Barbie

An envelope catches Spencer’s eye.

It’s old paper, with a pretty lavender seal on the back, two flowers intertwined and embossed on the wax. He’s confused as to why it’s here, why it’s stuck between two books he’s read more times than he can count, on this lonely bookshelf at the back of his favorite book store. He looks around nervously before reaching out, pulling the envelope to him. His eyes widen in surprise, the pretty script on the front doesn’t have his name but it is clearly for him -

To: Mismatched Socks, Converse, and Sweater Vests

He looks around the bookstore, obviously confused but sees that no one else is around. He places the envelope back on the shelf, turns and gets four steps away before he looks back, then goes back to the shelf, picking it up and gingerly holding it close to him, getting a subtle whiff of a sweet perfume. It has to be for him, but who in the world would leave a letter here? Who knows that he frequents this shelf in this store? He wonders if it’s a prank from the team, decides that has to be it but before he can open the letter, he sees the time - he’s going to be late for work if he doesn’t leave now. He takes the letter with him, giving a small wave to the old woman at the register, missing the sly grin she gives him back.

He honestly forgets all about the letter until the next night in the hotel. As soon as he’d gotten to work, they were meeting in the briefing room, a case in Florida taking priority. It’s when he’s going into his leather satchel, looking for a book to calm his mind that he sees the envelope, taking it out and laying it on the table. He examines it, a little afraid of what he will find inside. His mind is whirring with possibilities now, things he hadn’t considered before. Could it be someone targeting him? An unsub? A prank? Please don’t let it have Anthrax powder. Or glitter. Garcia had told him about “glitter bombs” recently. Actually, Spencer thinks he’d prefer the anthrax to being covered in glitter. At least he could get treated for anthrax but glitter would never come out of his curls.

Hesitantly, he opens the envelope, pulling out a single sheet of tri-folded paper. He doesn’t recognize the script, or the scent that’s attached to the paper, although it has a rare calming effect on him. His eyebrows furrow as he reads the word, then they raise on his forehead in utter disbelief. It’s a… love letter? Or, a crush letter, maybe. He has to read it twice, forcing his eyes to slow down and observe the words, making sure he reads each individual letter.

“To the man with mismatched socks, converse, and sweater vests,

I apologize, I don’t know your name, as we haven’t actually officially met. We’ve talked - about a few novels- but it’s never gotten far enough for me to catch your name. I suppose it’s fair, as you have no idea my name either.

This letter is a way to initiate conversation and to confess something. You see, I’m too shy to say this in person, but I needed you to know that I admire you. Truth be told, I have a small crush on you, sir, although writing that seems so juvenile. But it’s true - I love your mismatched socks and when you wear your glasses. I love how your hair never seems to stay in one style but always looks so soft. I love hearing you read to yourself, your steady cadence, and the way you stick your tongue out, just slightly, when you’re trying to concentrate. I am amazed at how fast you can read and, must confess, have wondered if you could read me the same way you read a book - so focused, a single digit trailing down my pages, your eyes wide in wonder. You captivate me each time I am lucky enough to see you, at the shelf that no one else seems to care for.

I apologize again, for the secrecy and if my words have overstepped or made you at all uncomfortable. I just thought you should know that there is someone out there in the world who sees you, and finds themselves hopelessly drawn to you with each passing glance.

Signed,

A Secret Admirer

P.S. - How fast can you truly read?

Spencer’s face has flushed a bright red, and he scans the letter once more, even if he had already memorized it. The handwriting was slanted just slightly, but there was even spacing between each letter and word. Nothing in the letter indicated the secret admirer would be an unsub, or dangerous. It didn’t come off as a prank and there was no glitter attached. Spencer sat at the tiny table inside his hotel room, dumbfounded. Of all the things the letter could have been, a letter admiring him was the last thing he had expected. He knew if he looked in the mirror, his cheeks would be bright red.

Suddenly, he had a worrying thought - should he reply? Write back - try to figure out who this secret admirer was? How would he - leave it on the same shelf? What if it didn’t get to whoever you were? He refolded the letter, placing it delicately back in his bag. He didn’t have time to think of this right now - he had a case to solve.

——————-

Throughout the case, Spencer tells himself he isn’t thinking about the letter, remembering every word, every swoop your pen made on the paper. He tells himself that, while very flattering, it’s unimportant. That he needs to focus. It almost works. Almost. By the end of the case, he’s written a reply five times in his head, and has decided he’d see if the elderly woman who normally sat behind the register would be able to help him deliver the letter. Little old ladies always know everything, after all. On the jet home, he finds himself the only one awake and decides to write back, to put his thoughts on paper before he loses his nerve.

To: Wax Seals, Cursive, and Old Parchment

“To the person who writes in cursive on old parchment and uses wax seals,

Hello.

I suppose this should start with an introduction. My name is Spencer. Well, Dr. Spencer Reid. But I’m not that type of doctor - I’ve got 3 PhDs. Thank you for your letter. It was flattering and entirely unexpected. I should also thank you for not filling it with glitter, as it was something I feared.

I found myself rereading your letter, multiple times, which is odd as I have an eidetic memory and don’t technically need to do so. I’ve gone through my memory, trying to determine who you are, who could possibly be nice enough to leave such a flattering letter but I keep coming up blank. It’s entirely disconcerting.

Regardless, I appreciate the time you took to write to me and well, I hope you respond to this.

Sincerely,

Spencer Reid

P.S. - I can read 20,000 words per minute. Our unconscious minds can actually process 11 million bits of information per second.

The bookshop is still open when he passes by on the way home, and the elderly woman running the register is delighted that he has a letter, but she refuses to tell him your name - saying he can’t deprive her of this little joy, can he? Spencer nervously hands her the envelope and leaves, not truly expecting a reply.

But you do reply, and then he does again. Even though you know his full name, the envelope is always addressed to a description - Dr. Cute Glasses, Dr. Agent Curly, Gentleman with an Eidetic Memory. He takes what he learns from your letters and does the same - you’d told him your first name but never you last, teasing him through your letters that if he truly is a genius profiler, he can figure it out himself. Months go by, and while at first you had exchanged one letter per week, it’s increased as time has gone on. Spencer longs to meet you in person, to talk to you face to face, to see if you’re as wonderful as you appear to be on paper. He hides the letters from the team but puts every single one in a book that he brings to every case. He flushes when he realizes that he’s fallen in love with someone he has never met.

At first, he doesn’t know you feel the same way. You always leave a post script, every single letter. Normally it’s a question for him, although you’ve tried to tell him surprising facts - determined to stump him. On your last letter, you had asked him if he was ever going to find you in person, teasing that you’d left him many clues. Your post script was simple - I love you, Spencer Reid. It had been terrifying to write and you hoped it wouldn’t scare him off, wouldn’t stop the letters and conversations you cherished.

You knew he had received the letter, but you hadn’t received a reply back. He had called the bookstore and offered a message for you, saying he was away for a long case and was unsure when he’d be back. You could only hope it was the truth, hope that he was truly the man you believed he was because if he was, he wouldn’t lie to you.

It’s the truth - he is on a case on the other side of the country but every moment not spent working is spent rereading your letters, trying to see if you really did leave him clues. He wants to tell you he loves you as well but needs it to be in person, to see the look on your face. He finds that in one of your shorter letters, you only capitalized the first letter of the sentence - and he realizes you left him your last name. He doesn’t know how he missed it before, but he finds himself laughing, hunting for anything else that will help him find you.

The letters had started sweet but turned serious, and he found himself sharing things with you he never dreamed he’d ever tell someone. You made sure to tell him how wonderful he was in each letter, how special he was to you. He had already decided he didn’t care what you looked like - he was in love with your very soul. The scent the letters always carried calmed him in a way nothing else did and he found himself tracing the indents on the paper with the tip of his finger when he was stressed.

Spencer finds it funny that he’s in a hotel room again, poring over your letters. He thinks he knows who you are, and where to find you. He debates asking Garcia for confirmation but decides to take a risk - he wants this to stay private and she can’t keep a secret to save her life. The moment he gets back in town he heads to the flower shop, a letter in hand. Then, without second guessing himself, he goes to where he thinks he will find you - wondering how he never put together that you’d be in the cafe next to the bookstore.

He watches as you leave the cafe and calls out your name. You turn, surprised and wondering who had spoken, gasping when you see it’s him. You watch Spencer swallow, watch as he walks the few steps to stand in front of you, in between the coffee shop and the bookstore. He holds the flowers out, and you hesitantly take them, looking at him with wide eyes. He swallows once more, then speaks,

“I love you, too”.

Your answering smile is all he needs to know he’s right, and when you launch yourself at him, he immediately holds you close, can smell the calming scent that clung to every letter.

You two still write each other letters, even after meeting and exchanging numbers. When you two move in with each other, it becomes a game to hide the letters so the other finds them randomly. And when Spencer proposes to you, it just makes sense that he starts it with a letter, one that he addresses to,

An envelope catches Spencer’s eye.

It’s old paper, with a pretty lavender seal on the back, two flowers intertwined and embossed on the wax. He’s confused as to why it’s here, why it’s stuck between two books he’s read more times than he can count, on this lonely bookshelf at the back of his favorite book store. He looks around nervously before reaching out, pulling the envelope to him. His eyes widen in surprise, the pretty script on the front doesn’t have his name but it is clearly for him -

To: Mismatched Socks, Converse, and Sweater Vests

He looks around the bookstore, obviously confused but sees that no one else is around. He places the envelope back on the shelf, turns and gets four steps away before he looks back, then goes back to the shelf, picking it up and gingerly holding it close to him, getting a subtle whiff of a sweet perfume. It has to be for him, but who in the world would leave a letter here? Who knows that he frequents this shelf in this store? He wonders if it’s a prank from the team, decides that has to be it but before he can open the letter, he sees the time - he’s going to be late for work if he doesn’t leave now. He takes the letter with him, giving a small wave to the old woman at the register, missing the sly grin she gives him back.

He honestly forgets all about the letter until the next night in the hotel. As soon as he’d gotten to work, they were meeting in the briefing room, a case in Florida taking priority. It’s when he’s going into his leather satchel, looking for a book to calm his mind that he sees the envelope, taking it out and laying it on the table. He examines it, a little afraid of what he will find inside. His mind is whirring with possibilities now, things he hadn’t considered before. Could it be someone targeting him? An unsub? A prank? Please don’t let it have Anthrax powder. Or glitter. Garcia had told him about “glitter bombs” recently. Actually, Spencer thinks he’d prefer the anthrax to being covered in glitter. At least he could get treated for anthrax but glitter would never come out of his curls.

Hesitantly, he opens the envelope, pulling out a single sheet of tri-folded paper. He doesn’t recognize the script, or the scent that’s attached to the paper, although it has a rare calming effect on him. His eyebrows furrow as he reads the word, then they raise on his forehead in utter disbelief. It’s a… love letter? Or, a crush letter, maybe. He has to read it twice, forcing his eyes to slow down and observe the words, making sure he reads each individual letter.

“To the man with mismatched socks, converse, and sweater vests,

I apologize, I don’t know your name, as we haven’t actually officially met. We’ve talked - about a few novels- but it’s never gotten far enough for me to catch your name. I suppose it’s fair, as you have no idea my name either.

This letter is a way to initiate conversation and to confess something. You see, I’m too shy to say this in person, but I needed you to know that I admire you. Truth be told, I have a small crush on you, sir, although writing that seems so juvenile. But it’s true - I love your mismatched socks and when you wear your glasses. I love how your hair never seems to stay in one style but always looks so soft. I love hearing you read to yourself, your steady cadence, and the way you stick your tongue out, just slightly, when you’re trying to concentrate. I am amazed at how fast you can read and, must confess, have wondered if you could read me the same way you read a book - so focused, a single digit trailing down my pages, your eyes wide in wonder. You captivate me each time I am lucky enough to see you, at the shelf that no one else seems to care for.

I apologize again, for the secrecy and if my words have overstepped or made you at all uncomfortable. I just thought you should know that there is someone out there in the world who sees you, and finds themselves hopelessly drawn to you with each passing glance.

Signed,

A Secret Admirer

P.S. - How fast can you truly read?

Spencer’s face has flushed a bright red, and he scans the letter once more, even if he had already memorized it. The handwriting was slanted just slightly, but there was even spacing between each letter and word. Nothing in the letter indicated the secret admirer would be an unsub, or dangerous. It didn’t come off as a prank and there was no glitter attached. Spencer sat at the tiny table inside his hotel room, dumbfounded. Of all the things the letter could have been, a letter admiring him was the last thing he had expected. He knew if he looked in the mirror, his cheeks would be bright red.

Suddenly, he had a worrying thought - should he reply? Write back - try to figure out who this secret admirer was? How would he - leave it on the same shelf? What if it didn’t get to whoever you were? He refolded the letter, placing it delicately back in his bag. He didn’t have time to think of this right now - he had a case to solve.

——————-

Throughout the case, Spencer tells himself he isn’t thinking about the letter, remembering every word, every swoop your pen made on the paper. He tells himself that, while very flattering, it’s unimportant. That he needs to focus. It almost works. Almost. By the end of the case, he’s written a reply five times in his head, and has decided he’d see if the elderly woman who normally sat behind the register would be able to help him deliver the letter. Little old ladies always know everything, after all. On the jet home, he finds himself the only one awake and decides to write back, to put his thoughts on paper before he loses his nerve.

To: Wax Seals, Cursive, and Old Parchment

“To the person who writes in cursive on old parchment and uses wax seals,

Hello.

I suppose this should start with an introduction. My name is Spencer. Well, Dr. Spencer Reid. But I’m not that type of doctor - I’ve got 3 PhDs. Thank you for your letter. It was flattering and entirely unexpected. I should also thank you for not filling it with glitter, as it was something I feared.

I found myself rereading your letter, multiple times, which is odd as I have an eidetic memory and don’t technically need to do so. I’ve gone through my memory, trying to determine who you are, who could possibly be nice enough to leave such a flattering letter but I keep coming up blank. It’s entirely disconcerting.

Regardless, I appreciate the time you took to write to me and well, I hope you respond to this.

Sincerely,

Spencer Reid

P.S. - I can read 20,000 words per minute. Our unconscious minds can actually process 11 million bits of information per second.

The bookshop is still open when he passes by on the way home, and the elderly woman running the register is delighted that he has a letter, but she refuses to tell him your name - saying he can’t deprive her of this little joy, can he? Spencer nervously hands her the envelope and leaves, not truly expecting a reply.

But you do reply, and then he does again. Even though you know his full name, the envelope is always addressed to a description - Dr. Cute Glasses, Dr. Agent Curly, Gentleman with an Eidetic Memory. He takes what he learns from your letters and does the same - you’d told him your first name but never you last, teasing him through your letters that if he truly is a genius profiler, he can figure it out himself. Months go by, and while at first you had exchanged one letter per week, it’s increased as time has gone on. Spencer longs to meet you in person, to talk to you face to face, to see if you’re as wonderful as you appear to be on paper. He hides the letters from the team but puts every single one in a book that he brings to every case. He flushes when he realizes that he’s fallen in love with someone he has never met.

At first, he doesn’t know you feel the same way. You always leave a post script, every single letter. Normally it’s a question for him, although you’ve tried to tell him surprising facts - determined to stump him. On your last letter, you had asked him if he was ever going to find you in person, teasing that you’d left him many clues. Your post script was simple - I love you, Spencer Reid. It had been terrifying to write and you hoped it wouldn’t scare him off, wouldn’t stop the letters and conversations you cherished.

You knew he had received the letter, but you hadn’t received a reply back. He had called the bookstore and offered a message for you, saying he was away for a long case and was unsure when he’d be back. You could only hope it was the truth, hope that he was truly the man you believed he was because if he was, he wouldn’t lie to you.

It’s the truth - he is on a case on the other side of the country but every moment not spent working is spent rereading your letters, trying to see if you really did leave him clues. He wants to tell you he loves you as well but needs it to be in person, to see the look on your face. He finds that in one of your shorter letters, you only capitalized the first letter of the sentence - and he realizes you left him your last name. He doesn’t know how he missed it before, but he finds himself laughing, hunting for anything else that will help him find you.

The letters had started sweet but turned serious, and he found himself sharing things with you he never dreamed he’d ever tell someone. You made sure to tell him how wonderful he was in each letter, how special he was to you. He had already decided he didn’t care what you looked like - he was in love with your very soul. The scent the letters always carried calmed him in a way nothing else did and he found himself tracing the indents on the paper with the tip of his finger when he was stressed.

Spencer finds it funny that he’s in a hotel room again, poring over your letters. He thinks he knows who you are, and where to find you. He debates asking Garcia for confirmation but decides to take a risk - he wants this to stay private and she can’t keep a secret to save her life. The moment he gets back in town he heads to the flower shop, a letter in hand. Then, without second guessing himself, he goes to where he thinks he will find you - wondering how he never put together that you’d be in the cafe next to the bookstore.

He watches as you leave the cafe and calls out your name. You turn, surprised and wondering who had spoken, gasping when you see it’s him. You watch Spencer swallow, watch as he walks the few steps to stand in front of you, in between the coffee shop and the bookstore. He holds the flowers out, and you hesitantly take them, looking at him with wide eyes. He swallows once more, then speaks,

“I love you, too”.

Your answering smile is all he needs to know he’s right, and when you launch yourself at him, he immediately holds you close, can smell the calming scent that clung to every letter.

You two still write each other letters, even after meeting and exchanging numbers. When you two move in with each other, it becomes a game to hide the letters so the other finds them randomly. And when Spencer proposes to you, it just makes sense that he starts it with a letter, one that he addresses to,