bee

“I need to talk to you,” you announce, walking into the room uninvited—and frankly not caring about the lack of decorum on your part. Not that Penelope would mind, of course, she has done the same to you multiple times over the past however many years of your friendship, after all.  

Penelope turns to you on her swivel chair, her eyebrows rising with surprise, “Hello to you... too?” 

You blow out a breath, hands on your hips. “Sorry. Hi. Hello. Greetings. I’m great. How are you?” 

Penelope narrows her eyes at you like she’s running a full psychological evaluation, and then, much to your dismay, a wicked smile widens on her face. “You’re flustered.” 

“I am fine.” 

“You’re lying.” That one is accusatory, not that she’s wrong, but also not something you expect. 

You groan. “Penelope, I need to talk to you.” 

“Oh, okay,” she chirps, rolling her chair closer like she’s about to conduct a deposition. “Is this about the thing? Or like… the thing?” 

“Penelope,” you warn. 

She gasps dramatically. “It’s the thing.” 

Before you can respond, another voice cuts in from the doorway. “Who’s talking about a thing?” JJ walks in holding two files, looking far too perceptive for your liking. 

“Oh perfect,” Penelope beams. “You’re just in time, we’re having a crisis.” 

“We are not having a crisis,” you snap. “No crisis. Zero crisis. Negative crisis.” 

JJ raises a brow. “Right. That’s why you look like you’re going to burst into flames if I say Spen-” 

Hands still on your hips, your eyes narrow as you look at the two blonds in front of you. “Listen, do you guys want to hear how Spencer Reid is using sex to convince me to come back to the FBI, or not?” 

There is a beat of utter silence, then: 

Penelope slams both hands onto her desk. “YES.” 

JJ nearly drops her files. “I—okay, hang on—what?” 

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Don’t make me say it twice.” You’re not above begging, and thankfully, it seems you won’t have to.  

Penelope leans forward, elbows on her desk, and chin in her hands. “Oh, you’re absolutely saying it twice.” 

JJ sets her files aside and crosses her arms. “Start from the beginning. And don’t leave out details,” she mentions you to sit, “have a seat, girlfriend.” 

The BAU has been understaffed for months. They’re drowning in cases. Emily asked you—gently, in that soft voice she uses when she knows she’s asking for a huge favor, though also respectfully, consider coming back. You’d said you’d think about it. That was three weeks ago. And after three weeks of sexual manipulation delivered in absolute precision of your boyfriend, you don’t know whether to curse or thank Emily Prentiss for the best sex of your life. 

It had started so innocent, or that’s what you thought. After spending the first couple of months of your relationship in your own bubble, it was easy to forget the world outside of it—Quantico, cases, the constant weight of being needed. You’d left the BAU for a reason, whether it was because of burnout or grief. Or perhaps a quiet, desperate need to be something other than useful.  

And Spencer knew that, of course, he did.  

That’s why he never talked about why you left. 

And ever so foolishly, you thought you had an understanding between the two of you: he keeps the horrors of the office at the office, and you keep your peaceful, civilian life at home. But Spencer Reid doesn’t play by the rules when he’s determined, and apparently, he’s determined to have you back in a tactical vest beside him—and he is not afraid to play dirty to get what he wants. 

“He’s using psychological conditioning!” you hiss, pacing the small, tech-cluttered space. “It’s subtle. It’s genius. It’s… it’s exhausting.” 

Penelope’s eyes are practically vibrating with excitement. “Explain. Give me the data points. I need a spreadsheet.” 

“Two nights ago,” you begin, counting off on your fingers. “I was telling him about my new job—the one with the reasonable hours and the zero chance of being kidnapped by a serial killer. He didn't say a word. He just started kissing my neck, right behind my ear, and whispered that my brain was clearly suffering from a lack of ‘environmental stimulation’.” 

JJ lets out a suppressed snort, trying to hide her reaction behind a well-timed cough. “He did not.” 

“He did! And then he told me, while his hands were doing things that should be illegal in at least twelve states—that the adrenaline spike of a high-stakes case is the only thing that truly satisfies a mind like mine.” You stop, breathless and red-faced. “I almost agreed to sign my reinstatement papers right there on the headboard.” 

“Oh sugarplum,” Penelope sighs, “that would’ve made our poor Unit Chief Prentiss a very happy lady.”  

“Emily would probably give him a medal for recruitment,” you groan, finally collapsing into the ergonomic chair Penelope practically shoved under you. “It’s not just the talking, it’s the methodology. Last night, I told him I was looking at weekend getaways, and he started tracing the line of my jaw with his thumb. He looked me dead in the eye and said that while relaxation is a biological necessity, my specific cognitive profile thrives on the 'bonding through shared trauma' that only the team provides.” 

JJ leans against her chair, an impressed smirk playing on her lips. “He’s rewarding the thought of the BAU with dopamine, kind of like Pavlov’s dogs.” 

“He’s rewarding it with a lot more than dopamine, JJ!” you cry out, gesturing wildly at your own flushed face. “I went to his place to stand my ground. I had a whole speech prepared about work-life balance and the beauty of corporate consulting. I didn't even get past the foyer before he started talking about the 'unmatched neurological intimacy' of working a joint profile.” 

“And?” Penelope prompts, leaning so far forward she’s nearly nose-to-nose with you. “What happened to the speech?” 

“The speech is in the trash. Along with my resolve. And probably my dignity,” you mutter. “He backed me against the door and whispered— literally whispered into my skin that if I came back, we wouldn’t have to waste twenty minutes every evening catching each other up on our days because we’d have lived them together. Then he showed me exactly what he meant by 'efficiency'.” 

There’s a beat of silence in the room. Penelope looks like she’s just witnessed a miracle, and JJ is shaking her head in disbelief. “I always knew he was a genius,” JJ says softly, “but I didn't realize he was a diabolical genius.” 

“I honestly don’t know whether to be happy about all the ‘fulfillment’ I’ve experienced, or file a formal grievance with the Bureau for unethical recruitment tactics,” you finish, burying your face in your hands. 

Penelope lets out a sound that is half-gasp, half-giggle. “I wouldn’t file that grievance, honey. Keep that gift horse, and its extremely high IQ, exactly where it is.” 

“It’s not a gift!” you protest, though the way your heart flutters says otherwise. “It’s a trap! A beautiful, six-foot-one, sweater-vested trap. He’s making me associate my career with my… my physiological satisfaction.” 

“I think you mean your very specific needs,” JJ clarifies with a wink, her eyes dancing with an unholy amusement. “I’m sorry we’re enjoying your suffering,” JJ finishes, clearly not sorry at all, “but this is objectively fascinating.” 

“Fascinating?” You repeat weakly through your fingers. “He’s weaponizing emotional intimacy.” 

Penelope tilts her head thoughtfully. “Counterpoint: he’s using his natural gifts in the service of love and workplace retention.” 

“That is not better!” you groan. 

JJ pushes off the desk and begins pacing slowly, slipping into the same thoughtful cadence she uses when they’re building a profile. “Okay, let’s look at the facts. Spencer is patient, highly strategic, and—” 

“Dangerously persuasive,” you interrupt. 

“—and deeply attached to you,” JJ finishes calmly. “So, from his perspective, getting you back at the BAU solves multiple problems at once.” 

“Name one,” you challenge. 

Penelope raises a finger. “One: he misses working with you.” 

Another finger. “Two: the team misses you.” 

JJ adds a third. “Three: you’re extremely good at the job.” 

“And four,” Penelope says brightly, “he gets to see you more often and apparently continue his… conditioning experiments.” 

You stare at her. “You’re both the worst.” 

Before either of them can respond, a familiar voice drifts in from the hallway. 

“Well, technically it isn’t conditioning.” And suddenly, all three of you freeze—because the voice doesn’t belong to either one of you.  

Spencer stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame with a stack of case files tucked under one arm and a deceptively mild expression on his face. He looks every bit the boyish professor in his layered knits and slightly oversized messenger bag, but the way his eyes lock onto yours—dark, focused, and humming with a terrifyingly sharp intellect—suggests he’s heard much more of this conversation than you’d like. 

"Technically," he repeats, stepping into the room with that rhythmic, long-legged stride that usually makes your heart skip for all the right reasons, "it’s a form of positive reinforcement designed to strengthen a specific behavioral response. Conditioning implies a lack of agency, whereas I’m simply highlighting the natural, symbiotic relationship between your professional fulfillment and your... personal well-being." 

Penelope lets out a sound that is dangerously close to a squeak, her hands flying to her mouth. JJ just leans back against a server rack, crossing her arms with an "I told you so" smirk that you would love to slap off her face. 

You point at him slowly, horror creeping up your spine, as you accuse him. “You were eavesdropping.” 

Spencer blinks once, an innocent smile creeping on his face. “I was walking to Garcia’s office.” 

“You stopped.” You narrow your eyes at him. 

Spencer shrugs, “Yes.” 

Penelope lowers her hands from her mouth. “For how long, exactly?” 

Spencer thinks about it. Actually, thinks about it. “Long enough to hear the part about the headboard.” 

You make a strangled noise. JJ presses her lips together again, her shoulders shaking. And you can practically hear Penelope’s internal scream. “Fantastic,” you mutter, dropping back into the chair. “Great. Wonderful. I’m thrilled.” 

Spencer doesn’t even have the grace to look embarrassed. Instead, he sets the stack of files down on Penelope’s desk with a deliberate thud, his fingers lingering on the manila folders as he turns his full attention back to you. The fluorescent lights of the technical suite catch the amber in his eyes, making them look warmer—and far more calculating than usual. 

“The headboard comment was an interesting data point,” he says, his voice dropping an octave. “Though, if we’re being academically rigorous, I believe your exact words were ‘signing reinstatement papers’ on said headboard. Which, from a legal standpoint, would likely be contested due to the... distracting nature of the environment.” 

“Spencer!” you hiss, looking at JJ and Penelope, who are both vibrating with the kind of glee usually reserved for closing a serial killer's case file. 

“I'm just saying,” he continues, stepping closer until he’s effectively boxed you into the ergonomic chair. He leans down, bracing one hand on the armrest and the other on the desk behind you. The scent of old books and his specific, clean soap hits you like a physical weight. “If the environment is the variable that's working, why fight the science?” 

JJ clears her throat, picking up her files and nudging a dazed Penelope. “Okay, I think we've reached the ‘too much information’ threshold for a Wednesday evening. Penelope, don't you have those encryption keys to rotate?” 

“Rotating! Yes! Rotating so fast!” Penelope squeaks, grabbing her coffee mug and power-walking out of her own office behind JJ. 

The door doesn't even fully click shut before Spencer’s gaze intensifies. He doesn't move away. Instead, he reaches out, his long fingers tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. The touch is light, but it sends a familiar, treacherous spark straight to your core. “You told them I'm weaponizing intimacy,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing the shell of your ear. 

“Aren't you?” you challenge, though your voice lacks the bite it had five minutes ago. “You're trying to Pavlov me back into a bulletproof vest.” 

“I’m reminding you of who you are,” he corrects softly. He shifts, his knee brushing against yours, and the proximity is suddenly overwhelming. “You’re a profiler. You see patterns where others see chaos. You crave the resolution of a complex puzzle. I'm just ensuring that your physiological rewards are aligned with your intellectual strengths.” He leans in closer, his breath warm against your cheek. “Think about efficiency, like I said. No more debriefing over dinner. We can use that time for... other things.” 

You try to find your voice, your ‘civilian life’ resolve crumbling like wet paper. “This is unethical. You’re a doctor. You should know better.” 

“Actually,” he whispers, his lips hovering just a fraction of an inch from yours, “as a doctor, I’m highly concerned with your lack of adrenaline-induced endorphins. It’s a health intervention.” You think he’s going to give in this time, and actually kiss you. But instead, he continues talking, his lips so close yet so far away, “And I’m not that kind of a doctor, darling.” 

The problem with Spencer Reid, one of many, really—is that he can say something deeply inappropriate in the same flat, academic tone he uses when discussing statistical anomalies. It makes arguing with him nearly impossible; half your brain is busy being offended, while the other half is trying to process whether you’re being seduced or peer-reviewed. 

Right now, it’s a deeply unfair combination of both. 

“You are unbelievable,” you manage, leaning back just enough to put a few inches of desperately needed oxygen between your faces. 

Spencer doesn't move. He just studies you with a quiet, clinical curiosity, like he’s observing the heat signature of a particularly volatile chemical reaction. “You came to Quantico,” he points out mildly. 

“That’s not—” You exhale a deep breath, frustrated, “That’s not the point.” 

“You came to Garcia’s office,” he continues, his voice dropping into that rhythmic, unstoppable cadence of a lecture. “Which is located in the BAU wing. This suggests that, subconsciously, you still associate this environment—and by extension, the people in it—with safety and familiarity.” 

You know, deep down, that what’s he’s telling is true, of course. Because when has Spencer Reid ever been wrong? But if he thinks you’re going to give him the satisfaction of being right, he’s wrong. So, in a bored voice, you contend, “I came here specifically to complain about you, Spencer.” 

“Still counts as exposure therapy.” 

Your jaw drops. You search his eyes for a flicker of a joke, but they’re wide and earnest. “Did you just turn my frustration into a clinical case study?” 

He tilts his head, a stray lock of hair falling over his brow. “Statistically? It was the most logical way to frame the interaction.” 

“Ideally,” you start, “I’d like my boyfriend to stop profiling me.” He tries to argue, but you stop him with a mere raise of your eyebrows. “you know exactly which buttons to push to get the results you want. That’s profiling, Spencer. You’re profiling me.” 

He doesn't deny it. Instead, he tilts his head, his nose grazing yours in a torturously slow movement. “I’m not profiling you," he murmurs, his voice vibrating with a low, steady confidence. “I’m appreciating you. There’s a significant difference in the neurobiological intent.” 

He lets his hand slide from the back of your chair to the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair. The pressure is just enough to keep you grounded, just enough to make you forget why you ever liked the idea of a quiet office job. 

“If I were profiling you," he continues, his lips brushing against the corner of your mouth as he speaks, “I’d mention that your pupils are currently dilated, your heart rate is likely exceeding 110 beats per minute, and you’ve stopped mentioning the 'beauty of corporate consulting' entirely.” 

“I hate you,” you whisper, though you’re already leaning into him, your hands finding their place on the soft wool of his sweater. You also find you hate the fact that he can reduce you to this— a breathless, flustered, and entirely incapable of remembering why you were supposed to be angry in the first place. 

“The thin line between love and hate is often just a misinterpretation of high-arousal stimuli,” Spencer retorts, finally closing the gap. 

The kiss isn't the soft, gentle thing he usually offers in public. It’s possessive and intelligent, a physical manifestation of his refusal to let you settle for a life that doesn't challenge you, and completely unlike the Spencer Reid you know. It tastes like coffee and victory. When he pulls back, just an inch, his eyes are dark with a playful sort of triumph. 

“Emily's office is down the corridor, up the stairs,” he reminds you, his thumb smoothing over your lower lip. “She’s leaving for a meeting in ten minutes. If you sign the paperwork now, I’ll take you to that Italian place with the dimly lit booths. We can discuss your... orientation.” 

He steps back, breaking the physical contact and leaving you feeling suddenly, frustratingly cold. He picks up his messenger bag, slinging it over his shoulder with a casual grace that makes you want to scream.