let's make things simple and then get messy

*~*~*

You drive to Spencer’s place first, neither of you commenting on or acknowledging the fact that you know how to get there, and then you sit in the car, toying absentmindedly with the dials on the car stereo as you wait for him to go inside and grab what he needs, ready to move the car if any meter maids make an appearance (it's after 7AM, after all). Then you quietly drive the 10 minutes from his place to yours.

You pull into your assigned parking spot, the one a hefty part of your rent goes into securing, and then you get out of the car, frowning slightly when Spencer copies you. He doesn’t say anything, though, so neither do you.

Actually, you’ve both been very, very quiet since Hotch laid out this assignment, but you suspect for different reasons. Spencer moves like a man who has something to say but isn’t ready to say it yet. You wonder if you’ll be ready to hear it.

You unlock your front door and pull it open, waving a hand for Spencer to walk in ahead of you. Whatever he thinks he’s doing in your home, he’ll do it on his own, you’re not going to show him around. He looks just a little startled, but then he steps inside, his hand searching blindly for the light-switch next to the door until you take pity on him and turn on the ceiling lamp.

Imagine that, a guy who has an easier time finding your clit than the light in the hallway. You huff, amused by the observation and he looks at you, offended because he makes the obvious assumption that you’re laughing at him.

“That’s not a very logical place for a light-switch,” he points out.

You totally agree, it took you weeks to learn how to find it in the dark. “And yet, it’s where they put it.”

“Counterintuitive,” he says, then walks further into the belly of your home. He peeks into the kitchen, then gives himself a tour of your living room, and you leave him there inspecting the watercolours of the forest behind your childhood home, one for every season, before he can ask who painted them.

In your bedroom you pull open your wardrobe, fingers running along the dresses hanging neatly inside as you try to pick one. You have four different options laid out on your bed when Spencer appears in the doorway, clearly done with his self-guided tour of your home. “We need to get going,” he says.

“I know.”

He comes into the room, settling next to you, looking at the dresses you’ve got laid out. He points to the green one, which is your favourite, but you aren’t sure.

You pick it up and hold it in front of you. “I just don’t know if they’ll be able to hide the microphone.”

“They will,” he says confidently. Then he raises a hand, hesitating for just long enough that you realise the confidence was all about the skills of the surveillance team and their gear, not about him, before he lets a finger run down your cleavage, into your shirt until he finds the cups of your bra. “They can put it here.”

“Right,” you say, looking down at his hand. “Don’t we need to get going?”

“We do,” he agrees, nodding and not removing his hand.

It’s been a few weeks since you fled from his apartment in the early hours of the morning, leaving behind that stupid little certificate, and it felt like he actually got it. He understood that you were done, there was nothing left for you to teach him.

You both walked on eggshells for a few days, but there wasn’t anything new about that, everyone else just assumed they’d missed a fight you had and now you were settling into a truce. It has been a while since your arguments and snide comments have actually felt real, though; they’re not quite a pretence, not exactly a habit, more just a game you both play, trying to get the other riled up: It’s been a long time since there was any venom in your fangs.

But no-one else seems to have noticed that.

And then things returned to normal. You'd catch him looking at you sometimes, the tips of his ears red and his eyes glazed, see him turning away or bolting from a room suddenly, and everyone else just wrote it off as Spencer being Spencer, but you had a pretty good idea of what was really going on.

If no-one else was watching, you might stretch provocatively, shooting out your chest more than you strictly needed to, bend down to pick up a pen and then putting a hand on his knee for leverage as you sat back up, letting that hand slide up his thigh under cover of the conference room table.

You might touch yourself at night thinking about him, and honestly you assumed he did the same thinking about you. Once, and only once, what got you off was thinking about him thinking about you. He never asked for anything else, never suggested or hinted at or expressed any interest in anything more, and you were relieved.

No, really.

Because it was all getting far too easy, and starting to feel just a little too dangerous. Like maybe it’s not just a game anymore.

You meant what you told him, at the beginning and again at the end. Save some things for when it matters, to not throw it all away just because he's sick of holding on to it. Because maybe he will regret the letting go.

And you will not be anyone’s regret.

But now here you are, with his finger tucked into your cleavage and your bed just a few feet away and his breathing getting that edge to it that you know too well for resentful colleagues, his eyes focused through those coke bottle glasses and you can feel your skin heating up.

Spencer’s phone rings and you release a breath you didn’t realise you were holding when he jumps in shock, his finger withdrawing.

“Hello?” He answers with the hand that was touching you a moment ago and you wonder how the phone hasn’t overheated.

“Yeah, we’re just about ready to go.” He looks at you as you rummage through your wardrobe for the right pair of shoes. Then he rolls his eyes. “No, we haven’t. Do you want to talk to her?”

You hear JJ laughing followed by silence when he hangs up on her.

“She was worried you had me tied up in the back of a van,” he says.

Sure she was. “Top drawer,” you say, ignoring the dig and pointing at your dresser. Wait for him to have it half open before you continue. “There’s a bra in there somewhere, same colour as the dress. Would you grab it for me?”

You don’t bother to suppress the smirk when his hand freezes. Leave it on your face until he turns around to look at you, his mouth hanging slightly open.

“I, um,” he says and then his face goes blank and he turns back around. “Sure.” His voice does a little squeak and he clears his throat.

Hilarious. Kind of adorable.

You shake your head and start packing your things, taking the green bra from him when he hands it to you, his fingers hanging on to it for just a little longer than they need to, as if he thinks it might belong to him now.

Then you let yourselves out of your apartment and get in the car.

You’re halfway back to Quantico before he speaks, the words coming out stiff and rehearsed. “I’ve never done this before.”

“What? Been undercover?” You glance at him, then turn your eyes back to the car in front of you. “Me neither, but this seems pretty straightforward. We just sit in a fancy restaurant and eat our food and wait for the UnSub to hopefully appear. And at the end of the night, we hand the bill to Hotch. That’s probably the part I’m looking forward to the most.”

“No,” he says, like you misunderstood the math problem he just explained. He didn’t really explain anything, though. “I’ve never been out for dinner like this. Like a date.”

“This isn’t a date, Reid. This is work.” Your tone is firm, just so you’re sure you both understand.

“I know. I just mean, I don’t know how to act.”

Right. “You act normal. It’s just a meal. We’ve had meals together before, with the team.”

“No, I…” He shakes his head, frustrated. “You know that’s not the same.”

You do know. You also maybe have a pretty good idea what he’s really asking, but you have no idea what the right answer is, so you’ll continue to play dumb for as long as you can get away with.

“It sort of is the same,” you argue. “You go on a date, you have a meal, you talk, maybe you tell a joke. Like, what’s the fastest way to determine the sex of a chromosome?”

He stares at you. “What?”

“What’s the fastest way—”

“No, I heard you. What do you mean? Biologically speaking, chromosomes determine sex, not the other way around. The combination of—”

“You pull down its genes, Reid. Jesus Christ. It’s a joke.”

“It’s a bad one,” he says. “And it opens the door to a very complicated question about sex and gender.”

“Right. So maybe you don’t tell a joke on your imaginary date.”

“Then what do I do?”

“I don’t know. You pull out the chair for her, you let her order her own food, don’t be the asshole who tells her she wants the veal. Don’t comment on what she orders unless it’s to say something nice about it. Ask her if she wants wine before you order any, compliment her dress or her eyes or whatever, so she knows you know she made an effort and you appreciate it. Listen to her, pay attention to what she’s telling you, ask her follow-up questions. But don’t do it like you’re interviewing her, it needs to be a real conversation. At the end of the night, help her put her coat on. If it’s going well, offer to drive her home, but don’t be offended if she says no. Don’t expect her to invite you in. Be respectful. If you feel like she’s giving the right signals, you can kiss her. Don’t wait three days to text her, especially if you want to see her again.”

Spencer clears his throat. “Just a meal, huh.”

You laugh. “Yeah. Simple.”

Out of the corner of your eye you see him chewing on his lips. “I don’t really know how to talk to girls.”

“You talk to JJ, you talk to Penelope. You talk to me.”

“That’s different.”

“Why? Because you don’t want to go on a date with any of us?”

He blushes, stays quiet for so long you think the conversation might be over. He's not going to try to rope you into teaching him how to date or anything insane like that. “I did actually… I sort of went on a date with JJ last year. Or, I think I did, but I don’t think she realised that. She invited Garcia to join us.”

He looks like he’s worried you’ll laugh at this confession. You are not laughing. Reid and JJ. JJ and Reid. You feel like your head is spinning. You feel like you’re in middle school again, for fuck’s sake. “So you like JJ?”

Is this what you’ve been doing? Teaching him all the moves so he can put them on JJ? You feel like you might throw up. There’s no way this can end that isn’t bad. Was he so high when you were in New Orleans that he didn’t notice what was going on with LaMontagne? Has he not seen the way she rushes out of the office every time you all have a weekend off?

“No!” He shakes his head. “I—She was the first pretty girl to ever be nice to me, she calls me ‘Spence’, I didn’t… No.”

You’re relieved that you're driving, that you have an excuse to not be looking at him as he lets this all spill.

“Maybe I just thought I did, or maybe it went away on its own, I don't know. But, no. Definitely not.”

“Okay,” you say, because what else could you really say? Keep picking at the scab? “Anyway, you'll be fine once you get there. The real challenge is getting a date in the first place.” You don't sound bitter, you're making a joke. Just to be clear.

You expect him to huff, maybe argue, call you rude. But he just grimaces. “I know.”

“Oh, come on, Reid,” you say, more frustrated than you probably should be about this. “How many girls have you asked out on dates and they said no? Other than JJ who didn’t realise you were asking her on a date.” Not asking JJ about this non-date is probably something you’re going to struggle with, just a little bit, in the same way you can’t resist the temptation to pick at cuts on your skin as they start to heal, because you get some sick pleasure out of making them bleed again.

“Well, none.”

“So that’s a 100% success rate.”

“It’s a 0% success rate. 100% of nothing is still nothing, and 0% is nothing.”

“So it’s a 0% failure rate,” you say, feeling smug.

He closes his eyes, but you catch his lips curling upwards. “I guess.” Then he turns and looks at you. “I don’t like it when you get mathy. I feel like you’re doing it wrong and it shouldn’t make sense but somehow it does. It makes me uncomfortable."

“Why do you think I do it?” you ask, grinning at the rear-view mirror as you change lanes so you can make the exit to Quantico.

“Because you like to watch me suffer?”

“So smart,” you say, reaching out a hand to ruffle his hair. “Such a good boy.”

He pulls his head away from you, fixing his hair and his glasses, goes back to looking out the window. “I still don’t know how to go on a date, though,” he says. “How am I supposed to look convincing tonight?”

“Just pretend you want to be there, eat your food, and don’t worry about it. No-one is watching us and wondering if we’re really on a date or we secretly hate each other.”

His head whips around. “We hate each other?”

You smile. “You know what I mean. Despise, detest, loathe. You’re the walking thesaurus, pick your favourite, I’m not bothered.” You are entirely and completely unbothered. In fact, you could not be less bothered, by anything.

“I don’t—” He sighs deeply. “Yeah, okay. I’ll pretend none of those are true.”

“You know what,” you say, wondering what demon is possessing you and making your mouth run like this. “You can use this as a practice date. The stakes couldn’t be lower, it doesn’t matter if you do well or not, it’s not like I can leave. It’s my job to sit there and listen to you.”

“So you’ll teach me how to go on a date, like you taught me…” he trails off.

You smile, because it’s either that or punching yourself. Are you an idiot or is Spencer secretly a master manipulator? Somehow, the way this conversation has gone, you feel like now you're the one suggesting the very thing you didn't want him to ask you. “Yeah, why not. I mean, what’s the point in knowing how to eat a woman out if you’re never going to get one into your bed?”

“I got you into my bed,” he points out, an edge to his tone.

“Yes, well, that doesn’t exactly count, Reid. I meant for real.” Your mouth just keeps spewing all these words and you’re almost tempted to drive the car into the wall of the underground parking garage as you pull into the darkness under the building. You actually sound like you’re desperate to teach this guy how to get a girlfriend. Insane. Insanely idiotic.

“I know it doesn’t count,” he tells you. “I’m just saying. It happened.”

“Yeah,” you agree. “It did. And I enjoyed it, don’t get me wrong. But don't waste it because you’re scared to go on a date.”

“I never said I was scared,” he insists. “I said I don’t know how to do it.”

You park the car, pulling in more aggressively than you maybe should, but somehow you manage not to dent anything. Other than maybe your own sanity. “And now you’ll learn. Problem solved.”

The way he looks at you when you hurry to get out of the car makes you feel like maybe you’re the problem he can’t solve. He also looks slightly terrified.

*

“Okay,” Derek says, looking you up and down in a way that should feel lewd but somehow doesn’t. He’s leaning against the wall between the doors to the locker rooms, and clearly you’ve beat Spencer to get changed and put on your makeup first.

Which might have been possible because you were already pulling your things out of your bag while he was still getting out of the car.

“Fuck off, grandpa,” you tell Derek, swatting him with your clutch.

“Does Reid know you’re wearing this?” He’s grinning from ear to ear, like he’s about to witness comedy gold.

So you shock the smug off of him. “He picked it.”

He whistles. “Damn, pretty boy. I didn’t know he had it in him.”

You don’t say that there’s a lot about Spencer Derek doesn’t know. There’s a lot about Spencer that no-one knows besides you and you try really hard not to revel in that. “I think he just liked the colour,” you say instead, feeling like an asshole for reducing him to that. To someone who doesn’t actually know what he wants, who’s too innocent and too buried in his books to notice. There’s nothing wrong with being like that, but there’s more to Spencer than all these people seem to grasp.

And there was definitely nothing innocent about the way he had his whole face buried in your pussy while he ate you through the single most earth-shattering orgasm of your life.

But you can’t exactly say that to Derek, so instead you play up the ‘oh, silly little Reid, whatever will we do with him.’

He clears his throat, looking around to make sure no-one else is within earshot and you wonder what could possibly be about to come out of his mouth. You and Derek Morgan aren’t confidantes. You joke and talk bullshit about each other's football teams, and yeah, you’d trust him with your life in the field, but he’s not who you’d go to if you were sad about things.

“Go easy on him, okay.”

“What?” You snort.

He waves a hand, indicating your body, your dress, your ridiculous heels. “I’m just saying, you, looking like that. Kid’s gonna have a heart attack.”

“Statistically improbable,” Spencer says from right behind Derek, who turns around slowly to give himself time to wipe a guilty expression off his face. “I’m 25, I’m not in any of the risk groups.”

“I mean, you’re in some of the risk groups,” you cut in, stepping around Derek so you can see Spencer. “Your diet is ridiculous and you drink way more coffee than anyone should.”

“Medically insignificant in the big picture.” Spencer’s eyes are glued to a spot on the wall behind you.

“Medically insignificant? And you know this, how? From your PhD in Engineering?”

“If you’re both ready, we’re leaving in 2 minutes. Van is good to go,” Derek says. Then he leans in and whispers in your ear. “He’s definitely having some kind of attack.”

You wait for Derek to disappear around the corner and then you smile at Spencer. “You good?”

He nods, still staring at the wall.

“Reid?”

“I’m fine,” he insists.

“Can you maybe look at me when you say that?”

“No.”

You take a step closer to him, so you can put a hand on his arm. “Reid?”

“I’ll look at you when I’m sitting down,” he says through gritted teeth, slowly shifting away from your touch.

You’re so surprised, you laugh, and he looks up at the ceiling as if he’s in pain. “I’m sorry,” you say quickly. “I’m not laughing at you.”

“Well, you’re not laughing with me,” he points out, his tone sharp, and he squeezes his eyes shut. “Sorry.”

You lean in close to him. In these heels you’re tall enough that you only have to tilt your head back and you can whisper right in his ear. “Go to the restroom, take care of this little situation—” You press yourself into him, and you can feel his erection growing against you as he gets harder by the second. “—and then come meet us downstairs in a few minutes. I’ll tell them you left your phone in the locker room or whatever.”

You actually hear the gulp when he swallows. “I—” he stutters. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” you ask, pulling back. “You have before.”

“That was different,” he says, more than a hint of petulance.

“What? You need me to talk you through it?”

He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again.

“I’m not going in there with you. I only brought this dress, you can’t get it dirty.”

He looks at you, taking in your outfit, his eyes travelling down your body and then slowly back up. His gaze is so intense, you feel it almost like a physical touch and you have to make a conscious effort not to fidget.

When his eyes reach your chest, they linger there for so long you look down, in case there’s something wrong. Did you already spill something?

“You might have been right,” he says, eyes locked on your cleavage, his breathing shallow.

“It happens more often than you’d think.” You’re impressed by how casual you manage to sound, the way his eyes are caressing your skin.

He smiles, but doesn’t look away. “There really isn’t anywhere to hide the microphone.”

“Oh,” you say lightly, moving his hand so he’s cupping your breast. “I already have it on. See?”

His thumb traces the underwire of your bra and snags on the microphone, clipped in between your breasts.

“If you lean in really close, you can just about see it,” you tell him.

“Nope.” He’s shaking his head as he lets go of you and then he's walking ahead of you to get to the elevator and the van waiting for you both in the parking garage.

“Love to watch you walk away in those pants, Reid,” you shout and then follow him.

You’re too slow in your stupid heels and he manages to actually get in the elevator so far ahead of you that the doors are already closing when you get near. You point towards the panel, indicating that he should open the doors for you, but he just waves and disappears from view. By the time you’re close enough to push the button to call the elevator yourself, he’s already descending.

You get your phone out of your clutch bag and send him a text. “Asshole.”

The elevator doors are finally closing to let you go down when a reply comes through. “Hurry up, everyone’s waiting for you.”

Yeah, he’s definitely an asshole. You grin because so are you, and there’s no way you won’t make him pay for what he did.

If he doesn’t realise that, then he’s not as clever as he likes to think.

*

Morgan has his shit-eating grin back on, wears it all the way to the restaurant, whereas Spencer spends the whole drive leaning away from you like you're poison ivy and you wonder what they talked about before you caught up with them.

Then, before you know it the side door of the van is sliding shut three blocks from the restaurant and you're standing next to Spencer on the sidewalk regretting your choice of shoes.

"Okay," Spencer says, and it's the first word you've heard come out of his mouth since he walked away from you outside the locker rooms.

"Yup," you agree.

"Your reservation is in ten minutes, kids. Use it or lose it," Morgan says in the earpiece concealed by your hair hanging loosely around your face. He sounds amused but also just slightly fed up, and then the van pulls away to park somewhere closer to the restaurant.

"We should go," you tell Spencer, whose hair isn't long enough to hide his ears consistently, which means… you can tell him basically anything and pretend it's an order from the van. You grin.

"What did he say?"

"That you should probably carry me to the restaurant so I don't have to walk."

In your earpiece, Morgan laughs, probably amused that you've only just caught on to the setup.

"What did he really say?"

"Piggyback style is fine."

Spencer starts walking.

"Fireman's lift might be a bit much," you go on more loudly, following him as fast as you're able to.

He stops on the corner one block away, waiting for you to catch up. "We're supposed to know each other, right?" he asks, turning his head to look at you. "It's not like a first date?"

"I don't think anyone cares about that, Reid. You can make up your own backstory."

"But if we're arriving together?" he goes on. "Or did I just pick you up?"

Your eyebrows shoot up.

"At home, I mean. Not—" He sighs, frustrated.

Morgan whistles. "From zero to meltdown in four minutes. Impressive."

"It's fine," you say. To both of them.

Then you hold out a hand for Spencer to take. "It's our second date. We were introduced by mutual friends. None of us were really sold on the idea at first and the friends had to offer to pay for our meal or we wouldn't go out. The first date went really well," you add suggestively. "But we both pretended it didn't to get them to fork out for another meal. And here we are."

There's another whistle in your ear. "You came up with that pretty quick," Morgan says, insinuating all sorts of things. Or at least that's how it sounds to you because yeah, you kind of did.

Spencer stares at you for a long moment, then he takes your hand. "That's very deceitful of us," he says. His hand fits around yours in a way you aren't sure you're comfortable with.

"Meh. A free meal is a free meal."

Spencer smiles a little and then he nods. "Okay."

You reach the restaurant and Spencer holds the door open for you, letting you walk in ahead of him without letting go of your hand. When you reach the maître d', he gives the guy the fake name your reservation is under, helps you out of your coat before taking your hand again, and then he walks you to your seat, only releasing you so he can pull out your chair for you. He strokes your hair before walking away and you're about to ask what the hell he's doing, but then you realise he's covering your earpiece.

A waiter turns up with menus and introduces himself, promises to come back with water and some complimentary bread.

Spencer looks at the menu for about seven seconds, by which time he probably has it memorised, and then abandons it for the wine menu. "Do you want wine with your food?"

You hum, pretending to think it over, waiting for Morgan to tell you if that's allowed.

"This isn't a kegger." Which isn't a 'no', exactly.

"Maybe just a glass?" you suggest.

"They have half bottles, we can share one," Spencer suggests.

"What are you having?" you ask, looking up from your menu. This seems like the kind of place where they'll be offended if you order wine that doesn't match your food.

"Not the veal," he jokes, and you smile.

"The salmon looks good," you say.

"Okay," Spencer agrees, going back to the wine list. "I have no idea which wine goes with salmon," he admits after a moment, a look on his face like he thinks that's some kind of failing and maybe he should've read a sommelier textbook or five on the way over.

"Just let the waiter pick one that'll go with both our meals," you tell him.

"Oh." Spencer looks up. "Salmon."

Right.

You're both about halfway through your starters, Spencer inspecting the cutlery carefully before he starts eating and you aren't sure if he wants to make sure it's clean or he's trying to guess which standard of silver it is, when he suddenly looks at you, setting down his knife and fork.

"I know it's probably obvious, but I really like your dress," he says, eyes straying away from you repeatedly as if he's not quite up to the task of eye-contact but he's trying. "The colour looks really good with your hair."

In your ear, Morgan makes a whooshing sound.

"Thank you," you say, smiling and trying to ignore Morgan.

"Do you, um, do you wear it a lot?"

Morgan's laughter nearly bursts your eardrum and you're tempted to pull out the earpiece. Instead you just rub your fingers against your chest, right above the cleavage to remind him that you're mic'd up.

His eyes go wide and you can see a blush creeping up his neck. How did he actually manage to forget, though?

"Not really," you say lightly. "I bought it for a friend's wedding a few years ago, it's just been sitting in my wardrobe since then."

"That's… too bad," Spencer says with the expression of someone who wishes the ground would swallow him up.

"Oh kid, no," Morgan says in your ear and you fight really hard not to roll your eyes at him.

You shake your head slightly and then lean over the table, wrapping your hand around the microphone concealed between yuor breasts, hoping it'll prevent Morgan from hearing the next words you're going to say. The fact that Spencer's eyes bug out as they watch you fondle yourself is honestly just an added bonus. "Trust me, it looks much better on my bedroom floor," you whisper, and then you lean back, releasing the microphone.

"What just happened?" You can hear a tinge of worry in Morgan's voice, like maybe he thinks the mic is faulty and you'll have to call the whole thing off.

"I… uh, I can imagine," Spencer stutters, and you hear Morgan breathe out heavily in relief.

"Did you know that the average American eats out at restaurants an average of 3 to 5 times per month?" Spencer asks you after the waiter has cleared your plates.

Feeling like an absolute saint, you don't ask him who the average American is eating out at that frequency and just shake your head. "I did not know that, no."

"This is only sit down restaurants, of course," he goes on. "If you include takeaway meals, the number increases to as much as 3 to 5 times per week instead."

"Fascinating."

Morgan snorts in your ear.

Spencer starts feeding you stats on meal costs and average spending and you nod along as you nudge your right shoe off and then stretch your leg so you can rub your foot up his calf. At first he just looks confused, but by the time you reach his knee he has clearly worked out what's happening.

His voice breaks on '177' and he clears his throat to try again. The second time it comes out just a little squeaky. "Or roughly… that," he finishes.

"Whatever you're doing, stop it," Morgan warns you.

You ignore him and rub your foot up the inside of Spencer's thigh. "You know, I thought you were a bit rude earlier," you say very casually.

"What's that?" he asks, still in that squeaky tone and you bite down on a grin.

"Maybe you didn't see me," you allow. "On the elevator. I wanted to go down, too."

Your foot is, you would estimate by how the fabric of his trousers has got tighter, less than an inch from his crotch when he reaches under the table with both hands, grabbing your foot in a vice grip. He doesn't say anything, just pulls a face that you think is supposed to look stern, but mostly just looks desperate.

"I'm sorry?" he says, clearly struggling to keep his voice normal.

"I'm sure you are," you tell him, your head tilting.

"I'm very sorry," he says, his eyes straying to a point behind you, before coming back to your face and then to that point behind you again. He lets go of your foot. "Put on your shoes."

You move to turn to see what he's looking at, but he shakes his head no.

"So did you have any pets when you were a kid?" he asks, eyes still focused somewhere behind you.

"Yeah, we had a dog. Or, my brother did, I guess. The rest of us just lived in the same house."

Spencer, the onliest only child you've ever met, frowns a little. "What does that mean?"

"Robbie got Wiener for Christmas the year I was born. As compensation for having to have a sibling. I wasn't allowed to play with the dog until Robbie was in high school and his girlfriend told him that was mean."

"Wow."

You shrug, unbothered.

"What does your brother do?"

You smile a little. "He is a child psychologist."

"No way." Spencer shakes his head in disbelief, then he nods in the direction he's been looking, and you turn to see what has him distracted.

Sitting at the bar with his back to you, but his face visible in between liquor bottles on a shelf in front of the mirror, is your UnSub. You watch as he starts getting out of his seat and shrugging on his jacket. You turn back to Spencer who looks at you with his eyebrows raised in question. When you nod, he nods back.

"Rubber duck," you say, face turned down to put you closer to the microphone.

"Can you repeat that?" Morgan asks, suddenly alert. Clearly anecdotes about your childhood pets weren't his jam.

"Quack, quack," you say instead. Spencer rolls his eyes.

"Copy," Morgan says and you hear the sound of the van doors opening and closing as the team move in so they can arrest the guy when he walks out.

"That's disappointing," you say, looking at Spencer.

"How so?"

"Never got to try the salmon."

He nods. "Right. Well, I mean, we already ordered, surely we—" He trails off, looking behind you again, his face falling.

"Good job, kids." It's JJ. "Let's go."

"But—" you say, pleading. "Our food. I'm hungry."

"We have a perfectly good vending machine back at Quantico," she says.

"You are so mean," you tell her. "Spencer, tell her she's being mean."

"I'm not really that hungry," he says, but when you get up, he stays seated.

"Traitor," you huff, trying not to smirk at him as you pull your mic free from your bra, disconnecting it. Unlike JJ you have a pretty good idea why he's still sitting down.

"Did you seriously expect him to agree with you?" JJ sounds so confused you laugh. "Spence, let's go."

"Yeah, I'll be right there," he says, looking at the floor like he dropped something.

"Okay. I'll see you both outside," JJ says and then she walks off, presumably to pay for the food you won't get to eat.

You turn back to Spencer, still in his chair, and nod your chin in the general direction of his seat and what you assume is an erection he's trying to hide under the tablecloth. "So just how sorry are you?"

He sighs. "Pretty sorry."

"Good," you say.

He tries to look like he thinks you're being unreasonable, but when you raise your eyebrows at him, he just sighs again. "Go away, please."

"That kind of talk isn't going to get you a second date, Reid," you joke.

"I thought this was the second date."

"No skipping lessons," you tell him like you're a stern teacher. Not that Spencer would know what one of those sounds like, you're pretty sure he didn't misbehave once in the five days he spent finishing school.

"Oh. Right." Then he smiles as if what you said means something else to him than it does to you.

"Okay," you say. "I'm gonna—" You point towards the exit.

"Okay," he agrees and you turn to leave.

The maître d' is pulling out your coat for you when Spencer suddenly appears next to you, taking your coat from the other man and holding it up so you can put it on, grabbing the lapels and tugging it around you.

"Thank you" you say, trying to pretend you don't notice the way his hands brush against you through the heavy fabric, the way they linger longer than necessary.

"Of course," he says, shrugging on his own jacket and falling into step next to you as you walk outside, the frigid air hitting you in the face and making you shiver.

Spencer steps closer to you, and you think he might be about to put his arm around you, but then the van pulls around the corner and maybe he did just mean to scratch his neck, what do you know.

When you get to the van, JJ and Morgan are already sitting in the back happily tucking into the main courses you ordered, served up in styrofoam boxes.

"You both suck," you say, pointing at them in turn.

"I think someone's a little hangry," Morgan jokes.

"A little?" Spencer asks from behind you and then sidesteps when you try to jab him with your elbow.

"So tell us about this first date you guys supposedly had," Morgan says around a mouthful of your salmon.

"Blow me," you tell him and he snorts. You hope he chokes on a bone.

Then, with a level of stealth you could not have predicted, Spencer grabs the styrofoam box from Morgan's hand while he's distracted by your retort, passes it to you and then pulls a fork he must have stolen from the restaurant out of his pocket and hands it to you as well.

"What the?" Morgan stares at him.

"If she's eating, she's quiet," Spencer says dismissively, not looking at you as he takes his seat.

"Mhmm," you agree quickly, sitting down and taking a mouthful of mashed potatoes.

You try to offer Spencer a forkful but he looks at you like you're insane and pulls a granola bar from his jacket pocket instead.

*

It's three hours later and you’re brushing your teeth when a text comes through, finally back home after what felt like a too long evening of debriefing and doing paperwork. Toothbrush hanging from the side of your mouth, you open your phone and see that the text is from Spencer.

“I had a very nice time tonight. Do you want to do this again sometime? Maybe coffee on Saturday?”

The toothbrush falls into the sink with a clatter, and you wipe foamy drool off your chin, staring at your phone in shock.

Then another text arrives: “Like that?”

You blink.

Yeah, Reid. Exactly like that.