electricity.
Actual cinematic electricity.
You almost drop the paper.
Humiliating.
âThanks,â you say, quieter now.
âMhm.â
But he doesnât let go immediately.
Not enough to mean something.
Just enough to notice.
Then he seems to catch himself and releases the pages all at once, clearing his throat lightly before stepping back toward the desk.
You look down automatically.
At the bottom of the final page, beneath a cluster of notes and arrows and recommended articles, heâs signed off absentmindedly in cramped blue ink.
Excellent work here. Keep pushing this line of thought.
I think youâre asking the right questions.
â I remain yours sincerely,
Spencer Reid, PhD
Your pulse trips over itself.
Because who signs feedback like that?
Who writes I remain yours sincerely like a Shakespearean poet accidentally trapped in modern academia?
And worse:
Why does it make your stomach feel like it just fell down an elevator shaft?
The walk back to your apartment is a blur of rainwater, campus lights, and psychological deterioration.
Your umbrella keeps tilting sideways in the wind.
You barely notice.
Because every functioning part of your brain is currently occupied by one singular, catastrophic detail:
I remain yours sincerely.
Who writes that.
You clutch the paper tighter inside your bag every time the rain picks up, irrationally terrified the ink might smear. Which feels insane. Deeply insane. The behavior of a woman one inconvenience away from being studied in a laboratory.
By the time you get home, your shoes are damp, your hair is frizzing at the edges, and your nervous system is fried.
You lock the apartment door behind you and immediately pull the paper back out.
Like an addict.
Like a widow rereading war letters.
âOh, this is bad,â you mutter to yourself.
Your apartment offers no judgment. Just soft lamplight and the hum of the refrigerator and rain whispering against the windows.
You drop your bag onto the couch.
Then sit at the kitchen table with the paper spread carefully in front of you.
You read the signature again.
And again.
And then, because apparently humiliation is now a recreational activity, you trace the letters lightly with your thumb.
Spencer Reid, PhD.
The ink catches faintly against the pad of your finger where he pressed harder on certain strokes. You can almost see the speed of him in it. The impatience. The intelligence outrunning the mechanics of handwriting.
God. You're so weird. You're unhinged. You're obsessed.
Your phone buzzes with a text from your friend Maya.
did u survive reidâs lecture or did he accidentally make eye contact and kill you instantly
You stare at the message for a long moment before replying:
worse
Three dots appear immediately.
what happened
You look down at the paper again.
At the stupid signature.
At the devastating little yours.
Then, against every survival instinct evolution ever gifted humanity, you take a picture of the bottom half of the page and send it.
Thereâs a full thirty seconds of silence.
Then:
OH YOU ARE DOWN HORRENDOUS
You groan aloud and drop your forehead directly onto the table.
The phone buzzes again.
âI remain yours sincerelyâ????? WHAT IS HE A PROFESSOR OR A MAN WRITING YOU FROM THE CRIMEAN WAR
Another buzz.
he wants u biblically
âHE DOES NOT,â you say aloud to the empty apartment, scandalized.
Your phone immediately lights up again.
u kept the paper though didnt u
You freeze.
Slowly, guiltily, your eyes drift toward your desk drawer.
Because inside that drawer already sits: one graded response paper, two annotated reading packets, and a sticky note from three weeks ago where Dr. Reid had written:
Your interpretation here is excellent. Come see me during office hours if you want to discuss further.
The sticky note currently lives tucked inside your favorite book like a pressed flower.
You close your eyes.
âJesus Christ,â you whisper to yourself.
Another text arrives.
DID U KEEP THE PAPER
You type back:
not officially
Maya responds instantly.
that is the most incriminating answer ive ever heard
You abandon the conversation entirely and toss your phone onto the couch before she can escalate further.
Then you sit there alone for a moment.
Quiet apartment. Rain outside. Spencer Reidâs handwriting beneath your fingertips.
The thing is, you know this crush is ridiculous.
Heâs your professor. Technically not even that much older than you, but enough that it matters. Enough that your brain keeps trying to file this under impossible and failing spectacularly every single time he looks at you like your thoughts are worth listening to.
Thatâs the real problem.
Not the cardigan.
Not the hands.
Not even the objectively offensive existence of that signature.
Itâs the attention.
The terrifying sincerity of it.
Spencer Reid listens to you like heâs carefully placing your words somewhere safe.
And you donât think anyone has ever done that before.
Your chest aches unexpectedly at the thought.
Too honest.
Too close to something real.
You exhale slowly and pick the paper up again, intending to finally put it away somewhere normal and reasonable.
Instead, your gaze catches on the folded edge of your clear phone case sitting beside you on the table.
No.
Absolutely not.
You stare at it.
Then at the paper.
Then back at the phone.
âThis would be a humiliating choice,â you inform yourself firmly.
Silence.
Rain taps softly against the windows.
Five minutes later, you are sitting on your couch with Spencer Reidâs signature folded carefully behind your phone.
You look at it through the clear plastic.
Immediate stomach flip.
âOh, you absolute loser,â you whisper to yourself.
But unfortunately:
youâre smiling.
By the time midterms crawl across campus like a biblical plague, your situation has not improved.
If anything, itâs evolved.
Dangerously.
Because now there is routine.
Now there are office hours conversations that accidentally become forty-five minutes long. Now there are moments where Dr. Reid pauses to ask, âYou read the article I mentioned, right?â already knowing the answer before you nod.
Now there are tiny things.
Tiny, lethal things.
The way he automatically hands you printed articles first when passing materials down the row. The way his face brightens with visible recognition every time you speak in class. The way he says your name like he enjoys the shape of it.
Itâs become less like a crush and more like being slowly haunted.
Which is why remaining after lecture today feels less unusual than it probably should.
You donât mean to time it like this.
It just⊠happens.
The room empties in that familiar way, like the building exhales and forgets to inhale again. Chairs scrape. Jackets zip. Someone laughs too loudly in the hallway like theyâre trying to prove theyâre still human after all that thinking.
And then itâs just you again, hovering at the edge of the aisle with your notebook pressed a little too tightly to your chest.
Dr. Reid is still at the whiteboard.
Erasing.
Relentless little motions. Wrist flicking. Chalk dust or marker residue or whatever ghosts lectures leave behind drifting faintly in the air. His cardigan is pushed up at the elbows now, like itâs given up on behaving properly.
He doesnât look over immediately.
Which, somehow, makes it worse.
Because youâve started to associate his attention with a kind of internal weather shift. Like the room tilts slightly toward you when he notices youâre there.
You clear your throat.
Soft. Careful.
âDr. Reid?â
The eraser pauses mid-swipe.
Then stops completely.
He turns.
And there it is.
That subtle recalibration. Like a radio finding your frequency without meaning to.
âOh,â he says. Not surprised exactly. Just⊠pleased in a quiet way that feels too personal to name. âYouâre still here again.â
Again.
Like itâs a pattern heâs noticed.
Like heâs been waiting for it.
You nod, suddenly hyper-aware of your hands, your posture, your entire existence. âYeah. I had a question about todayâs lecture.â
âOf course.â He sets the eraser down on the ledge beneath the board and steps away from it fully now, giving you his attention like itâs the most natural thing in the world. âWhat about it?â
Your brain, traitorous thing that it is, briefly offers you ten different ways to phrase this more intelligently.
None of them survive the trip to your mouth.
âIt was about emotional responses,â you say. âLike⊠how people react differently to the same stimulus depending on context and prior experience.â
He nods slowly, like heâs already tracing where this is going.
You continue anyway, because stopping now would be suspicious and also physically impossible.
âYou said something about adaptation shaping perception. And I was thinking about whether emotional responses can⊠overwrite themselves? Like, if enough context builds up, does the original reaction still matter, or does it get replaced entirely?â
Dr. Reid tilts his head slightly, studying you the way he studies everything he respectsâcarefully, like it might shift if he blinks wrong.
âThatâs a more complicated question than it sounds like you intended it to be,â he says gently.
Your stomach drops.
âSorry,â you start immediately. âI didnât meanâ I just meant like in general, notââ
âNo.â He interrupts softly. Not sharp. Just steady. âDonât apologize. Itâs a good question.â
That does something unfortunate to your nervous system.
He takes a step closer to his desk, resting one hand lightly on it as if anchoring himself to the conversation.
âSo the original response doesnât disappear. It becomes less accessible, or it gets reframed by later experiences. But itâs still there. Just⊠quieter.â
You nod slowly, trying to keep up.
âThatâs why certain triggers can feel disproportionate,â he adds. âTheyâre not creating a new reaction. Theyâre reopening an old one thatâs been reorganized over time.â
Something about the way he says it makes it feel less like psychology and more like confession, even though it absolutely isnât.
You swallow.
âThat makes it sound like nothing ever really goes away,â you say quietly.
A beat.
Dr. Reid looks at you a little more directly now.
âIt doesnât,â he says. Simple. Certain. Then, softer: âBut that doesnât mean it stays the same.â
The room feels warmer again.
Or maybe thatâs just you.
You glance down at your notebook like it suddenly contains emergency instructions for being normal.
âRight,â you manage. âThat makes sense.â
It doesnât feel like it makes sense. It feels like it rearranged something in your chest and didnât bother explaining itself.
Dr. Reid pushes off the desk slightly, as if the intensity of the moment has to be gently contained.
Then, almost like an afterthought, he adds, âIs that what you were thinking about specifically? Or was there another angle?â
There it is again.
That attention.
Patient. Open. Not assuming youâre wasting his time.
You hesitate.
Because the truth is more dangerous than the question.
But youâve never been very good at leaving things unasked.
âI guess I was wondering,â you say slowly, âif people can⊠respond emotionally to something they intellectually understand isnât rational.â
Dr. Reid stills for half a second.
Not much. Most people wouldnât notice.
But youâve started noticing everything.
âThat happens frequently,â he says after a moment.
Your grip tightens on your notebook.
âEven when they know better?â
His gaze flickers briefly toward you again. Sharper now. Not unkind. Just⊠more precise.
âYes,â he says. âEspecially then.â
A quiet beat stretches between you.
Too quiet.
Your pulse has started doing strange, uneven things against your ribs, every instinct in your body suddenly screaming that this conversation has drifted dangerously close to something exposed.
Because the problem with Spencer Reid is that he listens too carefully.
Most people let things slide past them. Most people hear the shape of a sentence and move on.
Dr. Reid hears the fracture lines underneath it.
And right now youâre increasingly certain heâs standing one follow-up question away from watching you spontaneously combust in front of the behavioral sciences department.
You tighten your grip on your notebook hard enough to bend the edge slightly.
âRight,â you say quickly. Too quickly. âOkay. That actually answered my question, so I should probablyââ
You gesture vaguely toward the door.
Toward freedom.
Toward escape.
Toward literally anywhere that is not this room with this man looking at you like heâs trying to solve something.
But Dr. Reidâs expression shifts faintly before you can move.
Concern.
Not suspicion. Somehow worse.
âAre you alright?â
Thereâs no accusation in it. Just immediate attentiveness.
Which unfortunately makes panic bloom hotter in your chest.
âYep.â The word arrives at terminal velocity. âAbsolutely. Totally fine.â
You are speaking with the cadence of someone being held hostage by her own nervous system.
His brows pull together slightly. âYou seem anxious.â
âWell,â you laugh weakly, âI think thatâs sort of my baseline.â
Wrong choice.
Because that earns the smallest flicker of a smile from him.
Soft. Brief. Real.
It hits you directly in the bloodstream.
You need to leave immediately.
âI just remembered I have toâŠâ You motion uselessly with one hand. âDo something.â
Brilliant.
Academic titan.
Dr. Reid opens his mouth like heâs about to say something else, and that tiny moment of anticipation detonates pure survival instinct in your chest.
âAnyway!â you blurt. âThanks for answering my question. Sorry. Again. Iâm gonna go.â
You turn too fast.
Your bag catches against the side of a chair.
The strap yanks violently sideways, dragging the chair with it in one catastrophic scrape against the floor.
You stumble trying to untangle yourself, notebook slipping from your grasp entirely.
Papers explode everywhere.
For one suspended second, the universe goes completely still.
Then Dr. Reid moves instantly.
âOh, hereââ
You both crouch at the exact same time.
Of course you do.
Naturally.
Because God is dead and this is apparently funny to the universe.
Your foreheads nearly collide.
You jerk backward so abruptly you lose balance a second time, catching yourself with one hand against the floor while loose papers scatter farther beneath the desks.
âIâm so sorry,â you say immediately, horrified.
But that's not the end of the torture. Because why would it be? Why would the universe and whatever forces rule it let you get out of this embarrassment that easily?
Your phone.
No.
No, no, no.
Time slows with cinematic cruelty.
The device must have slipped from your bag when the strap caught the chair. The clear case popped loose on impact, skidding separately across the floor.
And there, face-up beside the phone itself like evidence submitted directly to a court of lawâ
his signature.
And Dr. Reid is staring directly at it.
Thereâs no plausible explanation for this.
None.
You cannot even pretend itâs accidental.
Who accidentally stores a professorâs signed feedback inside their phone case?
No one, that's who. Just you.
Your soul begins exiting your body through your ears.
Donât panic, your brain says uselessly, while panic fully consumes the landscape.
Dr. Reid reaches for the paper slowly.
You want the floor to open and swallow you whole like a tectonic event.
âOh my God,â you whisper.
Dr. Reid looks at the note for one suspended second longer.
Then another.
His expression changes in tiny increments you only notice because youâve spent months studying him with the intensity of a graduate thesis.
Recognition.
Confusion.
Realization.
And then something else. Something softer. Something that makes your pulse stumble violently against your ribs.
Very slowly, he lifts his eyes to yours.
You have never known true psychological horror until this moment.
âI can explain,â you blurt immediately.
Can you?
Absolutely not.
But the sentence launches itself out of your mouth anyway with all the grace of a car accident.
Dr. Reidâs brows lift slightly. âYou can?â
âNo,â you say honestly. âActually, not in a way that helps me.â
Excellent.
Wonderful.
You briefly consider faking your death.
He glances back down at the paper again, thumb resting lightly near the edge where the fold has started softening from use.
And then, very softly:
âYou kept it.â
Not teasing.
Not judgmental.
Which almost makes it harder.
Heat floods violently into your face.
âThis was,â you say immediately, âso much less creepy in my head.â
A tiny crease appears between his brows like heâs trying not to smile.
âI didnât say it was creepy.â
âItâs objectively creepy.â
âI donât think objectively means what you want it to mean there.â
âThatâs worse somehow.â
The corner of his mouth twitches. Actually twitches.
You stare at him in horror.
âPlease donât laugh at me,â you whisper.
âIâm not laughing at you.â
âYouâre visibly experiencing amusement.â
âThatâs not the same thing.â
âIt absolutely is.â
The smile threatens again, smaller this time, restrained at the edges like he doesnât fully trust himself with it.
And then, disastrously, his gaze drops once more to the signature.
His own handwriting.
His own absurdly formal sign-off.
When he speaks again, thereâs something almost embarrassed threaded through his voice now.
âIn fairness,â he says, âI probably shouldnât have written âI remain yours sincerely.ââ
You make a strangled sound halfway between a laugh and cardiac arrest. âNo, you really shouldnât have.â
âI wasnât thinking about how that sounded.â
âThat somehow feels less reassuring.â
His eyes flick back to yours then.
Warm amber under fluorescent lights. Too attentive. Too intelligent.
âBut you noticed it,â he says quietly.
Thereâs no ego in the statement.
Just observation.
You swallow hard.
âYes.â
The room goes still around the answer.
Not awkward exactly.
Just aware.
Dr. Reid looks down briefly, almost thoughtful, before carefully placing the paper back atop your fallen notebook instead of immediately handing it over.
âYou know,â he says after a moment, âhistorically, formal academic correspondence used possessive sign-offs fairly often.â
You stare at him.
âAre you trying to academically explain away my crush on you right now?â
The sentence escapes before you can stop it.
Silence detonates instantly afterward.
Your entire nervous system flatlines.
Because you did not mean to say that.
You meant to think it privately and then carry the shame forever.
Dr. Reid goes completely still.
His lips part slightly like his brain lost the next page of the script.
âOh my God,â you whisper, staring at the floor. âForget I said that.â
But the problem with Spencer Reid has always been this:
he never ignores important things.
And when you finally force yourself to look back up, heâs watching you with an expression so carefully controlled it almost hurts to see.
âYou have a crush on me,â he says.
Not mocking.
Not smug.
Honestly, he sounds more astonished than anything else.
You squeeze your eyes shut briefly. âI am asking respectfully for the earth to open beneath me.â
âThatâs not an answer.â
âItâs the only answer I currently have.â
You expect discomfort.
Distance.
Professional correction.
Instead, Dr. Reid exhales softly through his nose and sits back slightly against the leg of a desk beside him, still crouched across from you among scattered papers and your exploded dignity.
And then, to your complete horror, he says:
âI thought there was a possibility.â
Your head snaps up.
âWhat?â
A faint flush has appeared high on his cheekbones now.
Tiny. Visible.
It rearranges the architecture of your entire universe.
âYouâre very attentive to me,â he says carefully.
You choke immediately. âI need you to stop observing things.â
âThat seems unlikely.â
âYouâre a behavioral analyst. This is abuse of power.â
That almost earns another smile.
Almost.
âBut I wasnât sure,â he continues more quietly. âAnd I didnât want to assume something that would make you uncomfortable.â
You stare at him.
âYou noticed,â you say faintly.
Dr. Reid tilts his head a little.
âYou keep every note I give you.â
Well.
When he says it out loud like that, it sounds medically concerning.
âI didnât think you knew that.â
âI didnât,â he admits. âNot conclusively.â
His gaze flickers briefly toward the paper beside your phone.
âI do now.â
You cover your face with one hand.
âThis is the worst day of my life.â
âI donât think thatâs true.â
âThatâs because youâre not experiencing it from inside my body.â
A pause.
Then, very gently:
âNo,â he says. âI donât think I am.â
Something changes in the room after that.
Tiny shift. Tectonic consequence.
The humor softens at the edges, leaving behind something quieter. Something breathing carefully between the two of you.
Dr. Reid reaches down first, gathering the scattered pages into a neater stack before offering them back to you properly this time.
Your fingers brush again.
And this time neither of you jerks away immediately.
It lasts maybe half a second longer than it should.
Enough to feel intentional.
Enough to ruin you permanently.
His eyes lift to yours again, thoughtful in that dangerous way he gets when heâs turning something over carefully in his mind.
âYou know,â he says slowly, âthere are ethical complications here.â
You let out a startled laugh. âThatâs one way to put it.â
âIâm serious.â
âI know.â
His fingers tap once against the edge of the paper still resting between you.
âYouâre my student.â
The words land carefully. Reluctantly.
Like he hates them a little.
âWhich means,â he continues, âthat regardless of how I feel about this conversation, there are boundaries Iâm responsible for maintaining.â
Your pulse stumbles.
Regardless of how I feel about this conversation.
Thatâs the moment the floor drops out from under you.
Because thatâs not rejection.
Itâs worse.
Itâs possibility wearing a seatbelt.
âBut there are also only six weeks left in the semester.â
Your breath catches.
The words land between you with astonishing softness.
Not a proposition.
Not quite.
Just a door left cracked open in the dark.
Dr. Reid seems to realize exactly how that sounded one second after saying it, because a flicker of alarm crosses his face immediately afterward.
âIâm not implying,â he starts quickly. âI mean, I am implying something, technically, but not inappropriately. I just meant that institutional boundaries are temporary in specific contexts and I thought transparency was preferable to pretending I hadnât noticed the situation and now Iâm explaining this badly.â
You stare at him.
Then laugh suddenly.
Not nervous this time.
Real.
Because Spencer Reid, genius profiler, has gone visibly flustered sitting on the floor of his own lecture hall.
The sound seems to catch him off guard.
His shoulders loosen a fraction.
And for the first time since this catastrophe began, the panic ebbs enough for something else to bloom beneath it.
Something warm.
âI⊠I can wait six weeks,â you say softly.
Spencerâs smile is small enough that someone else might have missed it entirely.
You donât.
Because of course you donât.
It changes him in tiny ways. Softens the sharp concentration he usually wears like armor. Pulls warmth into his face until he looks less like Dr. Spencer Reid, terrifyingly intelligent guest lecturer, and more like a man trying very hard not to look too happy about something.
summary: spencer reid hasn't thought of his old college friend in ages, but when his coworkers' mini celebration of his birthday brings up memories of the time you spent together, and fate decides to send him on a case to your hometown, he decides it might be a sign to catch up. pt. 1 of a series, masterlist here
word count: 2.9k
tags/cw: fem!teacher!reader, she's also very slightly desi-coded because it's my fic, set right after/during S1E4, the San Diego rape case, so mentions of rape but nothing graphic, no relationship, they're old friends who had a falling out, umm nothing romantic yet, not proofread
SPENCER REID hadnât thought about his old college friend in a while. Not until JJ brought out a birthday cake and a silly hat and propped it onto his head while he looked on, pleasantly bewildered. Youâd done something very similar for him once, years ago.
It was after midnight, and youâd cancelled on your usual daily debrief with Reid to sleep earlyâsomething heâd never known you to do since the first day youâd moved onto the same floor in the dormitory, just three doors down. Slightly miffed, he just put his head down and continued studying, ignoring the ache in his back from the cheap wooden chair. Still, he made excuses for you. It was the third time youâd backed out of hanging out with him, the previous time being an offer to go study together in the library. He attributed it to you falling ill. It was flu season, after all. Might be for the best that youâre not breathing the same stuffy air as him. Still, he couldnât help but miss the company heâd grown so used to.
Three rapid knocks brought him out of his trance, and he glanced at the clock in alarm. Just after midnight. The thought of it being someone trying to mess with him opened a small pit of dread in his stomach. He really wasnât in the mood for that, five minutes into his birthday. He ignored it, hoping maybe theyâd think he was just asleep.
They came again. With a small groan, he dragged his feet through the five steps it took to reach the door, before pulling it open just an inch.
âOh!â Spencer blinked at your beaming face, glancing down at your fuzzy slippers, then your pajamas, noting the way your arms were bent behind your torso, like you were hiding something behind your back. He opened the door wider. ââŠHey? I thought you were asleep.â
âYeah, well, I lied.â You shrugged. âCan I come in?â
Spencer moved out of the way as you pushed inside, brushing against him in the narrow space. You had a large plastic bag with you that you set down on the floor before immediately moving to clear his desk.
âHey, hey, hey!â Spencer rushed to take over before you could mess up the extremely organized mess, grabbing a notebook out of your hands as you continued to grin up at him.
âWhatâs this all about?â He asked, his back to you as he cleaned up. When you didnât answer and he only heard the rustle of plastic, he turned to face you.
Spencer Reid did not have a photographic memory. That was a misconception that many people, including some of his coworkers, would end up repeating, but his flawless recollection was (mostly) limited to information he read, not the things he saw. But he would never forget what you looked like when heâd turned around, finding you holding a birthday cake with an entirely unsafe number of candles piled onto a tiny four-inch cake.
The cake itself was nothing specialâwhite buttercream frosting that left a waxy, sugary glaze on his tongue, rainbow sprinkles that crunched in his ears and a crumby vanilla cake that tasted vaguely of a chemistry lab. But in the candlelight, you glowed. A few strands of hair had come loose from the severe braid you slept in, framing your face in shiny wisps. Your glasses dipped on your nose, too loose from years of wear, leaving you looking up at him without the barrier. He swore he could see himself reflected in them.
âHappy birthday!â
It took him longer than it shouldâve to refocus. He didnât even recall telling you his birthday, but you mustâve seen it on his drivers license the numerous times heâd handed you his wallet at the corner store to pay while he loaded everything onto the counter. And now, here you were, standing in his cramped dorm with dirty laundry pushed to one corner of his unmade bed, standing in front of him in his ratty t-shirt and sweats heâd been wearing for far too long, while his mother probably didnât remember the date at all.
He doesnât remember what he said to you. The bout of photographic memory seems to end there. But he does remember the stupid crown with âBirthday Boyâ in garish, glittery colours, the shirt with a corny science pun youâd given him as a present, and the waxy layer in his mouth when youâd finally left for the night, making him stay up far later than he was planning to.
He hadnât thought about you in a while, even if he still wore that shirt around the house sometimes. Even if the crown was still sitting on the highest shelf in his closet, in a basket with all the other memorabilia heâd saved from his childhood and your time together. No, he hadnât thought about you, but when JJ brought out the cake and the stupid hat, for a moment, it felt like you might be behind all this.
YOU HADNâT thought about Spencer Reid in a while. He graduated two years before you did, wrapping up his BA with a speed that shouldâve pissed you off because it served to show just how far ahead of you he was in every way that mattered, but you had your own problems to contend with by then. You finished your degree and your teaching certificate, moved back to San Diego to be closer to your family and specifically, to keep an eye on your sister, got a job at a high school nearby and worked on your masterâs part-time. In the rush of being an adult, you left your memories of Spencer in the dust. Â
So when, during your lunch break, you received a call from a contact simply titled âPennywise,â you frowned at the screen and let it ring more times than necessary, just to make sure it wasnât a butt-dial. Eventually, though, curiosity won out and you pressed the answer button with a bread-crumb finger, holding the phone up to your ear as you worked to swallow your dry sandwich before saying: âHello?â
âUm, hi, howâve you been?â Much to your disbelief, Spencerâs awkward voice confirmed that the call had been quite purposeful.
âOh, um, Iâm goodââ You gulped down the last bit of bread. âHow are you?â
âIâm good, too. Great, actually.â He hesitated. âListen, Iâm in San Diego for work and um, weâre leaving tonight but I have some time in the afternoon, and I was wondering if you wanted to catch up? I mean, you probably get off work pretty late and youâll be tired so no worries if not, but itâs, um, itâs been a while soâŠâ
You nodded to save him from the rambling, before shaking your head. âIâm free after five today, actually, Iâd love to catch up.â
You laughed, a short, polite sound. âUm, Iâve got this coffee place I go to pretty often, I can send you the location and you can let me know if itâs too far?â
âNo, no, donât worry about that. Iâll meet you there. Is six okay?â He asked.
âSix is perfect. Iâll see you then.â You hoped he could here the polite smile in your voice as you rushed to hang up, brows scrunching in bewilderment.
The last time you spoke to Spencer was at his graduation. Â
HIS HANDS were sweating. Why were they sweating?
Spencer wiped them on his trousers for the fifth time in twenty minutes. Why was he twenty-five minutes early? He hadnât even ordered, just slipped into a booth with his go-bag beside him, looking incredibly suspicious. The girl at the register had glanced at him far too many times for that to be a doubt.
There was no logical reason for him to be so nervous. Well, there was: your friendship hadnât exactly concluded on the best note. It was clean, though. The second heâd left Georgetown, the curtain dropped. He never called, despite the bitter keep in touch youâd thrown at him with an overly formal handshake at his graduation. It was the first time you guys had spoken in a week.
From his seat near the window, the autumn sun blared down on him so he that he was squinting to see the busy street, waiting for you to step out of a taxi or walk up to the door or park your car. Did you drive? You used to hate driving. Loathed it. And when he drove, youâd fall asleep in minutes.
Holy shit, was that you? He squinted harder at the black sedan parallel-parking on the side of the street. He thought he saw a flash of your hair, but you were wearing sunglasses and your head was turned. You parked surprisingly smoothly, and he was just about to conclude that it couldnât be you at all when the door swung open and a leg peeked out. Your whole body followed, in trousers and a button-down far too formal for a teacher. The door swung shut as you hauled a purse over one shoulder, and you gave the parking job an appraising once-over before heading inside.
You spotted him almost as soon as you stepped inside. Spencer curled his mouth in what you called his âwhite people smile,â a hand raised in a still wave before interlocking with the other on the table. You waved back, a small, energetic movement. Your sunglasses were still in your palm.
âHey! Did you order yet?â You asked him, upbeat in an artificial way heâd never heard before. He frowned slightly before quickly correcting himself and shaking his head.
âNo, thought Iâd ask the regular,â
A laugh slipped from your lips, and Spencer found himself relaxing slightly. Now that was a familiar sound.
ââCourse,â You slipped into the seat across from him, your own bag mirroring the positioning of his. âSorry, I just got off work. Hard to switch out of the work voice, yâknow?â
Spencer nodded, the smile still plastered onto his face. âNo worries. So, what should I get?â
âOoh, I have the perfect drink for you,â You leaned in excitedly, palms flat against the wood. Spencer watched as you scrunched one eye, head tilting just so. âI mean, if youâre still addicted to sugar,â
He laughed, throwing his own hands up in surrender. âGuilty as charged.â
Once youâd gotten your drinks (and he fought to pay for both), they slipped into the benign rhythm of conversation. You asked him about his work, about the case heâd just wrapped up, and listened with concern as he described, with as less graphic detail as possible, the string of rapes and the guy whoâd been committing them.
âGod,â You blew air through your mouth. âI mean, I saw it on the news, and some of my students were talking about it, but shit, thatâs horrifying.â
âIt is,â He nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. It was sweetened with (extra) condensed milk, and the dash of cinnamon wasnât unpleasant. You still knew his tastes well.
âJobâs been good for you, though,â You said after a beat of silence. Spencer tilted his head, prompting you to continue.
You shrugged, bringing your cup to your lips. âI mean, you just seem more⊠confident, I guess. More sure of yourself. Itâs good,â
 âThanks,â Spencer found himself smiling at the simple sweetness of the compliment. At least, he tried to focus on the simplicity of it. Not on the memories it brought up. âSo do you,â
It worked to distract you, at least. Take the focus away from himself. You leaned back, a similarly pleased smile crinkling the corners of your eyes. âReally? Thank God, âcause I seriously doubt my ability to keep a modicum of respect some of these days.â
âI mean, you work with the age group statistically most likely to not respect authority figures, so that tracks,â He noted the way your eyes twinkled when he mentioned statistics, and his cheeks warmed at your silent acknowledgement of the pattern of speech.
âMhm,â You nodded once, before looking out onto the street. âRemember that time I forced you to come to a party with me?â
âGod, how could I not?â Spencer balked, shaking his head as he laughed. âYou spent thirty minutes getting ready only for us to leave fifteen minutes in. Terrible investment,â
You mimicked his laughter, resting your chin on your hand, which was extremely over-jewelled. Spencer noted the change, cataloguing the fingers decked in gold rings, some incredibly ornate in a style he couldnât place, others simpler in the mainstream style. Thin gold bracelets hung off your wrist, a stack that contrasted the sleekness of the rest of your outfit. There was a reason he always associated you with gold.
âListen, it was for the experience,â Â You emphasized the word with a raise of your brows.
âAh, yes. The beautiful experience of being far too close to a bunch of drunk kids who smelled like sweat.â
âMm,â You swallowed the sip youâd just taken, holding up a finger. âDonât forget the headache-inducing music,â
Despite everything, he couldnât help but feel a fondness for the experience, as youâd called it. âIt was probably the worst idea weâd ever had.â
âIâd ever had,â You corrected him. âYou never came up with these stupid plans. Always too smart,â
Spencer shrugged, a smug expression on his face. âI donât think intelligence could ever be a negative trait,â
âOf course not, Iâm sure the FBI girls are obsessed with it,â
Spencerâs eyes flitted up to yours, before quickly looking away. You hadnât said it with any malice, of course, you were just sarcastic for the fun of it sometimes. Despite that being a fact, a muscle in his jaw tensed, and you caught it. He needed to say something to diffuse the situation, change the subject, but with each passing second the tension just became more awkward, and it became more impossible for him to speak.
Thankfully, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He nearly jumped out of his seat as he pulled it out, not even glancing at the called ID before holding it up to his ear. âYes?â
âHey, just letting you know, weâre all at the hotel grabbing our stuff. Can you meet us at the airport in an hour or do you need a ride?â Morgan asked.
âOh, yeah, no, Iâll meet you at the airport.â Spencer cut the call and looked back at you. You were staring at him with an inscrutable look, and he almost regretted the words that left his mouth next. âHey, Iâm sorry, but I must be at the airport as soon as possible. Weâre trying to leave early. Another case, probably.â
Spencer had to stop himself from speaking further. But your face shifted in alarm and he was grateful for the distance between you two and the fact that heâd learned to lie so well.
âOh, no, of course. I can drive you, if you want?â You were already standing, reaching for your purse. âItâll be quicker than trying to get a taxi at this hour, I can assure you.â
Spencer blinked. You thought it was an actual emergency. Woops. âOh, no, Iâm sureââ
You sighed, exaggerating your exasperation before grabbing your cup. âIâm just returning the favor, alright?â
As he stepped outside, you pointed to your car. âIâm a pretty good driver now, I promise. Just look at that beautiful parking.â
Spencer nodded appraisingly, as if he hadnât watched you do it. âParallel, too. Iâm proud,â
You shot him a self-assured grin, mimicking his shrug.
You went quiet as soon as the car was on the road, a small wrinkle between your forehead and the slight pursing of your lips indicating the hatred you still held for driving. Spencer held back the urge to laugh, angling his head towards the window instead, letting the bright world and the back taste of coffee wash away the remnants of the horrific case theyâd just solved. It felt like a vacation of sorts. If a vacation was around two hours long, that is.
âYou can put some music on, if youâd like,â You said at a red light, nodding towards a case of CDs.
âDo you have anything classical?â Spencer asked jokingly, meeting your eyes briefly as you threw him an incredulous look. Music had always been a point of contention between the two of you, Spencerâs fondness for the ancients making you roll your eyes and make another comment about him being pretentious. âYou really should try it, it might help you relax a little.â
âIâm maneuvering a death trap that causes over forty-thousand deaths a year, Spencer,â You sighed as the light turned green, the tension returning to your shoulders with full force. âIâd be stupid not to be wary.â
âWell, thereâs a difference between being careful and being terrified,â Spencer responded, raising a hand to gesture as he spoke. âBeing wary of other people on the road is great, but being excessively anxious is likely to cause overthinking, potentially leading to worse reaction times, and possibly dangerously avoidant driving.â
âIs my driving dangerous to you right now?â There was a hint of a friendly threat in your voice, the slight tilt of your lips betraying your amusement.
âYouâre leaving enough space for a car and a half at every stop,â
âIâm being safe,â You said, holding a wounded hand to your chest.
âKeep both hands on the wheel, please.â
He watched as you scoffed, but returned your hand to nine-and-two anyway. âNow whoâs overthinking?â
Spencer simply raised a shoulder and let the silence stretch, more comfortable this time. Suddenly he found himself sorry for cutting their time together short, all because he didnât want to approach the one topic that still lay like a casket between them. Maybe he could introduce you to his coworkers?
SPENCER WANTED to introduce you to his coworkers. You stayed quiet for a moment after parking, before asking him if he was sure.
He nodded rapidly. âYeah, theyâll love you, trust me.â
âFine,â You smiled, pulling out your car keys and unbuckling your seatbelt in one smooth move.
When you walked up to the group of FBI agents, still in the parking lot, you saw that there were only two of them. Spencer introduced them as Derek and Elle, respectively, and you shook their hands politely.
âSo, how was Reid in college?â Derek asked, leaning in conspiratorially. âWas he secretly a ladiesâ man?â
You cringed at the wording before laughing. âHells, no. He had the demeanour of a mouse, ran away from anything of the sort.â
âOr maybe you just had a saviour complex,â Spencer added, not kindly, from beside you. You clammed up quickly at the jab, hitting far too close to home as your cheeks warmed. Elle frowned from her position beside Morgan at the sideways glance you threw at Spencer, before recovering.
âOr maybe that,â You shrugged, smiling at Derek as if it was a joke, and not the downfall of your friendship with Spencer in the first place. But it was too late, the tension youâd both worked to bury had come to the surface so that everyone in the circle noticed. You glanced at the watch in your hands.
âI should be heading back, I wanted to hit the gym tonight.â You wince apologetically, turning to Spencer. âIt was nice seeing you,â
He nodded stiffly, that stupid white people smile on his face again as he crossed his arms. âOf course. It was great seeing you, too.â
âTake care,â You said, and you meant it. As you walked away, the heel of your boots clicking against the asphalt, you heard Spencer call out softly behind you.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
hiii pls for halloween: Spencer and ditzy/unconventional reader have been sleeping together, Spencer thinks theyâre dating and in love, reader thinks theyâre just having sex, but he does something for her that makes her realise heâs in loveÂ
Youâre used to this. Used to men liking you, but only over the phone, only in the dark, only in the bars five miles away from home. You know what itâs like to fuck someone for nothing, not a scrap of affection, no sweetness or softness involved, so when things start with Spencer and heâs kind to you afterwards, youâre a dog to a bone. You go crazy for a hint of love.Â
Spencerâs pushing the hair back from your face. His eyes are on the TV and heâs got a hand curled around your thigh that speaks to what youâre expecting from him, but heâs not touching you like that.Â
The hair falls in your eyes and he pushes it back. It falls into your eyes, again and again, jostled by his hand pushing it back and gravity letting it tip back down, tickling your face. Itâs a motion. Heâs not moving it aside to see you better, heâs not looking at you, but heâs stroking your forehead up to your hair as though itâs important to do. He fumbles with the remote, and he lets go of your thigh rather than your head. Soft touching. Youâre basically numb.
You doze some in the corner of the couch, your legs dead weight in his lap. He just keeps on stroking your face, arm wrapped skewiff behind your head to cross frontwards, a tented novel crinkling in his lap.Â
Itâs an unsure amount of time later when you wake up and find him in the exact same position. His hand is still going, though slower, and the room is dark. The TV is off. Your eyes ache when they open but Spencerâs only sat there scrolling through his phone. You shift your head, must shift in your sleep, because Spencer doesnât look up. He clicks on to an article and hums under his breath.Â
You try to read the lines through blurry eyes. He reads so quickly you canât keep up, until he pauses.Â
⊠your girlfriend falling asleep on you doesnât necessarily mean anything at all. She might be tired, or stressed, or sick. Or, she might just trust you enough to sleep where she is. Try not to worry, but always contact your physician should you deem it necessary.Â
He scrolls onto the comments.Â
You stare at the side of his face. He looks concerned, now you know what heâs reading. His eyebrows are pulled together tightly. He isnât angry you fell asleep here, how many times have you apologised for overstaying your welcome and been met with outright confusion? No, heâs worrying about you.Â
The article got things right, you realise. You do feel safe with him. You trust Spencer to let you rest.Â
You close your eyes and make a light little sigh thatâs fake and not half as guttural as your usual waking grunts. âSpence,â you whine under your breath.Â
âWhat?â he asks, quiet but worried, obviously so.Â
âKeep rubbing my head?âÂ
He turns into you âonto you, pulling your head toward his face. He presses a touch of a kiss to your temple, murmuring, âOh, sorry, angel,â as he continues his ministrations.Â
âThis is nice.â
He nods against your head. âItâs perfect.â
âCan I stay?â
âYou donât⊠donât ever have to leave, I always tell you that.â
âSorry, IâŠâ didnât realise, you think, puffing out a breath too close to his face, wrapping your arms around him in a cuddle he didnât sign up for but apparently wants from you dearly. âI wanna stay.â
âThen stay,â he stresses. âPlease, you donât have to go home tonight. Stay, and sleep. Iâll make breakfast in the morning and we can go and get you, like, everything you need. Just stay.â
You smile, pushing up to line his jaw with kisses, slow ones that donât end before they start again, a row of them on the slight scratch of stubble.Â
s.r. YOU SAID YOU LIKED MY HAIR, (so go ahead and touch it)
spencer reid x bau!reader ; fluff , r falls asleep, mutual pining, spencer is sickeningly in love
ËËđąÖŽà»â w. reader has hair wc. 1148
note ; i locked in so hard, i fear i'll never write as good as this again (you see what i did with the title eheheh)
Four pm. You stare at the near empty pot of coffee, gripping the handle of your snoopy mug in a way you're both ready to fill it up with coffee and unsure if you should be fueling up on caffeine so late in the day. (Though, it's not like you haven't downed cheap police precinct coffee at one in the morning before.) You turn away, wisely choosing the latter, instead opting for one of Garciaâs floral teas to help survive till the end of the day.
Six pm. The rush around you turns from focusing on work to going home, desk lamps turning off and elevators crowding up. The girls rush off for drinks, Morgan tagging along too despite Penelopeâs nagging about it being a âgirl's nightâ. However, in the end, she can't help but fall for his charming smirk and the thought of watching his sexy butt, as sheâd say, on the dance floor.
Eight pm. You're sat at your desk, brows scrunched together while solving a sudoku puzzle, waiting for Spencer so you can walk to the metro station togetherâa routine youâve somehow built over time. But when the lights shut off and Hotch finally leaves his office, and Spencerâs still elbow deep into the neverending pile of paperwork on his desk, you know youâll have to break routine for the night (since by the time he leaves the metroâll be closed).
You bid your boss good night, organizing your things when he shoots you a look and opens his mouth to comment about the time. But when the hallway lights turn off and elevator doors shut behind him, you lean back in your chair, staring at the boy beside you in a spiral of words and completely lost to time. You tap your fingers on your desk, deciding whether to just go homeâto a warm shower and the bed youâve been yearning to melt into all dayâor to stay despite the furthest youâll walk together tonight is the gate of the building before separating into taxis.
It's not surprising what you decide to do; you slide your chair across the gap and plop down next to him, but even the sudden warmth from your proximity to him can't stir the boy from his work. You sigh, your lips pouting slightly, and rest your cheek against your palm. How much paperwork is there that even Spencer, the genius who can read 20,000 words per minute, is taking this long? Derek and Emily must've slipped him some of theirs. (Which, to be honest, youâd considered doing too earlier, but youâd barely talked to him today and that only meant more work for himânot that itâd make any difference now, though.)
It was as if being close to him pulled you into this vortex he was in, where time passed slowly yet fast, yet never seemed to end. Your eyes trace the creases between his brows, how you wish you could just smooth them out with your thumb, his stunningly long lashes, the curve of his lips. You could almost see the swirling storm of words and thoughts behind his eyes; youâve never seen him like this before, and as much as you dislike the lack of attention, now you can stare at him all you want without any hesitation.
Although, after a while, you couldn't help but get a little restless, which led you to you stealing the brick of yellow sticky notes from his desk. The yellow stained blue as you doodled whatever came to mindârockstar kitties, bundles of flowers, stars with eyes and arms and legs. But soon enough even that became boring, and you missed watching his unchanging but endearing expression and glancing over every little detail of him.
You lay your cheek against your crossed arms on the desk, looking up at him and the way the light bounces off his face at this angle. You observe how the heights of the piles of papers and files have shifted, how he didn't even bother to push back the strands of hair that have fallen in front of his face (which you fight the urge to tuck behind his ear for him). Your eyes start to feel heavy, and you take in his expression one more time so you can carry it with you into your dreams before they slowly droop shut.
His pen finally stopped, and when he looked up it felt like no time had passed at all. It was weird snapping out of such a trance. He lets out a sigh of relief as he stretches his arms, before noticing something in the corner of his eyeâsomething awfully similar to the color of your shirt. He turned to see your sleeping figure, hair slowly falling from behind your ear and lashes casting shadows on your face. You look so peaceful, so pretty. He could look at you forever. Wait, would that be weird? Even if it is he still would.
But despite that his eyes drift to the sticky notes scattered across the corner of the desk you occupy, covered in flowers and animals and vintage cars (something you two bond over your shared love for). But one drawing in particular catches his eye: a cartoonish drawing of someone kissing a boy's cheek with a little heart in between them. It isn't labeled, but the boy's hair and clothes suspiciously match his, and the other looks just like you; he can feel the faint warmth creep up from his cheeks to the tip of his ears, and he can't help but smile just at the drawing itself.
His attention focuses back on you, and he notices the strands of hair have finally fallen across your face, which he reaches out gently to brush away without even thinking, almost like a reflex even though he's never done it before. Heâs thought about it before though, and wishes he could do it all the time. His hand hovers just behind your ear, itching to run it through your hair soothingly, his lips tugging into a small, completely smitten smile as he wonders about a future where he could run his fingers through your hair as you lay next to him in bed. If Morgan or Emily saw this theyâd never give him another day of peace againâMorgan would mutter something about how gone he is, and theyâd tease him relentlessly every time he even thinks about looking at you.
He glances back at the pile of papers and files he needs to organize and put away, before back at you, hand still hovering kilometers above your head. He watches you longingly, not wanting to disturb your peace just yet, and moves to unbutton his cardigan. He slides it off and gently rests it on top of you, lingering just a little too long, before turning away to sort the mountains of paperwork.
WARNINGS: drugs (opioids), drug purchasing, implied addiction, angsty undertones, mentions of tobias hankel, season 2 spencer reid.
please read the warnings!!!
|| meeting spencer reid through your dealer was not what you had planned for the night.
⊠âââââââââââââ âŠ
It was past midnight. The street behind you was empty â this part of the city had a way of emptying out after a certain hour, the kind of neighborhood where people learned not to be outside if they didnât have a reason â and the alley ahead was darker than the street, the single bulb above Marcusâs door a distant yellow point that barely made a dent.
Youâd been here enough times to know the route by feel. Counted the steps from the corner. Knew where the uneven pavement was, the stretch that pooled water when it rained, the dumpster halfway down you had to squeeze past.
You knew all of it.
What you didnât know was the man standing at the entrance of the alley with his arms crossed tight across his chest and his eyes fixed on the far end of the alley like he was doing a risk assessment.
He was tall. Thinner than he shouldâve been. Dark jacket too light for the temperature, like heâd grabbed the wrong thing on the way out the door and hadnât noticed or hadnât cared. His hair was a little long and he kept pushing it back from his forehead with one hand in a way that suggested habit rather than intention.
He looked, distinctly, like someone who should not be here.
Your healed boots slowed.
He heard you â looked over â and for a second you both just stood there in the mouth of the dark alley, sizing each other up the way people did in these situations, running the quiet calculus of threat or not, known or unknown, safe to proceed.
His eyes were sharp. You noticed that first. Whatever else was going on with him, whoever he was, the intelligence in his face was immediate and obvious. He clocked you and you clocked him and you reached the same conclusion at almost the same moment:
Same reason.
He looked away first. Back down the alley.
You walked forward until you were a feet away from him, keeping your eyes on him.
âFirst time?â you asked. You kept your voice low. Habit.
He glanced at you. âUh- No, well- yes, i-its my first time buying.â He met your eyes. âIs it that obvious?â
âLittle bit.â You nodded toward the alley. âYouâre doing the thing where you stare at it like itâll get less sketchy if you look long enough.â
That made him pause for a second. âDoes it?â
âNo,â you said. âIt doesnât.â
He made a sound that was almost a laugh. Didnât quite get there, but almost.
You looked at him sidelong. Up close he was younger than youâd first thought, or maybe not younger, maybe just â worn, in a way that didnât quite match his age, whatever that was. There were shadows under his eyes that had nothing to do with the lighting. âSo whats your name?â you asked. âSpencerâ you could tell he was slightly nervous. You hummed. âWhats yours?â you answered with your name.
Another few seconds of silence passed,
âYou know Marcus?â you asked.
âSomeone gave me his name. Uh, Joel? i thinkâ He said it carefully. The phrasing of someone used to being precise. âhe said he was â reliable.â
âHeâs consistent,â you said. âThatâs probably the most generous thing I can say about him.â You pulled your jacket tighter. âYou got here a little late. He gets twitchy after midnight.â
âI got held up.â Something in the way he said it suggested he didnât want to explain further.
You didnât ask.
That was the thing about these nights, these places â there was an unspoken agreement about not asking. Everyone here was carrying something and no one owed anyone else an explanation. You appreciated that about it, in a grim kind of way. It was one of the few places where the weight of things felt evenly distributed.
âI can go first if you want,â you offered. âIntroduce you. Heâs less twitchy if someone vouches.â
He looked at you. Really looked, for a second, like he was recalibrating something.
âYou donât have to do that.â
âI know.â You shrugged. âCome on.â
The alley was narrow enough that you had to walk slightly ahead of him, and you were aware of him behind you â his footsteps careful and deliberate, avoiding the same puddle you skirted without having to be told. He was observant. You filed that away without meaning to.
The door at the end was metal, painted black, no number. The bulb above it buzzed faintly. You stopped at the door facing it, Spencer to your right. You couldnât help yourself, you turned your head to him, âAre you sure about this?â you knew it meant next to nothing coming from you, i mean you were there for the same thing as him, why would it back him down. âIm sureâ
Then you looked back at the door, you raised your hand into a slight fist and knocked twice.
A pause. Then the sound of a lock turning.
Marcus opened the door and looked at you, then past you at the man beside you, and his eyes narrowed.
âWhoâs he?â Marcus looked him up and down.
âHeâs fine,â you said. âJoel sent him.â
Marcus looked for another moment â he had the particular stillness of someone who survived by reading rooms â and then he stepped back and let you both in.
Spencer couldnt help himself but profile you both. Marcus was tall, shorter than him, but still tall, he had a buzzed haircut and full beard and mustache, he looked around his mid twenties. He had a joint in hid hand, his pupils were huge and he seemed relaxed.
You on the other hand, didnât seem so relaxed. You bounced on your heels, swaying your legs and playing with a strand of your hair. Your face was a bit tight, but still held a respectful smile, you needed it. He could tell you were a frequent user, knowing the dealer by name and the dealer knowing you by name? yeah. pretty frequent. You looked young though, maybe late teens early twenties.
Inside was what it always was: a single room, no windows, walls that had been painted over so many times the texture was more paint than wall. A bare bulb. A small table. And alot of cabinets behind it. Somewhere in the building above you, a television played too loud. It smelled like cigarettes and a pharmacyand something older underneath, something the paint was trying to cover.
Marcus stood with his arms crossed and ran through the transaction with you the way he always did â short, clipped, efficient, a man who wanted you in and out as fast as possible â and you tucked your purchase away in your bag and stepped to the side and nodded toward the man youâd brought in.
âWhat do you need.â Marcus looked at Spencer when he asked. He didnt know what to say. Hed never bought anything before. All he has used were the ones he took from Tobias. âDilaudidâ was all he could spit out.
Marcus looked at him. âYou know how strong that is?â
âYes.â The manâs voice was steady. Whatever nerves had shown at the mouth of the alley were gone now, tamped down behind something controlled. âI know what it is.â
Marcus held the look a second longer, then turned and opened a box on the table.
You watched the man step forward and complete his transaction with the quiet efficiency of someone whoâd made peace with what they were doing, or was at least done arguing with themselves about it. There was no fumbling, no hesitation once heâd decided. He pocketed what heâd bought and stepped back.
Marcus jerked his head toward the door.
You both left.
The alley was cold. You walked to the street end of it without speaking, and you were about to turn in your direction â opposite ends of the city, probably, different trains, different lives â when he said:
âThank you. For the introduction.â
You looked back.
He was standing in the weak orange light from the streetlamp, hands back in his jacket pockets, and he had the look of someone surfacing from something, some internal negotiation that hadnât finished yet.
âDonât thank me,â you said. Not unkindly. âJust watch out for Marcus. Heâs fine until he isnât.â
A nod. He seemed to be working up to something. âAnd also be careful with it, Opioids are strong, like, really strong. Especially dilaudidâ You seemed hesitant when you said it. You cut him off before he could speak âAnd i know you know, but still. Be careful Spencerâ
He looked at you for a bit before answering. âI will, dont worryâ you only gave him a small smile in return.
âWell,â you said. âGood luck, Spencer.â
âYeah.â He looked down the empty street, then back at you. Something complicated in his face. âYou too.â
You turned and walked in your direction.
He turned and walked in his.
The city swallowed both of you up, and the alley went dark and quiet behind you, and somewhere in the building above Marcusâs door the television kept playing, too loud, into the empty night.
wc: 1748
summary: spencer sees your work persona crack while at a bar
cw: ?
me: who even invented exam season i just wanna talk
ââââ ââ â ââââ
If someone were to rank the BAU on how hard someone could be to read, it would probably go something like this:
Hotch, of course
Gideon
You
Prentiss
Rossi
Everyone else.
You were a master of compartmentalisation. Youâd been at the BAU for just under three years, and Spencer still hadnât truly learnt to read you. It scared him a little, but mostly it just made him curious.
You rarely flinched when you saw a gruesome scene. You never looked confused, only calculating. When you caught a killer or saved a victim, you didnât cheer or celebrate; you only allowed yourself a small smile. It was driving Spencer crazy trying to figure you out.
He couldnât even figure out if you really liked him. You never said anything unkind to him, and rarely interrupted his rambling unless it was absolutely necessary, but you never exactly looked glad to be talking to him.
The BAU were just wrapping up a case in Portland, and Spencer was watching you again. The gang had caught the killer, and everyone was in high spirits. You didnât give much in terms of expression, a small satisfied smile, the only indication you even knew it had all wrapped up.
You sat quietly on the plane, earbuds in and flipping through pages of an old Penguin classic. Feeling Spencerâs eyes on you, you looked up.
âYou read it?â You asked, holding up the cover so he could see. Spencer startled, aligning with the conversation youâd started.
âUm, yeah, a few years ago.â Your face didnât change.
âDid you like it?â
His brows raised fractionally, surprised you were asking.
âUm, yeah, yeah! I thought it was an interesting look at masculinity, death and ego. Do you like it?â You shrugged slowly, constructing your next sentence carefully.
âItâs not bad, but it feels like the type of novel that prides itself on dissecting the egos of everyone but the author.â
Spencer nodded, contemplative. âI hadnât thought about it through that lens,â He said.
This whole exchange told him very little about you. You were smart, obviously, and well read, but he knew all that about you, and it was just about a given to be in the BAU. But did you like him? You asked him a question, which points to yes, but didnât continue the conversation, didnât show any particular enthusiasm, and didnât display any typical physical indicators of affection or fondness.
He was still musing over this days later on a Friday night.
âYou canât be looking this troubled at the start of the weekend, man.â Derek leant on the corner of his desk, arms folded across his tight navy t-shirt.
âIâm not troubled, Morgan.â He barely glanced up, eyes intentionally trained on his files.
âOh, you are,â He teased, taking the file from his hands with a grin, âThe files can wait until Monday, Pretty Boy. Bunch of us are going to the bar in 20; youâre coming."
âNo Iâm not!â
Twenty minutes later, Spencer was in fact at the bar. It was loud, and crowded, and everyone seemed to fit in in a way he never could. So, instead of being part of the merriment with the rest of his friends, he watched. Watched the conversation playing out in front of him, watched the bar, watched the dance floor.
âHey guysâŠâ His voice was quiet, especially when fighting against the rattling bass of the music. Still, Emily and JJ caught it, both breaking out into screams when they followed his line of sight. Amongst the sweaty crowd of bodies writhing and grinding to the beat was you, unlike theyâd ever seen you.
Youâd let your hair down â literally. Instead of the crisp work uniforms theyâd otherwise seen you in, you were dressed for the bar better than they were. Slinky going out top and jeans that hugged your sides, your hair tossed through the air as you moved, hands running up and down your own body.
You were surrounded by a group of women you clearly knew, all dancing amongst the crowd, not a visible care in the world.
âGuess we know why she was so eager to go home tonight,â Emily grinned, studying you carefully.
âI donât think Iâve ever seen her smile like that,â Derek added, referring to the brilliant beam that was blinding even across the room. Spencer was transfixed. A far cry from your serious persona at work, you looked years younger than you were with the sparkle of life in your eyes. He wondered how you turned it on and off.
âShould we go and say hi?â JJ asked, eyes following your every move.
âNo,â Hotch said, âSheâll see us on her own. Clearly the compartmentalisation is how she handles the job, and we donât know if mixing worlds will upset her.â The rest nodded like it made sense, but Spencer couldnât deny being a little upset about it. Heâd love to meet who you really were, not who you made yourself be to survive a job that takes too much from you.
An hour or so later, Reid was heading to the bar for a glass of water. Heâd already passed his mentally decided allotment of drinks for the night, and really didnât want a hangover in the morning. He was almost there when you bumped into him at full force, still somehow dancing.
âSorry,â You said on instinct, before your eyes had even lifted, âReid?â Spencer could feel himself shrinking down, sorry for bothering you, even accidentally.
âHey.â His lips pulled into a straight line, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible.
âOh my god!â You cried, the biggest smile heâd ever seen splitting your face. âHow crazy youâre here! Wait, you have to meet my friends.â You grabbed his hand without looking back, dragging him through the crowd to the group of women heâd seen before. Reid followed behind, utterly disarmed by the switch-up of your personality.
âGuys!â You yelled over the music, pulling Spencer right into you, looping your arm through his, âThis is Spencer, heâs my favourite coworker.â
The other women all greeted him kindly, but Spencer could hardly pull himself to give more than a polite hello, almost starstruck at your admission. He could tell you were drunk, not just from your general demeanour but also your slight unsteadiness on your feet.
âFavourite?â He asked quietly, but you didnât hear or pretended to.
âHeâs like this super genius, knows everything about everything.â You were leaning on him, hand around his arm, whilst Spencer stood awkwardly. Your friends didnât really care either way, not trying very hard to listen over the music. âCâmon, Spence, donât you wanna dance?â
Spencer stole a look over at your coworkers, because really? Spence? You barely talked to him at work, let alone called him affectionate nicknames. What had gotten into you? He didnât have time to consider it because you were taking his hand, making him dance with you.
âYou like ABBA?â He yelled and you leaned in closer to hear. You screwed up your face, making an expression Spencer had never seen before. Disgruntled but kind of adorable.
âYeah,â You said, âObviously. Who doesnât?â You span, face glowing from joy and exertion.
âI guess I just didnât think that was your kind of music.â
âMaybe youâre not as good of a profiler as you thought,â You teased, making him boogie with you. Spencer was awkward, all lanky limbs, yet it was somehow still endearing.
âMaybe youâre too good at compartmentalising.â It was direct, yes, but you were almost proud of him for saying it.
You and Spencer ended up sitting by the bar for the rest of the night. Youâd stolen a stool and he stood close by, practically between your legs as you spoke animatedly. Both of you had been surprised by the other, so different to inside the walls of the FBI, that you kept finding excuses not to go back into the crowd of sweaty bodies. Another story, another joke, anything to keep each other close.
The whole team had seen you, Spencer had let you know quietly when heâd noticed them watching, in case youâd wanted to retain your persona. Youâd only shrugged. The compartmentalisation was never about your team, it was to protect yourself from the evil you saw every day. If Hotch saw you giggling into Spencerâs shoulder while you were off the clock then that was none of your business.
âCan I call a cab for you?â Spencer murmured in your ear, finally leading you with a soft hand on your back when you nodded.
âThis was really fun,â You confessed when you got outside, eyes shining in the streetlights. Spencer was caught off guard, not used to seeing you at all in this kind of way.
âYeah,â He said, âIt was. Are you going to pretend it didnât happen on Monday?â
Spencer instantly regretted it when you bit your lips, eyes flying down to the ground between you.
âNo,â You mumbled, No itâs justâŠâ
âIâm sorry,â He interrupted, âI didnât mean that. I just had a really good time tonight, and I feel like weâve worked together for three years and this is the only time Iâve ever felt like Iâve known you at all, and⊠I really like it. What I know of you, I mean.â
âMaybe I can find a balance between work and real life,â You said slowly, shy smile growing on your lips.
Spencer just smiled, eyes crinkling as he opened the taxi door for you. Just before you pulled it shut, you stopped.
âIâll see you at work, Spence.â
As the cab pulled out into the street, you let out a soft sigh. Things were going to get harder from here, you knew. Mixing work with your life would only complicate things, and certainly invite the horrors from work back into your home. Still, maybe letting a few more people in would be good for you. Especially when it was a know-it-all genius whose eyes crinkled up when he smiled.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
SLEEPING IN A BED HALF EMPTY | spencer reid x reader
ââ .âą DIVIDE event masterlist .á
summary: a poorly-timed work trip opens a few poorly-healed emotional wounds for your boyfriend spencer. he's wishing your airport would crumble, and you're wishing you could convince him that leaving for a week doesn't mean leaving forever.
genre: fluff, hurt/comfort | word count: 1.7k
tags: gn!reader, s3!boyfriend!spencer, insecurity, fear of abandonment, mentions of s2 events: elle, hankel, gideon, spencer gets a well-deserved hug, title from a noah kahan song (duh), not proofread
notes: noah kahan sad girl summer is here. tysm for 1k <3
The apartment is quiet.Â
That in itself isnât weird, you suppose; youâre a naturally quiet person, and Spencerâs even quieter most days. To have your apartment enveloped in a stillness isnât something new, nor is it cause for concernâyou wouldnât have it any other way, really.
But today thereâs a weight to it, the quiet. It hangs in the air, thick like smog, sits on your shoulders for hours and leaves you will a full-body ache. Itâs an unnatural silence, a forced one, defined by words, thoughts, which are actively being repressed. Pushed down. Bottled up.Â
Spencer is quiet, and not because heâs busy with his nose in some book or milling through his dozens of academic journals. Heâs quiet, and he isnât doing anythingâand that isnât a combination you thought possible until today.
Spencer Reid is either busy, or heâs talking. Rambling in soft tones about work, or physics, or quite literally anythingâyouâve heard him talk at length about centipedes beforeâbecause thatâs just the type of person he is. So to see him justâŠsitting there, picking at the skin around his nails, neither speaking nor acting, is uncanny.Â
Your boyfriend has been replaced with a statue, and itâs been like this all day. You noticed something was off when you first woke, and you were immediately able to identify the problem. You had hopedâevidently in vainâthat Spencer might broach the topic himself, exercise his usually excellent communication skills, but no; he stayed quiet, grew quieter. And now itâs 6pm and youâre elbow-deep in the sink washing dishes, and Spencerâs still sitting on the couch, fidgeting in silence.
Or you think he is, until you feel a pair of arms wrap around you from behind. His chest against your back, nose pressed into your hair. You purse your lips, wait a beat, then two, for him to speak before setting the dishes in the sink and reaching for a towel.
âYou okay?â you ask, voice light.
âMhm.â
After drying your hands, you shimmy around until youâre facing him, brows set in a small frown. âSure?â
Spencer flashes you a small, visibly strained smile. âYeah, Iâm sure. Are you, uhââ he clears his throat. âAre you all packed?â
âYes sir.â
âAnd youâre not missing anything?â he asks. âYou, um, forgot your toothbrush when we went on that road trip, andââ
âI have my toothbrush,â you say softly.Â
Spencer nods. He swallows like itâs painful. âGood.â
For a moment, you just watch him, hoping that he might take your look of concern as a sign to speak up but, of course, he doesnât.Â
So, with gentle hands you reach up to cup his cheeks. âSpence,â you murmur, âI know somethingâs up.â
He lets his eyes flutter closed, and he leans into your touch with a soft sigh. But he doesnât speak.
âYou worried about this trip?â you prod.
You feel it under your palm, the way he bites the inside of his cheek before answering, âNo. Iâm notâ well, IâŠâ he sighs. âI donât know.â
Leaning back against the countertop, you wait with patience. You keep your hands on his face, thumbs brushing tender circles against his skin as you let him organise his thoughts, giving him as much time as he needs.
âIt doesnât make sense, logically,â he eventually mutters. âWhat Iâm feeling, I mean. I-I keep trying toâŠreason with it, but thereâs just thisâ this voice in the back of my head.â He lowers his voice until heâs speaking in almost a whisper. âI just canât help but worry youâre not gonna come back.â
His words catch you off guard. Your brows twitch, and he immediately begins to backtrack.
âAnd I know itâs stupid, andâ and I know that, obviously, you wonâtâ"
âSpencer.â You cut him off carefully, hands moving from his face to his neck.
He falls silent, lowers his head. Shame seems to taint his entire being, weighing him down.
You wait a beat, trying to gauge where heâs at, what heâs thinking, before asking, âIs this about Gideon?â
All he does in response is smile. Self-conscious. Sardonic.
And it breaks your heart.
You know heâs been sensitive, more so than usual, since Gideon leftâsince Elle left, even. Since the awful incident with Tobias Hankel, the weight he carriedâstill carriesâin the wake of it all. You canât imagine how he must feel, and itâs rare that you see it at all because he handles it all so silently. Like heâs afraid of being too much. Too human.Â
âSpence,â you murmur his name again so he meets your gaze, âof course Iâm gonna come back.â
âI know.â He shakes his head, takes a deep breath like heâs trying to will himself into being okay, and then he deflates once more. He leans forward and touches his forehead to yours like youâre the only thing keeping him upright, and he closes his eyes. âI just canât stopâŠthinking.â
âAbout what?â
âSleeping in an empty bed for a week,â he mutters.
âAnd?â
He sighs. âThe hypotheticalâvery hypotheticalâscenario where youâŠenjoy being there, away from me, more than you enjoy being here.â
âOh, honeyâŠâ your hands slip down further, fingers curling into the neckline of his sweater. âSpenceââ
âI know itâs unfounded,â he says. His hands find your wrists, and he holds onto you like you may disappear if he lets go. âI know Iâm beingâŠclingy. Ridiculous.â
âYouâre not being ridiculous.â You release his sweater, opting instead to entwine your fingers with his, holding his hands. âYouâre allowed to worry.â
âI keepââ A laugh cuts through his words. Soft, light, but still laced with that slight self-consciousness that just makes you want to hug him and never let him go. âI keep hoping that Reagan will end upâŠfalling down, or something. That way you wonât have to go.â
âHopefully not while Iâm there?â
âOh, noâ of course not!â His voice cracks as he pulls away, wide-eyed. âGod, Iâd never wish forââ
âI know, I know.â You squeeze his hands with a quiet chuckle, one that, thankfully, he mirrors.
You pull him back in, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek as his lips curl into a small smile. When you lean back, you find that smile to be tainted, still, with a subdued sadnessâless than there had been previously, but still more than what you want to see.
âHey,â you murmur.
âHey,â he echoes.
âIâm gonna come back, andâ Spencer, look at me.â You cup his cheek as he tries to turn his face away, gently guiding him back to you. âAnd Iâm gonna call you, okay? Every day, I promise.â
A frown crosses his face at your words, and he shakes his head. âYou donât need toâŠplacate me,â he says. âIâm being childishââ
âI want to call you,â you interrupt, voice firm. âI wanna hear your voice. Iâm gonna miss you, too, you know.â
His gaze drops to his feet, but even as the silence starts to sting you take care not to rush him. It takes him a few moments but, eventually, he meets your gaze once more, holds it like a lifeline. âYouâll call me?â
âEvery day,â you repeat.
He nods. Slowly, like his head weighs twice what it shouldâbut itâs still a nod. You pull him closer, press a kiss to the tip of his nose, before releasing his face.
âHere.â You fumble with the clasp of your necklace, removing it so you can press it into his palm. âHang onto this for me, okay?â
A stretch of silence. Spencer stares blankly at the necklace, like he doesnât know what to do with it, before shaking his head. âI canât,â he says. âThisâ this is your favourite. You never take it offâ"
âThen it gives me all the more reason to come back, right?â you ask, smiling.Â
Of course, Spencer himself is reason enough to come back. You could tell him that a thousand times, but thereâd still be a part of him that doesnâtâcanât, for whatever reasonâbelieve it.Â
Itâs your favourite necklace, sure, you wear it every day, and going without it will undoubtedly feel weird, but youâd happily leave it behind for Spencer. Youâd leave every piece of jewelleryâno, everything, period, for him. You just wish there were a way to make him understand that.Â
So you settle for putting the necklace on him, not because it âgives you a reason to come backâ, but because it gives him part of you to keep with him. Something that he can hold onto; a physical reminder of how much you love him.
You pull him into a hug, squeezing him tight like it may somehow convey, wordlessly, all the things you wish heâd believe. Like, if you hold him tight enough, you might infect him with just a fraction of what you feel for him.Â
His arms wrap around your waist once more, and you feel the tension thatâs been wracking him all day begin to ease. He presses his face to your neck, mumbles âIâm gonna miss youâ into your skin like a prayer, and you murmur back âI know, Iâm gonna miss you, too.âÂ
Time seems to stop existing entirely, and you have no idea how much of it passes during your embrace (a minute? Five? Maybe more?), but when you pull yourself away Spencer seems as though heâs had new life breathed into him. He smiles, kisses your lips, holds your waist not like youâre going to vanish into thin air, but like youâre something precious. And you think for a moment that maybe your hug did work, even if itâs only for a short time.Â
âSo.â You run your fingers up and down his arms, tracing the creases in his sweater. âAre you gonna drive me to the airport tomorrow, or am I gonna have to call a cab?â
âWhy would you call a cab?â he asks, frowning. âIâm not at work.â
âI dunno, in case you feel like driving us off of a bridge, so I miss my flight.â
Spencerâs jaw drops. âI would neverââ
âI know.â You chuckle, poking his shoulder as a playful grin creeps up your face. âIâm kidding.â
He rolls his eyes, very obviously suppressing a smile of his own, and kisses your forehead. âIâll drive,â he murmurs, âdonât worry.â
virgin!spencer who's nervous about touching fem!reader for the first time, so he's asked her if he can watch her touch herself
18+ smut
wc: 1,530
spencer pulls up a chair to sit at the foot of the bed, watching intently as she opens her legs for him and props them up.
heâs still dressed in his work clothes while sheâs completely naked.
studying her like a textbook, his eyes dart all over her exposed body.
she's entirely bare in his bed, on his sheets, and the actual sight of her like this is better than any fantasy he's ever conjured.
he watches as she squeezes her own breasts, gently pinching her own nipples, his gaze sporadically flickers up to her face to observe her expressions.
he watches as she slowly moves a hand down her torso, fingertips lightly grazing against her ribs, stomach, pelvis, and hips.
âdo you want me to explain what iâm doing, spence?â
âyouâre preparing your mind and body for arousal. doing so increases your natural lubrication, resulting in increased pleasure. this triggers the release of dopamine and oxytocin⊠iâve read about the importance of foreplay and the various types.â
âgood boy. youâve studied everything, havenât you?â she tells him as she dips her fingers into her wetness.
heâs too enthralled by the vision of her to tell her yes, of course i have. i want to be ready for you. i want to properly pleasure you.
sheâs caressing her slit, circling the edge of her clit, and just barely pressing her fingertip inside her hole.
heâs biting his lip and has leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, with his fingers delicately placed over his mouth.
his mouth opens as she pushes her middle finger inside her hole, eyes flicking back and forth between her cunt and her face. he notes the way she rolls her nipple between her fingers as she touches herself.
once sheâs gathered her slick, she moves her finger back up to her clit, rubbing softly on the nub.
she lets out a sigh of relief and lets her legs fall completely open.
âyou know what this is, right?â she teases him, slightly breathless.
âyes, youâre touching your clitoris. women consistently report that their male sexual partners struggle to locate it.â
âmhm, thatâs true, but you already knew exactly where it is, didnât you?â
âyes, of course. iâve referenced many diagrams to ensure i could locate it on each one. i donât understand why men canât find it, itâs very easy to identify.â spencer knows the exact number of vaginal anatomical diagrams that heâs referenced, but he doesnât think he should tell her how many heâs seen. besides, sheâs moving her fingers back down to her hole now, and heâs completely awestruck by the sight of her.
his eyes are glistening and are slightly glazed over. he's mesmerized by how ethereal she looks.
he glances back up at her face and sees that her eyes are closed, her head is tilted back, and her lips are slightly parted. her other hand gently squeezes at her breast every now and then.
âyouâre so beautiful.â he tells her and she lightly smiles.
âthank you, spence. youâre so sweet.â
she inserts her middle and ring fingers inside of herself. he sees her curling her fingers upwards as she gingerly pumps them.
he wants to impress her, so he says, âi think youâre stimulating the grĂ€fenburg-spot, or g-spot, now.â spencer thinks itâs absolutely ridiculous and abhorrent that part of the female body is named after a man.
âyes, spencer, good job.â her praises send a jolt through his body. it reminds him of how he felt receiving perfect grades on his school assignments. he hopes he gets to study his favorite subject, her, for the rest of his life.
her eyebrows are slightly furrowed now and sheâs rutting her hips up against her hand. he realizes that she can stimulate her clit against the heel of her palm this way.
she does this for a while and he thinks that she might be close to reaching her orgasm, but she removes her fingers from inside herself and shifts them back to her clit.
he can see that her fingers are thoroughly lubricated with her slick. a low whine escapes his parted lips.
âthis is something else i like to do.â she tells him with a rough and strained voice, and he realizes that sheâs still focused on teaching him even when sheâs this deep in pleasure.
sheâs rubbing her clit slightly rougher now than she was before, and she moves her hand thatâs just been resting on her breast down to her lower stomach.
âiâm not sure why this works, but if you press down right here, it feels even better.â while looking at him, she presses down on her lower stomach with a flat palm.
âif i kind of, like, pull upwards when i do it then i can expose my clit a little more too.â
âyouâre likely stimulating the g-spot externally.â he barely has any air in his lungs, he doesnât know how he manages to tell her that.
she just moans in response to him. her head moves back and forth across the pillow, and her back is slightly arched. her breasts jiggle as her ministrations grow more and more desperate.
âit also feels good if i squeeze my hole, probably does more g-spot stim-âŠstimulation.â her faltering speech makes him realize thatâs exactly what sheâs doing as sheâs speaking to him.
sheâs not even talking dirty to him. sheâs just explaining what sheâs doing, almost in a clinical way. however the way sheâs describing everything to him has him palming himself through his pants. he doesnât dare to touch himself properly; he wants to keep his full attention on her. he presses on himself just enough to relieve some of the pressure.
it relieves him slightly to hear that she doesnât even know the technical reasons that her actions bring her pleasure; sheâs likely just learned what she likes and what works over time.
he's eager to do the same with her. watching her do this has made him realize that he's more prepared to please her than he thought.
her hips jerk upwards slightly, and her breathing has increased, âiâm getting close, spence.â
âare you gonna cum for me?â he tries to say seductively, but it somehow comes out as both a whisper and a squeak.
"mhm" she whimpers.
her thighs and stomach are trembling and sheâs letting out the softest whines. he hopes that he can make her sound like that, and more, whenever he touches her.
he realizes that she's biting on her lower lip, suppressing her sounds, "let me hear you, baby."
she retracts her teeth, and he watches as her head tilts even further back. her back is arching and her hips are traversing across the sheets. she maintains eye contact with him for as long as she can, but eventually she can't help but close her eyes. it seems like she has no control over her body, other than the ministrations of her fingers. his mouth falls open as he watches her climax.
she continues touching herself as the waves of her orgasm roll through her until her legs seem to be closing on their own accord.
sheâs still breathing heavily as she removes her fingers from herself. her wrist falls limply onto the sheets next to her.
the shine of her slick on her fingers is being illuminated by the moonlight tapering in through the curtains.
âcan i taste you?â he barely has the confidence to ask.
âreally? yeah, um, just give me a minute. still a bit sensitive, you know?â
heâs blushing as he says, âi mean on your fingers.â
"oh," she giggles, she's still in a haze from her orgasm. "absolutely, baby."
she sits up on the bed and holds her hand out toward him. he tenderly wraps his fingers around her wrist as he takes in the sight of her glistening fingers up-close.
and then, spencer âitâs actually safer to kiss than shake handsâ reid sensually sucks her fingers into his mouth to taste her juices on them.
she simultaneously tastes so sweet and so tangy, he can't help but close his eyes as he runs his tongue over and around both digits.
âwell? what did you think? learn anything new?â she smiles as she raises her eyebrows in question.
âi learned that i really really canât wait to touch you.â his lips purse and his cheeks get impossibly redder.
âcan i watch you before you do?â she asks him, eyes flitting down at the bulge in his pants.
he thinks sheâs kidding, so he chuckles until she starts fumbling with the buttons on his dress shirt with her lower lip between her teeth.
"please?"
itâs only fair that they swap positions: she takes his place in the chair as he gradually lies on his back on the bed.
he's completely naked in front of her, and he's flushed from his hairline to his chest.
she's slipped on his button-down, but left the buttons open. her hair is tousled from rolling her head on the pillow. the sight of her wearing it alongside his new memories of seeing her please herself has him cumming embarrassingly quickly.
summary: You're having difficulty with some code so you stop by Penelope's house for help, unaware that she has a guest. Spencer takes one look at you and is immediately head over heels.
genre: fluff
cw: meet cute (is it a meet cute?) completely gn!reader (reader is not described at all), no use of y/n, autistic!spencer (because every spencer is autistic!spencer), season 1 spencer, university/college student reader, talk about research and coding, pov switch from reader to spencer
wordcount: 1.5k
a/n: this is an actual error I had this summer when writing my spectra analysis code
You lean back in your chair with a sigh, scowling at the code youâre trying to write. Youâre still relatively new to coding, the first time you ever took a class on it was just under two years ago, so this code has taken you significantly more time to write than it would have taken Penelope. But youâve written it. You read through the code again and rerun it. Everything runs fine, the code should work, but it doesnât.Â
You rub your eyes and groan with frustration. You should be able to get a wavelength solution out of this. The professor youâre doing research with told you what you need to do to get the wavelength solution and then how to use it to find the redshift of the lensed galaxy and the foreground lensing galaxy, but nothing is lining up!
Youâve opened the data, plotted the variation in flux for each line in the image, fit a Gaussian to it to get the brightest point, and converted the pixel value of that point to vacuum wavelength, but none of the wavelengths youâre finding match up with what lines should be present in the spectra for this lamp type!
You briefly consider emailing your professor but decide against it. Even though he told you that asking him things wouldnât bother him and that itâs his job, you donât want to take up more of his time than you already have.Â
You look around your apartment for anything that might help. Your eyes land on your keychain and the spare key Penelope gave you because she enjoys it when you stop by. You quickly shut your laptop, tucking it under your arm, grab your keys, slip on a pair of shoes, and make your way down the hall to Penelopeâs apartment, not bothering to lock the door behind you.Â
_____
Spencer sits awkwardly on one of Garciaâs kitchen stools, tapping his fingers on the Tardis mug she had filled with tea and given him. Heâs not exactly sure why Garcia invited him over. She said she wanted to bond, but theyâve known each other for almost two years now, and Spencer considers her a good friend, so he doesnât really know what bonding entails. So far, Garcia has just been bustling around her kitchen preparing snacks and drinks for their Doctor Who marathon.
The lock clicks and Spencerâs head whips toward the door just in time for it to burst open. Spencer freezes and stares at you in awe and confusion.Â
âPenny!â you cry, your voice a mixture of a shout and a whine.Â
Garcia calls your name with a surprised look. âWhat happened? Are you alright?â
âWhat?â you ask. Then you wave your hand flippantly. âYeah Iâm fine, I just need help with some code.â Your eyes land on Spencer and he can feel his heart rate increase. He really hopes his face isnât as red as it feels.Â
âOh, sorry, I didnât know you had someone over,â you say. âI can, um, I can come back later.â
Spencer watches as your posture stiffens slightly and you start to fiddle with your keychain.Â
Spencer opens his mouth to reassure you but Garcia beats him to it. âNo, no, itâs fine,â she says. âIâve been wanting you two to meet anyway.â You shoot Spencer a small, awkward smile and wave from across the room when Garcia shares your name. When she introduces him, your eyes widen and you look toward Garcia with an expression Spencer canât decipher and mouth something to her that makes her laugh loudly.Â
Spencer can feel himself flushing at your reaction and takes a sip of his tea to hide his face.
âAnyway!â Garcia says cheerfully. âDo you mind if I help them real quick?â
âGo ahead,â Spencer responds, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. Itâs difficult with you there, though, all his thoughts suddenly seem much harder to grasp. Like your presence is forcing them aside.Â
Your eyes seem to linger on him for a moment before you head over to the counter and set your laptop down. âRight,â you mutter, opening it and entering the password. Spencer listens intently as you describe to Garcia what your code should be doing and he canât help but smile at the clear passion in your voice. It sends butterflies to his stomach.Â
âWhat do you study?â Spencer blurts out.Â
You close your mouth and cock your head at him for a moment. âIâm, uh, Iâm studying astrophysics. Specifically strong gravitational lensing. Iâve already made preliminary models of the system and Iâm just working on analyzing the spectra now.â
Spencer nods and leans over to look at your code.Â
âDo you want to help Penny find the issue?â you ask. You sound a bit nervous and Spencer looks up and smiles what he hopes is a soothing smile.
âI would if I could. I really donât know how to code, though.â
âSeriously?â you ask. Spencer cocks his head at the tone of surprise in your voice. âSorry, itâs just that Penny has told me a lot about you and about how youâre a genius and have three PhDs, which is insanely impressive by the way, so I guess Iâm just surprised you donât know something.â
âThereâs a lot I donât know,â Spencer admits. âCoding and other technological things are some of it. I donât know too much about astrophysics either.â Thatâs not exactly true but it isnât a lie either. Heâs read papers on several astrophysical topics but heâs never come across one on strong lensing before. But the truth of the statement is irrelevant, the only reason he said it was to find an excuse to spend more time with you.
You smile and Spencerâs stomach feels like it does a backflip. âI wonât be much help teaching you how to code, Penny would be better for that, but I can tell you about some astro stuff at some point.â
âAlright, lovebirds,â Garcia teases and Spencerâs face burns. âLetâs focus.â You nod, clearly also a bit embarrassed, and turn back to your laptop.
âHow about I go line by line and tell you what it should do and you let me know if something doesnât do what I think it does,â you say. Garcia nods and both she and Spencer follow along as you point to and describe each line of code. You get to a printed image of the data file youâre analyzing before Garcia stops you.
âCan you open the file on your computer?â she asks.
You nod and open the file in a new application and move it so itâs side by side with the image in your code. âWait,â you mutter, glancing back and forth between the two images. âIs that seriously the issue?â Spencer leans forward to get a closer look, the x-axes of the images are flipped.Â
You throw your head back with a groan and change the rotation of the file in your code. âI swear, if this works,â you growl. The clear exasperation in your tone makes Spencer chuckle slightly.Â
You rerun the code and compare several of the outputs to a list of wavelengths before groaning again and letting your head fall onto the counter. âI hate Python,â you grumble. âWhy does it have to switch the axes!âÂ
Garcia laughs and pats you on the back. You raise your head off the counter and tap your forehead against her shoulder in a gesture Spencer assumes expresses gratitude. âThanks, Penny,â you sigh. âYouâre the best.â
âOf course I am!â
âOh, and Spencer,â you say, turning to look at him. âWe should get lunch sometime. I can tell you about astrophysics and you can tell me about all the crazy things you know.â
âI-I would love that,â Spencer stutters, unable to speak clearly with you looking into his eyes. He's hardly able to wrap his head around the fact that someone as beautiful as you would want to spend more time with him. Spencer's not sure whether youâre asking him on a date or just to go out as friends, but he doesnât care either way as long as he gets to spend more time with you.
âGreat!â you say happily. You stand and cross the room to quickly grab one of Garciaâs pens before returning. You hold the fluffy pink pen with a smile on your face and hold out your hand for his. âMay I?â you ask.Â
Spencerâs eyes widen and he nods, setting his hand in yours despite his usual aversion to touch. The contact makes his heart feel like itâs about to burst from his chest. You scrawl your number across the back of his hand before handing Spencer the pen and holding out your hand for him to do the same. He writes his number on your hand and watches in a sort of daze as you gather your computer and keys and wave goodbye before leaving.
Spencer jumps slightly as Garcia ruffles his hair. He looks over at her to see a knowing smile on her face. Spencer blushes and hides his face in his hands. âShut up,â he grumbles, embarrassed.
âNo way,â she laughs. âDerekâs going to have a field day with this. Boy genius has a crush!â
_____
REQUESTS ARE OPEN!
Taglist!: fill out this form if you want to be tagged when I post fics
Summary: You came in to work every day with a fun fact, determined to catch the BAU's genius with one that he wouldn't know (friends to lovers, co-workers to lovers, mutual feelings, fluff, confession)
Note: my spencer reid debut fic <3 sorry if there are any inaccuracy, just started rewatching after 3 years
Word count: 10.9k (sorry)Â
âSmall facts lead to great knowingâ - Patrick Rothfuss (2011)
âI canât believe anybody would do something like this,â you commented whilst looking down at the two documents in your handsâyour thoroughly highlighted case dossier and your finished report. Every new case always exhibits unimaginable horror and unfortunately, there will always be something worse than your current worst.Â
You turned to Spencer whilst perched cross-legged on the edge of his table.
The corner of the geniusâs mouth curled at your words. They were the very same ones that sprouted daily despite the nature of your job. But to Spencer, there was a strange comfort in such small repetitive murmurs of disbelief.
âI gotta agree with Rossi. This job really includes some of the worst lunatics out there.â You sighed before straightening up at a sudden thought. âActually, fun factâŠâ You noticed the way your words peeled Spencerâs attention from his report. He finally glanced up, eager for the second half of that sentence.Â
âThe word lunatic was invented based on the belief that mental illnesses were affected by moon phases.â You beamed at the idea of potentially providing your genius friend with new knowledge.Â
âYeah, and it actually originated from the Latin word âlunaticus,â which means moonstruck or influenced by the moon. The word was first used for conditions like epilepsy or overall just madness,â Spencer replied, perking up at the thought of a potential conversation about this.
The excited smile on your face instantly faltered and you groaned in feigned annoyance. Perhaps you should have known better than to think you could out-fact Spencer and say something he had not already known.
âIs there anything you donât know, Spence?â you glowered jokingly.
âWell, itâs hard when youâre a child prodigy and genius.â You let out a scoff-like laugh at Spencerâs cocky admission, but you knew he was joking. Despite his IQ of 187, Spencer rarely ever announced himself a genius. It was a title dubbed by those around him. You knew if you had Spencerâs brain, though, you would hardly ever stay as humble as him.
âIâll get you someday.â
Your declaration drew a snort from another work desk and you twisted around to face the source of such a faithless sound.
âYou donât believe in me, Derek?â You arched a brow, your competitiveness rising to the surface.
âSweet girl, I believe in you for many things, but this is just not one of them.â
âBut surely there is one single fact out there that Spencer doesnât know about.â Penelope piped up from next to Derek, defending you.
âWeâre talking about the same Spencer, right? Spencer Reid? Three PhDs and an IQ of Einstein?â JJ spoke as she made her way down the bullpen.
âActually, there is no way of measuring Einsteinâs IQ as he never took the test, so to say thatââ Derek quickly interrupted Spencer.
âCome on, pretty boy. Sheâs backing you up.â
âSounds like grounds to start a betting pool going,â Rossi spoke up as he approached the whole group, briefcase in one hand, car keys in the other. â$20 says sheâll do it within four months.â
âI think she can do it within three months.â Emily chimed up from her desk.
âIâm placing my bet on eight months,â Penelope added confidently.
âAlright, and if she canât do it within one year, JJ and I will split the win,â Derek announced before directing his next words to you, âStakes are on, sweetheart.â He winked.
âYeah, yeah. I got it.â You rolled your eyes before turning towards Spencer, declaring to him with exaggerated cockiness, âIâm gonna get you real soon, just wait.â
âYouâre welcome to try.â The challenging glint in Spencerâs eyes met your own. Again, you knew better than to think that you would know something Spencer did not already know. He was practically the master of facts. But, unfortunately, you were incredibly bad at quitting.
So, let the challenge begin.
ïč ïč ïč ïč ïč ïč ïč ïč
âDid you know that Australia is wider than the moon?â you questioned the second you saw Spencer enter the office the next morning. âFun fact.â
âYes, diameter-wise. Australia is almost 4,000 kilometres wide, while the moonâs diameter is nearly 3,500 kilometres. However, in terms of their masses, the moon is still larger.â You sighed dramatically at Spencerâs reply before spinning your chair towards your computer, turning the device on.
âAnd day one status: unsuccessful,â you grunted to yourself, catching Spencerâs grin from your peripheral vision.
âOh? Itâs gonna be daily?â
âYou bet your ass itâs gonna be. Thereâs a betting pool and Iâm unfortunately too competitive for my own good.â You caught the amusement dancing in Spencerâs gaze.Â
âWell then, good luck.â
âWonât need it.â
ïč ïč ïč ïč ïč ïč ïč ïč
âDid you know a cloud can weigh like a million pounds?â You crossed your arms while peering at the cotton candy-like objects floating amidst the bright blue summer sky. âFun fact.â
Both of you had your bulletproof vests on, leaning against a car while waiting for JJ to finish speaking to the press before driving back to the precinct. Another case wrapped. Another unsub locked up.
Under the nice weather, you had your cap and Spencerâs sunglasses on, having forgotten yours. He had heavily insisted so, even after you had declined a handful of times.
You turned and looked at Spencer briefly. Though, for a split second, your body stilled as the sun played in his favor, casting nice highlights to his woodsy colored locks. The light crinkle of his nose and his squinting eyes made your lips curl, cause once again, it showcased just how self-sacrificing Spencer can be when it came to the people close to him.
âYeah, because they contain different states of matter like trillions of condensed water droplets and ice crystals. Its weight is equivalent to the worldâs largest aircraft working at full capacity. Though despite its heaviness, clouds have lower density in comparison to the dry air around them, enabling them to float in the same way as oil floats on water.â Spencer tried to maintain eye contact with you despite the blaring sun shining into his eyes.
âHmmâŠâ you pursed your lips before removing your navy blue cap and placing it on your friendâs head. This cast a shadow over his eyes, blocking the harsh sun from blinding his vision. âBeautiful weather to fail at winning this fun fact thing again.â
Spencer didnât reject the clothing item.
Some time in the history of human beings, the act of sporting othersâ clothing itemsâespecially of the opposite genderâhad been made to seem important. Spencer has never understood the significance in such a small exchange. But as your hat landed on his head, Spencer felt an added weight that was beyond the small clothing item.Â
Neither did he have it in him to adjust how you had left the cap on him, even if it didnât sit on his head perfectly.
âI still have time to get you,â you continued after a moment of silence.
â359 days left.â
âMore than enough.â
ïč ïč ïč ïč ïč ïč ïč ïč
The clock was close to hitting 11pm. The whole team was taking a short break for a fresh perspective. Most were on their phones or taking a quick nap, but Spencer and you were playing a round of cards.
âDid you know ketchup used to be medicine? Fun fact.â
Both Emilyâs and Derekâs watchful gaze panned from you to Spencer, anticipating his reaction to your daily shot at winning the bet.
âAround the 1830s, yeah. They marketed it as a cure for various ailments such as indigestion and diarrhea.âÂ
Emily instantly groaned at Spencerâs reply while Derek snickered. Once again, Spencer already knew the information you provided, just like the 13 previous times.
âSee? Not a single thing he doesnât know,â Derek chirped up, earning him a glare from the co-worker beside him.
You finally placed your next card down, instantly eying Spencer, wanting a read of his reaction to your play. There was a distant look in his eyes, a clear indication that he was taking this game just as seriously as you were.
Your eyes swept over the rest of your opponent. The un-neat edges in his usually tidy work attire and the way his hair stuck in different directions had your lips curling. They were details that only unveil during late work hours after a long day. But strangely enough, there was something endearing about the slight tiredness in his eyes and the way his cardigan hung disheveledly on him.Â
âI won.â
Your eyes snapped to the pile of cards on the table at Spencerâs declaration.
âWhat?! No way. You must have cheated.â
âNow, now, donât be a sore loser just because pretty boy over here won,â Derek teased you, despite also highly suspecting that Reid had cheated.
âAre we talking about the same pretty boy who is banned from many Vegas casinos because of his expert skill in counting cards?â JJ countered, placing her phone down.Â
Your co-workersâ discourse began fading out of your focus as Spencer took out a ticket from his bag and handed it to you with a cheeky grin. With hesitation, you took the paper begrudgingly. You knew you had to hold your end of the deal. You had lost, after all.
You glanced back at the winner of the card game, catching his toothy grin at your sulking manners. Against all maturity, you poked your tongue out in petulance, but such childish action had Spencer laughing quietly in his spot, eyes gleaming with fondness.
âSore loser.â
âCheater.â
ïč ïč ïč ïč ïč ïč ïč ïč
Hotch halted in his tracks upon spotting you and Reid in the break room.
Both of your heads were side by side, just a hair short from touching, fighting to have adequate sight of the newspaper that the two of you were sharing. Each of you also sported a pen in hand, scribbling hastily onto the delicate paper with vigorous competitiveness.
The unit chief entered to refill his coffee, though his eyes continued investigating you two. In the narrow gap between your heads, Hotch caught sight of Spencer rapidly filling out a crossword puzzle. Meanwhile, just as fast, you were solving a Sudoku piece that resided on the same page.
âDid you know, like fingerprints, people also have unique tongue prints?â you murmured, eyes still glued onto the puzzle in front of you. âFun fact.â
âYeah, humans have unique color, tongue shape, and textural features, therefore making it a great form of identification. However, we currently do not have the suitable technology to capture intricate surface details of tongue prints. Also, switching costs are high partially because the idea of having to stick one's tongue out in public for authentication can be seen as rather awkward, unhygienic, and undignifying.â
You pursed your lips at another unsuccessful day. But such expression vanished when you dropped your pen on the table and declared with unadulterated joy:
âDone!â
Your victory drew a defeated noise from Spencer.
âImagine though, having to stick your tongue out at airport immigration and place it onto a public scanner or something like that.â You cackled at Spencer's grimace and the way his body slightly shivered from such a mental image. Eventually though, your laugh reduced to a teasing smile.
Spencerâs gaze lowered to the little crinkle that appeared around your eyes as you smiled, before holding eye contact with you. Spencer knew there was no such thing as âeyes twinkling,â but you had him doubting that scientifically established truth for a second. It was lighting and he knew that, but he had to admit that he could finally somewhat understand why poets and writers were so obsessed with dedicating lines towards such a tiny detail.Â
Because even though there was no reason for him to, his own lips began to curl, mirroring the smile on your face.
From behind you both, Aaron Hotchner took a sip of his coffee before departing the room. Though on his way out, his eyes glinted a knowing look, while his lips lifted just the slightest bit before schooling back to a neutral expression again.Â
ïč ïč ïč ïč ïč ïč ïč ïč
âDid you know that back then, when raising a toast, people would literally drop a piece of toast into their wine?â you blurted out the second you slid yourself into the empty seat opposite Spencer at his breakfast table. Never have you ever skipped free hotel breakfast and today was no exception.
âWell, hello to you too.â Spencer grinned at your straight-to-business behavior.Â
He carefully placed the coffee he made for you into your handâa casual daily routine. You took a good whiff of the comforting aroma before humming at the first taste. It was exactly how you liked it: a dash of milk along with two and a quarter teaspoon of sugar.
To date, Spencer has never asked how you liked your coffee.Â
He simply has always gotten it right.
It was not hard to guess that he had learnt your preferences from watching you make your coffee in the past. But you could not help but wonder if he took mental notes on others the same way he did with you. However, like every other time, you dismissed it as an occupational habit. Every member has been trained to be observant and notice little details. Spencer probably knew everybodyâs coffee preferences.
âIt actually originated from Ancient Rome, and back then, toast was an act to honor the gods and people would pour wine onto the floor. However, the custom evolved in many ways over time, depending on geographic regions. Around the 1600s, it became a common custom in England and this is where people would put a piece of spiced toast into their wine. They did it to improve the flavor of their beverage and also to âtoastâ to good health.â
Spencer caught your hum of satisfaction at the coffee and instantly felt pleased.
Science has long documented humans as naturally validation-seeking creatures. Your existence often humbled him from thinking he was not a recurring participant in that particular human instinct.
His eyes fell from you to your coffeeâa particular mix that has ingrained itself into his memory since your first meeting. Funny that some time since then, he could no longer look at the beverage without ever thinking of you.
Neither could Spencer for the life of him recite the coffee order of anybody else at the BAU.
â36 days downâŠâ you murmured, already picturing yourself rummaging the internet for more fun facts tonight.
âMaybe tomorrow.â The words came out softly, almost encouragingly. You hummed before matching his tone.
âMaybe.â
ïč ïč ïč ïč ïč ïč ïč ïč
âFlies rub their hands as a sanitizing act, rather clean for an insect commonly associated with dirty places, no?â you murmured before peering up from your book whilst curled up in your seat on the BAUâs jet.
âYes, itâs a self-grooming act. They do this primarily for two reasons. First and foremost, itâs because their legs are their flavour receptors, so they rub their front legs to ensure they can taste when eating. The other motivation is to remove dust and debris, therefore, ensuring survival.â
Your bottom lip jutted out slightly at another unsuccessful attempt.
âIâll get you tomorrowâŠâ you murmured with a teasing smile before re-immersing yourself in the fantasy world of your current novel.
Reading has become your escapism and method of self-grounding prior to any case. You tried to plunge into fictional worlds while flying to prepare yourself for the terrible realities that accompanied upcoming cases. Though at one point, Spencer started joining in. But instead of having his own book, he would lean over and scan your current page with unrealistic speed while you leisurely let each letter sink in. It became a routine that occupied your journey from Quantico, whereas on the way back, Spencer and you maintained your tradition of engaging in chess matches.Â
Spencer spotted your finger flipping the page once more and his eyes instantly swept over the printed words hastily.
Twenty thousand words per minute. That was Spencerâs known reading speed, which meant in merely two seconds or three, he was already done with the two pages in front of you both. As always, you were still reading at your own pace, unhurried. He knew he could adopt a slower speed to enjoy your chosen fictional literature. But lately, he found himself in a hurry, rushing himself to finish pages in a way that made him think maybe he was now above his previously established reading speed.Â
Why?
His gaze flicked over to you, mulling over the familiar details that made you, you. He studied the way your fingers trace the fore-edge of the book mindlessly, lingering on the way you tease your lips with your teeth as you registered the adventure that the story was taking you on. Spencer caught the slight shift in the space between your eyebrows and how they slightly twitch according to plot progression, displaying your commitment to your reading content.
Spencer would not classify himself as a people watcher, despite his necessary observant and analytical traits as a profiler. Yet, somehow, watching you had become one of his favorite quiet activities. In your little habits were his comfort. In moments when cases were overwhelming, his eyes have made a tendency to land on you. The spike in his heartbeat would normalize, whilst rapid thoughts would regulate. It was only in moments when Spencer would get caught by you that he would tear his gaze away sheepishly, before attempting to pretend that he was looking elsewhere instead.
The sound of paper rustling pulled Spencer out of his mind, and he instantly plunged himself into the same self-established cycle again.
And despite his fondness for literature, for once, it did not hold a candle in his eyes.
ïč ïč ïč ïč ïč ïč ïč ïč
âCows have best friends, how great is that?â
Spencer stopped eating his ice cream the second he spotted someone passing the two of you in a cow onesie, giving away why you decided on that particular fun fact. His eyes fell back on you, glimmering with amusement.Â
âYes, cows do have a âbest friendâ who they tend to share spaces and rest side by side with. Research shows that when separated, these cows would show signs of stress and anxiety with higher heart rates.â
You hummed at that. By now, you were used to his immediate expansion on your facts, no longer surprised or disappointed every time he added onto your words.Â
In fact, you fondly looked forward to hearing what he had to say about whatever fact you would sprout. There was a deep sense of appreciation that you have grown for this challenge. You felt like, intellectually, your general knowledge had expanded immensely, both from researching fun facts to tell Spencer and also from the informative responses that you would receive from him.
âYou know, cows also can develop what some may refer to as âaccents.â Research observed variations in their moos based on different regions and herds.â Spencer leaned closer to you before adding cheekily, âFun fact.â
âNuh uh, donât go stealing my line. Youâre not allowed to put me out of business.â
This tore a laugh out of Spencer, and you immediately bit back a smile at such a sound.Â
If humans have the ability to bottle noises for keepsake, you know now what sound you would try to capture.
Surprisingly, this was only the second time that Spencer and you had spent time together one-on-one out of work.Â
With the working hours at the BAU that forced you and all your co-workers to be in close proximity for an extensive amount of time, you tend to allocate your scarce free time to those who were outside of your work circle. But something about spending time with Spencer today had struck you with an epiphany:
You really, really wanted to see Spencer outside of work more often.
Both your phones started ringing at the same time.
âPenelope, is everything okay?â you answered quietly.
âEmily?â Spencer whispered at the same time into his phone.
After a few seconds, you both ended your respective phone calls before slowly turning to face each other again. You scanned yours and Spencerâs outfit before sighing.
âThereâs not enough time to go home and change.â The devastation in your voice was imminent.
âI know.â
A few minutes later, both of you entered the office, and almost instantly, the noise level declined significantly as the whole team paused their actions. You winced, knowing immediately that you two were about to be the butt of many incoming jokes.
âWhoa, what time period did you guys travel back from?â Emily teased.
âWe were at a convention, okay?â You huffed, picking up your go-bag from under your desk for a change of clothes.
âAnd you two are dressed up asâŠ?â Rossi crossed his arms, undoubtedly amused.
The team scanned over both of your outfits. Spencer was wearing a brown fedora hat, an oxblood colored corduroy jacket, and grey pants. Despite the only semi-chilly weather, he also sported a colorful striped knitted scarf around his neck. As for you, you were in an all pink attire, but what stood out was your long pink coat, high pink boots, and long white scarf.
âThe fourth doctor and Romana II, from Doctor Who,â Spencer answered, grabbing his go bag.
Derekâs eyes comedically bulged out at that, and he immediately spun his chair towards you. âBlink twice if Reid is blackmailing you with something to make you go to this convention with him.â You laughed at his remark.
âListen, remember the card game I lost two months ago? Thatâs why I had to go, but when I actually started the show, I really enjoyed it.â You raised your hands in surrender.
âOh, we lost another one. She got Reid-ified,â Derek exclaimed dramatically before placing a hand on his chest in jest heartbreak, grinning at your eye roll.
By now, Spencer had returned to your side with his go-bag. Though just as you two turned around to head off and change, an abrupt flash halted you both in your steps. Blinking away the after-effect of the blinding light, you saw Penelope with her phone facing you two and a cheeky grin on her face.
âWhoa, whoa, whoa. Delete that,â you immediately instructed, hands on your hips while your brows furrowed in fussiness. You then sucked in a deep breath and used your hand to comb through your hair before a smile broke your feigned annoyed expression. âI was not ready.â
Then, with dramatic flair, you posed properly for the camera, grabbing Spencerâs scarf exaggeratedly with both hands while tugging him lightly.Â
Spencer was unsure if his knees had buckled due to a slight loss of balance or from your proximity. He glanced at the camera, face slightly flushed, before witnessing another flash go off, evidencing his blush and putting it on record.
Your hands were gone from his scarf like a breeze.Â
âAlright, Iâm gonna go change now.â By the time Spencer registered your words, you were already gone. All that was left at the spot you previously occupied was his attention. Spencer's eyes eventually moved when he heard a quiet giggle from Penelope, who was indescribably entertained by the dazed look on his face.
The tech expert slowly angled her phone towards Spencer to show what she had captured, and she carefully observed Spencerâs contemplative gaze. His eyes landed on you first, and they softened at the sight of your beaming face. They then traced the slope of your smile and the crinkle of your eyes before reluctantly trailing down to your hands and the way they bossily clung onto his scarf.Â
The sentiment of pictures has always been just a concept to Spencer Reid. He does understand the logic behind peopleâs attachment to colored captures of moments and why people have âimportantâ photos in their wallets or have framed physical copies. But personally, he rarely ever practiced it. Yet, in this precise moment, he suddenly wanted to begin.
Without even looking at himself in the photo, Spencer murmured to Penelope:
âCan you send that to me, please? Thank you.â
ïč ïč ïč ïč ïč ïč ïč ïč
âWhere is she?â Derekâs gaze darted up to his friend. One glance at Spencer and the man already knew who he was referring to.
âGarcia said she called in sick this morning. Why?â
âNothing.â
Derek scanned over Spencer from head to toe properly this time. Realisation flashed through his eyes before the man smirked as he looked back down at his work.Â
Ah, the perks of being a profiler.
âSure, pretty boy.â
âWhat was that looââÂ
The sound of Spencerâs phone ringing interrupted his question. He took the device out of his pocket, and the phone almost flew out of his hand when he saw your name flashing on the screen. He immediately picked up and placed the device beside his ear, breathing out your name in greeting.
Instead of your usual cheery tone, Spencer was met with a muffled voice and snifflings.
Immediately, his body stiffened.
âAre you okay?â He was by his desk within seconds. His fingers grazed over his jacket, as if prepared to scoop the clothing up and dash out of the office if your answer indicated any distress.Â
âMy nose is blocked. Both sides. Itâs horrendous,â then came a dramatic sigh, âIâm becoming a mouth breather, Spence.â
Your melodrama tore a laugh from Spencerâs throat.
Derekâs lips curled discreetly at the noise.
âAnyway, donât think you can escape your daily fun fact just because Iâm not physically in the office.â Spencer was glad you were not physically with him, because if you were, you would have seen the idiotic grin stretching his face. But how could he not smile at your stubborn resilience, and the cute sound of your nasally voice that was slightly more high-pitched than normal.Â
âYouâre sick, and you took a day off work, but not off the fun fact thing?â
âIn sickness and in health, as they say.â
Spencer accidentally snorted at your words and immediately cleared his throat in an attempt to cover it.
Derekâs brows scrunched at that.
âApparently, while wired to specific scientific machines and whatnot, two lucid dreamers can have two-way communication in real time. How cool is that?â Spencer hummed fondly at your words before sitting down, his plan to flee from office hours long gone.
âThatâs quite a recent fun fact. The study was recently concluded just about two years ago,â his voice came out soft as he focused on any sound that the technological device beside his ear could carry over from your end.Â
He caught your hum, though the sound resembled the same one you always did while sitting next to him on the jet as the team flew back to Quantico. The noise that often preceded the soft landing of your head on his shoulder and the way heâd sit straighter up to accommodate you entirely despite his germaphobia-led touch aversion.
âYou should sleep and rest,â he whispered, despite wanting to hear your voice for longer. But selflessness came easy when you were in consideration.
Spencer carefully began listing all the things you ought to do later to get better. But halfway through, he noticed the lack of noise from the other end, except for your rhythmic breathing, signaling your sound asleep state. Spencer sighed before removing the phone from his ear. He stared at the device in long contemplation before clicking the end call button.
Finally placing down the device that signified his only contact with you today, Spencer flipped open todayâs case dossier. However, he found himself re-reading the first sentence over and over again. His eyes kept scanning over the same words, and he felt the way they slid past his comprehension the same way small external details occasionally would escape his notice whenever he spent time with you.Â
Spencerâs mind kept trailing back to the phone call and to you.
Itâs familiarityâhe tried to tell himself. Humans were, afterall, creatures of habit, and considering you have been swirled into his daily routine like a necessity, it made sense that the lack of your presence had set him off balance.Â
Eventually, Spencer got up and went to the break room for coffee. But the second he opened the cupboard and his eyes landed on your mug, he felt his mouth run dry.Â
For the past one and a half years, he has always made two cups of coffee instead of one at the start of each day.
His eyes darted to his mug right next to yours. The idea of separating them sent some sort of ache in his heart, even if logically they were just ceramic vessels.
Perhaps he had mislabeled what missing someone meant all along, because your absence was bringing a hollowness that nobody had managed to carve out of him before. It was the kind of emptiness that made him feel incomplete, as if a piece of himself was not with him. Yet, as opposed to the expected numbness that often accompanied such a feeling, Spencer felt every second of your absence with a constant stinging ache that felt too akin to withdrawal symptoms.Â
Eventually, Spencer shut the cupboard and returned to his desk, coffee-less.
That evening after work, Spencer made a detour instead of going straight home, missing the way his friends huddled together, exchanging hushed whispers about his departure.
ïč ïč ïč ïč ïč ïč ïč ïč
Twenty two hours, forty eight minutes, and thirty one seconds.
Spencer witnessed as time quietly slipped through the cracks of his remaining strength.Â
The whole bullpen lacked the life his work family usually colored in. The janitor had long shut off the main lights, so the only thing illuminating the space near Spencer was his desk lamp. Everybody else had gone home except for Hotch, but the unit chief was in his office, leaving Spencer as the last man standing in the bullpen.
After a few more ticks, Spencer finally tore his gaze from the timing instrument and glided his vision back down to the pen in his hand, forcing it to ink his unfinished report, but words refused to string together.Â
Spencerâs free hand began tapping his desk rhythmically in a pathetic attempt to comfort himself.
Twenty two hours, fifty one minutes, and twenty one seconds.
Spencer wanted to say that it didnât matter. Why should it? But he knew damn well that the answer was because the team mattered to him.Â
However, perspective was truly a funny thing. Someone could be your number one priority, and you barely just made it in their list.
Spencer averted his gaze from the unfinished report to the brand new photo frame on his desk, where a captured version of the recent memory of you two as Doctor Who characters resided.
It did not take a genius to see that you two were closer to one another than with others on the team. However, the fun fact challenge had truly unlocked another level of bond. It was the kind of connection that meant he had started placing you above the others, a position that implied he also expected more from you, cause perhaps he thought you had also valued him just as much as he treasured you in his mind.Â
So as much as the whole team was the source of his dismay, there was a spotlight reserved for your absence, one that was beyond glaring and punched his guts in ways that others could not.
His eyes traced your face in the photograph again, like they had done every morning since he had gotten the picture framed.Â
Oftentimes, you could never be absolutely sure where you stand in someoneâs life.
Twenty two hours, fifty nine minutes, and ten seconds.
A resigned breath escaped the narrow gap between his lips.
With more effort than it usually took, Spencer got on his feet, hoping that another cup of coffee would be the cure for his inefficiency. He slowly placed more weight on one side of his body to turn around. At the same time, Spencer began rubbing his face in hopes that exhaustion and melancholy would push themselves aside for a brief moment so that he could finish this impending task.Â
When Spencer finally reopened his eyes to navigate the darkness, he froze at the sight that was once behind him.
Eight steps away was you, looking like a deer caught in headlights.Â
Then came your escaped nervous laughter, like you were scared of screwing up, but that was only because you were unaware that you could almost never do wrong in Spencerâs eyes. His heartâwhich Spencerâs brain has been having a harder time controlling latelyâprovided you with a much larger margin for error than anybody else.
Your gentle tone filled the fragile silence that was intertwined with suspense.
âFun fact, birthday cakes are traditionally round as an Ancient Greek tradition to resemble the moon for the goddess Artemis.â Your eyes crinkled as your lips curled into that familiar smile that had previously held Spencer powerless on numerous occasions. âHappy Birthday, Spence.â
There you were, cake in hand after a long day of work on a gruesome case.
There you were, with a homemade cake after a long day of him thinking everybody had forgotten his birthday, or more importantly, that you had forgotten.
But maybe his probability was not entirely against him.Â
âI know Iâm quite late, but trust me, thereâs an explanation. When I got to the office this morning, I realized that I had forgotten your cake at home. I was planning to grab it after work, but the case kept us all back so late, and then traffic was super bad because of a concert today. But hey, I got the cake now, and I really hope you like it.â
You peered down at your own baking product and the slightly wonky penmanship before turning your eyes back onto Spencer.
âAlso, since itâs your birthday, Iâll give you a bonus fun fact. There are roughly 30,000 people who have their birthdays on October 12th in the States, butâŠâÂ
Your voice fell quiet as your eyes diverted back to the cake again.Â
âYouâre my favorite October 12th.â
And right at that second, all of Spencerâs previous attempts at rationalising his feelings via scientific explanations collapsed. For once, science could no longer shield him, because as much as it was a field built on facts of concrete evidence, there was also an undeniable truth: he liked you.
It might not be rational, but it was still a fact, and that alone terrified Spencer.Â
And while he was your favorite October 12th, you were his favorite every day.
Spencer glanced down at the handmade cake and the singular purple candle pierced in the center. The tiny flame provided just enough light for the space between you both. His eyes then flicked back onto you, and they softened.
God, you were so clueless about the effect your actions have on him and his whole world.
One breath extinguished the fire, and grey smoke fluttered into the air.
Then, for the first time since he saw you five minutes ago, Spencer managed to form the only words he felt were worthy enough of your time.
âThank you.â
Even if the significance behind those words didnât reach you today, it was okay. But they carry the weight of his whole heart and every unspoken reason behind his gratefulness.Â
Thank you for not forgetting about him today. Thank you for always being so kind and paying attention to the details about him. Thank you for being such an important part of his life. Thank you for choosing the exact career path that you did to lead you to him. Thank you for existing.Â
And someday, maybe Spencer Reid will gather enough courage to tell you all of this.
ïč ïč ïč ïč ïč ïč ïč ïč
You halted in your step, and almost immediately Spencer followed suit. His eyesight followed yours, and he instantly knew what you were gonna ask from him.
âCome on, can you play for me? Please?â you urged, and it didnât take more than your pleading face to make him approach the instrument that lay abandoned in the corner of the hotel where the whole team was staying.
Saying ânoâ became a significantly harder task for Spencer ever since he realised what kind of position his feelings were in when it came to you. It especially felt like an impossible task when your words came in that pleading tone and the smile that had him wishing stopping time was one of his abilities.
You followed Spencer and leaned against the instrument eagerly. You observed as he lightly cracked his knuckles, eying the mixture of ivory and ink-dark keys with a calculative gaze before placing his fingers delicately on them while his foot pressed gently on one of the pedals at the base.
For a moment, you wondered what Spencer would play. Maybe one of the classical pieces he liked a lot. Perhaps Bach? Orâ Â
A familiar tune overtook the pleasant quietness in the empty hotel lobby, and recognition struck you with every flawless execution of each note.
First off, you knew he was a liar, saying he only dabbled in piano. But what caught you off-guard was hearing the piano version of your favorite song.Â
It was things like this that made you conclude that Spencer Reid was one of the sweetest individuals you have ever had the privilege to know. From making you coffee daily to hunting down first editions of your favorite books (the most recent one in which he handed over along with soup the day you got sick and were off work). Now, he was learning your favorite song on the piano.Â
Lucky felt like an inadequate word to describe your position in life when Spencer was in the equation.
Only when he finished the very modern composition did you speak up.
âI thought you only listened to classical?â
âIâŠdid,â was all that came out of Spencerâs mouth, but it was enough for you to catch his implication that he had learnt this song specifically on the piano for you.
Spencer sniffled, diverting his gaze from you shyly as he inspected the keys in front of him again.
Ever since his birthday, Spencer could constantly feel the urge to confess right on the tip of his tongue while his lips trembled in self-control to keep them to himself for now. According to the internet and its various articles, he should try to âwooâ you first, and hence these actions instead of confessing right away. He wondered if you got his message. He wondered if you could tell this was his version of flirting. However, Spencer also knew that he had accidentally portrayed himself as an extremely sweet friend from your perspective, so thoughtful actions with the aim of impressing you romantically were most likely ruled as platonic gestures.Â
You began toying with the ring on your middle finger, the flattery from his sweet action manifested itself through the heat beneath your cheeks. For the first time in your almost three years of friendship with Spencer, you were struck by a minor nerve-wracking sensation. There was also a fleeting stutter in your chest that you decisively ignored.
You moved on with a quiet murmur.
âYou know, humans owe squirrels a lot. They have planted at least thousands of trees.â You gave him a soft smile when his eyes met yours again. âItâs accidental, but no less a noble act contributing to the environment.â
âYeah, they would bury nuts for later usage, but forget their locations. Many forgotten nuts can grow into trees, therefore, contributing to forest regeneration.âÂ
âAnddd another fun fact failure.â You groaned, though your expression melted into a smile when you heard Spencer chuckle at that.Â
âWe should head up. Itâs getting late.â
You nodded in agreement and began walking, but looked back briefly at Spencer. âBut itâs not too late for an episode of Doctor Who, right?â
An outstretched grin spread across Spencerâs face at your words.
âNever.â
ïč ïč ïč ïč ïč ïč ïč ïč
âNo way.â You were speechless as you made way out of Spencerâs car, staring at the building in front of you in disbelief. âDonât tell meâŠâ
âYeah, itâs for your favorite film,â Spencer confirmed your suspicion.
âSo, it didnât matter that I had lost, huh?â
Shortly after your Doctor Who convention together, Spencer had invited you to this event that was two and a half months after. Though he insisted on keeping the details a secret, relaying only the dress codeâsmart casual, but whatever you were most comfortable with.
The secretive factor of the whole ordeal had you guessing in suspense for the entire two months, but now that you were here, you fully understood why.
This was the event that you both would have gone to instead of the Doctor Who convention if you had won that game of cards.
An orchestra movie concert of your favourite movie.
Spencer sucked in a deep breath, fingers toying with the loose threads of his cardigan. There he went again, attempting to present to you that he was an optionâthe best one, at thatâand giving signals that he was pursuing you. He has read at least five hundred online articles on the art of flirting in the past week alone. If Derek ever found his online searching history, Reid would never live it down.
âGod, this is the best thing ever.â Seeing how pleased you were with his action made Spencer want to physically preen with pride.
Once you two had settled down inside, you took a couple of photos and observed your surroundings. You looked around at your neighboring audiences before averting your gaze to the empty chairs that were soon to be filled by instrumental experts. Your body was flooded with excitement at the prospect of finally being at this event.Â
You decided to chime in with your daily fun fact just minutes before the concert was due to start.
âDid you know that thereâs a planet that is â made of diamonds?â you whispered.
â55 Cancri e, right?â he matched your volume, shifting in the chair beside you to make himself comfortable.
âYeah, that one,â you confirmed, turning your head back to him. âGo on, I know you have details on it.â You encouraged, shifting yourself into a comfortable position as well.
â55 Cancri e is a super-Earth exoplanet, approximately twice the size of Earth, though roughly eight times heavier in terms of mass. First sighted and discovered in 2004, scientists have found that it is a very hot and rocky planet with a molten lava ocean surface due to its incredibly close orbit to its starâŠâ
You were leaning into your palm while listening to him, clinging onto every word as they absorbed into your brain. The space you left in between you both out of consideration for Spencer gradually lessened as he leaned in closer the more he talked. His tone, too, grew more quiet as he went on, as if the information he was telling you did not exist in some cyclopaedia, but a secret passed in full trust.Â
The corners of your lips curled at the twinkle in Spencerâs eyes as he detailed out knowledge that previously sat in the corner of his brain, collecting dust.
Spencerâs intellectual rambling will always be one of your favorite things about him. You loved hearing him talk and the way he enunciated each syllable so clearly, as well as his wordings and his tonal patterns. You should have gotten used to it by now, but it marvelled you every single time that you had the chance to listen to him talk about things you would rely on an internet search to know. Just like usual, today was no different.
Spencer Reid was remarkable. It was almost impossible to take your eyes off him when he talked. He was a bundle of many things that made him an individual worth a lifetime of getting to know.
You wondered if you were looking at him a little bit too fondly right now. But how could you not when he was whispering sweet facts to you as if he only wanted you to know of it? It felt almost as if this fun fact challenge had turned into a sacred tradition between you two.Â
âEven though it is widely said that the planet is â of diamond, this is actually still only a theory and yet to be proven. So, to dub it the Diamond Planet when theyâre not even sure if there are diamonds on the planet itself is likeâŠsuspecting you are a quarter or half French and then introducing yourself as French to people anyway.â
Your laughter burst out unfiltered, and you instantly grounded yourself by clearing your throat and pulling yourself away from Spencer slightly, putting yourself on timeout.
That was kind of embarrassing.Â
The joke was slightly funny, but nowhere close to warranting that kind of laughter.
It sort of reminded you of the videos you have seen on the internet about the kind of laugh that people would let out in reaction to their crushâs jokâ
Oh.
You subtly slid deeper into your chair as thoughts shot in your mind at a hundred miles per second. Your fingers immediately curled into your palms to dig at it. You could not look back at Spencer in fear that he would notice that something was wrong.Â
Oh God.Â
But were you really surprised though?Â
A part of you had seen it coming, because as much as you adore all your co-workers, you knew in the bottom of your heart that Spencer was the only one you were willing to lessen your sleeping hours to prolong hanging out and conversing with. Also, to be immune to such sweet actions, you would have to be some statue made of stone. For years now, Spencer had intently taken time to know you and go out of his way just to make you happy. If anything, you were grateful that your heart had picked someone so kind and worthy to give itself away to.
You glanced at Spencer from the corner of your eyes, and just the sight of him alone had your heart hiccupping in a way that you had become familiar with for the past month. It was the kind of stutter that you had outright been trying to ignore and written off as nothing. But unlike all the previous times, you knew you could no longer deny that man next to you was the reason for such palpitations.
And maybe it was also time to face it: you like Spencer Reid, your genius of a friend and very much also a profiler.
Your eyes snapped away from him the moment you realized the significance of playing it cool. You could not have him picking up the signs and figuring out that you have feelings for him. But then again, you have seen how clueless he was around women who were hitting on him and failing to pick up their signals. So, maybe he would not notice your current body language either.
Before you could think more on the matter, the lights dimmed and instruments began stringing together in a well-rehearsed manner. It was only then that you began breathing again, relieved that you had two hours to collect your thoughts and come to terms with the newly attained knowledge about yourself.
ïč ïč ïč ïč ïč ïč ïč ïč
âAlright, whatâs the fun fact of today?â you heard Spencerâs voice before peering up and seeing him behind your chair, hands on the back of the furniture, looking down at you with a shy smile. The sight of his adorable expression made your cheeks heat up, and you had to avert your gaze to prevent him from spotting signs of your flustered state.
The other members just boarded the jet as well, settling into their own spots after a tiring case. You were much less the same, sporting the now more noticeable eye bags that matched Spencerâs. Yet, that does not deter his gaze from the warmth they hold.
You gestured to Spencerâs usual seat right next to you. Once he had settled down, you made your next move on his chessboard, resuming your current ongoing match with him. You could see the instant way the cogs in his brain started spinning. At that, you provided your fun fact of the day, hoping it would serve as a distraction.
âYou know, I read that there are more possible variations of chess games than the number of atoms in the universe.â
âYeah, itâs known as the Shannon numberâthe number of possible chess games, I mean, which is 10120. Meanwhile, the estimated number of atoms in the observable universe is 1080to 1082.â
He made his move, catching your discreet yawn in the corner of his eyes.
âFascinating, isnât it?â The weight behind your eyes turned them half-lidded. They landed on the chessboard, trying to formulate the next best move, but your brain refused to cooperate as a fog of sleepiness overclouded your judgments.
âYou donât have to play now, you know. We can just play next time.â
âNo, no. Give me a second, Iâll make my move.â
âYouâre tired.â
You slowly turned your head towards Spencer, and there it was again. You caught the concern leaking from his gaze, and it instantly reminded you just how caring Spencer was to those in his life and especially you. Your mouth formed a tired yet grateful smile at his expressed worry.
You felt sorry for those who have never had the opportunity to be the subject of his affections.
For a split second, you pondered the kind of doting that Spencer would do if he were pursuing someone romantically. You have never seen him express interest in any woman during your time at the BAU, despite the advances he has gotten from various good-looking women. But if he was already this sweet platonically, you were fairly certain your heart would give out at what he had in mind as romance.
Your shoulders finally slumped before a truthful sigh escaped from you. âYeah.â
Unlike usual, where you would fall asleep and land on his shoulder while you were knocked out, he outright shifted to sit up straighter for you, offering his shoulder.
Spencer never admitted it out loud, but he had foolishly started wanting the friction of your skin against his or the fabric of his belongings. It was an impossible he thought would never occur, but here he was, anticipating the next rare moment of physical touch beside the one where his shoulder would become your pillow.Â
Of course, he had noticed itâyour lack of touch when it came to him. He was devastatingly aware of your mindfulness of his germaphobia, and Spencer was grateful, he really was. However, your reservation to accommodate his tendencies had begun feeling like deprivation. In fact, Spencer could count on one hand the amount of times you had ever touched him deliberately, with the last one being one hundred and sixty three days ago.
But it was that particular initiative factor that Spencer deeply yearned for. He craved and awaited for a touch made with purpose.Â
He wanted you to mean it.
You stilled at such a small action, gaze stopping on his shoulder. You did not want to over-interpret such a simple movement, but knowing Spencer, there were implications and significance in that little offering.Â
You knew it had become a recurring thing. As embarrassed as you were, you could not help the fact that you were the type to move around a lot in your sleep. You had tried using an airplane pillow, leaning against the wall, and so many other methods. However, most of the time, you would still wake up on Spencerâs shoulder before instantly jolting up and freeing him from the physical touch.
But the certainty on Spencerâs face left your rejection stuck in your throat.
Hesitantly, you began shifting closer, giving Spencer just enough time to retract the offer if he wanted to. But he stayed confidently still as your head started leaning down before finally landing on his shoulder.
One single small action had Spencer questioning how much longer he could go on like this. How much longer could he keep these feelings tightly locked and concealed? Because Spencer was utterly gone for you. Gone in the kind of way where one casual compliment from you about the cardigan he was wearing had him immediately putting the item into his clothing rotation a lot more frequently.
âIâm gonna get you some day, SpenceâŠâ Spencer watched as you drifted to sleep before closing his own eyes, all while he wished the flight back would last forever.
Unbeknownst to you both, the team exchanged knowing looks and discreet smiles at the sight they were witnessing. There had been nothing more obvious to them than this, but instead of intervening, they decided to let things play its course.Â
Because, despite the uncertain nature surrounding the occurrence of events in life, this was the one thing everybody was sure was inevitable.
ïč ïč ïč
The jet finally arrived back at Quantico around 11pm. Spencer had finished his report a few minutes before you did, but lingered behind as usual to wait for you. About two weeks ago, he had established a new routine between you both.Â
âReady?â Spencer carefully peeled your bag from your hand, checking his watch to see that it was already past midnight, marking a new day.
âYeahâŠâ you breathed out tiredly, eager to collapse in bed. âMore than ready.â
You like to think you have kept it cool well, in general. But Spencerâs new routine of walking you to your car after work had you a nail tip away from laying all your cards bare and revealing your feelings. Even on days when you finished your report first, he would walk you to your car before returning to the office. But the thing was:
Spencer Reid rarely ever drove to work, which meant he was going to the employee parking lot every day with you for no reason.Â
Well, for no reason but you.
The elevator began making its descent from the sixth floor with both of you inside. You were listening carefully as Spencer discussed an academic paper he had read last night. The doors soon jerked open, revealing the fairly empty parking lot. At the sight of your car, you subtly began slowing down your steps, biting back a smile when you noticed him mirroring your change of pace.Â
You observed as he animatedly gushed about the methodology of the research paper, paying particular attention to the tiny detail of his body language. The way his hands were passionately waving around, exaggerating certain points Spencer was trying to make. The flutter of his eyelashes as he blinked a bit faster than he usually wouldâa habit that often occurs when he speaks quickly, as you have learned. The smooth movements of his lips as his mouth tried to rush out words to match the pace of his incredibly brilliant brain.
Now that you were looking at his lips, you have to admit that it was kind of hard to look away.
Suddenly, an idea brewed in your mind, and it felt like the holy grail had finally landed in your lap. Who would have known that a random Thursday would be the day you ought to finally win this challenge and put Spencer in checkmate.
âSpence?â Your lips curled mischievously, observing the way Spencer halted in his steps at your tone.Â
God, despite being subjected to harsh and unflattering parking lot lights, Spencer still had the audacity to look good in a way that tugged at your heartstrings. The sight had you questioning if he was capable of ever looking bad. His warm eyes colored with interest as he eagerly awaited your next words. You took a couple more steps forward, wanting to hide the plotting expression on your face.Â
âFun factâŠâ You paused before peering back at him. At those two words, you instantly caught the anticipation rolling off him. There was also a subtle confidence from him that signalled he was sure he already knew whatever you were planning to tell him. But you knew that this time, things would be different.Â
With a competitive glint in your eyes, you finally divulged todayâs fun fact, your voice calm and stable.
âI like you.â
Just as you predicted, Spencer froze while his mouth fell agape. No words fell out of those talkative lips, a stark contrast to how fast he was speaking a couple of seconds ago. You practically beamed in victory at such a reaction. You wanted to celebrate, you really did. But you decided not to gloat about your win yet. Instead, you prioritised the better option: teasing your friend.
âI recalled you mentioning once that kissing spreads fewer germs than shaking hands?â You winked playfully, expecting nothing from it. It was simply a joke to make Spencer flustered for your entertainment, and there was zero expectation that he would somehow miraculously confess that he had been secretly liking you too and would actually kiss you at your workplaceâs parking lot at 1am.
Because there was no way Doctor Spencer Reid liked you, right?
You observed as his lips slowly curled up in amusement as your words sunk in, and that partially made your shoulders relaxed. Well, at least your joke landed, and your friendship would make it out intact despite your confession.
But then, out of nowhere, that closed-mouth smile stretched into a full-on grin before a chuckle of disbelief escaped from Spencer.Â
Now, you were on alert. Instantly, you tried to read his reactionâwas he in disbelief that he was finally stumped by a fact he had not yet known of? Was he amused by your clever trick of using your own feelings as a fun fact? But the elation on his face and the awestruck look in his eyes hardly aligned with someone who had just lost a long-term challenge.
Your lips parted as you continued assessing the man, but you caught the way his eyes flickered down at that small movement before he sucked in a deep breath.
Oh�
Suspicion crept in, but confirmation came quicker.
In the blink of an eye, Spencer had completely eliminated the two steps between you both, sealing you two in a proximity that was closer than you had ever been with him. His palms found your face, and they cupped your cheeks in a careful yet certain way.
Spencerâs eyes darted all over your face, searching for all the clues that you were okay with what he had next in mind. He could see that your pupils were slightly dilated, as well as feel the way you were leaning into his touch and the heat that was transferring from your cheeks to his hands. Though it was only when you did not pull away and instead, had your tongue dart out to wet your lips, did Spencer kill the remaining space between your faces.
His lips slanted against yours in a desperate manner that outmatched his need for oxygen, kissing you like it was long overdue. He swallowed the gasp escaping your throat and the surprised noise that followed. There was an urgency he could not hide as his straining self-control snapped from your green light.Â
You began kissing him back just a second or two after, and almost instantly, you heard a sigh of relief. Your lips curled, but any trace of smugness vanished when his thumb began rubbing your cheek fondly. Suddenly, you were aware of just how close you two were. Every point of contact was sending a searing heat through your body, because despite his fears of germs, Spencer was touching your skin like it was a need, rather than an obligation for moments like these.Â
You pressed your lips harder against his.
Good lord, Spencer could do this forever.Â
He might have been able to count the number of times you have touched him on one hand, but even with the whole team, there were not enough fingers to account for the number of times he had glanced at your lips this week alone.
Your own hands touched the sides of his waist, and you instantly caught the longing noise that escaped from Spencerâs throat, echoing onto your lips. At such an encouraging sound, you curled your hands to the back of his body and snaked them up his back. Your lips smirked against his at the way he arched into your touch.Â
One hundred and sixty three daysâSpencer reminded himself again, humming in utter satisfaction at the way those numbers spun down to zero. Finally, you were touching him on purpose and with purpose. He practically melted at the way your hands roamed so confidently without any trace of guilt that he was uncomfortable, because he was far from that.
In fact, he eagerly wanted to keep the number of days since the last time you touched him at zero permanently.Â
You picked that precise moment to pull away, documenting the way his eyes fluttered open and dawned into existence the unadulterated glimmer of yearning in them.Â
You have always thought he was gorgeous, but how he looked right then rendered the word inadequate. It was a vision exceeding all your daydreams, and to be the reason behind the look made you feel like you were an award winning fashion designer who had just invented a magnificent masterpiece. But unlike most, you had no intention of sharing this artwork with the world or with anybody else.
Spencer felt his heart squeeze at the sight of you again. Was it possible to miss someone so badly from not having a visual on them for approximately a minute? Maybe he was more screwed than he thought.
Breathlessly, he finally whispered the confession that he had long to say for a month.
âDespite all the facts I already know and have learnt during my whole entire life, youâre my favorite thing to study and know more about, and have been since you stepped into my life. Nothing I learnt after felt like it could outrank anything I learnt about you.â It was true. Every speck of information about you gets the forefront of his memoryâs line-up, taking priority over every other knowledge. Spencer licked his own lips for remnants of you before continuing, âYouâre my favorite fun fact, you know that?â
Your heart tugged at his words. You had no idea how you managed to compete with the vast amount of interesting information that existed in the world, but under Spencerâs stare, you truly could see he meant every word.
âButâŠâ The smile on your face instantly dropped at that single word from Spencer. Good rarely ever followed that three-letter conjunction.
âBut?â
âI do have to admit that, uhmâŠâ The familiar sheepish glint in his eyes had one of your eyebrows shooting up. âI kinda already know that fun fact already, that you liked me.â Your hands on him stilled their movement before falling onto your sides in disbelief.
âOh, come on. You canât be serious.â He resisted the urge to whine at the lack of physical touch from you. âBut you looked shocked.â
âI was shocked you actually said it. I didn't think youâd do it todayâŠor tomorrowâŠor maybe everââ You slapped his arm, but he gladly welcomed that contact. Anything was better than nothing.
âI thought youâre like highly oblivious to romantic signals? Iâve seen you being completely clueless and not picking up on the fact that women were flirting with you.â
âI think I wasnât clueless when it came to you because my eyes were always on you.â Those words came out shamelessly. In fact, Spencer almost sounded proud of himself. You tried not to let his words make you flustered.
âWhen did you figure it out?â
âThat you like me? At the orchestra.â
âHow? I barely figured it out myself that I liked you then.â
âYeah, I could tell.â Your huff drew a chuckle from him.
You finally peeled yourself completely away from Spencer, grabbing your bag from his hand before making your way to your car. As you unlocked the vehicle and swung the driverâs door open, you could hear his footsteps following. You crouched to lean into your car and place your bag onto the passenger seat. You could feel Spencerâs presence stopping just behind you, standing much closer than he had ever before tonight.
As you bent back up and leaned against your car, you didn't miss the way Spencerâs fingers twitched, giving away his urges for physical contact. You crossed your arms before tilting your head back teasingly.
âIâm still gonna get you someday.â
Spencerâs gaze melted to an even softer look than before at your declaration. There was a freeing component in his eyes, showcasing the joy from being able to openly look at you in the way he had really wanted to for a while. His voice lowered to a sweet, promising whisper.
âIâm counting on that.â
With that, Spencer leaned in again, wanting a second run of things before the two of you had to part ways for the night.
You grinned into the kiss and quickly wrapped your arms around him again. Quietly, your mind logged in todayâs score.Â
Day 187 status: unsuccessful.Â
But it hardly matters when you think youâve already won something a lot better.
ă»âă»âă»âă»âă»âă»
⥠navigation â masterlist
⥠spencer reid masterlist
⥠join my spencer reid tag list (or to remove yourself from)
everyone expects spencer reid to fall for purely intellectual types, but what they don't know is your ability to remember his rambling lessons and your diligent googled research makes him feel irrationally turned on
pairings: spencer reid x bimbo!receptionist!reader
warnings: established relationship, some suggestive content, brief mention of food-play (non-graphic, discussion only), spencer being protective, fluff af, spencer's negative outlook on sugar/food (super brief), teasing/banter, flustered spence
wc: 1.4k
request: here!
Youâre happily licking at your ice cream cone, eyes soft with uncomplicated happiness, and Spencer thinks heâs becoming entirely too familiar with this feeling. Itâs habitual. To observe you is like revisiting his favorite passage in a beloved book, each time discovering nuances heâs missed before.
Heâd given in the instant your expression had turned imploring â big, pleading eyes, soft pout â your most effective weapon. Spencer has abandoned all pretense that he can resist your nightly sugar-driven rituals.
Heâd pondered briefly the psychological undercurrents of your craving, but each theory usually ends up dissolving when heâs confronted by the smile you give him when he caves.
His attention drifts back just as your feet land on the dashboard. Spencer half-smiles at the sight of those slip-ons, your comfy choice through the entire day of painfully predictable romance movies. He was pretty sure he lost the plot somewhere around hour two â another mistaken identity plot twist, seriously? â but keeping track of said plot wasnât really the point anyway.Â
Heâd watch paint dry if it meant hearing you laugh like that, but thankfully you usually pick slightly better entertainment. Usually.
Spencer reaches over instinctively, his hand finding its place on your thigh, patting twice for good measure.
âHey, feet off the dash, please,â he says. âAirbags deploy faster than you think, and personally, Iâm pretty attached to the current arrangement of your features.â
His mind trips over the calculation against the embarrassment of sounding like an overbearing parent. Heâs not even your husband yet. Yet.
But you immediately drop your feet without complaint, settling into a position that looks decidedly safer. Spencer breathes a little easier. He gives your thigh a grateful squeeze, his thumb brushing back and forth just once in a wordless thank you.
You tuck your legs beneath you, body angled toward him, elbow planted on the center console, cheek resting in your palm.Â
âMy face appreciates you looking out for it,â you tease gently. âAlways looking out for me actually. Is there anything else I do thatâs, like, secretly super dangerous?â
Spencerâs eyes catch yours, and he lets out a laugh, shaking his head.Â
âCome here,â he murmurs, lifting his hand from your thigh to sweep his thumb along the edge of your mouth, collecting the vanilla ice cream thatâs smeared there. âAs far as dangerous decisions go, Iâd say your habit of leaving candles burning unattended ranks pretty high. One of these days youâre going to burn the whole place down, sweetheart.â
âBut you said most fires from candles happen because of flammable stuff near them, not just leaving them burning,â you remind him sweetly, nose wrinkling with affection. âSo really, as long as I keep things away from my candles, Iâm totally safe. And I always listen to you about that.â
His heart flutters with messy pride and affection that makes him feel embarrassingly sentimental. Sure, conversations about Marcel Proust or string theory arenât exactly your cup of tea (heâs pretty sure youâd turn your nose up at the mere thought), but thereâs this distinctly genuine and wonderful way you navigate the world.Â
You absorb everything he says â half-formed ideas, scattered facts, fleeting memories â in a way that weirdly puts eidetic memories to shame.Â
Itâs dizzying, actually, the way youâre smiling at him right now, effortlessly beautiful and clearly unaware that heâs suddenly acutely conscious of how his pulse is pounding.Â
He loves you, he knows he does, deeply, and apparently by the way his face flushes hot and his breathing quickens, heâs more turned on by your quiet brilliance than he ever expected.
âOkay, so candles are covered,â he says with mock seriousness, âbut what about all my advice on not talking to strangers or, I donât know, not accepting free candy from mysterious vans? Are those making the cut too?â
âCome on, Spencer, you taught me better than that,â you say proudly. âI know all about risk assessment now, if someone seems sketchy or pushes too hard, itâs probably a danger sign. And,â you add with a satisfied smile, âthatâs why youâre the only one allowed to take me for sweets. Want a bite?â
Spencer eyes the melting ice cream warily, the overly sweet scent doing nothing to tempt him, itâs essentially frozen sugar, after all, objectively terrible for him. The mental list of reasons to politely decline is endless.
But the knowledge that your lips have just been there sets off a chain reaction, desire eclipsing logic. Suddenly, heâs more than willing to abandon nutritional morals for the vague promise of an indirect kiss. Though, admittedly, he would much rather prefer the direct approach. But heâs fairly certain that running into a telephone pole would rank even higher risk wise than unattended candles or dashboard hazards.Â
So, instead, he ducks his head, taking a careful bite, instantly regretting it when the sticky sweet cold paints his cheek.
Your giggles ripple, making him smile sheepishly as you shift closer. He expects your thumb, mirroring his earlier gesture, but then your lips brush against his cheek, your tongue catching the vanilla drip. Every ounce of rationality deserts him into one helplessly smitten mess.
âYou know, saliva actually cleans better than wiping,â you announce thoughtfully. âSo, youâre welcome, Spence.â
Heâs half certain heâs never mentioned anything about saliva enzymes, but then again, heâs so thoroughly distracted by you most of the time he mightâve. It sounds exactly the kind of oddly specific detail heâd share.
âOkay,â he manages, unable to suppress a smile. âWhere exactly did you learn that one?â
âI googled it.â You tilt your head. âLike, I thought food-play might be fun to try with you?â You shrug lightly, expression utterly innocent as if discussing something far less suggestive. âBut then all these articles said it can get kinda gross and messy, and honestly, Spencer, I realized youâd probably just stress about germs and clean-up, and thereâs no way Iâd enjoy it if you werenât totally relaxed and happy.â
Of all the things he anticipated you might say tonight, casually mentioning food play research was not on the list. It lands like a dropped grenade, exploding into fragments of thoughts he cannot possibly hope to piece together.
His cheeks burn hot as images â sticky and indecent images â flood his mind without permission. Vanilla dripping slowly down your collarbone, lips parted in invitation, eyes sparkling with that innocent curiosity he adores.
But beneath this sudden rush of desire lies something even softer because he can almost see it â your earnest expression as you scroll through webpages, considering all the possible complications, all the ways he might react.Â
Spencerâs chest aches in a way he canât pinpoint, a vulnerability spreading through him that he rarely allows himself to feel. Heâs not used to people taking such gentle care of his anxieties, treating his quirks as something precious rather than burdensome. A small, quiet part of him wonders if he deserves this kind of thoughtfulness, this careful, intentional love you offer without hesitation. He wants to believe it, wants to let himself trust it completely, but the tender astonishment that grips him right now makes it hard to think straight.
âYou know, angel, next time just come straight to me, okay? I promise my answers are better, and less traumatizing, than whatever youâll find online.â
âWell, donât blame me when you start getting texts at two a.m. about my random questions.â
Spencer raises an eyebrow at you. âI think we both know that if my phone goes off at two a.m., youâre probably not looking for statistics.â
You smile at that.
âI mean, yeah, probably,â you concede. âBut honestly, Spence, I did read this thing about late-night dopamine spikes or whatever and â,â
He doesnât think. He canât think. The moment the car is in park, his body moves on its own, leaning across the console, hands gently cupping your face as he silences your adorable scientific ramble. Heâs never felt such urgency, such an intense, overwhelming need to kiss someone as he does right now. Itâs impulsive, reckless, completely out of character, and yet he feels no regret. Only relief. Only you.
For once in his analytical life, Spencer lets instinct win, savoring your lips and the small, surprised sound you make against him. He hopes you hear in his kiss everything he canât yet put into words.
đ masterlist
taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
THE GIRLFRIEND PARADOX â± spencer reid x unsub!reader
summary: when spencer seems more distracted than usual, the team conclude that he must be hiding a girlfriend. they try to get him to crack, not knowing that the reality of his situation is far worse than your typical secret relationship.
genre: fluff word count: 5.3k
tags: reader is an unsub, enemies with benefits || reader annoys spencer whilst he's at work, the BAU think he's distracted because he has a girlfriend, and now they won't leave him alone, secret meetings at the most expensive hotel in the city, very inconspicuous, their feelings are getting incredibly messy, no use of y/n, brief references to/mentions of sex
‷ unsub!reader masterlist á°.á
She's in my voice, in all I do!
Her poison flows in all my veins!
I am the looking-glass of pain
Where she regards herself, the shrew!
â Charles Baudelaire, Heautontimoroumenos
[ Monday | Melodrama ]
(3:14PM) Mephisto
there's approximately 36,191 hotel rooms in dc
115.8k in the greater met area
if we start now, it'll only take us 300 or so years to visit them all
150 if we do two per day
(3:16pm) Mephisto
spencer?
(3:17PM) Spencer
Don't send several messages in a row. My phone keeps buzzing.
Why are you awake?
(3:17PM) Mephisto
i
can
not
sleep
(3:17PM) Spencer
I will block you.
(3:18PM) Mephisto
you won't
your phone has a silence buttonÂ
use it
(3:20PM) Spencer
I can't. I'm waiting on a call.
(3:20PM) Mephisto
from who?
(3:21PM) Spencer
You don't need to know. It's work related.
And I am not visiting every hotel room in DC. Or even attempting to.
(3:21PM) Mephisto
:(
you don't want to see me?
(3:21PM) Spencer
No. I don't.
"I didn't think you knew how to use that thing."
Spencer almost jumps out of his skin at the sound of Morgan's voice. His thumb that has spent the better half of the day hovering pre-emptively over his phone's power button leaps into action, and the screen goes dark before Morgan can steal even a single glance. Frowning, Spencer turns in his chair to look up at him.
"My phone?" he asks, trying not to sound as on-edge as he feels. "Of course I know how to use my phoneâ"
"I've just never seen you be soâŠ" Morgan gestures to Spencer's phone, the dark screen, his tight grip, and bites back a smirk. "Invested in it before. Who are you texting?"
"No one," he says quickly.
The dismissive response does little to deter Morgan's curiosity. He leans against Spencer's desk and raises an eyebrow. "I see how it is," he murmurs. "Don't play coy with me, pretty boy. You seeing someone?"
"What?" Spencer scoffs, face contorting in ways he didn't think possible as he adamantly shakes his head. "Noâ No, I'm not seeing someone. Why would you evenâ"
"Oh my God," Morgan gives his shoulder a light shove. He's grinning now, full-on baring his teeth like some kind of maniacal predator. "Don't tell me you got yourself a girl without telling meâ"
"I do not have a girlfriend, Morgan!"
At the sound of his exasperated voice, Emily and JJ's heads shoot up like a pair of dogs hearing their favourite word.
"Spencer has a girlfriend?" Emily asks, eyes wide. "I knew itâ"
"I don't!" he snaps, shooting her a glare from across the bullpen.Â
"Mhm," Morgan hums, nodding slowly. "Right. Then I'm sure you won't mind if IâŠ"
Spencer jerks away as he tries to snatch his phone from his hands. "What are you doing?"
"Oh, wellâŠ" he shrugs. "I just figured, since you've got nothing to hide, then you'd have no reason not to show me your phone."
"âŠWhat?" Spencer blinks at him, but all Morgan does in response is hold out his hand expectantly. Scoffing, Spencer swats it away. "This is ridiculous. I'm not showing you myâ hey!"
Before he can finish his sentence, Morgan lunges at him. Spencer tries to roll his chair away but, unfortunately for him, he isn't fast enough. Morgan grabs his arm, pulling him back towards him as he tries to wrestle the phone from Spencer's grasp.Â
And then it buzzes. Once. Twice. Three times.
And a fourth, for good measure.
All Spencer can do is watch in horror as Morgan raises his eyebrows. A smirk creeps up his face, but he releases his grip on Spencer's arm and leans back. "Damn," he says, looking equal parts impressed and perturbed, "girlfriend or not, someone's desperate for your attention."
Spencer clenches his jaw. He could say that again.
Thankfully, Morgan takes this as a sign to retreat. He saunters off to the breakroom, still smirking, leaving Spencer alone at last. With Emily and JJ still watching him out of the corner or their eyes, he clears his throat and returns his attention to his paperwork. In his free hand, however, is his phone. He holds it under his desk, well out of sight, and turns it on.
(3:23PM) Mephisto
idk
you seemed pretty happy to see me last night
and last week
and the week before
(3:24PM) Spencer
Please just go to sleep.
(3:24PM) Mephisto
am i distracting you?
spencerrrrrrr
With that, Spencer sets his phone to silent mode and lays it face-up on his desk. He covers the bottom half of the screen with a book, ensuring that any nosy passers-by won't be able to see his notifications. The screen still lights up with each incoming message â so there's no chance he'll miss his call â but it does not make a sound, and, in an office full of curious coworkers, that is what matters.
(3:27PM) Mephisto
i'll take that as a yes
goodnight
.ââ±âŠ
[ Tuesday | Turbulence ]
(9:45AM) Mephisto
[LINK]
thoughts?
(9:46AM) Spencer
Did you even look at the price?
(9:46AM) Mephisto
it has a balcony
(9:46AM) Spencer
And it's $3000 per night.
(9:47AM) Mephisto
duh
great view of lafayette park though
i might book it
(9:48AM) Spencer
You're ridiculous.
(9:48AM) Mephisto
i have the money
(9:48AM) Spencer
That doesn't matter.
You're being impulsive.
(9:48AM) Mephisto
i thought i was COMpulsive?
(9:49AM) Spencer
You're both.
(9:50AM) Mephisto
so you DON'T want to fuck me on that balcony?
Spencer stares down at that message for far longer than he should. The words etch themselves into his retina, imprinting on his brain as the world seems to come to a sharp halt. His body freezes over, limbs turning to solid, immovable blocks of ice, and then thaws with an intolerable heat. The flush that creeps up his neck is almost painful in its intensity, and he feels the hellish red seep into his cheeks as his throat runs dry.
He doesn't even realise he's been pouring coffee into an overflowing cup. Not until he hears it trickling onto the floor.
"Shit!"
He almost loses his grip on the coffee pot as he stares down at the mess pooling around his feet, but he just about has the sense to keep his fingers curled tight around the handle even as the panic kicks in. His phone, however, is not so lucky. It slips from his hand as he reaches for the roll of paper towels â the collective clumsiness of the BAU has led to it always being kept within reach of the coffee station â and lands in the brown puddle on the floor, splashing coffee onto his clean trousers.
Spencer crouches down, muttering to himself, and begins cleaning up his mess. But no sooner has the paper towels touched the ground does he hear footsteps.Â
As if this situation wasn't already bad enough, Rossi comes waltzing into the breakroom, hands in his pockets, whistling a happy little tune to himself. He is, in that moment, the absolute picture of relaxation, of the blissful ignorance that has blessed everyone in this team but Spencer, but his demeanour shifts when he sees the genius on the floor, mopping up a lake of spilled coffee.
"WoahâŠ" he takes a step back, eyes wide. "You good, kid?"
"Fine," Spencer mutters. He doesn't look up on him.
Rossi frowns. "You sure?"
"I'm fine," he repeats in an unintentionally sharp tone. He sighs and shakes his head before saying, "I was justâ âŠI was distracted."
The word choice, admittedly, is not doing him any favours, and he regrets it immediately. Distracted. God, if Morgan's been spreading his stupid girlfriend conspiracy theory, then there's no doubt that Rossi willâ
"Daydreaming about quadratic equations?" he asks.
Oh.
Spencer forces a self-conscious smile as he looks up at Rossi. "Yeah," he says.
"Relief" doesn't quite capture what Spencer feels as he realises that Rossi isn't on to him. Relief is a small word, and what Spencer feels is enormous. It's enough to ease the tension in his smile and give way to something more genuine.
But then Rossi crouches down to pick up his phone. Because of course he does.
"Hey," he says, "at least it doesn't look brokenâ"
The sight of Rossi's thumb hovering over the power button has Spencer lunging forward without thinking. He snatches the phone from his hand and, as he does so, loses his balance and lands on his knees in the coffee puddle. The stunned silence that follows has Spencer's face flushing a deep shade of red. Clearing his throat, he picks himself up and returns to his crouching position, trying to ignore the still-hot coffee seeping into his clothes, and forces a sheepish, embarrassed laugh.Â
"Whoops," he mumbles.
Rossi's face twists as he stares, bewildered, at Spencer. He blinks at him before his gaze flicks to the phone, and then back at him. And then he takes a deep breath to speak andâ
He is cut off by the familiar buzz of Spencer's phone.Â
The colour drains from Spencer's face as he watches Rossi's eyebrows twitch, the way they always do when he realises something â something that he does not yet want to say out loud. Rossi is taking that realisation and filing it away to someplace at the back of his mind, where it will undoubtedly be used as ammunition in the future.
"You sure you don't want any help?" he asks. There's a slight hesitance to his words now, as though he's afraid Spencer may try to push him into the coffee if he presses any further.
"I'm fine, Rossi," Spencer repeats. He almost chokes on the sound of his own voice. "Thank you."
Pursing his lips, Rossi nods and slowly rises to his feet. He spares Spencer one last curious glance before leaving the breakroom. Spencer listens to his receding footsteps, and he swears the room begins spinning. With his heart still in his throat, he cleans up the last of the mess before checking his phone.
(9:52AM) Mephisto
come onnnnn it'll be fun
Before he can type a response, another message comes through.
(9:55AM) Mephisto
i mean, i know you won't be paying much attention to the park, but still
at least entertain the idea
(9:55AM) Spencer
No.
(9:55AM) Mephisto
you're no fun
(9:56AM) Spencer
This is supposed to be discreet.
I am not doingâŠthat.
(9:56AM) Mephisto
different city, then?
LA?
i hear cali is lovely this time of year
(9:57AM) Spencer
No.
This conversation is over.
Don't text me about these things at work.
Don't text me about them at all.
(9:57AM) Mephisto
oooooh i'm not getting you all worked up in front of your coworkers am i???
god, imagine if they knew what was REALLY going onâŠ
(9:57AM) Spencer
Goodbye.
(9:58AM) Mephisto
WAITTT
âŠ
hello?
i can see you reading my messages, spence
do i book the suite or not??
i need your guidance
please
(10:10AM) Spencer
Don't book the suite.
(10:11AM) Mephisto
k
booked the suite
<3
.ââ±âŠ
[ WEDNESDAY | Warfare ]
Three days without a case already has the BAU beginning to lose their mind â Spencer is no exception. The office air is pungent with the smell of a dozen cups of coffee, and thick with a sense of restlessness. And although Spencer does share in this restlessness, it does not manifest the same way in him as it does for the rest of his team. Where he sits in silence, working on three different case files at once to keep his brain occupied, his coworkers have chosen to abandon their paperwork and, instead, make it their mission to uncover the identity of his so-called "girlfriend."
Thankfully, he makes it through the day without any major incident. After nine hours of feigning obliviousness to his team's incessant questions and not-so-subtle sideways glances, Spencer finishes his work, packs his bag, and walks out of the bullpen. His long, hurried strides carry him to the elevator which, as though blessed by God, is already on his floor. The doors slide open immediately, beckoning him inside, and Spencer steps gladly into its cool embrace. But, as he turns to bid farewell to the BAU for the evening, he sees them.
Every single one of them. Minus Hotch.
And they're making a beeline for the elevator.
Spencer's heart plummets into his stomach, and he quickly begins jabbing his fingers into the close door button over and over in the vain hope that it may hear his prayers and shut out the rest of the team. But, even as the doors finally kick into gear, they are no match for Derek Morgan.
He sticks his foot between the closing doors, causing them to stutter as they consider crushing his ankle, and then they slide back open, inviting the team into what was supposed to be Spencer's safe haven.
Closing his eyes, Spencer braces himself for the chaos that he has trying to desperately to avoid. Surely he thought the team of profilers would take such a painfully obvious hint, but no â instead of leaving him alone, they ambush him. He has nothing to say to them regarding this stupid theory, because it is not true. Spencer doesn't have a girlfriend; he has a damn devil on his shoulder. One that the team cannot be permitted to know about, not until this cursed deal is up.
But now he's cornered, trapped in a slow-moving metal box with the nosiest people he has ever had the misfortune of meeting, and there is no way out but through.
There's a moment of silence as the elevator doors close. Smug, scheming silence that, although it seems to stretch out for eternity, is still not long enough for Spencer. He's holding his breath, waiting for the flood gates of questions to open. And then, at last, JJ speaks up.
"SoâŠwhat's her name?"
Jennifer Jareau presents herself as a neutral party: polite and cordial, with innocently phrased questions and a smile that could win awards for being nothing but trustworthy. It's her battle armour, one that she built up over her years as a media liaison, one that Spencer helped her to develop, and now she's using it against him.
"I don't have a girlfriend," he says, voice firm. It sounds rehearsed, like he's lying, but that's only because he's had to repeat this same line time and time again â because they won't stop asking.
JJ sighs. "Spenceâ"
"I'm serious," he cuts her off, already feeling himself growing agitated. "I don't."
He watches out of the corner of his eye as JJ gives the rest of the team a helpless look. In response, Emily clears her throat.
"Garcia," she says, "look through his messages."
"Garcia, don't."
Penelope glances between the two of them, laptop in hand, like a child watching their parents argue.
Emily smiles at him, but her eyes are sharp and determined. "Garcia, I'll buy you coffee tomorrow."
"Garcia, I'll buy you coffee for a month," Spencer counters.
"Two months."
"Six."
Emily scoffs as Spencer turns to face Penelope directly. He smiles at her â a strained, serious smile that seems to frighten her a little â and, even as Emily tries to double his offer, Penelope is able to take a hint and, for once, opts to respect Spencer's privacy.
"I'm sorry, EmâŠ"
Emily's shoulders sink in defeat but, as she shrinks back, Morgan takes a confident step forward.
"Look, Reid," he begins with his signature, charming, conniving smile, "we really do respect your privacy."
"No, you don't," Spencer says plainly.
"We justâŠ" he shrugs, ignoring the comment entirely, "wanna stay caught up on our genius's exciting life. We're not asking to meet her, not if you don't want us to, we justâ"
"You want to know what's going on in my life, Morgan?" Spencer asks, crossing his arms. "Nothing. Nothing fun, or exciting, and certainly nothing to do with any girlfriends. Now please, just let it go."
The elevator doors slide open as he speaks. This isn't his floor, but he'll take any opportunity to escape and so, before anyone can stop him, he storms out of the elevator and leaves the BAU behind.
The team stand in complete silence, watching the doors close on his receding form before Rossi speaks up.
"He definitely has a girlfriend."
.ââ±âŠ
[ SATURDAY | Sanctity ]
"It really is a nice view."
"Come back inside."
Spencer's distant, disgruntled mutterings are enough to put a small smile on your face. His enthusiasm is as lacking as ever, even with the entirety of Lafayette Park right outside his window. You thought at least part of him would appreciate the tranquillity, but he seems to hate just about everything when he's with you.
You, on the other hand, couldn't have a more different opinion if you tried. You live for these quiet, in-between moments; it's the calm after the storm, the golden hour before Spencer leaves where there is no game, no interrogation, no hate-fuelled moments of passion. It's just you, and him, and the hush of the night.Â
You're leaning over the balcony railing, feeling the cool air whip around your face as you gaze out at the nation's Capitol plunged in darkness. This lavish, definitely out of your budget hotel suite is perfectly aligned with the White House. It almost looks to be glowing under the light of the moon. The reviews for this place were right; this may indeed be the best view in DC.
"I paid for this," you remind him. The cold is inching its way up your spine, slowly but surely, and you can feel it biting at the tips of your fingers. But you pay it no mind.Â
Sighing, you turn to face him. The bedroom is nearly pitch black save for the light spilling in from the bathroom, and you can just about make out Spencer's form in the darkness. He's standing in the middle of the room with naught but a towel around his waist. His wet hair sticks to his forehead as he squints, surveying the room in search of his clothes.
"Put a shirt on, then," you say, not bothering to hide the smirk playing on your lips.
Spencer only huffs in response. Aside from that, he does not acknowledge you, or even glance in your direction. Crossing your arms, you lean back against the railing and watch as he finally manages to locate some of his carelessly discarded clothes. If he has any issues with your blatant staring, he does not voice them. He does not retreat to the bathroom to change, either, and you get to shamelessly admire the view as he begins dressing himself. Boxers first, and then trousers, and then nothing because he still cannot find his shirt.
As he begins searching the room once more, you gesture for him to join you out on the balcony. You swear you see his nose scrunch in disgust before he turns away and, instead of following your simple request, sits on the unmade bed instead, leaving you frowning in the cold.
For a few seconds, you wait. You stare at him, as if your gaze alone may be enough to persuade him to come outside, but all he does is stare right back at you, defiant. Rolling your eyes, you push yourself away from the railing and saunter back into the bedroom. Because you're considerate â and he's right, you are letting the cold in â you close the door behind you before making your way over to him.Â
He doesn't try to push you away as you slot yourself between his legs, nor does he recoil as you take his face into his hands. He lets you touch him without protest, but he does tense slightly at the feel of your cold hands against his skin. His face is still warm from his shower, skin still damp, hair still unstyled and dripping. There are dark circles under his eyes â your fault, no doubt â and he looks up at you with a weary kind of passivity as you silently admire his features. He's perfect.
Slowly, he starts to relax. The last of his frigidity melts away, and you can see him fighting the urge to lean into your touch. To surrender himself to you completely. But he doesn't. Instead, his hands come to rest on the backs of your thighs. Gently. Naturally, as if that is right where they belong.
"Where did you go," he murmurs, letting his eyes flutter closed, "after you escaped us in Amherst?"
Amherst. You'd be lying if you said the name doesn't conjure a slight bitterness.Â
Amherst was the last place you were able to be yourself, before the BAU came along. Spencer, as much as you "love" him, ruined everything you had built for yourself. And it wasn't because of his profiling skills, or his raw genius â it was actually quite the opposite. It was naivety, and nothing else.Â
If he hadn't developed a crush on you, he wouldn't have spent so much time with you. And if he hadn't spent that time with you, he wouldn't have stayed behind until well into the night to mull over the case and have you listen. And if he hadn't done thatâŠhe likely never would have made the connections that he did.Â
In fairness, being there to witness this epiphany in person was what allowed you to escape. You knew that, as soon as he realised the Amherst murders were part of a larger series of killings, it was only a matter of time â a few hours, at most â before he called up his saintly technical analyst and found a list of victims. Your victims. Some of which were inextricably linked to you. Being in that room that night, brainstorming with him over an innocent game of chess, gave you a head start. You got away, but you had to leave your life behind to do so. It wasn't the first time but, even so, it wasn't something you wanted to do.
Amherst was the closest thing you had to a home. In losing it, you lost a part of yourself â perhaps the only real part of yourself that you had left.Â
"We're not there yet," you say, keeping your voice soft. "I wouldn't want to confuse you by telling this story out of order."
Spencer frowns. "You can't confuse me."
"I can," you angle his face up slightly, thumbs tracing light circles on his cheeks. "I do."
He scoffs, but he does not argue. His eyes remain closed and, slowly, your touch begins to wander. You let your fingers trail down the sensitive skin of his neck, skimming over the bruises that will not fade in time for his return to work. They're trophies, of sorts. A testament to the torrid affair you're engaged in. The attachment that never should have been allowed to fester.
In losing Amherst, you lost everything. Your job, your identity, your friends. But you gained so much in return. You gained this.Â
You would sacrifice a hundred lifetimes in Amherst for just one in DC. Anywhere, really, as long as you could play this game. Lead him on. Drive him crazy. You'd never have to think about killing again, if you could keep him in your life. He's the only thing to ever scratch that itch. To ever satiate that need that burns in your veins.Â
Your hands travel down further, until they reach the silver chain that sits pretty around his neck. His crown of thorns. Your fingertips linger, grazing the delicate metal before following the links to the cross pendant that dangles just below his collarbones. Carefully, you take it into your hands. It's warm. You press the crucified Jesus into your thumb as though he may awaken and grant you a wish, but all he leaves is an imprint in your skin.
"My team think I have a girlfriend," Spencer confesses, breaking the silence.
"Hm," your gaze flicks back to his face. To his closed eyes. His long lashes. His perfect lips. "What on earth gave them that idea?"
"I don't know," he murmurs. "Maybe it's the sad, pathetic woman who keeps texting me during work hours."
You hiss, as if his words sting, but you're smiling. "She sounds like a pain in the ass," you say.
"Mhm," his fingers find your wrist, and he guides your hand back to his cheek, "a real nightmare."
His touch is so warm it burns. Something in your chest twists with a sudden, palpable ache. You try to swallow the knot in your throat before you choke on it, but it does not budge.
Maybe it's the quiet of the room, or the time of night, or the stench of sex still lingering in the air. Whatever it is, it's allowed your mind to clear and, for once, be at peace. So much so that you can hear your own heart beating â feel it thumping in your chest. Rhythmic and steady. And deafening.Â
"Florida."
You speak the name so softly you barely realise you've said it, not until Spencer's eyes flutter open.
"I went to Florida after Amherst," you add. "Orlando."
Something in Spencer's expression shifts at your words, and he cocks a curious brow. His eyes widen by just a fraction, letting in that little bit of light that transforms that dull, tired brown into something richer. Brighter. Maybe it's because you've cracked under almost no pressure and he's trying to hide how smug he feels, or maybe he's genuinely interested in what you have to say.
"I avoided the I-95. Stuck to smaller roads. Took a dozen detours," you continue. "Changed plates God knows how many times, and made it to the sunshine state in time to see the Christmas show at SeaWorld."
"SeaWorld," he repeats, echoing your words with a softness that feels almost fond. Despite himself, his lips twitch at the corners. "You were the most wanted woman in the country, and you went to SeaWorld?"
"What else was I going to do?" you ask, frowning. "I was in fucking Florida."
Pursing his lips, he shakes his head, still trying to make it out like he isn't smiling. "Did you stay?"
"Only until New Year's," you say. "Then I inched my way back up the east coast until fate brought me here to DC."
"You say that as if it wasn't intentional," he says, eyeing you curiously. "Wasn't that your plan from the start? To hunt me down?"
"HmmâŠnope," you shrug. "I had no idea what I was doing, not until I got to South Carolina. I was stuck in a motel in Myrtle Beach when the boredom started driving me crazy, and that was when I decided to hunt you down."
Spencer frowns. "What were you doing in Myrtle Beach?"
"Nothing. That was the problem," you sigh. "I was a fugitive on the runâ"
"You are a fugitive."
"âand that place was way too sunny. And warm â I couldn't even go outside."
"You aren't allergic to sunlight, Love."
The nickname almost gives you pause â almost.
"I may as well be," you argue, not missing a beat. "I'm a New Englander, and I have sensitive eyes, and I have zero tolerance for heat."
"Your nocturnal habits have nothing to do with being from New England," he says. "You're just abnormal."
He's trying to sound judgemental, you think, but his words are laced with an unconscious fondness.
Spencer never calls you "Love," not anymore. Not after Amherst. If he ever does, it's in this bitter, sarcastic tone that is nothing like the one he is using now. You wonder if he's even aware of how he sounds right now, like a boyfriend and not an FBI agent conversing with a serial killer.
"Whatever. It was hell," you say. "DC is more to my liking. It's not quite Amherst, butâŠit's not bad,"Â
Tilting your head to the side, you flash him a mocking smirk.Â
"It has you."
You know the weight of your words before you say them â and that is precisely why you say them. As much as you enjoy seeing him like this, it's your job to remind Spencer of his place if, for whatever reason, he cannot do it himself. For a moment, he continues to gaze up at you, brown eyes searching for something â for what, exactly, you do not know â before he exhales through his nose.
Time seems to halt in the moment before he pushes you away. The final, fleeting moment where it's just the two of you; two people in an absurdly expensive hotel suite, letting themselves play happy couple as they try not to choke on the feelings trying to claw their way out of them. It isn't a positive moment, it's far from it, but it's a genuine one â in a year of tricks and masks and lies, this is one of the few things that is truly, unequivocally real.Â
And it's over before either of you can allow yourselves time to dwell on it.
Spencer stands up, and the evening is over. You had your fun with him, he got the information he needed â there's nothing more to be said. You could continue teasing him, maybe crack a joke or two about his team and their girlfriend theory, but what would that accomplish? There's no making fun of him, not when you're just as much the butt of the joke as he is.
You're both screwed. It's a fact that's only becoming more evident as these months progress.
You should stop. Cut out the in-person aspect of this nightmare and go back to the cryptic phone calls. Pretend that none of this ever happened. Sure, he would remember; you would remember; your bank account would sure as hell remember. But it would be far, far easier to cover the truth with a shitty band-aid than face it head-on.
You need distance. Space. You need to stop booking these hotel suites, and he needs to learn some fucking self-respect and stop showing up every time you do. But he won't. Neither of you will.
Compulsion is what drew you together; Spencer's schoolboy crush, your need to torment him. And compulsion will be your undoing, because neither of you know when, or how, to stop.
And yet, knowing this, you still watch as he searches for his shirt, letting the silence fill the rift that has reopened between you. You still let your gaze linger on his chest, the curves of his back, the way his necklace seems to glimmer in the dim light. You still want him, need him, despite knowing that this will only end with him disgraced and you behind bars â but that isn't anything new. It's the very basis of this agreement, something you both accepted months ago. Something you proposed, and something that he accepted.
But greed is a vile thing. You aren't afraid of your fate, you wouldn't be here if you were, but these past few months, these secret meetings, have only left you wanting more. More of this. More of him.Â
You want to toss this entire deal aside and ask him, in earnest, to chase this. To chase this terrible relationship instead of chasing your past, but you can't. Because you're a woman of your word, and you promised him he'd be free of you one day.Â
He'd never say yes, anyway.
You raise a hand to touch your own necklace. You press the crucified Jesus, tired and dull with years of wear, into your thumb, and you make a wish. But unlike Spencer's pendant, yours is cold to the touch.
summary á° you always try so hard to not rely on your boyfriend because you know how busy he is. so naturally when thereâs a power outage in your apartment you hesitate to let him know about it which leads to a very disappointed aaron behind you door.
warnings á° angst with fluff end. lots of pauses (sue me i want the dialogue to go slower) swearing & language.
one thing about being with a man that was a manâ which, by that, you mean a man who was so unlike the little boys you had dated beforeâwas that he was extremely assertive, mature, and overall just knew how to take care of you just right.
and one thing about being with so many little boys unlike him was that over time you had learned to shut down, because they always made you feel like you were too much.
asking for too much, when the whole time it was beyond the bare minimum.
so naturally, whenever you had issues, you dealt with it yourself.
like right now when you had a power outage on your whole street, meaning everything was shut. your fridge, electricity, elevator (which meant you had to climb up and down eight floors), and most importantly, your stove.
you didnât call your boyfriend because you felt like it was too much.
shit, you couldnât even use your phone to order food because it was dead let alone try to call him.
it was running on 5%, and you had just enough to let your best friend know that you were alive and that if you didnât answer, it was probably because you ran out of battery. while she insisted you leave your house and maybe go over to aaronâs, since she herself was all the way in the other side of the country for a work trip, you had refused, because seriously, itâd be embarrassing.
sure, youâd crashed at his place since youâve been together for almost three years, thatâs normalâbut this just didnât feel right. you werenât about to go bother him and ask if you could stay at his place for god knows how many days until the electricity was fixed. that was too much. at least, thatâs what you thought it was.
it was fine. you were going to be able to survive on a dead phone, dead stove, absolutely no lights, all alone in your apartment.
but it wasnât fine when aaronsâs eighth call to your phone went straight to voicemail and he hadnât heard from you all day, which was so unusual, because you usually responded no matter what.
naturally, his only solution was calling your parents, your family, anyone he knew, but they also hadnât heard from you. that left him with one last person: your best friend, who he essentially forced an answer out of until she finally cracked and told him what was going on.
âsheâs fine, she just. . didnât want to bug you,â she had sighed through the phone. âpowerâs out. the lights and everything. she refuses to leave.â
âand she didnât even try to call me?â heâd asked, voice going flat.
âyou know how she is.â
hearing that heâd cursed under his breath, grabbed his keys and jacket, and headed out the door, worry swirling in his gut the entire thirty-minute drive to your apartment.
he parked near your buildingâs garage, said a quick hi to your doorman, then went to the elevator. when he realized it didnât work, he took the stairs two at a time, jaw tight.
another string of curses left him. he was beyond irritatedânot at you, never at his sweet girlâbut at the fact that you felt like you couldnât rely on him, like you always had to solve your problems alone.
if he couldnât help you on your worst days, then why was he even there?
he finally got to your door, only to realize the doorbell didnât work either. of course. he knocked, harder than he meant to.
a few seconds later, you opened the door in your pajamas, hair up in your crazy big rollers he still didnât fully understand the point ofâsomething about volume and blowouts or whatever youâd explained to him a hundred times.
you were probably getting ready to sleep off the night alone in the dark.
âhey,â you breathed out, staring at him. from the look on his face, you knew you might be a little screwed.
âhi,â he said simply, eyes scanning you quickly, alive, breathing, upright, before the tension in his shoulders eased the tiniest bit.
âcome in.â you give him a light peck on thr lips before you cleared your throat and stepped aside, trying not to do anything to intensify the situation further.
âwhatâs up with the lights?â he asked as he came in, toeing off his shoes like he always did, acting like he didnât already know.
âpower outage,â you muttered, leading him toward your bedroom. there was still a bit of light from outside, but not much.
âhave you eaten?â he asked, following close behind, hands in his pockets.
ânot yet,â you admitted with a wince. âmy stove doesnât work, and my phoneâs dead, so i canât order takeout.â
you flopped down at your vanity chair, turning away a little as you started taking your rollers out, trying not to look directly at him.
aaron watched you for a beat, then came up behind you, catching one of the rollers you fumbled. âand you didnât bother telling me about all this?â he murmured, standing behind you as he gently started helping with your hair, fingers careful not to tug.
âmy phone died?â you offered, glancing at his reflection. he looked calm, but you knew himâyou could see the tick in his jaw.
âyeah?â he said quietly, setting another roller down. âbefore or after you decided to play pioneer in the dark instead of calling me from literally anywhere else?â
you chewed your lip. â. . before,â you whispered, then sighed. âiâm sorry.â
you finally blurted it out; you knew it was due.
ânot a word,â he said, stepping back and shaking his head. âget dressed, pack a bag. youâre coming with me.â
âbaby, you know you donât have toââ you started, then froze when he gave you a look. firm, not angry, but very, very clear.
âiâm not asking,â he said, tone soft but absolute. âiâm telling you. pack a bag.â
you swallowed and nodded quickly, turning away to change into proper clothes. you grabbed a small overnight bag and started shoving in necessities makeup, skincare, some clothes, your laptop, and your dead phone, while he waited in the doorway, arms folded, eyes following your every move.
he was quiet, and with the way he was quiet, you knew he was more hurt than mad.
âdone,â you breathed out, holding up the bag.
âgood.â he walked over, took it from you without a word, and with a hand on the small of your back, gently steered you out of your apartment after youâd double-checked everything and locked the door.
you both walked in silence down the eight flights of stairs and out to his car. he opened the passenger door for you, waited until you were settled, then put your bag in the back and got into the driverâs seat.
the car was quiet as he pulled away from the curb.
his hand wrapped around the steering wheel, knuckles pale from the pressure. you stared at it for a few seconds, realizing you couldnât take it anymore you gave in and reached over, gently prying his fingers away so you could lace your hand with his left hand on the center console.
âyouâre mad at me,â you said softly, thumb rubbing over the back of his handâthe hand you were honestly obsessed with.
âiâm not,â he sighed, squeezing your fingers. âiâm justââ he cut himself off with a deep breath, jaw clenching.
âi shouldâve told you. iâm sorry,â you said, filling the silence. âyouâre right. i shouldâve called.â
âyou shouldâve told me,â he agreed quietly. âi shouldâve been the first person you thought to ask.â
you looked over at him, seeing the faint frown lines between his brows, the way he was staring straight ahead like if he looked at you too long heâd say something heâd regret.
âi know,â you said. âi just. . didnât want to bother you.â
he huffed out a humorless laugh. âbother me? you think you bother me?â
you swallowed. âi know youâve got stuff to do. and besides. . itâs just a power outage. i felt dumb calling you just for that â
âyou live on the eighth floor with no lights, no elevator, no food, and a dead phone,â he said slowly. âthatâs not nothing, sweetheart.â
âstill. it felt like a lot to ask.â
âfrom me?â he asked, finally turning his head to really look at you. âafter three years? after everything? youâre allowed to ask me for things. thatâs kind of the point.â
you bit your lip, shoulders hunching. âi just got used to hearing i was too much, you know? wanting too much.â
his expression softened immediately. his hand tightened around yours.
âlook at me,â he murmured.
you did.
âyouâre never âtoo muchâ for me,â he said, voice low, steady. âyouâre my girlfriend. youâre supposed to call me. youâre supposed to need me. if you donât, then what the hell am i here for?â
your eyes stung a little. âyou do enough already.â
âclearly not if youâre sitting in the dark, hungry, pretending youâre fine,â he countered gently.
you didnât have an argument for that, so you just squeezed his hand instead, letting the silence settle between you, softer this time.
by the time he pulled into his driveway, the knot in your chest had loosened a little. he parked, killed the engine, but didnât move right away.
âfor the record,â he said, still looking straight ahead, âyou never âbotherâ me. if itâs you, itâs not too much. ever.â
your throat went tight. âokay,â you whispered. âiâll try to remember that next time.â
âdonât try,â he corrected quietly, finally turning to meet your eyes. âjust call. right away with absolutely no hesitations.â
you nodded, and that seemed to be enough for him. he leaned over, pressed a quick kiss to your forehead, then climbed out to grab your bag before opening your door.
later after he made sure you ate he moved around to plug your phone in, for you to answer calls from your mom and letting everyone know you were fine, all while you curled against him on the couch while some random 90s movie played in the background. his arm was around you, fingers tracing idle patterns on your shoulder as he breathed you in, quietly enjoying the feeling of holding you.
âaaron?â you murmured.
âmm?â
âthank you for coming to get me,â you said quietly.
he pressed his lips to the side of your head. âalways.â
âand. . iâm sorry i didnât call. iâm trying to be better at that,â you admitted. âitâs just. . leftover crap from before you.â
âi know,â he said. âiâm not mad at you for having history. i just need you to let me be different from it.â
you swallowed. âyou are different.â
âthen treat me like it,â he said gently. âlet me show up for you.â
you shifted, turning so you could look up at him. âokay,â you whispered. âi will. i promise.â
âgood,â he murmured. âmy girlâs safe. thatâs all i need.â