raye | 🌃

– Your POV –

It was a perfectly normal Saturday morning. You were driving to Spencer’s apartment on the same route you’ve driven so many times before. Spencer would probably know the exact number. You should ask him.

The sun was shining, traffic was light, and you were humming along to the random song on the radio.

Then your car started acting weird.

The engine sputtered. The temperature gauge shot up. You frowned, pulling over to the side of the road. You popped the hood, trying to see what was going on.

Before you could even get a good look, you heard gravel crunch behind your car. You turned around just as a man stepped out of a truck.

“Need some help?” he asked.

Before you could answer, everything went black.

_____

– Spencer’s POV –

She was 15 minutes late. 

I check my phone. Nothing. Not a single call or text. She always calls when she was running late or in traffic. 

I try calling her. It rings three times, then goes straight to voicemail.

That’s weird…

I try again. This time it doesn’t even ring, I’m just met with her voicemail.

Something is wrong. 

I can feel my heart in my throat. And in my wrists. And in my temples. Everywhere. I stand up from the couch and pace the living room, my phone still clutched in my hands hard enough that my knuckles turn white. I feel like I’m going to pass out.

I go back to the couch and sit down. My knee shakes, I can’t stop it. 

I call Rossi. He answers after an acceptable number of rings, no voicemail from him.

“Hey,” I say as soon as he answers. “Is Y/N still at home?”

“No? She told me she was going to your apartment,” Rossi replies, his voice calm. I wish I could be calm.

“She should’ve been here twenty minutes ago.”

“Is she in traffic?”

“S-she would’ve called. She always calls. S-something is wrong.” 

It’s impossible for him to not have heard the tremors in my speech.

“Reid, slow down,” he says, trying to calm me. I appreciate the effort, but it doesn’t work. My brain is already sending the smell of old wood to my nose and the sound of Russian roulette cylinders clicking against my head to my ears.

I interrupt him before he can finish what he was going to say.

“Her phone is going straight to voicemail, Rossi. That’s weird. I’m going to look for her.”

“Alright, I’ll try to call her too.” His voice is a little more worried, but nothing that I am feeling. “Be safe, kid.”

Kid.

She liked it when Rossi called me ‘Kid.’

I grabbed my keys and ran out the door, my heart hammering so hard I could feel it in my ears. The drive along her usual route felt endless. Every red light made my knee bounce harder. Every car that looked vaguely like hers made my head jerk. Every stop sign made my heart sit heavy in my throat. Every mile without seeing her made my stomach feel tighter.

And it all dropped and stilled when I saw her car on the side of the road.

The door was open, all her stuff was still inside. Her keys, her bag, everything.

I slammed on the breaks and jumped out of my car, not even pulling off the road. I cross the street with my phone already to my ear, ringing Rossi.

“Dave, her car,” I spit into the phone.

“What?”

“It… It’s on the side of the road. She’s not in it. All her stuff…her keys…”

My voice cracked on the last word. I was shaking. I could feel it in my hands, my legs, my chest, everything. I started pacing back and forth beside her car, one hand in my hair, pulling at it without realizing.

Rossi’s voice came through the phone, tense this time. “Call Hotch and the rest of the team. I’m heading to the BAU right now. Take pictures of the car and get here as soon as possible.”

“O-Okay,” I say and hang up. This didn’t feel real. It couldn’t be real.

I took a few quick pictures of her car, my hands shaking still, probably causing terrible quality. I hurriedly get back in my car and drive as fast as I could without putting anyone in immediate danger. I was following traffic laws, but my mind was spiraling.

What if she’s hurt? What if someone took her? What if–

I remember Rossi told me to call Hotch.

“Hotchner,” he answers, sounding the same as always.

“Hotch,” I swallow hard enough he could probably hear it. “I can’t find Y/N.”

“What happened?” His voice still sounds the same, but there is the smallest glint of concern, meaning he’s really concerned.

“Her…car. And her stuff…But…no her. Help.” 

That was not a cohesive sentence. 

My voice was shaking so badly. I could barely get the words out. I was tapping my fingers on the steering wheel, trying to keep my mind occupied.

“I’ll call everyone in. You get here and be safe please. You sound a mess,” he says sternly. He was right, but I wanted, no needed to help.

“No!” I rebut. “I can help. Let me help.”

“Okay. You call Morgan and have him call Garcia. I’ll call JJ and Prentiss.”

That’s better than nothing. At least I’m not being completely useless. I compose myself the best I can, which isn’t very well, then call Morgan.

“What’s up, kid?” He answers, his voice calm.

“Morgan, something happened to Y/N.”

“What?” The calm is gone. 

“She’s gone. All her stuff is still in her car.”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“C-can you call Garcia?”

“Calling.”

I don’t even remember pulling into the BAU parking lot or going inside. All I know is now I’m sitting with the whole team at the briefing table and Rossi is standing above us holding a case file he brought.

The conference room is quieter than usual. Everyone is looking at me or Rossi. Mostly at me. Probably because I look a mess, and Rossi just looks tense. I truly admire his composure. My knee wont stop bouncing. It’s bouncing high enough it hits the table every few times. I know everyone notices. 

Rossi cleaners his throat, standing in front of the evidence board. He looks surprisingly put together, but I know him well enough to see the tension in his jaw and the way his grip on the file is just a little too tight.

He clears his throat. “You guys are about to learn a lot about me,” Rossi says, his voice heavy and serious. “And a lot about Y/N.” He looks directly at me. “Stuff not even you know.

I swallow hard. I’m nervous. Because Rossi sounds serious. And this is scary.

My girlfriend is gone.

Rossi opens the file and holds up a photo of a house. “Three years ago, Y/N’s parents, or my brother and his wife, were murdered inside their house in New York. The man who did it, Dennis James, was caught at the scene and immediately arrested. Y/N and Logan came to live with me.”

The room is silent for a moment before Morgan finally speaks.

“Y/N’s parents were murdered?” His voice is low,

Even I didn’t know that.

“Yes, they were,” Rossi continues. “I always suspected a second attacker. My brother was an Elite Army Ranger who would not have been easily subdued by James. This needs to be the first thing we look into.”

“Has anyone checked on Logan?” JJ asks.

“We sent a plane to Spokane, he should be here around 1:30.”

“Good,” Hotch says, leaning forward. “Walk us through the timeline, Dave.”

“Y/N left my house this morning at about 7:45 to go to Spencer’s. Around 8:45, Spencer found her car abandoned on the side of the road. She’d only made it about a quarter of the way there. The door was open and her bag, wallet, and keys were still inside. Reid says there was no obvious signs of a struggle, but we’re gonna get forensics on it.”

“And her phone?” Morgan asks.

“S-straight to voicemail,” I answer, my voice cracking. “She always calls if she’s late. Always.”

Emily looks at me sympathetically. She doesn’t say anything.

“I can’t believe I didn’t know about her parents,” Garcia says quietly. I wonder if she sees herself. I know her parents passed when she was younger.

“You couldn’t have,” Rossi replies, voice steady. “She doesn’t talk about it. None of us really do, but now we have to.”

Hotch looks to the case file in Rossi’s hands. “What do we know about the original case?”

Rossi flips to another page in the file. “Dennis James was arrested at the scene. He confessed and said he did it alone and that was that. But the way my brother was killed…it never set right with me. He was a Ranger. James was a nobody with a petty crime record. I always suspected there was another person, but since James confessed, there wasn’t much more I could do.”

Morgan leans forward, his jaw clenched. “And now that second person is coming after Y/N three years later?”

“It looks that way,” Rossi says. “I let myself believe I was wrong. Garcia, can you start digging into James’s life in prison? Find everything.”

“On it,” Garcia says, standing up quickly. “I’ll find everything, I promise.” 

The way Garcia looks at me when she leaves makes my throat thick. The way everyone looks at me makes me wish I was anywhere else. I can barely sit still. She’s been gone for an hour. What if she’s hurt? What if someone took her? What if she–

“Reid!” 

Hotch’s stern voice jolts me to attention.

“Yes, Sir?” I answer.

“I need your head in this,” Hotch says seriously.

“I know,” I say, voice shaky. “I’m trying.”

I do know. And I am trying. I’m just not succeeding. 

Hotch nods at me anyways, ‘I’m trying’ being a good enough answer for him. He stands up and looks around the table quickly. 

“Alright,” he starts. “We’re working this as a standard abduction. Garcia is already looking into Dennis James. JJ, I need you to coordinate with local PD and find out if there’s any traffic cam footage from the area. Prentiss, I want you to run geographic profiling–”

I look at him weird. I always do geo profiling. His eyes meet mine, but he just continues talking.

“Rossi, stay here and start building the profile. Pull all you can on the original case.” 

“Gotcha,” Rossi says, putting the photos and documents back into the file in his hands.

“Morgan and I are going to go to the scene. Reid, you’re coming with us, is that okay?”

Why was he asking? I nod anyway. 

The drive back to her car feels endless. I do not want to go back there. I replay Hotch’s words in my head over and over again. 

I need your head in this.

I know he does. More importantly, I know she does. It’s just hard. I keep getting distracted. I keep drumming my fingers against my thigh, trying to burn off the nervous energy. It’s not working. Nothing is working. I can’t stop thinking.

What if she’s hurt? What if someone took her? What if she’s–

“Reid,” Morgan says loudly to get my attention. He’s looking at me through the rearview mirror. He surely can tell that my head is not in this. “We need you with us, man.”

“I’m here,” I say, voice shaking. 

I lie.

We pull up to the side of the road. Her car is still there. Her door is still open. Her bag is still on the passenger seat. Her keys are still in the ignition. 

It looks like she just stepped out.

I feel like I’m going to be sick.

Hotch and Morgan get out of the car first. I just sit in the back, staring. Thinking. Tapping my fingers. Bouncing my knee. Preparing.

I’ve already been here. I’ve already seen this. There’s no direct sign of a struggle. No weapon, no blood, nothing that suggests she’s… everything points to her having left the scene ali–

I need to get out of this car.

I have to force my legs to move. They feel heavy. Too heavy. Everything feels heavy. My legs, my eyes, my heart, my voice… It’s all so much.

I approach her car. I just stand there. Staring. 

The crime scene techs are already processing it. I just stand there. Staring.

Morgan is talking to one of the techs. I just stand there. Staring.

 For a long, long time.

Hotch finally approaches me from behind. He comes up and stands directly to my side. 

“Do you need to leave?” He asks.

“No,” I say quickly. “I can help.”

But I’m not helping. I’m just standing there. I’m just staring. I should be looking for something, anything, I know I should. But my head and my body are just…stuck.

“I know you’re worried, but you could be helping somewhere. I need you to try to be objective. Please.” Hotch’s voice is calm, but firm. I hate that he’s talking to me like this. Not because I think he’s being rude, he actually is being rather nice considering I’m just standing here doing absolutely nothing, but I just hate that this situation exists at all.

And I hate that I don’t know what to call it other than a ‘situation.’

“Go look for something. Anything,” Hotch tells me.

I nod and force myself to move. I walk around her car a few times, trying to see it as a crime scene instead of her car. 

The hood is popped, but not open, almost like she was in the process of opening it when she was–

I open the hood. I look over the inside. 

The radiator hose.

It’s cut. Not torn, cut. Cleanly. Like with a knife. Meaning this wasn’t a spur of the moment abduction. It wasn’t someone waiting for an opportunity. It was someone who had created one.

“I think I’ve got something,” I call out to Hotch. My voice is surprisingly more put together than it has been all morning. Hotch and Morgan both come over to me. “The radiator hose, it’s cut.”

“That’s a clean cut,” Morgan says. “He sabotaged the car.”

I keep walking around the car, I notice the tire tracks in the gravel. I look to Morgan who is following me to my left.

“There are two different sizes of tire tracks, but they’re spaced out like they’re from one vehicle,” I tell him.

“Like someone was driving on a spare?” Morgan asks.

“No… I’m thinking more like a heavy duty commercial vehicle.” 

I pull out my phone to call Garcia. She doesn’t give one of her quirky greetings. I don’t know how to feel about that. But now is not the time to think about that.

“What? What can I do?” She says when she answers the phone.

“Garcia, I need you to compile a list of drivers of commercial vehicles with alternating tire sizing. Think dump trucks, semi trucks, anything multi-axle,” I tell her.

“On it…453 names.”

“Okay now cross reference those with Dennis James.”

“57.”

“That’s still too many…” I say.

I pull the phone away from my face for a moment.  “Can we get a measurement of these tire tracks?” I call out.

One of the crime scene techs comes over and measures. I hover over him, reading the numbers out loud as he takes them, both for myself and for Garcia.

“The front tire is…about 15 inches wide,” I say, tip-toeing to get the best view possible. “The back is…about 22.5 inches.”

“Okay,” Garcia says, a little confused and drawn out. “What do you want me to do with that?”

“I…I don’t know. Can you figure out commercial vehicles with tires that size?”

“I’ll do my very best.” 

She hangs up. I slide my phone back into my pocket and stare at the tire tracks again. 

My eyes go to her car. I stare at it. I’ve seen it so many times. In her driveway the night we met, at the park we took a walk at the first time we hung out just the two of us, when we used to sneak around and get morning coffee or lunch, the Christmas party, every Sunday dinner, in her driveway when I picked her up for the time we went to the Smithsonian, in the parking lot of my apartment, I’ve seen her car a lot. And I never thought that it would be a focal point of a crime scene.

What if she’s hurt? What if someone took her? What if she’s dead?

The possibility of her being dead hits me harder than anything I’ve ever felt. My stomach twists so violently I double over.

No.

That isn’t possible.

My breathing turns shallow. I press a hand over my mouth in an attempt to steady myself, but my fingers are shaking too much to do anything.

I stagger away from her car, only making it a few feet before everything in my stomach is in a pool on the gravel. I drop to my knees to stop it from splattering everywhere. Another wave comes out. I hear footsteps, but my vision is tunneled.

I can only tell it’s Morgan because of his voice.

“Reid,” he says, his voice thick with concern. 

I feel a hand rest softly between my shoulderblades as I cough, trying to catch my breath.

“Give him a second,” I hear Hotch say as he approaches me as well.

I squeeze my eyes shut, embarrassed. 

“I-” I cough again. “I’m okay.”

“No,” Hotch says sternly, but quietly. “You are not.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. I’m more embarrassed than sorry, but my brain isn’t working well enough right now to explain that.

“For what?” Morgan asks, shaking his head at me.

I gesture toward the mess in the gravel.

“Kid, you’ve been running on adrenaline for two hours,” Morgan says. 

Hotch crouches down in front of me. His voice is incredibly soft, even for him. “What happened?”

I swallow hard, my mouth still tasting disgustingly like vomit.

“He planned it,” I say, looking up at Hotch. “He would’ve had to have done this at Rossi’s house.” I look back to her car. “He…he watched her.” 

I can feel tears coming. I stop talking before I embarrass myself more. I stare at the tire tracks. Hotch thinks for a moment, Morgan just stares.

“We’re done here,” Hotch finally says. “Let’s go.”

“What?” I say, looking back to him.

“I have everything I need from you today,” He says sternly.

“I can keep hel-”

“No.” His tone leaves no room for argument. “I need you functioning.”

“I can function,” I say, taking Morgan’s hand he offered, helping me to stand.

“You just threw up beside a crime scene,” Morgan points out. 

“I think I’m aware of that,” I snap. I don’t mean to.

Morgan keeps his voice calm. He pats my shoulder. “I think you need a break.”

“I don’t want a break," I answered quickly. I can’t have a break.

“We’re taking you back,” Morgan insists.

“No!. I can’t. Please.” I’m fighting tears now. I know they can tell. I wish they couldn’t.

Morgan and Hotch exchange a glance. I don’t like it. I don’t like when I’m the center of attention. I shouldn’t be the center of attention now. It should be Y/N. I’m just distracting Hotch and Morgan from getting anywhere. I open my mouth to say something, probably to protest again, but Hotch beats me to speaking.

“Reid.” His voice is stern. I don’t like it. I don’t like it. 

I don’t like this.

“I-I can’t go home,” I stutter through a tear falling down my cheek. “I can’t…I can’t sit somewhere and wait. If you guys make me leave I’ll just think…about where she is…or if she’s hurt…or if she’s…” I lower my voice as low as I can. “dead.”

I hate that I just said that. I hate that I even have to think it. I hate everything that is happening right now. I wish I could be more help. I wish I knew how to be more help.

“What can you do?” Hotch asks.

“What?” 

“If I let you stay,” he continues. “What can you do?”

I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Because he’s right. I don’t know what I can do. I’m not thinking straight. I don’t know what I can do.

I stare down at the gravel for a long moment.

“T-the files,” I finally say. Hotch waits for me to continue. “T-the original case files. If I could just… If I could read then maybe…” I shake my head, frustrated with myself. “S-sorry, my brain is–” I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “I’ll stay out of everyone’s way. I just…” I look directly into Hotch’s eyes. “Please don’t make me leave.”

I could swear Hotch’s expression softens, something that I’ve seen maybe three times in the four years I’ve known him.

“You’re not staying in the field,” He says sternly. I almost argue. “We’ll bring you back to the BAU.” 

Relief floods through me. I can feel it in my body. “Thank you,” I say.

“If you show any signs that you are pushing yourself too far I am pulling you,” Hotch finishes.

“Yes, Sir.”

Morgan steps beside me, guiding me toward the SUV. 

“Come on, Kid,” he says. “Let’s go.”

I don’t argue this time.

I don’t have anything left to argue with.

The drive from the scene back to the BAU is almost silent. Morgan drives, Hotch is in the passenger seat, and I’m alone in the back. Nobody turns on the radio. Nobody talks. The only sounds are the tires against the pavement, and Hotch’s phone when JJ and Emily call with an update.

I stare out the window. Everything outside keeps moving. People are walking dogs, someone is mowing their lawn, a little kid is riding a bike down the sidewalk. It’s all a reminder that the world didn’t stop.

But it should have.

My phone is still in my hand. Or, in my hand again. I’m not sure. I don’t remember picking it back up. I unlock it anyway. Her contact is still open. I stare at her picture for a long time. It’s a picture of her I took at a coffee shop before we were even dating. She’s looking up at the camera with two cups, one hers and one mine, in her hand. She’s smiling. I love her smile. 

I press call. It goes straight to voicemail. Again.

I don’t leave a message. I don’t even know what I’d say.

‘Please answer.’ ‘Please be alive.” “Please don't be going through what I went through.”

Neither seem particularly helpful.

“You good, Kid?” Morgan asks me through the rearview mirror.

No.

“I’m fine.”

They let me lie.

Hotch’s phone rings again. He answers it immediately.

“Hotchner.”

There’s a pause while the person speaks. I try my hardest to listen to either side of the conversation, but Hotch’s broken responses make no sense when I don’t have the information. 

Morgan looks at him as soon as he hangs up the phone, waiting for an explanation.

“She narrowed the commercial vehicles from 57 down to 11,” Hotch explains.

11. That’s progress.

I clear my throat before I speak. I know if I hadn’t the bubble in my throat that is the only thing keeping me from crying would cause a weird sound.

“D-did they find any blood?” I ask quietly. So quietly.

“No.” Hotch says, looking back over the seat at me.

I nod.

No blood. No blood is good. 

My brain tries to reassure me. No blood means she could still be physically unharmed. But trauma doesn't always leave blood. My left arm aches where the needle used to stab. I rub the spot through my sleeve before I even realize I'm doing it.

Morgan notices. He doesn't say anything. He just looks away. I'm grateful.

People can survive being kidnapped. People survive kidnappings all the time. Statistically–

I stop myself from thinking that.

Statistics don’t matter when it’s someone you love.

_____

–Your POV–

The first thing you notice is the pain. Not in your head, in your wrists. Whatever is tying your hands isn’t fabric or rope. It’s…plastic. Ribbed plastic. And it’s thin. 

Zip ties.

Every instinct tells you to move, to rub at whatever hurts, to free your hands. You have to force yourself to stay still. It’s hard.

It’s quiet in here. All you hear is your own breathing. Slow, uneven, too loud. The air smells…wrong. Not like outside, but not quite inside either. It feels…damp. Like old wood and dust, but wet, and there’s a lingering smell of something metallic underneath it all.

Your eyelids are impossibly heavy. It takes too much energy to open them. But you do. You want to see where you’re at. It’s blurry at first. You blink rapidly to clear your vision. It only works a little.

The walls are unfinished wood, some are warped, leaving thin slivers of daylight between them. They’re almost black near the floor, like they’ve been soaking up moisture for years.

It smells old, like damp lumber and dust that has been sitting undisturbed for years. The concrete beneath your feet is cracked in several places. One corner of the room has a shallow puddle where water must’ve leaked in recently.

You look up. The ceiling is low enough that anyone above 6 feet could probably touch it without stretching. A single lightbulb hangs down from a frayed cord. It sways just barely. Just enough to make shadows crawl across the walls.

There are no windows on the wall. The only exterior light is shined through the gaps in the wooden walls. You catch the faintest strips of daylight through some, others reveal nothing but more wood. 

Maybe another room?

The only furniture is the chair you’re tied to and an old workbench shoved against the opposite wall. Its surface is covered in what has to be years of scratches. There’s a small pile of rusty nails, a broken coffee mug sits near the back of the surface, there is a tipped over motor oil bottle that leaked til empty, and a chain falls over the front and onto the ground.

You stare at the workbench longer than you probably should. Even if your hands weren’t tied, you couldn’t reach it.

The walls themselves don’t look insulated. Just plywood over framing. Like a shed, or a detached garage, or maybe a barn?

Somewhere nearby, water drips steadily.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

The sound is driving you insane.

The room feels cold despite it being warm outside. It’s not air conditioned, just concrete holding onto the cool temperature from overnight. The cold seeps through your jeans where they press against the metal chair.

You shift. 

The chair scrapes loudly across the concrete. The sound echoes much longer than it feels like it should. Your breath catches, you exhale slowly and quietly, as if the chair didn’t alert whoever was nearby that you were awake.

Your heart begins to pound. Your breathing starts coming too fast.

In.

Out,

In,

Out.

Your vision starts to blur around the edges. 

Spencer.

Spencer always counts.

1.

2.

3.

4.

No, not like that. Count your breathing.

Four seconds in. Hold. Four seconds out.

Again. 

Again.

Again.

It doesn’t make a difference.

You hear a sound so faint you almost convince yourself you imagined it. You hold your breath, hoping you did. But there it is again. 

Footsteps.

Every muscle in your body locks. 

The footsteps are slow. Not rushed or running, whoever it is, they’re in absolutely no hurry.

You can feel your heartbeat in your head. You swallow hard.

Think. 

Come on.

THINK!

Maybe if he thinks you’re still unconscious…

You let your head fall forward, your chin nearly hitting your chest. You close your eyes and slow your breathing. You put all your focus into not moving.

Stay perfectly still, and maybe he’ll leave.

The footsteps grow louder. And closer. Each one echoes through the concrete floor beneath your feet.

Thunk.

Thunk.

Thunk.

He’s getting closer.

And closer.

You curl your fingers against the zip ties that are digging into the skin of your wrists. You fight every instinct to look in front of you.

The footsteps stop right outside the door. The silence that follows stretches for ages. You start to wonder if he’s just standing there waiting on a sound from you. Or maybe he left. You’re too scared to look up and check.

You hear a metallic rattle. Then a click. Then a heavy clunk. Then the sound of creaking hinges and a wave of warm air filling the cold room. 

The door opened.

You hear the footsteps getting closer. Slow. Agonizingly slow. 

Your breath threatens to speed up again.

No. 

Four seconds in. Hold. Four seconds out.

Again. 

Again.

Again.

Control your breathing.

The footsteps stop. Whoever it is, they’re standing right in front of you. You can smell him. He smells like sweat. And diesel fuel. And like old cigarette smoke. 

You squeeze your eyes tighter.

Please, just go away.

His shadow blocks the light that’s casting on you from the bulb.

“You can stop pretending.”

Your heart almost stops. 

The voice is calm, almost conversational.

“I know you’re awake.”

You don’t move. You stay perfectly still. You keep your eyes squeezed shut.

Maybe if you don’t look at him he’ll lea–

SMACK!

A sharp crack explodes across your cheek. Your head snaps sideways, mouth opening. The pain is instant,  hot and stinging. Before you can stop yourself, a gasp tears through your throat.

“There you are,” he says, voice almost warm. Like he’d been waiting for that.

You slowly lift your head, meeting your eyes with his.

“I don’t like being ignored,” he says, crouching until you’re eye level.

Your cheek throbs. You swallow hard, but refuse to look away from him. 

He studies your face for a long moment before he reaches out. You brace yourself to be hit again, but instead, he brushes a strand of hair away from your face. You’d almost rather him have hit you.

“I’ve been waiting a long time to meet you,” he smiles.

_____

–Spencer’s POV–

I’m gripping the edge of the conference room table as Rossi finishes explaining the details of her childhood. I don’t know how long I’ve been staring at the same spot on the table. Maybe five minutes, maybe an hour, I don’t really know. Time doesn’t feel real.

Hotch walks into the conference room carrying another file. “We have more information,” he says.

Everyone looks up at him. Garcia is behind him with a stack of papers. “I pulled what I could from her school records,” she says quietly.

Quietly. 

That scares me. Because Penelope Garcia is almost never quiet.

“This is counseling information from her school in Virginia,” Garcia says, handing them to me.

I know why I got handed them. I read 20,000 words per minute. Of course I’m going to be handed the paperwork.

But the FBI Academy doesn’t prepare you to have to read through your girlfriend's counseling notes from the months after her parents died while she was missing.

I don’t think anywhere could prepare you for that.

I take the papers, but I just sit them on the table in front of me. I can feel everyone staring at me. Waiting. Waiting for me to start reading, to share any notable information I find. But I can't. I don't want to read them. It feels…wrong.

If she wanted me to know about this, she would’ve told me. I feel like I’m abusing her trust looking into her life like this. This is a major breach of privacy. 

“No,” I say, shaking my head. Everyone looks at me, all confused. I can feel tears coming. I don’t want to cry in front of everyone again. “I-I can’t.”

“Do you need to go home?” Hotch asks me. 

“No!” I protest. “I just…it feels wrong looking into her life like this…”

Everyone just stares at me. I know they’re trying to sympathize, but no one knows what I’m feeling right now. Not a single one of them. Not even Rossi. Because Rossi at least knew about her parents being murdered. I didn’t even know that. And now they expect me to dig into the entire history of my girlfriend’s life since then? It feels wrong. I feel like I’m violating her.

Everyone else gets assigned new tasks or sent back to the one they were working on. I stay at the table, sitting completely still, doing absolutely nothing. Morgan is the last one other than me in the conference room. I thought he was going to leave. Instead, he walks over to me.

“Hey, Kid,” he says, putting a hand on my shoulder. I look at him. “I know you feel weird doing this…”

“If she wanted me to know she would’ve told me,” I interrupt.

“I know,” he says. “But if you don’t look into her past…” He locks his eyes with mine. His face looks serious. “Then she might not get a future.”

He pats my shoulder twice then turns and walks out of the room.

He’s right.

I open the file. I stare at the first page for almost a full minute before I force myself to turn it. The paper feels heavier than it should.

Maybe because I know once I read this, I can never forget it.

Guardian. It means Dave.

I already hate this. But I keep looking through the files. I have to.

Session One: Question: How are you sleeping? Answer: Fine. Observation: Student appears significantly sleep deprived. Guardian reports frequent nightmares. Question: How are you feeling today? Answer: Tired. Observation: Student pauses for approximately 20 seconds before answering.

She couldn't even hear someone say "parents." I close my eyes.

God.

I flip to the next page and force myself to keep going.

Teacher Report: Student has spoken fewer than twenty words during school hours since enrollment.

Twenty.

Twenty words.

My eyes go back to the sentence. I read it again.

Twenty words.

I can't make it make sense. She narrates everything. She reads books out loud. She hums when she studies. She thanks cashiers twice because she's worried she didn't say it loud enough the first time.

Twenty words.

The thought physically hurts.

Session Two: Question: Have you made any friends yet? Answer: No. Question: Would you like to? Answer: Maybe.

I smile. Just a little. Then immediately feel guilty for smiling.

Question: Do you miss your old friends? Answer: I stopped answering the phone. Question: Why? Answer: Because they'd ask what happened. Question: And? Answer: I didn't have anything to say.

I put the papers down, unable to breathe for a second.

I picture her at 15 years old sitting next to her phone and watching it ring. Because saying the words out loud would've made them real.

I wipe at my eyes. I don't remember starting to cry.

I pick the papers back up.

Guardian Update: Guardian reports student continues eating almost exclusively dry cereal.

I laugh. Not because it's funny. It's small and pathetic, actually. But because she still eats cereal. All the time.

My chest tightens. I remember making fun of her for eating cereal for dinner a few times. I didn't know. I had absolutely no idea. She laughed at the joke. Her laugh seemed genuine.

I hope she knows I never would've made fun of her if I knew.

I feel like I have to force myself from getting sick again.

Session Three: Question: Teachers mentioned you played piano. Answer: Used to.

I furrow my eyebrows.

Piano?

Question: Why did you stop? Observation: Student became tearful. Session paused. Answer: Mom taught me.

I didn't know she played piano. I wonder if she can.

Session Four: Question: You played varsity basketball as a freshman?

Basketball? What?

Answer: Yeah. Question: Why didn't you try out here? Answer: Dad always practiced with me.

I actually have to cover my mouth.

Basketball?

Piano?

She never told me. Not once.

I thought I knew everything about her. But I don't even know her favorite sport. Well, what used to be her favorite sport.

It stopped being her favorite sport the day her dad died.

I don't even realize I've stopped reading again until a tear lands directly in the middle of the page. I wipe it away carefully, like somehow preserving the paper matters.

Session Five: Question: Can we talk about the funeral? Observation: Student immediately became distressed. Hyperventilation observed. Session paused approximately six minutes. Question: Why didn't you go inside? Answer: Because if I walked inside then it meant they were really dead.

I lean forward until my forehead hits the table. I can't stop crying. She didn't skip their funeral because she didn't care. She skipped it because she loved them too much.

I don't know how long I stay like that. Eventually I make myself keep reading. Because Morgan was right. If I don't...

The final page is a discharge summary.

I barely make it halfway through before one sentence catches my attention.

Student has begun maintaining a daily planner to reduce anxiety and establish a sense of control over unpredictable events.

The planner.

It was never because she liked organization, it was because her entire life fell apart on a random Wednesday, and she wanted to make sure nothing ever surprised her again.

It all makes sense. The color coding, the schedules, why she hates being late, why she plans everything...I always just thought it was how she, when actually, it was how she coped.

I slowly close the folder.

The girl I fell in love with didn't exist before she was 15. She built herself completely from scratch, but somehow she still became the kindest person I've ever known.

I press both of my hands to my eyes so hard that my vision goes white.

Please let us find her. Because I need to tell her that I love her. I love every version of her.

Even the 15 year old girl who couldn't speak more than 20 words a day.

I don’t realize everyone else has come back until someone quietly pulls the folder from beneath my hands. I don’t know how long I was just sitting there. I look up to see who’s there.

Rossi.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. He just glances at the file name and then back to me, knowingly.

“You okay, Kid?” He asks gently.

No.

The room has gone strangely quiet. I can tell everyone else is pretending not to listen. Which is fair, I guess. 

Rossi pulls out the chair beside me and sits down, refusing to let me get away with just sitting here quietly and destroying myself with my own mind. The folder sits on the table between us. He looks at me, just waiting on me to answer.

“I always thought…” My voice cracks so badly I have to stop talking and regain my composure. I can’t look at Dave, so instead, I stare down at my hands. “I j-just thought she liked organizing things.”

Tears fall from my eyes. I don’t have the energy to stop them anymore. My voice is thick and nasally. There is no hiding it.

“I made fun of her for it,” I continued. “I used to tease her for having three calendars. I thought she was just o-over prepared.”

Rossi keeps looking at me. His eyes are glassy too. 

If he starts crying I am going to lose it.

Everyone is staring at me now. I’m probably speaking loudly. It’s hard to control the volume of your voice when you are this emotional. There’s some tie to your autonomic nervous system there, but I’m too sad to think about it. Which is scary. 

“I didn’t know. I didn’t know that she played basketball, or the piano, or that she…she skipped the funeral,” I choke on my words. “I-I’m a terrible boyfriend.”

“No, you are not,” Rossi says, wrapping an arm around me.

“I am,” I wail. “I didn’t even know how her parents died…I…I thought I knew her…”

“You do,” he corrects. 

“I keep thinking,” I say quieter now, regaining the smallest bit of dignity. “if she had just told me…”

“Would you have loved her more?” Rossi asks.

“N-no, I don’t think I would necessarily love her more…”

“Would you have just hurt for her sooner?"

I nod reluctantly. Because that’s exactly what I was trying to say. But hearing it be said out loud made it seem selfish in a way.

I would’ve loved every version of her.

“Dave,” Hotch says from the back of the room. We both look. “We’ve got Logan.”

_____

–Logan’s POV–

This guy’s office is smaller than I expected. The BAU is huge. I’ve been here a few times, mostly just visiting my uncle, but I’ve never been in the head of the team’s office. For the #1 agent in one of the most prestigious units of the FBI, I expected it to be bigger.

Instead, it feels contained. Everything has a place. There’s a dark wooden desk separating us. He sits in a leather office chair in front of a built-in bookshelf lined with binders and case files. There’s no decorations, aside from a photograph of a little boy, likely his son, near the corner of his desk. There’s a landline phone and a neat stack of paperwork, along with a name plate with Aaron Hotchner engraved in gold lettering.

I sit in one of the visitor chairs with my elbows against my knees. I don’t want to be here, but I know I need to be. 

“I’m sorry we’re having to speak under these circumstances,” Agent Hotchner says to me. 

He’s stern, professional, almost like a military parent. I would know.

“Me too,” I say, giving a half smile.

“I know this isn’t easy,” he says, “but anything you remember could help us find your sister.”

I swallow, “I’ll tell you whatever I can.”

He nods, a pleased look peeks out through his face. “Good. Tell me about her,” he opens the folder sitting in front of him.

I almost laughed. Not because it’s funny, but because where do you even start with a question like that?

“She’s…” I start, then have to stop and think. I realize I have no idea how to describe my sister. “She’s stubborn.”

“How so?” He asks, writing something down.

“If she decides she’s doing something, she’s doing it,” I say.

“Even as a child?”

“Oh, especially as a child.”

“So what was she like growing up?”

“Happy. She was loud, just always talking,” I smile. “About everything. Dad used to joke that she narrated her own life.” My smile leaves. He notices.

“When did that change?”

“After our parents died.”

He nods again, writing. ‘Did your parents ever mention anyone threatening them?”

“No.”

“Any problems at work?”

“Dad was army, everyone was a problem at work.”

“Outside of work?”

I think for a moment. “N-no? I don’t think so.”

“Did either of your parents ever insinuate that someone was following your family?”

“No, not that I know of.”

“Was there anyone who paid special attention to your sister during that time?”

“She had this b-boyfriend who was kind of a dick, b-but they only dated a few months I don’t think–”

“This man would’ve been older. Around your parents' age.”

“I don’t remember anyone, no.”

“No one at all?”

I think. Hard. I try putting myself back into that time, but I can’t think of anything.

“Wait…Actually…”

______

–Your POV– creepy old man alert. there is nothing physical aside from some face grabbing and mentions of hitting, but it’s mostly just weird ‘ur hot, fuck me im 40’ vibes

There’s nothing in this world that can prepare you for how intense pain can be. It’s not an umbrella term for anything that hurts. There are layers to it.

Pain is the sharpness in your ribs every time you breathe in too deeply. Pain is the throb behind your left eye. It’s the metallic taste of blood coating your tongue. It's the burning in your throat every time you swallow. 

Pain is your body’s way of keeping a record.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

The dripping that was driving you insane just a few hours ago has become your best friend. You focus on it, because focusing on it means you aren’t focusing on the fact that every time you breathe it feels like something inside your chest is scraping against something that it shouldn’t be scraping against.

You have at least one broken rib, you’re sure of it. Maybe more. Your vision blurs every few minutes, and it’s only worse when you move your head. Your eye is swelling shut, you imagine it is the deepest color purple. You look to your left out of your right eye to the pool of blood that you threw up.

That’s the part that worries you most. 

Worried, not scared. You won’t let yourself be scared. Your father always said fear made people sloppy. You didn’t want to be made sloppy.

“You’re quieter than I imagined.”

You look up at him without lifting your head. “Should I be screaming?”

Your voice is snarky. He seems to like that. You don’t like that he likes that.

He walks up closer to you, taking your chin in his hands. You think about biting his thumb, but you figure you’ll let him talk first.

“You’re very beautiful.”

You roll your eyes up at him. “Thanks,” you say sarcastically. You purposely cough up blood and spit it at him. He laughs. 

Ew.

“I know a lot about you.”

The way he says it makes something cold settle in your chest. You don’t answer. He doesn’t seem to be bothered by the silence. In fact, he almost seems to be enjoying it.

“I know you hate mushrooms. You always pick them off your pizza.”

Your stomach drops. You feel all the blood leave your face, but you stay silent.

“I know you order the same coffee almost every morning.”

You shake your head at him, in an attempt to call his bluff.

He tilts your face up to look at him. The movement sends a shooting pain through your skull. You wince slightly. He runs a thumb over your lips, pressing onto the hole you bit in your bottom one earlier after he kicked you.

The salt from his thumb stings through your lip. You could bite his thumb off. If you wanted to. 

But you think you have a better chance of survival if you hold off on that.

“A medium iced vanilla latte, right?”

You don’t say anything. You can’t. None of this is public information. None of this is something someone could guess that correctly. He’s watching your face carefully, looking for every reaction.

“I know you don’t often sleep in your own room anymore. Thinking of leaving ol’ Dave on his own after he took you in?”

You glare at him.

“I know you sleep on the left side of the bed when you’re at Spencer’s apar–”

“Stop.” I demand. Your voice comes out harsher than you expect it to.

He does stop though, not because you told him to, but because what he wanted was for you to get mad. And he found just the thing that would do that.

Spencer.

“Who are you?”

He chuckles. “You already asked that.”

“You didn’t answer.”

“I wasn’t ready.”

He reaches out again to brush another loose strand of hair behind your ear. You jerk your head away, your vision going completely white for a moment.

“Don’t touch me,” you demand.

“You don’t like being touched? That’s sure not what it looks like when you’re in Spencer’s bed.”

The way he says Spencer’s name makes you want to kill him.

He smiles at you. His teeth are crooked and yellow.

“You’re awfully affectionate with him for someone who doesn’t like physical touch. You’ve only been together what, two months?”

Your jaw tightens. You just keep staring at him silently.

“And you’re already spending almost every night at his apartment?” His eyes drift over your face, a darkness in his eyes that makes your stomach feel hollow. “Don’t you think that’s a little…dirty?”

“What?” you say, caught off guard. First he was talking about mushrooms on a pizza and now he’s trying to slut shame you or something? He’s just trying to break you. You won’t let him.

“Being with an older man.”

You almost laugh. He has to be kidding.

“What is he now? 25?”

“26,” you mumble. “He’s not that old.”

“Oh, so you’d go older?”

You stare at him. He waits for you to answer. You don’t. You have absolutely no intention of doing so. He slowly drags his tongue across his bottom lip, an attempt to be seductive. It makes your skin crawl.

He leans down close to your ear.

“Do you think I’m too old for you?”

You shudder. Every instinct in your body screams at you to get away from him. But you can’t, so you slowly turn to him and smile a smug smile at him.

“I wouldn’t fuck you if it would save my life,” you whisper to him.

He looks at you for a moment, before chuckling.

“Good to know.”

The way he says it makes your stomach twist. 

“How do you know me?” you ask, hoping to change the subject from whatever was happening.

His smile lingers. “I told you.”

“No, you told me that you knew me. Not how you know me.”

For the first time he doesn’t answer immediately. Instead he studies your face, almost admiringly.

“You ask good questions.”

“If you’re not going to answer how you know me, can you at least tell me why you chose me?”

“I know your father. I knew him very well.”

“No you didn’t.”

He smiles a reminiscent smile. “Dennis always got the credit.”

Your entire body goes cold.

“Dennis James?”

“Yes, Dennis James.”

“The man who killed my father?”

“You know, you stayed late after school that day? You weren’t supposed to.”

“H-how do you know that?”

“You were supposed to walk through that front door.” Your chest tightens. “You were supposed to be next.”

The room goes silent. You don’t hear the dripping water, or your own breathing anymore. All you can hear is your uncle’s voice from three years ago.

“Something about this doesn’t feel right.”

He was right. He’d been right all along.

You look back at the man standing in front of you. 

“Who are you?” you ask.

He smiles.

“My name is Steven Woods. And I killed your father.”

_____

–Spencer’s POV–

If going through her old school records wasn’t enough, now I’m being sent to go through her room. I hope she can forgive me for this. But if she can’t, at least I know it’s because she’s alive. 

Walking inside of Rossi’s house feels wrong. There’s no TV playing in the living room while she insists she’s watching it, or laughing coming from her room upstairs. It’s just me and Dave walking through the door in complete silence.

Neither of us want to be here. 

We stop outside her bedroom, Rossi stares at the door for a long moment before he reaches for the knob.

“I’ve never gone through her room before,” he says quietly. “Not this deep.”

I get it. I’ve been doing this all day. There’s something that feels deeply inappropriate about going through someone’s things when they’re not there.

Her room is exactly the same as how I know she would’ve left it. Her bed is unmade. A sweatshirt is draped over the chair at her desk. Three planners are stacked neatly beside her laptop. A half-finished novel rests face-down on her nightstand.

Her room doesn't look abandoned. It looks like she walked out five minutes ago. Like she'll come back upstairs any second and ask why we're standing around in her room.

My chest tightens. "This feels wrong," I say.

“I know,” Rossi nods. "But you know she'd rather it be you than anyone else."

I swallow. "I know."

Because I do. Even missing. Even scared. Even if she doesn't know where she is. She would want me looking. So I do.

We separate. Rossi starts at her desk. I move toward the bookshelf. Every movement feels intrusive. Like I'm taking something that doesn't belong to me. I run my fingers over the spines of her books. Most of them I've seen before. Some I've borrowed. One has sticky notes sticking out of almost every chapter. Of course it does.

I smile. Just for a second. Then I hear Rossi stop moving.

I turn. He's standing at her closet.

He has one of her sweaters in his hands.

No.

Not one of hers.

One of mine.

I recognize it immediately. The dark one she always steals because she says it's softer than hers.

Rossi looks at it. He smiles. Then it disappears. Because we both remember why we're here. He folds it carefully and places it back. Then he moves back toward the desk.

And that's when he sees it. The yellow sticky note.

His entire body stills.

I know what it is before he picks it up. I know because I remember writing it.

‘Call if you want to continue the Asimov debate’ 

Followed by my phone number.

The first time I gave her a way to contact me. Rossi slowly lifts it. His fingers tighten slightly around the paper. 

"I forgot about this,” he says, his voice barely audible.

I don't answer. Because I know what happened the last time he saw it.

The argument. The anger. The fear.

"I was so angry,” he says.

I look at him. He doesn't look angry now.

"I thought I was protecting her,” He looks down at the note. "I thought I knew what was best. I thought I was stopping something before it could hurt her."

"Rossi..." I try to stop him. We don’t have to do this right now. I’ve already forgiven him.

"No,” he shakes his head. "I need to say this."

“Okay.”

 "I was wrong,” his voice cracks slightly. "I spent so much time worrying about what could happen to her that I didn't see what was already happening." 

He looks around her room, then at the note.

“Spencer, I know you’ve learned a lot about her today, but I need you to know that you’re the reason that she was able to hide it so well.”

“I don’t know if that’s neces-” 

“No, it is. The night that she met you, that was the happiest she’d been since she moved in with me. And I’m sorry that I kept you guys apart for so long.”

“It’s okay, Dave. I get it,” I tell him. 

I do get it. I don’t know what else to say though. Because I don’t know how to respond to someone apologizing for something they can’t undo.

“I should’ve trusted her,” he says quietly. “I should’ve trusted you.”

I look away because suddenly it’s all too much. Too many emotions, too many memories, everything is just so much.

Rossi carefully places the note back on her desk, more visible this time. “She’ll want to see this when she comes home.”

When.

Not if. 

When.

I hold on to that word.

I notice a box underneath her bed labelled “school”. I pull it out and open it. Inside it’s filled with notebooks, folders, old yearbooks, and at the very bottom, there's an old composition notebook with no title, just visible years of usage. 

I open it. The first thing I see isn’t a table of contents, or an entry. It’s a warning.

‘If anybody is reading this aside from me, please stop.’

I immediately close it.

“What?” Rossi says, looking over at me.

“She wrote for people not to read this,” I explain.

“She also likely never imagined someone would be reading it in order to save her,” he says softly.

He’s right.

The first pages of the notebook aren’t journal entries. They’re lists. And schedules. And goals.

Today’s Goals: 

speak to one person

eat something (cereal doesn’t count)

stay awake through english

don’t cry at school

My vision blurs as I continue reading. It only gets worse.

Practice: 

if someone asks “how are you?” don’t say “fine.” instead, say “i’m okay.” or “good, how are you.”

It was so bad that she had to practice small talk. 

I just want to give her a hug.

Things I don’t want to forget about mom:

she always sang frank sinatra while cooking

she hated mushrooms

she smelled like vanilla, which is funny, because she used coconut scented shampoo

she could bbq better than dad

I stop reading. This is too much for likely no reward. I stand up and wipe my eyes on my sleeve.

“You need a break, Kid?” Dave asks, looking at me.

I sit down on her bed. “Hey Rossi,” I say, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Rossi sits the book he’s holding down and sits next to me.

“Because she finally got to stop being 15.” He gives me a half smile. “She would’ve told you eventually.”

“Are you just saying that?”

“No. She’s slow to warm up.”

“I mean yeah, but I’ve spent almost every day with her for the last two months, and she didn’t even hint at what happened to her parents.”

“Spencer, for the first two months after she moved in she didn’t speak a word to me. Not once.”

He tells me about how all she would eat is cereal. And how every question he asked would go unanswered. He tells me about how she didn’t unpack, and how she slept on top of her comforter because making the bed felt permanent.

He tells me about the first time she spoke to him after moving in. He had burnt a lasagna, and she appeared out of nowhere and told him to cover it with foil. The story makes me laugh. Because even then, without trying, she was funny.

“Rossi, I know what she’s feeling,” I say. “Right now.”

“This job will do that to you,” he says, unknowingly. 

I realize that I was so caught up in the fact that neither of them told me about her parents, that I realize that neither of them know about what happened to me. 

Rossi could assume. He knows this job, and if he wanted to know, he could find the files. But she had no idea. 

And Rossi mentioned me helping her, but I don’t think I’ve given her enough credit for helping me.

My brain takes me to another place. Another time. 

Concrete. Darkness. A locked door. A grave yard. 

Tobias.

I remember the feeling of not knowing if anyone knew where I was. I remember how scared I was to hear any sound. I start shaking as I remember the feeling of the needle–

“Spencer?”

Rossi’s voice pulls me back. I realize I’m not in the shed. I’m here. I feel a tear roll down my cheek. I didn’t even know I was crying.

“Do you know?” I ask him through my tears.

“About Tobias Hankel?” 

The name makes me gasp. I nod, my head falling into Rossi’s shoulder. 

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” I say. “And now she’s in the same position I was.”

Rossi wraps an arm around me. It’s comforting, but not comforting enough.

“You’re here now though, aren’t you,” he says. He has a point. But I can’t stop thinking about her. Her all alone. Or if she’s hurt. 

“What if she thinks no one is coming?” I say. And then I immediately find myself sick. The trash can beneath her desk is suddenly the closest thing in the room. I barely make it.

When it's over, I stay there, embarrassed Humiliated.

"I'm sorry,” I say.

Rossi immediately shakes his head. "No."

I wipe my mouth. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize,” he says.

I start to speak, but Dave’s phone rings in his pocket. 

It’s Garcia.

“David Rossi,” he answers.

“We got him,” is all Garcia says. And Dave and I are immediately down the stairs and out the front door.

______

–Your POV–

You know he’s angry before he touches you. You’ve picked up on a few of his tells. The way his jaw tightens. The way he stops blinking. The way he goes quiet.

The quiet is always worse.

Because Steven likes talking. He likes hearing himself explain things. He likes feeling important.

And right now, you’ve made him feel small.

"You really think you're better than me."

It isn't a question. You don't answer. That makes it worse.

He steps closer.

“You think you understand everything.”

You look at him through your swollen eye.

“I understand enough.”

His face twists.

“You don't know anything about me.”

“No?” You swallow against the pain. “I know Dennis is the one everyone remembers. You know what I think?” You force yourself to keep looking at him. “I think you’re still angry because you spent your whole life standing behind someone else.”

His boot hits before you can prepare. Pain explodes through your side. A sound escapes you before you can stop it. You hate that. Not because it hurts. Because he heard it.

He smiles.

There.

That’s what he wanted.

Fear. Submission. You refuse to give it to him.

“You’re not scary.”

The smile disappears. “What?”

“You heard me.” Your breathing shakes, but your voice doesn’t. “You’re just desperate.”

He grabs your face. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

You stare at him. And suddenly you know exactly what to say. “You know what?”

He pauses. “What?”

You let out a small laugh. It hurts. Everything hurts. But you do it anyway. “Dennis never cared about you.”

“What did you say?”

“You heard me.” His expression darkens. “He used you. You were just the guy behind him.”

His breathing gets heavier. “You don’t know anything.”

“I know he got the credit. The headlines. The fear.” Your voice lowers. “And you got nothing.”

His face twists. “You’re lying.”

“Am I?”

His hands curl. “You don’t know what happened.”

You glance toward the wall. Just for a second. A movement. A shadow.

Someone outside.

Someone looking through the gaps in the wood.

Morgan.

Your heart jumps. But you don’t react. You keep going.

“I know my father fought Dennis. You weren’t the one who beat him.”

His eyes narrow. “You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.” Your voice is steadier now. “Because my father was strong.”

His anger returns. “He was stronger than you.” 

His hand grabs your hair. 

You cry out.

He pulls you upright, forcing you to look at him. “You think you know everything.”

“No.” You look at him. “I know one thing, you needed Dennis.”

The wall beside you splinters. Steven turns.

The wood breaks.

“FBI!”

Everything happens at once. Morgan comes through first. Hotch behind him. Emily right behind.

Steven reacts instantly. You barely have time to breathe before he pulls you against him. A gun appears, pressed against your head. 

You didn’t even know he had a gun this whole time. Not once did he show or mention it.

Everyone stops. Your heart pounds.

“Back up!” Steven’s voice shakes.

Hotch raises his hands. “Steven.”

“No.”

“Put the weapon down.”

“You don’t understand.”

Hotch’s voice stays calm. “You wanted this. You wanted someone to know your name.” The gun shifts slightly. “You wanted people to see you. They see you now.”

For a second it works. His grip loosens. The gun lowers. And that second is enough.

Morgan moves. He tackles Steven away from you. The gun hits the floor. Everything becomes noise.

Shouting.

Movement.

Then suddenly, you’re free. Emily is there immediately.

“Oh my God.” Her voice breaks slightly.

She cuts through the zip ties. Her hands are gentle. Careful. Like she’s afraid you’ll break.

You try to stand. Your legs immediately give. Emily catches you.

“Nope,” she says, holding you up.

“I can walk.”

“You can barely stand.”

You glare weakly.

Her arm wraps around your waist. “Come on.”

Every step feels impossible. Your ribs burn. Your vision swims.

“I can’t.”

Emily tightens her hold. “Yes, you can.”

“It hurts.”

“I know.”

Your eyes close. “I can’t.”

Emily looks toward the door. “Spencer is outside.”

That’s enough for you to fight through the near immobilizing pain. For him

The second you step outside you see him. And he sees you. For one second he doesn’t move. It’s like his brain can't process that you’re actually standing there.

Then he runs. He doesn't walk. He runs straight toward you.

Emily lets go just enough for him to reach you.

And then you’re in his arms. He doesn’t say anything. Neither do you. He just holds you. Like he’s making sure you’re real. Like if he lets go you’ll disappear again.

Rossi reaches you seconds later.

“Kid,” his voice breaks. “Are you okay?”

You nod. Just once. 

And immediately regret it.

Pain shoots through your body. Your stomach twists.

Spencer notices. “Y/N?”

You try to answer. You don’t get the chance.

You cough. Then again.

And suddenly blood is everywhere.

On your lips.

On his sweater.

On his hands.

You throw up against him.

For a moment, nobody moves. Then Spencer panics. Not because of the blood on him. Not because he’s covered in it.

Because it came from you.

“No.” His voice is hoarse. “No, no, no.”

“I’m okay, Spencer,” you try to convince him. “It’s not the first time.”

“That’s worse,” he says, looking at Rossi, then at the paramedics. “We need an ambulance.”

You try to tell him you can walk. You can’t. Your knees give almost immediately

“I’ve got you, Spencer says, catching you.

Before you can argue, he lifts you. You rest your head against his shoulder. And for the first time since waking up in that shed… You let yourself believe you’re safe.

_____

Read Part 31 Here! 🕰️ (coming soon)

Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party Masterlist

All Works Masterlist

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a/n: i got this out way faster than i thought i was going to be able to. i was originally going to make it a little longer by having the last scene be everyone visiting reader in the hospital, but i decided that i want to dedicate an entire chapter to that. so next chapter will be that yippee

i really hope you guys enjoy this, i know it's longer than anything i've ever written, but i'm like 92% proud of it.

also happy birthday to my goat @allidoisreid

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Sunday May 18, 2008: The Farmer’s Market

Spencer didn't understand farmer's markets. That became obvious approximately forty-three seconds after the two of you walked through the entrance.

"So..." he said, looking around at the dozens of white tents lining the street. "These are... vegetables."

You looked at him. "Correct."

"...Being sold."

"Also correct."

"...Outside."

You laughed.

"I'm confused," he admitted.

"I know," you smile, grabbing his hand and walking through the street.

The Sunday morning crowd drifted around you, people carrying canvas tote bags overflowing with flowers, bread, peaches, jars of honey, and things you couldn't immediately identify. The whole place smelled like fresh herbs and coffee. Someone was playing acoustic guitar near the entrance. Children ran between booths while their parents tried unsuccessfully to keep up.

It was busy. Loud. Chaotic. In other words, exactly the kind of place Spencer Reid would never voluntarily choose to spend his Sunday. Which was precisely why you'd brought him.

"I only need strawberries," you promised.

He looked down at your intertwined fingers. "You said that before we left."

"I did."

"You also said we'd only be here twenty minutes."

"Also true."

"It's already been twelve."

You smiled innocently. "We're making excellent time."

The first booth had strawberries. Beautiful ones. You picked up a container of bright red ones. Spencer did too. He lifts them above his head and hums as he observes them.

“What?” you ask, looking at hin.

“Modern strawberries are significantly larger than their medieval ancestors. They’re also much sweeter.”

You flick your eyes between Spencer and the woman running the booth who was looking at him like he was an alien. You can’t even blame her.

“They’re descendants of two separate wild strawberry plants that were hybridized in the 18th century,” Spencer continues, ignoring the weird looks he’s getting. “The average medieval strawberry would’ve been approximately a quarter of this size.”

You and the vendor stare at him for a moment. He smiles.

“So,” the woman says slowly. “Do you want to buy them?”

“Yes,” Spencer says.

You and Spencer both left the booth with your own carton of strawberries. And a container of homemade jam.

“I didn’t mean to do that,” Spencer whispered as the two of you walked away.

“I know,” you say, smiling at him.

“Do you think she thought I was weird?”

“Oh 100%,” you say. He looks horrified for a moment. “But I like weird.”

He smiles, taking your hand again. Because that answer was good enough for him.

You’re just finishing up checking out at a raw honey stall when you turn around to discover Spencer had disappeared. You circle the stall to find him just a few over, standing in front of huge wooden crates of pumpkins.

Not little decorative pumpkins, but enormous heirloom pumpkins in every imaginable color and shape. There were bright orange, yellow, white deep green, and even blue ones.

Your boyfriend stood holding an oblong orange one and a light green one with some bumps on it. You quickly pull your phone out and take a picture of him before he turns around and notices you and immediately starts sharing information that you have no idea how he even knows.

“Did you know modern pumpkins contain significantly more flesh than 17th century varieties?” He tells you, almost like he was expecting you to say yes.

“Why would I know that?” you asked.

He gently runs his hand over one of the circular white pumpkins in the crate. “Cucurbita maxima,” he says, looking at you.

“What?” 

“It’s a cucurbita maxima; a species of herbaceous vine in the gourd family. Originally domesticated in South America around 4,000 years ago. The seeds were originally used as an anthelmintic to treat intestinal parasites. They can grow to weigh over 100 pounds if you know what you’re doing!”

"I thought we only needed strawberries,” you say.

“I didn’t know these would be here…”

By the time the two of you reached the car, you’d bought 17 things. You only wanted the strawberries.

Monday May 19, 2008: Braids

After dinner at Spencer’s apartment, the two of you had settled in for a quiet evening. A Doctor Who episode played quietly on the TV as you sat on the floor in front of the couch, legs crossed, trying to get a French braid to go straight back on your head rather than veering off to the side again. You’d been at it for almost twenty minutes, and the frustration was starting to show.

Spencer was sitting on the couch behind you, watching with quiet amusement. He kept glancing down every time you let out a small huff of annoyance.

“You know,” he said gently, “if you start the braid a little higher and keep the tension more consistent on the right side, it might–”

“I’d like to see you try,” you interrupted, dropping your hands into your lap.

Spencer closed his book without hesitation and slid further down the couch behind you. “Braiding is really just applied mathematics,” he said, already warming up to his own explanation.

“It is not.”

“It actually is.” He centers you between his legs “You have three independent variables that repeatedly exchange positions according to a predictable sequence.” He held up three fingers in front of your face. “One.” He crossed his index finger over his middle. “Two.” Then his ring finger under his middle. “Three. The only added complexity in a French braid is the incremental introduction of additional strands into the outer variables before each exchange.”

You stared at him. “…Outer variables?”

“Your hair.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re such a nerd.”

“Do you want me to help you or not?”

“You’re my nerd,” you confirm.

“That works,” he says, smiling as he gently gathered sections of your hair. He was careful, almost clinical at first, then he started. And immediately got it wrong.

The braid went crooked almost instantly. One section was way tighter than the others, and the whole thing started twisting off to the left. You tried not to laugh. 

“I’m still in the experimental phase,” he said seriously, trying to fix it. “The tension distribution is proving more difficult than I initially calculated.”

“You’re terrible at this,” you laugh, failing at holding it in.

“I’m not terrible,” he protested, but you could hear the smile in his voice. “I’m… learning. If you let me practice I’d figure it out easily.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You want to practice braiding my hair?”

“Only if you’ll let me,” he said, suddenly a little shy. “I like learning things that are important to you.”

“Fine,” you say, acting like it’s a chore for you. “But only because you’re cute when you’re concentrated.”

He smiled, ears turning pink. “Deal.”

After a few more failed attempts, you finally gave up and just leaned back against his chest, his arms wrapping around you from behind as the Doctor Who episode continued playing on the TV.

“Hypothetically,” Spencer said after a while, still playing with a strand of your hair.

“Oh no.”

“If someone accidentally tied two sections together…” He paused. “How difficult would that be to reverse?”

You laughed, tilting your head back to look at him. “Spencer, did you tie my hair together?”

“I’m just curious,” he said innocently, but the mischievous glint in his eyes gave him away.

You never did get your hair braided that night.

_____

Tuesday May 20, 2008: Surprise

You’d gotten used to not seeing Spencer on Tuesdays. That was just how it was.

If he wasn’t on a case, he was usually stuck at the BAU working on paperwork. Tuesday was paperwork day, and he was often there late. He usually called you around five, when he would normally get off work, and you’d talk for a little while before he started his mountain of files. 

Today was no different.

Your phone rang right on time. You answered with a smile, curling up on the couch in your uncle’s living room.

“Hey,” you said.

“Hey,” Spencer replied, voice warm but tired. “How are you?”

“I’m okay, just watching T.V.”

“Cool, what are you watching?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know what you’re watching?”

“No.”

Spencer laughs at you. He makes fun of you for not paying attention, but you argue that there’s nothing good anyway. Which of course, ignites something in him. He starts talking about the declining ratings of TV shows and a bunch of other statistics that you aren’t fully paying attention to. 

You talk for about fifteen minutes before you decide that he probably needs to get to work if he wants to be out at an acceptable hour.

“You should probably go so you’re not at the office all night,” you said gently.

Spencer was quiet for a second. “Yeah… okay. I’ll call you later if I’m not too swamped.”

“Only if you have time,” you said. “Don’t stay too late.”

“I won’t. I love you. Bye.”

“Bye.”

You hung up and tossed your phone onto the couch cushion, letting out a small sigh. Tuesdays were always like this. You turned on the TV and tried to get comfortable, flipping through channels without really watching anything.

About an hour later, there was a knock at the front door.

That was strange. Your uncle had a key, and he usually got stuck at the office until at least nine on Tuesdays too. You got up, walked to the door, and peeked through the peephole. Spencer was standing on the porch, holding a paper sack of takeout in one hand.

You opened the door, surprised. “Spencer?”

He smiled, looking a little shy. “Hi.”

You stepped aside to let him in. “I thought you had paperwork?”

“I did,” he said, following you inside. “But I skipped lunch and got it done early. So… I brought dinner.”

You looked at the bag in his hand: one container for him, one for you. Your chest felt warm.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you said softly.

“I know,” he replied, stepping inside. “But I wanted to.”

You smiled, stepping closer. “Well… I’m glad you did. I like hanging out with you.”

The two of you sat at the kitchen island and ate together. The takeout was warm and smelled amazing, Chinese food from the place you both liked. Spencer had gotten your favorite sesame chicken and extra spring rolls without even asking.

“So how bad was the paperwork?” you asked, taking a bite.

“Brutal,” he said, poking at his lo mein with a fork. “There were three different reports with conflicting timelines on the same unsub. I spent forty minutes just trying to reconcile the dates. Then I found a typo in one of the M.E. reports that completely changed the estimated time of death. It was… frustrating.”

You winced. “That sounds awful. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he said, smiling a little. “I got through it faster than I thought I would. Mostly because I kept thinking about seeing you. What about you? How was your day?”

You shrugged, stealing one of his broccoli pieces. “It was pretty chill, honestly. I did some studying this morning for my Friday exam, then I drew for a while. Then I filled out my planner for the rest of the week, read a book for a bit, and then you called. We talked, I watched some TV, and then you showed up at the door.” You smiled at him. “And now we’re here.”

Spencer looked at you with that soft, fond expression he got sometimes. “That sounds nice. Much better than paperwork.”

“It was,” you said. “But this is better.”

He smiled, ears turning a little pink.

After dinner, you led him upstairs to your room. You were already in comfy at-home clothes, grey sweatpants and a cropped tank top that ended just above your belly button, leaving about an inch and a half of skin showing between the hem and the waistband of your shorts.

You and Spencer lay in your bed, him on his back and you curled up against his side with your head on his chest. The whole time you talked, his fingers kept running gently along the exposed skin of your waist. His eyes kept drifting down to it.

You finally smiled and looked up at him. “You like it when I wear cropped shirts, don’t you?”

Spencer’s face went bright red. He swallowed hard, clearly embarrassed. “Yeah… I do. I’m sorry. You’re just… really attractive. I’m sorry I keep looking.”

You giggled softly. “It’s okay, Spencer.”

You leaned up and kissed him. The kiss started soft. But it didn’t stay that way for long.

Spencer’s hand slid further under the hem of your tank top, fingers brushing against the warm skin of your stomach. You shivered at the touch, pressing closer, your own hands fisting in his sweater as you deepened the kiss. His tongue brushed against yours, tentative at first, then bolder, and you let out a soft sound into his mouth that made him groan quietly.

His mouth moved against yours with increasing urgency, tongue sliding hot and eager against yours as his hands roamed your sides. You could feel the slight tremble in his fingers as they traced up your ribs. You arched into his touch, gasping when his hips rolled just right, pressing his hard length directly against your core through your sweats.

You moaned softly into his mouth, hips rolling up to meet his. Spencer let out a broken sound, his hands gripping your waist tighter as he rocked against you harder, the heat between you building with every desperate grind. The fabric between you only made it more teasing, more frustrating, more perfect.

You were both breathing heavily, lost in the heat and friction, when you pulled back just enough to whisper against his lips. “How much paperwork did Uncle Dave have today?”

Spencer’s breath was shaky, his voice rough. “Enough.”

You smiled and kissed him again, harder this time. You swung a leg over him and pulled him on top of you, your bodies pressing together. Spencer settled between your legs instinctively, still fully dressed in his work clothes. You could feel him even better now.

You’d gotten used to this feeling. The feeling of the weight of him on top of you, the way his body fit so perfectly against yours. It wasn’t the first time you’d done this, and every time it happened, it felt a little more natural, a little more addictive.

His mouth moved to your neck, kissing and sucking at the sensitive skin there as his hips continued their steady, needy rhythm. You tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging gently, and he whimpered against your throat, grinding down harder.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” you breathed, nails digging into his shoulders. “I love it when you’re desperate.”

Spencer let out a shaky, embarrassed moan, his face burning as he buried it in your neck. I- I can’t help it,” he stuttered, voice wrecked. “You’re so…You feel s-so good.”

You rolled your hips up harder. He choked on a whimper. His hands tightened on your waist, fingers digging into your skin as he rutted against you with more urgency, the wet spot on his slacks growing with every thrust.

“You’re so hard,” you whispered against his ear, voice low and teasing.

Spencer made a broken, flustered sound, his ears burning red as he hid his face in your neck again. “I-I’m sorry, I just– you feel so good, I can’t stop–”

“Don’t stop,” you moaned, legs wrapping tighter around his waist. “I love feeling you like this.”

He groaned, burying his face in your neck as he rutted against you faster, chasing the building pleasure. You could feel him throbbing against you, the wet spot on his pants growing as he lost control. Your own hips moved in rhythm with his, grinding up desperately, the pressure coiling tighter and tighter in you.

The kiss broke only when you both needed air, foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling hot and heavy. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide as he looked down at you, lips swollen and shiny.

You pulled him back down, kissing him again, deeper, hungrier. His hands slid under your tank top, palms hot against your bare skin as he rocked against you with more urgency. The wet sounds of your kisses and the quiet creak of the bed filled the room, mixing with your soft moans and his shaky breaths.

You were both trembling, lost in the heat and friction, when the sound of the front door opening downstairs made you both freeze.

You heard your uncle’s keys jingling, then the door closing. Footsteps moved through the entryway.

Spencer’s eyes widened, still flushed and breathing hard. You pressed a finger to his lips, both of you staying perfectly still, hearts racing.

After a moment, you heard Rossi head toward the kitchen. The danger passed.

Spencer’s eyes widened, still flushed and breathing hard against you. His body went rigid on top of you, every muscle locked as he stayed perfectly still, his hard cock still pressed firmly between your legs through his slacks.

“We should stop,” he whispered immediately, voice shaky and panicked. “Rossi’s home. I-I can’t do this with him right downstairs. I–”

He cut himself off, face burning red as he carefully rolled off you, both of you lying on your backs, chests heaving as you tried to calm down. His hand found yours under the blanket, fingers lacing together tightly.

You turned your head to look at him, both of you still breathing hard, bodies buzzing with unfinished tension.

Spencer swallowed hard, ears still red. “I’m sorry. I just… I’m already kind of scared of him a-and I think he might kill me if he walked in on us…like that.”

You squeezed his hand, smiling softly. “It’s okay. I understand.”

He let out a shaky breath, still clearly worked up but relieved. “Thank you.”

You both lay there for a moment, listening to the sounds of your uncle moving around downstairs. 

You smiled, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “Rain check?”

Spencer nodded, still flushed. “Definitely.”

_____ Wednesday May 21, 2008: Would You Still Love Me?

You and Spencer were curled up together on his couch after dinner. The TV was playing some random documentary neither of you were really watching. You were lying with your head in his lap, his fingers gently playing with your hair as he read one of his books with his free hand.

You’d been thinking about something for a while, and the quiet moment felt like the perfect time to bring it up.

“Hey, Spencer?” you said, looking up at him.

“Hm?” He glanced down at you, still absentmindedly running his fingers through your hair.

“Would you still love me if I was a worm?”

Spencer blinked. Then blinked again. His fingers paused in your hair as he processed the question. “…A worm?” he repeated, sounding genuinely confused. “Like… an earthworm?”

“Yeah.”

He sat up a little straighter, clearly taking the question seriously. “Well, biologically speaking, if you were an earthworm, you wouldn’t have the same neural structures required for complex emotional attachment. Worms have a very rudimentary nervous system. Basically a ventral nerve cord with minimal ganglia. They don’t experience love the way humans do. So technically, I couldn’t love you if you were a worm because ‘you’ as a conscious entity capable of reciprocal love wouldn’t exist in that form.”

You stared at him.

He continued, completely earnest. “Also, earthworms are hermaphroditic, so the entire concept of romantic pairing would be different. And I’m not sure I’d be attracted to a worm. Not that there’s anything wrong with worms! They’re actually quite beneficial for soil aeration and–”

You started laughing, cutting him off. “Spencer.”

“What?” He looked genuinely concerned. “Did I answer wrong?”

You sat up, still giggling, and climbed into his lap, straddling him. “It was a hypothetical silly question. You were supposed to say yes and be cute about it.”

“Oh.” His ears turned pink. “I… I ruined it, didn’t I?”

“A little,” you said, smiling as you looped your arms around his neck. “But it’s okay. I love how you are.”

He relaxed a little, hands settling on your hips. “I would still love you,” he said softly. “Even if you were a worm. I’d… build you a nice terrarium. With really good soil. And visit you every day.”

You laughed again, leaning in to kiss him. “That’s better.”

He smiled against your lips. “Good.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, still grinning. “Okay, new one. Would you still love me if I was a zombie?”

Spencer’s eyebrows furrowed again. “Well, if you were a zombie, you’d be clinically dead. Brain function would be severely impaired, mostly basal ganglia activity with no higher cognition. So the person I love wouldn’t really be there anymore. But hypothetically, if some part of your consciousness remained, I’d probably try to find a way to reverse the infection. Or at least keep you safe. I’d build a secure enclosure and–”

You kissed him again, laughing into his mouth. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m just being logical,” he mumbled against your lips, but he was smiling now too.

“Would you still love me if I had no legs?”

“Yes. I’d carry you everywhere. Or build you a very efficient mobility device.”

“Would you still love me if I was a cat?”

“Absolutely. I’d learn cat behavior and make sure you had the best enrichment toys. Though I’d probably be allergic, so I’d need to take daily antihistamines–”

“Would you still love me if I was bald?”

“Of course. Hair is just keratin. It has no bearing on my feelings for you. Plus, you’d look beautiful with or without hair. Symmetry and facial structure are more important for attraction anyway.”

“Would you still love me if I forgot how to speak?” you asked, tracing patterns on his chest.

Spencer thought for a second. “Yes. We’d develop our own communication system. I’d learn sign language, or we could use written notes, or even just gestures. Love isn’t dependent on verbal language.”

You smiled, resting your chin on his chest. “You’re such a nerd.”

“I’m just being honest,” he said, ears pink again.

You leaned up and kissed him softly. “I know. I love you.”

He smiled against your lips. “I love you too.”

The rest of the night passed in quiet, silly conversation and gentle kisses, the kind of easy, comfortable evening that made you feel like the luckiest girl in the world.

______ Thursday May 22, 2008: Noticeable

You were like ten pages deep in your notes at a table in the student rec center when probably the only voice that could distract you broke through your concentration.

“Hey,” it said.

You looked up, surprised to see Spencer standing there with two coffees in his hands and a small, shy smile on his face. He has a few case files tucked under his arm. He’s wearing his usual work clothes, but on top is a dark blue FBI wind breaker. 

“What are you doing here?” you ask, smiling at him.

“I had a late lunch,” he explains, sitting one of the cups in front of you. “I thought I’d come by for about an hour, is that okay?”

“More than okay,” you grin. “Sit.”

He slid into the seat across from you. He reviewed his case files while you studied. He occasionally glances across the table to check on you. And every time he does, he has a cheesy grin on his face when he looks back down. You don’t tell him you notice it.

However, you do tell him how many students keep staring at him as they walk past.

“You know everyone is staring at you, right?” you lean forward to tell him.

“What?” He says, looking up from his file. “Why?”

You smirk at him. “Well, you’re wearing an FBI windbreaker and reading case files in the middle of a student rec center. That’s not really something that usually happens here.”

“Oh, I didn’t really think about that when I put the jacket on…”

“You look like a criminal justice professor.”

His eyebrows shot up. “I’m much too young to be mistaken for faculty. The average age of a tenured professor in the United States is over 44 years old. I don’t look 44.” 

You laugh at him. “No, minus the jacket you’d blend right in here.”

He smiled, a little embarrassed but clearly happy to be here nonetheless.

You spend the rest of the hour studying while he reads his files. He was just a quiet company, but he was your favorite company. And you’d never admit it out loud, but you study far better when he’s around.

When his lunch break was almost over, he reluctantly put all the papers back into his files.

“I need to get going, but I’ll call you tonight, is that okay?” he says, standing up.

You nod, standing up to hug him. “Be safe please.”

“I will,” he says, kissing your forehead, then your lips softly. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

You watch him as he walks out of the rec center, everyone turning to look at him. You smiled to yourself, sitting back down.

You take a sip of the coffee Spencer brought you.

Spencer. 

Your very cute, sweet, very noticeable boyfriend.

_____ Friday May 23, 2008: Spencer's Apartment

You spent the morning sitting in a big lecture hall with the kind of fluorescent lights that always left you with the worst headache and the chairs that left you with sore shoulders by the time your exams were done. You went back home afterwards, cleaning up the kitchen and living room so your uncle didn;t have to worry about it this weekend. 

Spencer spent his day at the BAU. Mostly buried in paperwork, like he always seemed to be. Around 4:00pm, he texts you.

You smile at your phone as you grab your bag and head to your car. The drive to Spencer’s apartment was familiar by now. You knew the route like the back of your hand. 

Traffic was light for a Friday afternoon. Probably because it was before 5:00. You arrive at Spencer’s apartment just after 5:20. You grab your bag from the trunk and head up to his door, knocking lightly.

He answers with a tired but happy smile, still dressed in his work clothes. He’d taken his suit jacket off, but his button up was still on with the top two buttons undone and his sleeves rolled up to his forearm.

“Hey,” he says suspiciously, stepping aside to let you in. “You made good time.”

“I drove the speed limit,” you say, coming in. “There was no traffic.”

He smiled, closing the door behind you before pulling you into a hug. He smelled like coffee and the faint trace of his cologne, and you melted into him, wrapping your arms around his waist.

“How were your exams?” he asked, voice muffled against your hair.

“They went okay,” you replied, squeezing him a little tighter. “I’m just glad they’re over.”

“I’m proud of you,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “You worked really hard this week.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him. “How was your day?”

“Long,” he admitted. “Mostly paperwork. But I got everything done so I could actually leave on time for once.”

You smiled, leaning up to kiss him softly. “I’m glad you did.”

He kissed you back, slow and sweet at first, then a little deeper. When you finally broke apart, he rested his forehead against yours for a moment.

“I got food on my way back,” he said quietly, walking into the apartment. “It’s just sandwiches, but I figured you’d be hungry.”

“Yeah, thanks,” you smile.

You went over and sat on the couch, kicking off your shoes and getting comfortable while Spencer brought the sandwiches over from the kitchen. He handed you yours and sat down beside you, close enough that your thighs pressed together.

He picked up the remote and turned on whatever movie was in the DVD player; some sci-fi thing, and the two of you ate in comfortable silence. Every once in a while one of you would comment on something happening on screen, or Spencer would say a random fact about the science behind it, and you’d laugh and tease him for it.

You finished eating first, sitting your plate on the coffee table. You noticed Spencer speeding up his chewing a little bit once you were done. He finished soon after, slotting his plate on top of yours.

You look over at him, trying to think of something to say. Before anything comes to mind, he reaches over and pulls you onto his lap, facing him. You quickly settle your knees on either side of him, his hands coming to sit on your waist.

You immediately get butterflies, everywhere. Spencer had slowly been gaining confidence in your relationship. And you have to admit, you kind of loved it.

He keeps one hand on your waist, while the other comes up to cup the side of your face. He uses it to pull you in close to his face.

The kiss started deep right away. He was quick to slip his tongue into your mouth, warm and eager, tasting faintly of the soda he’d had with dinner. You melted into it, your hands sliding up to rest on his shoulders as you kissed him back just as hungrily. His fingers tightened on your waist, and with a gentle but firm pull, he started guiding your hips, making you rock slowly back and forth against his lap.

You gasped softly into his mouth when you felt how hard he already was. Even through your shorts, the heat and pressure made your breath catch. You’d only been kissing for maybe two minutes, and he was already this worked up for you.

The realization sent a rush of warmth through your body. You started rocking on your own, grinding down against him in slow, deliberate circles. Spencer let out a quiet, shaky groan against your lips, his grip on your waist tightening as he helped guide your movements.

You pulled back just enough to catch your breath, forehead resting against his. Your voice came out breathy and soft. “So… do you want to continue that rain check from the other night?”

Spencer’s eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. His cheeks were flushed, lips swollen from kissing, and he looked at you like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

“Yeah,” he whispered, voice rough. “But we should go to my bed.”

You smile into his mouth and kiss him once more before climbing off his lap. He stands up after you, taking your hand and leading you into his bedroom.

The second the door clicked shut behind you, you were back on him. You pushed him gently toward the bed, and he sat down on the edge, pulling you into his lap. The kiss was deeper now, more urgent. His hands slid under your shirt, palms hot against your bare skin as he rocked up against you.

You moaned softly into his mouth, grinding down against the hardness in his pants. Spencer let out a shaky breath, his fingers digging into your hips as he rutted up to meet you.

“God, you feel so good,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “I’ve been thinking about this all day.”

You smiled against his lips, rolling your hips harder. “Yeah? Tell me.”

He groaned, embarrassed but unable to stop. “I-I kept thinking about how you felt the other n-night. Spe-specifically how you s-sounded when you m-moaned my n-name…”

You whimpered, grinding down against him with more purpose. The friction was perfect, the rough fabric of his slacks dragging against your soaked underwear with every movement. You could feel every inch of him, thick and throbbing, pressing right against your clit through the layers separating you. The heat of him was intoxicating, and you were already so wet that the fabric of your shorts was clinging to you.

Spencer’s hands slid up your back, pulling you closer as he kissed you hungrily. “You’re driving me crazy,” he breathed between kisses. “I want you so bad.”

You tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging gently as you rocked against him faster. The bed creaked quietly beneath you, the room filled with the sounds of heavy breathing, soft moans, and the wet friction of your bodies moving together. You were both trembling, lost in the heat and desperation. Spencer’s hips started stuttering, his grip on your waist tightening almost painfully as he rutted up against you harder, chasing the edge.

“Y/N  I-I’m close,” he gasped against your mouth, voice shaky and embarrassed. “You feel too good, I can’t–”

You rolled your hips  down harder, grinding against him in tight, deliberate circles. “I want you to cum,” you tell him. You lean in close to his ear and breathe a hot breath into it, which makes him shake. “I want you to cum for me, Spencer.”

He let out a broken whimper, burying his face in your neck as he came hard, spilling into his work slacks with a shaky moan muffled against your skin. His hips jerked against you a few more times, riding out the pleasure as his body trembled beneath you. You could feel every pulse of his cock and the sudden wet heat spreading between you as he finished.

You held him close, still grinding slowly against him through his orgasm, your own pleasure buzzing just under the surface, warm and insistent. When he finally stilled, breathing hard against your neck, you expected him to be done. You started to pull back, ready to cuddle and come down together.

But Spencer didn’t let you go.

His hands stayed on your waist, holding you firmly in place. He lifted his head, cheeks flushed deep red, eyes still dark with lingering arousal and something almost desperate.

He looks up at you, almost like he’s begging. “Can I… can I make you finish?”

You blinked, surprised. “Do you want to?”

He swallowed hard, ears burning red, but his eyes were earnest and hungry. “If you let me… I do.”

Your heart fluttered. You nodded, leaning down to kiss him softly. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Spencer carefully rolled you onto your back, hovering over you for a moment before kissing down your body. He was nervous, you could tell by the way his hands trembled slightly as he pulled your shorts and underwear down your legs. When he settled between your thighs, he looked up at you, eyes wide and glossy.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, voice rough with awe. “I can’t believe you’re mine… you’re perfect.”

You feel yourself blush, the mix of being so exposed and the compliments making you anxious, but in a good way.

He settled between your thighs, looking up at you with flushed cheeks and wide eyes. “I’ve… never done this before,” he admitted quietly. “So… you might need to tell me what feels good.”

You reached down and gently ran your fingers through his hair, smiling softly. “I will.”

He nodded, looking determined. You guided his head closer, and when his tongue first brushed against you, tentative and warm, you let out a soft moan.

“Like that,” you breathed. “A little higher…yes.”

Spencer picked it up insanely fast. He was a quick study, always had been. Within moments he had you gasping, his tongue moving in slow, careful circles exactly where you needed him. When he found a rhythm that made your hips buck, he hummed softly against you, the vibration sending sparks up your spine.

“Fuck, Spencer! just like that,” you moaned, fingers tightening in his hair. “Use your fingers too.”

He slid one finger into you slowly, curling it gently as he continued licking your clit. The combination was overwhelming. You tried to keep giving him instructions, but the words kept catching in your throat.

“Two-  curl them up- yes, yes, right there- how are you so good at this already-”

Spencer groaned against you, clearly enjoying your reactions. His free hand held your thigh open, thumb stroking the sensitive skin there as he licked and sucked with growing confidence.

Every time you moaned or praised, he got bolder. You noticed him starting to rock his hips against the mattress, grinding himself down desperately as he ate you out. You didn’t say anything. You were worried it might stop him. The sight of him so turned on just from pleasuring you made your stomach flip.

Once he started sucking on your clit, you couldn’t hold back anymore. You squeezed your thighs around his head, trapping him there as pleasure built higher and higher. Spencer moaned loudly into you, the vibrations shooting straight through your core. His hips jerked harder against the mattress, and you realized he was cumming again, shaking and whimpering against you as he spilled into his already ruined slacks.

The feeling of his moans vibrating against your clit pushed you right over the edge. You came hard in his mouth, back arching off the bed as pleasure crashed through you in waves. Spencer stayed between your legs through it all, licking and fingering you gently until you were trembling and oversensitive, whimpering his name like a prayer.

When he finally pulled back, his lips and chin were shiny, cheeks flushed, and he looked up at you with a shy but proud little smile.

“Was that… okay?” he asked, voice hoarse.

You laughed breathlessly, pulling him up to kiss him. “That was the best orgasm of my life.”

He smiled against your lips, still a little flustered but clearly happy.

You both stayed tangled together for a long moment, breathing each other in. Eventually Spencer pulled back, cheeks still pink as he looked down at the mess in his slacks.

“I should… probably change,” he said quietly, embarrassed.

You nodded, smiling softly. “Yeah, me too.”

He got up and grabbed a pair of clean sweatpants from his dresser, disappearing into the bathroom for a minute. You slipped your shorts and underwear back on, then pulled the covers over yourself while you waited.

When Spencer came back, he crawled into bed next to you, still a little shy as he settled on his back. You immediately curled up against his side, head on his chest, and he wrapped an arm around you.

For a while, neither of you said anything. Then Spencer spoke, voice soft. “Is this… okay?” he asked. “That we’re not… having sex yet?”

You tilted your head up to look at him. “Yeah. It’s more than okay. I’m in no rush. Whenever it happens, it happens. I like being with you like this.”

He let out a small breath, relieved. “I feel the same. I want to do everything right. I don’t want to mess this up.”

“You’re not messing anything up,” you said, tracing circles on his chest. “I love how careful you are. It makes me feel safe.”

Spencer’s fingers brushed up and down your back. “I just… I’ve never done any of this before. Not really. So I get nervous about boundaries. I don’t want to push you too far or too fast.”

“I know,” you whispered. “And I love that about you. I am ready whenever you are, but please do not rush yourself.”

He nodded, relaxing a little more.

You were both quiet for a moment, just lying there holding each other.

Spencer started talking about some random fact about the history of human sexuality and how cultural attitudes toward sex have changed over time. His voice was soft and soothing, the way it always got when he was sharing something he found interesting.

You listened for a while, smiling as his words washed over you. But the long day, the exams, and the emotional and physical release from earlier started catching up with you. Your eyelids grew heavier, your body sinking deeper into his side.

“…and the ancient Romans actually had quite liberal views on sexuality compared to later periods,” he continued quietly. “Though it was very stratified by class and gender roles…”

You hummed softly in response, eyes drifting shut. His voice became a gentle background hum as sleep pulled you under.

Spencer noticed, his hand slowing on your back. He smiled to himself, pressing one last kiss to your hair.

“Goodnight,” he whispered.

You were already asleep.

_____ Saturday May 24, 2008: Bad Morning

You were woken up at 6:00am by the sound of Spencer shuffling around in his closet. The room was still dark, the only light coming from the small lamp he’d turned on. You blinked sleepily, trying to make sense of what was happening.

“Spence…?” you mumbled, voice groggy and thick with sleep. “What’s going on?”

He turned around, already dressed in his work clothes, tie slightly crooked as he pulled a jacket from the closet. “There’s a case,” he said softly. “Hotch called. I have to go in.”

You groaned, stretching your arms above your head as you tried to wake up. “Already?”

“Yeah. I’m sorry.”

You started to sit up, pushing the covers off, but Spencer walked over and sat at the edge of the bed near your feet, pulling on his shoes.

“You don’t have to leave,” he said gently, tying his laces. “You can go back to sleep and just leave whenever you wake up. I don’t mind.”

You rubbed your eyes, still half-asleep. “Are you sure? It’s okay if you’re not comfortable leaving me in your apartment alone.”

Spencer looked up at you, his expression soft but certain. “I’m sure. I wouldn’t have mentioned it if I wasn’t. I trust you.”

He had a point. You nodded, sinking back into the pillows. “Okay.”

He finished tying his shoes, then stood up and walked around to your side of the bed. He leaned down and kissed your forehead, lingering for a moment.

“I’m sorry I have to leave,” he whispered. “I promise the second I’m back home, I’ll spend time with you. We can do whatever you want.”

You reached up and cupped his cheek, smiling sleepily. “It’s okay. Be safe, okay?”

“I will,” he said, kissing your forehead one more time. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

He gave you one last soft look before heading out, closing the bedroom door quietly behind him. You heard the front door open and close a moment later.

The apartment was silent again.

You pulled the covers back up, curling into the spot where Spencer had been sleeping. His pillow still smelled like him. You smiled to yourself, eyes already drifting shut as sleep pulled you back under.

_____

Read Part 29 Here! 🕰️ (coming soon)

Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party Masterlist

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a/n: erm i did not mean for this part to be so long but i guess its like 6 baby parts so it makes sense. i almost didn’t put smut in this part…ahah…you guys are welcome.

also if anyone was curious, as of right now this whole fic is over 78,000 words

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By the time everyone had spilled out onto the sidewalk and said their goodbyes, the air was chilly. You swung the trophy in your hand as you, Spencer, and Rossi crossed the parking lot. When you reached your uncle’s car, you instinctively reached for the passenger door, however stopped before you pulled it.

You glance over at Spencer, who was reaching for the back door. 

“Wait,” you say, stopping his hand by grabbing his wrist. He looks at you. “You should sit up front.”

“I’m okay,” he says, trying to reach further.

“You looked squished on the way here.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Spencer.”

“I fit.”

“You were folded in half.”

“I wasn’t folded in half.” You raise an eyebrow at him. He sighs. “Ok maybe a little.”

“That’s what I thought,” you smile.

He glanced between you and the front seat. “You don’t have to sit in the back because of me.”

“I know,” before he could argue again, you gently took hold of his sleeve and steered him toward the passenger door. “Get in.”

“I really don’t mind the back,” he says.

“Well I mind when you’re uncomfortable,” you rebut.

He looked down at you for a second, trying to decide whether or not this was worth debating. It wasn’t.

“Alright,” he says, opening the passenger door. You smile to yourself and climb into the back seat. Much better.

Rossi opens the driver door a moment later. He looks from Spencer to you and smirks.

“You traded seats,” he observes, buckling his seatbelt.

“He has long legs,” you explain.

“I told her I was fine in the back,” Spencer says.

“And? I see that she won the fight.”

“She didn’t believe me,” Spencer says.

“I usually don’t,” you joke.

Rossi chuckled as he started the engine. "You're learning."

Spencer glanced back at you. There wasn't even a hint of annoyance on his face. If anything, he looked grateful.

The car pulled away from the curb, the city lights beginning to blur together outside the windows. For a few minutes, the only sound inside the car was the quiet hum of the engine and the occasional click of the turn signal. 

The little trophy rested beside you on the backseat.

Spencer was looking out the passenger window now instead of trying to fold himself into the backseat. His shoulders looked more relaxed already.

You smiled to yourself. Good.

The city slowly gave way to quieter roads, the buildings shrinking until they were replaced by neighborhoods and stretches of dark trees. Then Spencer spoke.

"I know you're not particularly fond of birthdays," he said.

Rossi glanced over at him briefly before returning his attention to the road.

"But..." Spencer continued, almost thoughtfully, "...I couldn't help but notice that it's yours today… So... happy birthday, Rossi."

For just a second, the inside of the car was quiet again. Then your uncle smiled. It wasn't one of his smug smiles. Or one of his sarcastic ones. It was genuine.

"Thanks, kid,” was all he said. But he didn’t seem upset. Or angry. Or even annoyed. He seemed…

Appreciative.

Your eyes drifted between the two men sitting in front of you. Spencer could've said something hours ago. Garcia would've insisted on buying a cake. Morgan would've started singing just to be annoying. Emily probably would've convinced the bartender to give Rossi a free drink.

And Spencer knew that. So instead, he waited. Until it was just the three of you. Until the excitement from trivia had settled. Until nobody else could turn it into an event. Spencer had figured something out that had taken you years to understand. 

Your uncle didn't hate birthdays.

He hated attention. 

There was a difference. And somehow Spencer had learned it without anyone ever explaining it to him.

"I still think the Scooby-Doo question was ridiculous," Spencer muttered.

Rossi chuckled. "That's because you missed it."

"I've read over eight thousand books," Spencer says

"And none of them were about Scooby-Doo."

"No."

Rossi shook his head, smiling to himself. "I never thought I'd see the day Spencer Reid got humbled by a cartoon dog."

"I don't appreciate how much everyone seems to be enjoying this."

"You'll survive."

From the front seat, Rossi glanced into the rearview mirror. You noticed. Immediately, you looked back out the passenger-side window instead, pretending to be fascinated by the blur of streetlights sliding past. 

A second later he looked again. Satisfied, he lowered his voice. "You know..." Spencer turned slightly toward him. "You surprised me tonight."

"Because I didn't know Scooby-Doo?" Spencer asks

"No." Your uncle kept his eyes on the road. "You trusted her."

You almost smiled. They thought you couldn't hear them. The car wasn't that big.

"I always trust her," Spencer answered quietly.

"I know." Rossi says, glancing into the mirror again.

You kept your attention fixed outside, even lifting the trophy again like you were inspecting it.

"But you didn't hesitate," Rossi continued. "You volunteered the two of you before asking if she'd even agree."

Spencer looked down at his hands. "I guess I did."

"You weren't worried she'd embarrass you."

"No."

"You weren't worried she'd hold you back."

"No."

"You just assumed she'd keep up."

Spencer frowned. "...Because she would."

Rossi smiled. "I know."

It wasn't a correction. It was an agreement. 

Spencer’s voice stayed quiet. "I don't really understand why that's surprising."

Rossi let out a slow breath. "Because most people like you don't trust someone like that."

"They should."

"They should."

Another silence. You watched reflections move across the side window, careful not to look forward. If either of them caught your eye, especially your uncle, the conversation would be over. 

So instead, you ran your thumb over the little plastic trophy again. Pretended to read the plaque for the fifth time. Pretended not to hear every single word.

"You know..." Rossi said, quieter this time. "When I first met you..."

Spencer looked over. "I thought you were too young."

Spencer laughed softly.

"I didn't mean your age."

Your grip tightened around the trophy. "I thought you were too young to understand what loving someone actually meant. I figured you'd get bored. I figured eventually you'd decide it wasn't worth dealing with me."

Spencer didn't answer immediately.

"You proved me wrong." Rossi's voice held no hesitation. "You've proved me wrong every day since."

Spencer looked out through the windshield. When he finally spoke, it was almost too quiet to hear. 

"...Thank you."

"No." Rossi shook his head once. "Thank you."

"For what?"

Another glance into the rearview mirror. You had your forehead against the cool glass now, watching nothing in particular outside. Satisfied, Rossi looked back to the road.

"For loving my kid."

Your breath caught. Not my niece.  Not your name. “My kid.”

"You've made her happier than I've seen her in a long time."

Spencer swallowed. "I just..." He searched for the words. "I try."

"I know."

"You don't have to thank me."

"I do."

Another silence settled between them.

Then Rossi smirked. "Besides, you did beat eight people at trivia. I suppose you've earned one compliment."

Spencer laughed softly, the sound warm and a little surprised. "Thank you."

You stayed quiet in the back seat, pretending to be completely absorbed in the little plastic trophy in your hands. The streetlights outside slid across the window in soft orange streaks, and you watched their reflections dance over the cheap gold plating. But really, you were listening. Every word. Every small pause. Every shift in tone.

Rossi and Spencer kept talking in low voices up front. Nothing important, just easy conversation about the game, about how ridiculous some of the questions had been, about how Morgan had dramatically declared he was never playing trivia again (which everyone knew was a lie). Their voices blended together comfortably, the kind of rhythm that only came from people who had spent real time together. Not just at work. Not just because of you.

You had always known your uncle cared about Spencer. Respected him. Trusted him with his life on cases. But this felt different. This was easy. Familiar. Like they genuinely enjoyed each other’s company outside of the BAU. Outside of you. And somehow, that made everything feel even more solid. More real.

Rossi finally pulled into the long driveway, gravel crunching softly under the tires. The familiar lights of the house glowed warmly through the windows, but no one moved to get out right away. Rossi left the engine running for a moment, the low hum filling the quiet space between the three of you.

You sat in the back seat, heart still full from the night, the little plastic trophy resting in your lap. Spencer was in the passenger seat, shoulders a little tense. And your uncle… he just sat there, hands still on the wheel, staring at the house like he was thinking about something.

Everyone was just… waiting.

Eventually Rossi shut the car off. The sudden quiet felt loud. He looked over at Spencer in the passenger seat, one hand still resting on the steering wheel.

“You coming?” He asked, starting to get out of the car.

Spencer blinked, clearly caught off guard by the question. He turned his head slowly, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. “...Inside?”

“Well I’m not inviting you to sleep in the driveway,” Rossi said dryly.

You immediately realized what had just happened. Nobody had forgotten to take Spencer home. Every single person in the car had absolutely noticed they’d driven forty-five minutes away from Spencer’s apartment. And every single one of them had silently decided…

Yeah.

He can stay.

Spencer sat there for a second, processing. You watched the back of his head, the way his shoulders shifted slightly like he was trying to figure out if this was real. Then he nodded once, almost shyly.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “Thank you.”

Rossi just grunted in response, his version of “you’re welcome,” and opened his door. You and Spencer followed, the cool night air brushing against your skin as you stepped out onto the sidewalk. Spencer waited for you, his hand brushing lightly against yours but not quite holding it. Not yet. Not while your uncle was still right there, locking the car with a quiet beep.

The three of you walked up the familiar path to the front door in comfortable silence. The little trophy swung gently in your hand. Spencer stayed close on your right, his shoulder occasionally brushing yours. Rossi walked a few steps ahead, keys jingling softly.

No one said anything about the fact that Spencer was still with you.

No one mentioned the forty-five-minute drive.

No one pointed out the obvious.

It felt… nice. Like the decision had been made without needing to be spoken. Like everyone had quietly agreed that tonight, Spencer belonged here.

When you reached the front door, Rossi unlocked it and stepped inside first. The house was quiet and dark except for the soft glow of a few lamps he’d left on. The second the door clicked shut behind the three of you, Rossi turned around in the entryway, arms crossed over his chest.

“Door stays open,” he said immediately, voice gruff but not unkind. His eyes flicked between the two of you like he was already running through every possible scenario in his head. “All the way.”

You both nodded quickly.

“No funny business,” he continued, raising one eyebrow. “I mean it. I don’t want to leave my room and find anything that makes me regret letting him stay.”

Another nod. Spencer’s ears were already turning pink.

“I’m checking every ten minutes,” Rossi added, pointing a finger at both of you for emphasis. “And I do mean every ten minutes. I have a watch. I will use it.”

You opened your mouth. “You don’t actually have to–”

“I know,” Rossi cut in before you could finish. “I’m checking.”

Spencer stood there like he was being briefed before a hostage negotiation, eyes wide, hands clasped awkwardly in front of him. You could practically see him calculating the probability of spontaneous combustion from sheer embarrassment.

Rossi studied both of you for a long moment, then his expression softened just a fraction, not enough to be called warm, but it wasn’t as cold.

“Look,” he said, voice a little lower. “I’m not trying to make this awkward. I’m just… being a dad about it.”

You couldn’t help but smile a little. “We know.”

“Good.” Rossi gave one final nod, then reached out and patted Spencer on the shoulder firmly, almost fatherly. “Goodnight, kid.”

Spencer blinked, clearly surprised by the gesture. “Goodnight, Rossi.”

Rossi looked at you next. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

“Goodnight, Uncle Dave.”

And with that, he headed upstairs without another word, footsteps creaking on the old wooden stairs until they faded away down the hallway.

The second he was gone, you immediately burst out laughing, covering your mouth with both hands. Spencer stared after him for a second, then looked at you, completely dazed.

“…That went significantly better than I expected,” he said, voice hushed.

You nodded, still giggling. “He didn’t even threaten to shoot you.”

“Progress,” Spencer agreed, a shy smile finally breaking across his face as he stepped closer, wrapping his arms around your waist. You melted into his hug, burying your face in his chest. You take in his smell, the comforting scent relaxing you.

You pull back just enough to take his hand. “Come one, let's go before the ten minute checks start,” you say. 

Spencer laughs softly as he lets you lead him up the stairs, your fingers intertwined the whole way. Your room was exactly how you’d left it, your bed unmade, a few books and your planner scattered on your nightstand. 

Spencer stood in the middle of your room for a second, looking around like he was still processing the fact that he was allowed to be there. The door stayed open, just like your uncle had asked. Neither of you minded. You were both too happy to care about technicalities tonight.

Spencer eventually sat on the edge of your bed and started to take off his shoes. You went to your dresser, opening the bottom drawer and pulling out the FBI Academy hoodie you’d taken from him a few weeks ago, along with a pair of your longest sweatpants. You turned around and held them out to him.

“Here,” you said, smiling as you handed them over.

Spencer looked at the clothes, then up at you, a little confused.

“I don’t want you sleeping in khakis all night.” You explain.

He took them carefully, still looking a bit surprised. “I’ve done it before,” he said quietly.

“I know,” you replied, brushing your fingers over his wrist. “But you don’t have to tonight.”

Spencer’s ears turned pink, but he smiled. “Thank you.”

“You can go change in the bathroom,” you smile. “I’m gonna change while you’re in there.”

He nodded, standing and heading toward the bathroom. 

You change quickly, taking your top and bra off and pulling on a tightly fit black tank top that ends just under your belly button. You change your pants to a pair of blue and white striped sleep shorts that sit low on your hips, leaving about an inch and half of skin showing between the hem of your top and the waistband of the shorts.

You toss your dirty clothes in your hamper as you hear Spencer open the bathroom door and start walking down the hallway. He taps twice on the doorway before peeking his head in, giving you time to tell him if you still need a second.

“Come in,” you say, turning your attention to the doorway.

You immediately notice the way his eyes drop down to the exposed skin of your waist. He swallowed hard, clearly trying, but failing, to keep his gaze on your face. His ears are bright red. 

You look him up and down too, but on purpose. The hoodie fit, of course, it was his, but the sweatpants ended about an inch above his socks, which were mismatched and half way up his shins. He looked goofy.

“You look adorable,” you grin at him. His face and ears go even redder.

“I…uh…you… y-you look really g-good,” he stutters, making you giggle slightly. 

You climb into your bed, bunching the covers down on the bottom half of the mattress. Spencer just stands there, eyes still flicking between your eyes and exposed hips. You can’t help but smile.

“Are you coming? you ask, patting the mattress. 

“Oh,” he says, shaking his head like he’d been pulled out of a trance. “Y-yeah.”

He climbs into your bed, pulling the covers over the both of you on his way up. You curl up against his side, resting your head on his chest. His arm immediately wraps around you. His fingers brush along your showing skin.

For a while, neither of you say anything. Outside was quiet. The house was quiet. Your room was quiet. The only sound was the occasional creak of a floorboard as your uncle moved around his room.

Your fingers lazily traced little circles on Spencer’s chest, right over his heartbeat.

“It was nice of you to wait until it was just us to tell Uncle Dave ‘happy birthday’,” you murmur.

“I know he doesn’t really like to be the center of attention,” Spencer says honestly. You nod into his side. “I almost didn’t say anything at all.”

“So why did you?” you ask.

“Because I…” he hesitates. “Do you want me to be honest?”

“I do,” you look up at him, head still against his chest.

“My 26th birthday was the best birthday I’ve ever had. My birthdays have always either been completely forgotten, or made a big deal against my will… But last year… It was just me, you and Garcia. And it was…”

“Comfortable?” you suggest, noticing he was struggling to find the word, something you never expected from Dr. Spencer Reid.

“Yeah,” he offers a smile. “Comfortable.”

“When I was little my family would always come visit on his birthday. My mom, Logan, and I would always make him this big cake. Like…four layers,” you giggle at the memory. “I always thought he hated his birthday because he always seemed so grumpy. Turns out he was grumpy because everyone kept reminding him it was his birthday.”

“Mhm,” Spencer hums knowingly. 

Before he could respond with words, the creaking of the floorboards began getting louder, making you both freeze. A second later, Rossi appeared in the doorway exactly where you expected him to be. He had his arms crossed over his chest as he looked from Spencer, to you, to the blanket.

“Hand check,” he demands.

You laugh, thinking he’s joking. 

He wasn’t.

“Now,” his voice is stern.

You and Spencer exchanged a nervous look before both lifting your hands from beneath the blanket like you were being arrested. Rossi inspects them for a moment, nodding his head once he’s satisfied.

Spencer slowly begins lowering his hands, but Rossi stops him. “Not yet.”

“Sorry,” Spencer nervously says, raising them up again.

“The door’s still open,” Rossi observes.

“It never closed,” you point out.

“Good,” your uncle praises.

“We’re literally just talking,” you say.

He looks at you for what feels like an hour. It was maybe 10 seconds. 

“Good,” he repeats, uncrossing his arms. “I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

“We know,” you say.

“Sleep eventually, please,” he says.

“We will.”

He nods once. “Goodnight sweetheart.”

“Goodnight, Uncle Dave.”

He turns his attention to Spencer, giving him a half smile. “Goodnight, Kid.”

Spencer smiles. “Goodnight Rossi.”

Your uncle disappears back into his bedroom. His door doesn’t shut fully like normal, showing you that he’s listening. You lay silent for about three seconds, before you bury your face in Spencer's arms to muffle a laugh.

“What?” Spencer asks, looking down at you bewildered.

"He made us do a hand check,” you laugh.

"I know,” Spencer’s voice is still serious.

"He actually thought we were..." You couldn't even finish the sentence.

Spencer's face turned bright red. "...He probably has reasonable cause."

That only made you laugh harder. Eventually, after your laughter settled into quiet giggles, you sighed contentedly and rested your head against him again.

"I think he likes you."

Spencer looked down. "I mean I work with the guy.”

“No, I mean I think he likes you as my boyfriend.”

“Oh. Yeah, I hope so.”

“Actually, I think I know so.”

“How?”

“He said ‘thank you’ to you for loving me.”

His fingers stopped moving against your side. "...You heard that conversation."

"The whole thing."

His ears immediately turned pink. "I thought you were looking out the window."

"Just because I was looking out the window doesn’t mean my ears don’t work, Spencer.”

"I thought we were being pretty quiet."

"You were."

"The car's just... really small." You smiled. "I'm glad I heard it."

He looked down at you. "You are?"

You nodded. "I've always known Uncle Dave respected you, but after hearing that conversation I feel like he cares about you.”

Spencer went quiet for a long time.

“I care about him,” he finally says, voice painfully quiet.

“I know you do.”

“I mean like, outside of work.”

“I know what you meant.”

Spencer smiles down at you. “Thank you,” he whispers.

“For what?” you almost giggle.

“For understanding and not making me explain.”

You give him a half smile before yawning.

“Do you want to go to bed?” Spencer asks, pulling your body a little closer to him.

“One more thing,” you say.

“What’s that?”

“We should get up early and make Uncle Dave surprise birthday pancakes.”

Spencer smiles, “Do you think he’d like that?”

“No. But if we just told him they were surprise pancakes he would. The ‘birthday’ part can be kept secret.”

Spencer laughs and leans down to kiss the top of your head. “I love you.”

“Goodnight, Spence,” you say, finding a comfortable position to fall asleep in. “I love you.”

_____

Read Part 28 Here!

Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party Masterlist

All Works Masterlist

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a/n: for once i don’t really have much to say. i finally got my olive garden, it was good as fuck. ummm yeah idk im about to lock in for the rest of the night and write as much as i possibly can (aside from maybe a grocery trip, i really want to make soup) i have the next three parts outlined so i guess expect those kinda soon

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I got to work a little earlier than normal this morning. I was the first one in the bullpen, aside from Hotch and Garcia, but they were up in their offices. I set my satchel down beside my desk and hung my jacket over the back of my chair. I went and made a cup of coffee. 

I had no more than returned to my desk and opened the top case file when the sound of rapid heels clicking down the stairs drew my attention away. 

Penelope is making a beeline for my desk. The wind created by her speed is causing her pink cardigan to flow back behind her like a cape. She slams her hands down on the corner of my desk.

“Good morning?” I say, confused.

“No time for pleasantries, Boy Wonder. You just got soft launched,” she says, eyeing me accusatorily. 

“What is a soft launch?” I ask.

She rolls her eyes. “I forget you don’t know any cool lingo,” she teases. “Did you go to a bookstore yesterday?”

I furrow my eyebrows. How did she–? “Yes? How did you know that?”

“So it was you!” She exclaims like she had seen me.

“What was me?”

Penelope pulls out her smartphone and taps a few times, then turns the screen towards me, grinning.

Oh.

I felt my ears getting hot. Last night, when she had asked me if she could post the picture, I hadn’t even thought twice about it. She looked so happy holding her phone up at me, and the idea of her wanting to share even a small piece of us made me feel…good. And it never crossed my mind that her and Garcia could be friends or followers or fans or whatever Instagram calls it. And it’s not that I’m trying to hide the fact that she’s my girlfriend. I love that she’s my girlfriend. I love her. 

I just hoped I’d have more of a chance to prepare myself on what to say because I think the fact that I was just staring at Penelope’s phone was really telling.

“I knew it!” Penelope squealed, drawing the attention of Emily who was pretending to read a file at her desk. 

“Knew what?” Emily says, rolling over to us in her chair.

Practically on cue, Derek Morgan strolls into the bullpen. Ten minutes late for work. But everyone was too focused on me to call him out on it. He walks right past his desk and towards the huddle forming around me.

“Alright, what are you guys doing to Pretty Boy this early?” He asks, putting a hand on my shoulder. “His face is redder than Garcia’s lipstick.”

Penelope smiles and holds her phone out for Derek and Emily to see. 

“Exhibit A: Soft launch, Spencer Reid,” Penelope says. I have no idea what that sentence could even mean. 

Derek leans in, squinting at the phone. He let out a low whistle. “Well damn. That’s definitely Reid.” 

“Duh,” Penelope says, “Look at who posted it.”

“That’s Rossi’s girl, ain’t it?” Derek says, taking notice of the username.

Emily’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh my god, it IS her. ”

They both shift their attention to me. I can feel my face getting hot. I rub the back of my neck, smiling sheepishly, unsure of what to say.

“So are you going to admit it’s you?” Penelope asks, showing me the phone again.

“I never said it wasn’t me,” I say, looking down at my hands. 

The hands she admitted to loving. When we were–

I put my hands in my pockets and shift my weight back and forth.

Derek pats me on the shoulder. “So is this like a thing thing?” he asks, raising one eyebrow at me.

“Uh…yeah,” I smile, still looking down.

Everyone is silent, just staring at me. Except for Penelope.

“SINCE WHEN!?” She shouts.

I finally look up to her. “Since 23 days ago.”

I didn’t realize it had only been 23 days since we officially became a couple until this moment. Likely because I’ve finally been able to admit that I’ve been in love with her for 191 days. 

Emily narrows her eyes at me. I can already sense the question that’s about to be asked. She lowers her voice. “Does Rossi know?”

Penelope and Morgan look at me too. All three of their faces look the same. And they’re all assuming wrong.

“He does,” I say, smiling at them. Proud. I’m proud.

“Really?” Morgan asks, almost scoffing. “After screaming at you for 20 minutes in his office about being her friend he’s all of the sudden okay with you guys knocking boots?”

“We talked to him about it. Actually, he figured it out on his own before we were even ready to tell him. But he said that he sees how happy she is and… I don’t know. He told me he trusts me, which I don’t really know what that means but it’s good I guess.” I say.

“This is the best news I’ve heard all year,” Penelope is vibrating with excitement. “I’ve known since day one! You two are so cute. I’m going to frame this photo. I’m going to make it my wallpaper!” She locks her eyes on mine. “I need details, Spencer.”

Emily leans back in her chair, smirking. “I just can’t believe the mystery girl was Rossi’s niece this whole time. I was sure you’d be off of her after he yelled at you.”

“Yeah, we grilled you for weeks after that dinner party, man.” Morgan adds. “You’re talking about ‘we’re just friends’ and ‘we just talk about books,’ meanwhile you’re getting your hair played with in bookstores and she’s walking you like a dog on Instagram.”

“Soft launchhh,” Penelope sings, grinning. 

“It wasn’t a soft launch! It’s just a picture!” I argue. But after using context clues, I’ve picked up that a soft launch in this sense is a revelation that you are dating someone, but not a relevance of who you are dating.

So I guess by definition, that was exactly a soft launch.

JJ walks out of Hotch’s office carrying a coffee and a file. She took one look at the group gathered around me and my desk and started walking toward us.

“What did I miss?” She asked, walking down the stairs.

“JJ!” Penelope squealed. “Come here right now!”

JJ smiles as she walks over, looking amused but wary. “Should I be concerned?”

“Only if you’re concerned about true love,” Penelope says, holding her phone out again. “Look at this, then look at who posted it.”

JJ leans in. “Y/N Rossi,” she reads. She looks up at me, almost looking accusatory. “I thought Rossi banned you from ever speaking to her again?”

“Yeah, but he went back on it…” I rub the back of my neck again and lower my voice. “And I’m glad.”

“So you guys are actually hanging out again?” JJ asks.

Morgan lets out a loud ‘HA’ and elbows me. “They’re doing a bit more than hangin’ out, aren’t you Pretty Boy.”

JJ looks at me, her eyes wide and mouth open, waiting for a confirmation.

“Yeah,” my face burns. “We’re uh… We’re dating.” 

The words felt weird coming out of my mouth. Unnatural. I don’t know if they’re something I will ever get used to.

“I can’t believe you kept this from me!” Penelope says.

“I wasn’t keeping it from you,” I defend, “I was just…not talking about it.”

Emily laughs. “Well that clearly worked out.

JJ smiles, folding her arms. “So… how’s she doing?”

The question catches me off guard. I wasn’t really expecting a genuine curiosity from any of them, they tend to just like to make fun of me.

“Good,” I answer, smiling. “Really good.”

“And you’re happy?” Emily asks.

I don’t even have to think about it. “Yeah. I am.” 

Morgan smiles at me, patting my shoulder for what feels like the hundredth time. 

“I’m really happy for you, kid,” he says. 

Hotch’s office door opens upstairs. The sound alone is enough to make everyone scatter. Emily rolls her chair away, JJ grabs the file she’d brought and returns it to a shelf. Morgan makes his way back to his desk. 

Penelope slowly starts to back away. I try to turn my attention back toward my desk, but she speaks. She’s really good at being a distraction.

“This isn’t over,” She says.

“...What isn’t?” I ask. I don’t really know what she means. 

“The interrogation,” she clarifies. Kind of. I wasn’t aware that I was being interrogated. 

“There was an interrogation?” I ask.

“There will be,” she smiles. 

“Good luck, kid,” Morgan laughs.

Garcia waves dismissively.

“Details,” she says as she turns around to go back up the stairs to her office. 

Within seconds, everyone is back where they’re supposed to be. The case file I’d opened earlier is still sitting exactly where I’d left it.

I stare at it.

Instead of reading it like I should, I find myself replaying the last ten minutes over and over again. Morgan was happy for me. JJ asked me about her. Emily smiled. Garcia looked like she might explode from excitement. Nobody laughed at me. Or questioned if it was a mistake. Or…acted like I wasn’t capable of being in love with someone. Or that someone was capable of being in love with me.

From the moment I found myself falling in love with her I’d been convincing myself that if anyone found out they’d think I’d done something wrong, like I’d crossed some kind of invisible line. But instead they’d congratulated me.

I don’t know why that surprises me.

Maybe because I’m still getting used to the idea that something this good is allowed to happen to me. 

My attention drifts toward the picture frame sitting beside my computer. A photo of my mother.

I reach for my phone. My thumb hovers over the keyboard for a moment before I text her.

_____

Read Part 26 Here! 🕰️ (coming soon)

Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party Masterlist

All Works Masterlist

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a/n: if anyone was curious i went back through all the parts and did the math for this. according to my calculations (that are now canon bc i literally wrote this) this part takes place on 4/21/08, their first kiss was 3/21/08, they became official on 3/29/08, and rossi confronted them about their relationship on 4/05/08. if you were curious there’s that. this is kind of just for myself to remember to look back on if i forget the dates but yeah

anyways you're welcome for the olive garden reference for those who know (also the nearest olive garden to quantico is on gideon drive. no one speak to me.)

also do you guys fw the inline images or no? i'm kind of experimenting with them. i think i like the instagram one, i'm not sure how i feel about the text message one.

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Today has been the fastest Saturday ever. One minute you’re knocking on the door of your boyfriend’s apartment, the next you’re looking at the clock on the microwave wondering how it was 5:07 PM.

Most of the day was spent how it always was. Books, coffee, conversations that started normal but ended with Spencer explaining how a Roman road system was one of the greatest engineering achievements in human history.

You listened to every word. Mostly because he looked so excited talking about it. In the months you’ve known him, you’ve learned that watching him get excited about something was far more entertaining than whatever he was talking about. And either way, you were paying attention to him, so it was a win for the both of you.

Now you’re standing in his kitchen, wondering how his cabinets are so organized. One has plates and bowls, all stacked by sizes. The next is cups and tupperware, all stacked by sizes. The silverware drawer had three different kinds of spoons, and the smaller spoons were laid into the bigger ones; stacked by sizes. His knives were organized from left to right by size and sharpness. 

“Spencer,” you say, shutting the drawer.

He hums, still looking down at the cutting board where he was carefully slicing vegetables with pretty much surgical precision.

“Why are your cabinets alphabetized?” you ask.

“They aren’t.”

You open the spice cabinet and start listing them off from left to right.

“Adobo, basil, cajun, chilli powder, cinnamon, garlic salt, ging–”

“Okay maybe the spice cabinet is alphabetized. It saves me on average 37 seconds every time I cook.” 

“You timed it?” you can’t help but giggle. “You’re a weirdo.”

“How is it different from color coding your planner?”

“It just is.”

“Objectively it isn’t.”

“Well to me it is!”

He paused for a moment, both in his words and in his chopping.

“...I’ll allow that.” he smiles.

“I win!” you grin triumphantly.

“It wasn’t a competition.”

“It was if I wanted it to be.”

You smile and hop up onto the counter beside him. The granite is cool beneath your legs. You swing your feet lightly against the cabinet doors while watching him cut.

Spencer glances over at you for half a second before looking back at the vegetables.

“Comfortable?” he asks.

“Very.”

“Good.”

He smiles to himself and keeps chopping for a moment before noticing just how close the cutting board is to your knees. He slides it a few extra inches away from you without saying anything. You notice immediately.

“You know I’m not going to lose a leg, right,” you joke.

“Kitchen injuries are far more common than most people think,” he says matter of factly, still focused on the vegetables. “I’d rather not test if you’re an outlier.”

“You’re catastrophizing,” you say.

“That’s a really good word, however, I am assessing a risk,” he says, sitting the knife down and walking between your legs. He leans forward and plants a heavy kiss on your mouth before speaking again. “I just don’t particularly want to explain to one of my bosses that I had to take his niece to the emergency room.”

You laugh as he returns to the cutting board.

“You’re not going to cut off my leg.”

“Probably not, but I’d rather be safe than sorry.” 

“I guess Uncle Dave would probably be a little upset.”

He raises an eyebrow at you. “A little?”

“Okay,” you say as you hop down off the counter with a grin. “He’d be very upset.”

Spencer gives you a satisfied nod, like the matter has been settled beyond all reasonable doubt.

“Can you boil some water?” he asks, attention focused on the vegetables again.

“I don’t know, my leg might fall off,” you say, grabbing a pot anyways. He just shakes his head.

Spencer finishes chopping the vegetables while you measure pasta into a pot. Spencer’s kitchen was small, not that that was a bad thing, it just meant that every few minutes one of you had to step around the other. The apartment slowly started to fill with the scent of garlic and mixed vegetables.

You leaned against the counter while Spencer stirred everything together.

“You know,” you said, “you’re actually pretty good at cooking.”

“I’ve been practicing.”

“Seems like my uncle is rubbing off on you.”

“Maybe that’s what inspired me,” he smiles.

_____

The dishes are washed and put away, and the apartment now smells very faintly of garlic and more like dish soap. Spencer is finishing drying the last dish while you claim your usual spot on the couch. His apartment is beginning to feel familiar now. The blanket that’s folded on the arm rest, the stack of books on the end table that grows a few every time you visit, the lamp in the corner that is always on in place of the big light, it all feels normal.

“You can pick what we watch,” Spencer calls from the kitchen. 

“Doctor Who?” you ask, grabbing the remote.

He appears behind the couch. “Good choice.”

“You say good choice no matter what I pick.”

“Because you always pick good things!”

Spencer settles on the couch beside you as the familiar theme song plays. You cozy up next to him and he wraps his arm around your waist. He makes it a little under minutes before he has to say something.

“You know, this episode almost wasn’t made. It was originally supposed to have a completely different ending.”

“Mhm,” you hum, not taking your eyes off the screen.

“The production schedule had to be reorganized because several scenes exceeded the filming budget.” 

“Spencer,” you say, voice sounding slightly more annoyed than you actually are.

“What?”

“You’ve been quiet for almost seven minutes.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m proud of you.” you smile at him.

He sheepishly smiles. A soft red spreads across his cheeks from being called out. You feel a little bad for him.

“So, what happened?” you ask him, still smiling.

His eyes brighten immediately, excited that you want to hear him talk.

“Well, the BBC had significantly fewer resources than most people assume during the early revival years. Russell T. Davies actually–”

You tune him out, instead paying attention to the way he talks. You try to listen. Really, you do. But your attention is so easily pulled away to something much more entrancing. 

Him.

The way his mouth moves when he talks, forming each word carefully and thoughtfully. The tiny smile that keeps appearing when he probably says something he finds funny. You wouldn’t know. The way he can’t seem to say anything without using his hands.

God.

His hands.

Your eyes lock in on them like there’s nothing else to look at. His fingers are long, and refuse to stay still. They move with every sentence, putting his thoughts into the air. The veins along the backs of his hands shift every time his fingers move, becoming more pronounced whenever he gestures or flexes his grip around the remote. It's such a tiny detail, one most people probably wouldn't even notice. You can't seem to stop noticing it. Your eyes follow the lines, wondering how something so ordinary has somehow become one of your favorite things about him.

You wonder how his hands can be so many things at once. 

The hands that scribble impossibly neat notes in the margins of books. The hands that always pull out your chair before you sit down. The hands that reach for yours without thinking when crossing a busy street. You remember them brushing against yours while making dinner. Holding doors open. Turning pages. Holding your notebook while helping you with homework. Holding your planner like it was fragile. Holding you like you were.

His hands are expressive in a way that the rest of him isn’t. Spencer is careful with words, careful with eye contact, careful with people. But his hands have never been careful. They flutter when he’s excited. They point when he’s making an observation. Twist together when he’s nervous. Run through his hair when he’s thinking. And on rare occasions, they settle quietly in his lap, folded together, making it almost impossible to believe they’re capable of moving so quickly.

“...which is why the production schedule had to be completely reorganized," he finishes, making one final gesture with his hands before looking into your eyes.

You blink, realizing with absolutely no dignity, that you’ve spent the last several minutes watching his hands instead of listening to a single word he said. 

“You didn’t hear a single word I just said, did you?” he asks.

“I heard Russell T. Davis,” you smile innocently.

“It’s Davies. And that was the first sentence I said.

“Oops.”

He studies your face for a moment before a grin spreads across his face.

“You were staring at me again.”

“...maybe”

“Why?”

You glance down at his hands resting on his thighs. Then immediately back up at his face before he catches where you were looking.

“No reason.”

Spencer narrows his eyes at you. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’ve been told.”

Spencer keeps looking at you like he’s trying to solve something. Eventually he shakes his head and smiles to himself.

“I’ll make you tell me eventually,” he says.

“You can try,” you grin.

“I will.”

You smile, leaning back into his shoulder as the episode continues playing in the background. Neither of you pay it much attention anymore. The Doctor is apparently saving the world again. You assume he is successful. He usually is.

The apartment is quiet. Headlights drift across the living room ceiling before disappearing again. Somewhere downstairs a door closes. The heat kicks on. Comfortable sounds fill the room. The kind you stop noticing after a while. 

You pull your legs up onto the couch and your knees to your chest. Spencer shifts at the same time as you, turning slightly so he’s facing you instead of the television. 

It’s strange. A few months ago, silence between the two of you would’ve felt awkward. Now it just feels comfortable.

“This has probably been the least stressful week we’ve had in months,” you say quietly.

Spencer lets out a soft laugh. “Yeah.”

“I still can’t believe Uncle Dave knew,” you say.

“I still can’t believe he didn’t punch me,” Spencer says, only half joking. “I thought he hated me.”

“You thought Uncle Dave hated you?”

“A little,” he smiles awkwardly.

You laugh before lowering your voice. “I kind of thought he did too.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I kind of spent the entire month preparing for him to ban me from seeing you again.”

“If it makes you feel better I spent the month preparing to be transferred.”

“What?”

“I figured if he disliked me enough, he’d eventually get Hotch to move me to another team.”

“You actually thought he’d do that?”

“I don’t know. I considered it a possibility though.”

“You overthink everything, I don’t think it would’ve gotten that bad.”

“I know,” he smiles softly. It quickly fades into something more thoughtful. “I don’t think I’ve ever wanted somebody’s approval for something so badly.”

You smile at him, waiting for him to continue on his own. He sounds like he’s going somewhere with this.

“I know he’s your uncle and that he’s important to you, but he’s scary.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Spencer is silent for a moment, not like he was thinking of what to say, more like thinking if he should say it. He looks at you, giving a half smile, before finally speaking.

“I didn’t want him thinking I was taking advantage of you,” he admits.

“He doesn’t think that,” you say, reaching over and lacing your fingers with his. 

“I mean, I know that now.” His thumb brushes slowly across the back of your hand. “But I didn’t know that a week ago.”

He looks like he’s thinking again. You let him gather his thoughts.

“I just…” he starts, looking down at your joined hands. “I’ve never… I’ve never done this before.”

“Dated me?” you say, smiling.

“Dating in general,” he lets out a quiet, almost embarrassed laugh. “I know most people my age have significantly more relationship experience than I do… I-I don’t have none, I just–”

“Spencer,” you interrupt him.

“No, it’s true.”

“I don’t care.”

He finally looks back up at you, a small, disbelieving smile on his face.

“I don’t really know what I’m supposed to be doing most of the time.”

“You know what you’re doing,” you squeeze his hand.

“I know what I’m trying to do.”

“What’s that?”

“Not mess this up.”

Your chest hurts a little. “You’re not.”

“Would you tell me if I was?”

“Yes.”

He studies your face like he’s trying to determine if you’re just saying that to make him feel better.

“Okay,” he says. “Can I ask you something?”

“You just did.”

His mouth fights back a smile. “Can I ask another something?”

“Always.”

He takes a second to look at you before speaking.

“Are you happy?”

You don’t even have to think before saying yes. He exhales quietly.

“Is that what you’ve been trying to ask this whole time?” you question.

“Kind of,” he smiles sheepishly. “There are…several related questions.”

“Of course there are,” you smile.

“Do you feel safe with me?” he asks.

“Yes, Spencer.”

“Are you comfortable with me?”

“Yes.”

“If I ever do something that makes you uncomfortable, you’ll tell me, right?”

“Yes.”

“Even if it’s awkward?”

“Especially if it’s awkward.”

He nods again, committing the answer to memory. “Good.”

“You asked me like four different versions of the same question,” you point out.

“I know.”

“Why?”

He smiles, looking almost apologetic.

“Because they eliminated a different uncertainty. I just wanted reassurance.”

“And did you get it?”

He looks at you for a long moment. “I did.”

“So did I,” you say, leaning a little closer to him, toying with the idea of hoisting yourself into his lap. He seems to pick up on that as well, because he shifts his position on the couch to allow you room to climb on top of him. If you so please.

And you just so happen to please. 

You straddle him, careful to keep yourself propped up on your knees rather than settling on his lap. You hover your mouth over his, his breath is hot against yours. His hands sit shakily on the couch on either side of your legs, like he’s scared to touch you.

You grab his wrists, pulling his arms up to your waist. He looks at you, eyes wide and terrified.

“D-do you want me to t-touch you here?” he stutters, fidgeting with the fabric of your shirt.

You bring your face down to rest your forehead against his. “Yes, Spencer. You can touch me wherever you want,” you whisper into his mouth before kissing him. He shivers both from the warmth of your voice and the feeling of your body as he grips your waist. 

Despite having been given consent to touch you anywhere, he paid careful attention to keep his hands only on your waist. He was desperately grasping at the fabric between every kiss, finding any way possible to beg for more. 

Your hands found his chest, grabbing onto the collar of his shirt. Even though it was Saturday, he’s still dressed like he’s going to work.

You let your hands run down his chest, using a gentle palm on his diaphragm to hoist yourself up from your slipping position. The unsuspected heightening made his hands fall down to your hips, knocking your knees loose and causing you to be in contact with his lap. You knew what you felt, but chose to ignore it as you didn’t want to embarrass him.

Though you ignoring it was pointless as Spencer immediately pulls back from the kiss and pushes your hips away from him.

“Y/N, I’m sorry…” he says, not daring to look you in the eyes.

“Sorry for what?” you say, bringing your hand up to gently run your fingers through his hair. “You did nothing wrong.”

He smiles, unsure of what to say. He leans back in for another kiss, but is still careful not to let his semi-hard dick come in contact with you. 

You kiss him back, bringing your hands to his chest again. You use your strength to turn him, you laying down horizontally on the couch and pulling him on top of you. Your lips meet again. You let your hand trace down his torso, stopping as you feel the sharpness of his hip bone. He shivers and lets out the smallest, and prettiest, whine you’ve ever heard. You smile into his mouth and quietly giggle.

“Are you okay?” you ask him, planting a kiss on his neck which causes his hips to buck, coming down to rut against you briefly. He whines again, then nods and leans in for more kisses. He’s given up trying to keep his hips’ distance from you, letting himself rest against your thigh as he kisses you. You reach your hands up to tangle into his hair, gently pulling. His dick twitches against you, alluding a sigh from flustered Spencer.  

You tug a little harder on his hair, just enough to tilt his head back so you can kiss along his jawline. His hips jerk again, involuntarily pressing himself more firmly against your thigh, which makes him whimper.

“Sor–” he starts to apologize again.

“Spencer,” you interrupt. “It’s okay. I like feeling you like this.”

He hesitates for a second, dropping his forehead into your shoulder to process your words. “Y-you do?” he stutters.

You hum in response, shifting beneath him by parting your legs a little wider so he can settle more fully between them. The new position lines him up perfectly against you, even through layers of clothing. The sudden pressure makes you inhale, which causes him to freeze. You rock your hips up once, slowly grinding against the length of him.

A broken sound escapes him. His hips instinctively push forward to meet yours, chasing the friction. Heat pools low in your stomach.

“Oh,” he breathes, voice wrecked. He does it again, more purposefully this time, a shallow roll of his hips that turns into a longer, slower grind. The rhythm is a little uncoordinated at first, but every drag of his clothed cock against you feels electric.

You wrap your legs around his waist, encouraging him to press closer. 

“Just like that,” you murmur, guiding one of his hands down to your hip so he can hold you steady. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

Spencer nods against your neck, lips brushing your skin with every ragged breath. “Y-yes, you feel… incredible.” His voice cracks on the last word as he finds a steadier rhythm, rocking into you with more confidence. The friction builds with every roll of his hips

You can feel how much he’s holding back, how carefully he’s trying not to lose control, but his body betrays him. His hips stutter when you moan softly into his ear, and his fingers dig harder into your hip. 

You reward him by grinding up to meet every thrust, matching his pace until the two of you fall into a shared rhythm. The couch creaks quietly beneath you. The TV is still playing in the background, long forgotten. 

Spencer lifts his head to look at you, eyes dark and glassy, cheeks flushed. “Is this…am I doing this right?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper, even as his hips continue their slow, rolling grind against you.

You cup his face with both hands and pull him down into a deep kiss, tongues sliding together as you rock up harder against him. When you break apart, you smile against his lips. “You’re perfect. Don’t stop.”

He makes a soft, relieved noise and buries his face in your neck again, surrendering to the feeling. His thrusts grow a little harder, a little faster, each drag. 

Your fingers stay tangled in his hair, occasionally tugging just to hear those pretty little sounds he makes, while his hands roam your waist and hips, holding you exactly where he needs you as he ruts against you with growing desperation.

After a particularly deep grind that makes you moan into his mouth, Spencer slows just enough to lift his head. His breath is ragged, eyes searching yours. “Are you okay?” he whispers. “Still comfortable?”

You nod quickly, holding the back of his neck. “Yes, Spencer. You just feel really good.”

He exhales shakily and kisses you again, but a moment later his hand slides under the hem of your shirt. His palm is warm against your bare stomach, hesitant. He pulls back just enough to ask, voice low and earnest, “Is this alright? Touching you under your shirt?”

“More than alright,” you breathe, arching into his touch. “You can touch me.”

Encouraged, his hand drifts higher, smoothing over your ribs, but he still checks in again when his thumb brushes just beneath the edge of your bra. 

“And this? Still good?”

You answer by rolling your hips up harder against him, grinding along the full length of his cock through his pants. Spencer’s forehead drops to your collarbone with a groan, and his hips stutter forward in response.

He shifts his weight, sliding one hand down to the back of your thigh and gently pulling your leg higher around his waist. The movement opens you up more, letting him rut deeper against your center with each slow grind.

“Is this okay?” he asks immediately, voice strained. “The way I’m holding your leg?”

“It feels good,” you assure him, tightening your leg around him. “I like it when you hold me like that.”

He nods against your skin, visibly relieved, and starts moving again. Long, deliberate rolls of his hips that drag the hard ridge of his erection right over your clit with every pass. You can feel how hard he is, how his cock twitches every time you moan or rock up to meet him.

Spencer’s hand stays on the back of your thigh, fingers flexing as he uses the leverage to grind against you more purposefully. After a few moments he checks in again, breath hot against your ear. “Still comfortable? I don’t want to put too much weight on you or–”

You cut him off with a kiss, smiling into it. “Spencer. I’m perfect. Keep going.”

He lets out a soft, overwhelmed sound and obeys, hips rolling in a steady rhythm now. The couch shifts beneath you with every thrust. His free hand slips further under your shirt, palm sliding up your back to pull you closer to his chest. Another soft check-in, murmured between kisses: “This is still okay? Holding you like this?”

“Yes,” you whisper, tugging his hair gently. “I love your hands on me.”

That seems to break something in him. His movements grow a little less controlled and into deeper, needier grinds. You can feel the heat of him through his pants, the way he’s throbbing every time your bodies press together. His breathing is ragged, little whimpers and gasps slipping out whenever you roll your hips just right.

Every few minutes he still pauses just long enough to check on you.

Questions like “Are you still feeling good?” and “Tell me if you want me to slow down” and every time you reassure him, his confidence grows. The checks never fully stop, but they start coming between longer, hungrier kisses and more desperate rolls of his hips.

You’re both starting to lose yourselves in it. The apartment is filled with the sounds of heavy breathing, quiet moans, and the faint creak of the couch. Spencer’s forehead rests against yours, eyes half-lidded as he grinds steadily between your legs, chasing the building pleasure with you.

You’re both breathing hard, bodies pressed tight together. You slide your hands down his chest, then back up to his shoulders, feeling the tension in his muscles as he grinds against you. The words slip out before you can overthink them, low and a little breathless against his ear.

“I was staring at your hands earlier,” you confess, voice husky. “God, your hands are so hot. I kept thinking about them on me, holding me down while you moved just like this…”

Spencer’s breath catches sharply. His hips stutter once, twice, three desperate, uncoordinated thrusts that press his cock hard against your core. On the third roll, his whole body goes rigid. A choked, broken moan escapes him as he comes without any warning, even to himself. His hips jerk against you in shallow pulses while he spills into his pants, warm and sudden, the wet heat soaking through the fabric and smearing against your thigh and the hem of your shirt where your bodies are pressed together.

He freezes the second he realizes what just happened.

“Oh. oh god,” he gasps, mortified. His face burns bright red as he pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes wide with panic. “I…I didn’t mean to. I’m so sorry, I didn’t even– fuck.”

You bite your lip, trying not to smile too obviously because the sight of him flushed, disheveled, and completely undone actually does something for you.

“Hey,” you say gently, cupping his burning cheeks. You pull him down for a soft kiss, then another. “It’s okay. Really. I kind of… find it really hot, actually.”

Spencer stares at you like you’ve short-circuited his brain. “You… you do?”

“Mhm.” You run your fingers through his messy hair, soothing. “You got that worked up just from me? From grinding on me? It’s flattering. And kinda hot.” You kiss the tip of his nose. “Go change your pants, okay? Then come back so we can cuddle. No big deal.”

He nods quickly, still looking embarrassed but visibly relieved by your reaction. He carefully climbs off you, avoiding eye contact with the visible wet spot on his pants (and the smaller smear on the bottom of your shirt). “I’ll be… right back. I’m really sorry.”

“Spencer. Stop apologizing,” you call after him softly as he disappears down the hall. “I liked it.”

A couple minutes later he returns in fresh sweatpants and a clean t-shirt, still pink-cheeked. He hovers awkwardly by the couch like he’s not sure where to put himself.

You sit up and reach for his hand, tugging him closer. “Come here.”

He lets you pull him in, but then hesitates again. “Is it… weird if we cuddled in my bed instead?” he asks quietly, voice shy. “The couch is fine but my bed’s bigger and… I don’t know.”

You glance down at the faint smear on your shirt and laugh softly. “Well, considering you kind of just came on my shirt, I don’t think cuddling in your bed is weird at all.”

Spencer lets out a surprised little laugh, the tension in his shoulders finally melting. He takes your hand properly this time and leads you to his bedroom, ears still red but a small, pleased smile tugging at his lips.

Once you’re both standing beside his bed, he glances down at the faint smear on the bottom of your shirt and winces. “I’m really sorry about that,” he says again, voice soft and genuinely apologetic. “Here, wait a second.”

He quickly rummages through his dresser and pulls out a soft FBI Academy hoodie and a pair of his sweatpants. “It’s… kind of frowned upon to be covered in someone else’s cum,” he mumbles, clearly mortified even as he says it. He hands them to you, avoiding eye contact. “You can change in the bathroom if you want. Or here. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

You take the clothes with a grin, rising up on your toes to kiss his cheek. “Thank you. And stop apologizing. I’m not even a little mad.”

While you change into his hoodie, which smells like him, and the sweatpants, Spencer lies down in bed. When you come back out, he’s already under the covers in his own clean clothes, looking a little shy but happy.

You climb in beside him and Spencer immediately opens his arms for you. You settle against his chest, tucking your head under his chin as he wraps one arm around your back and the other around your waist. His legs tangle with yours under the blankets, and he pulls you in close until there’s no space left between you. One of his hands strokes slow, soothing circles on your lower back while the other rests gently on your hip. He’s warm and solid, his heartbeat steady under your cheek.

“This is nice,” you murmur, nuzzling closer.

“Yeah,” he agrees softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. After a quiet moment he adds, “It’s already past midnight… Do you want to stay the night? You don’t have to drive home this late.”

You blink, suddenly remembering the outside world. “Oh god… Uncle Dave.”

You reach over to the nightstand for your phone and unlock it. Sure enough, there are three unread texts from him.

Uncle Dave (10:47 PM): How’s dinner going?

Uncle Dave (11:22 PM): Getting late. Let me know when you’re heading home.

Uncle Dave (11:58 PM): You should probably just stay over there. I don’t want you driving this late if you don’t have to.

You let out a small laugh and tilt the screen so Spencer can see. His eyes widen slightly as he reads the last message.

“Looks like we have official permission,” you say, setting the phone back down and curling back into him. “I’m staying.”

Spencer’s arm tightens around you, a relieved little sigh escaping him as he presses another kiss into your hair. “Good. I like having you here.”

_____

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a/n: i'm actually kind of going insane irl right now so i'm reverting to writing spencer reid porn with plots as an escape again

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The funny thing is, they think they’re sneaking around.

For the last month or so, I’ve watched two of the smartest people I know develop the world’s most obvious secret relationship and then proceed to act as if I don’t know. It’s a little bit insulting that they think I’m that dense.

I am not that dense. And surprisingly, I also am not so dense as to fail to understand why they are trying to keep me in the dark. After all, I have a poor track record when it comes to finding out about developments in their friendship.

That’s not to say I was angry this time. However, I wasn’t exactly encouraging the situation either. I had some questions. And some concerns. And several moments where I debated locking my front door and pretending Spencer Reid didn’t know where I lived.

But after some reflection, I’m not angry about it. Truly, I am not. Spencer Reid is a good man. A great man, even. He’s way better of a man than I was at twenty-six. And in some ways, he’s still a better man than I am now.

He’s kind, patient, loyal, brilliant, and I don’t think I’ve ever met anybody more incapable of manipulation and so bad at lying. Which is probably why watching him attempt to hide a relationship from me for a month while seeing me every single day has been so entertaining. 

The age difference still leaves a sour taste in my mouth sometimes and I’d be lying if I said otherwise. Not because of Spencer, but because of myself. Because no matter how old she gets, my brain still sees her as the angry teenager carrying three duffel bags into my house.

But that isn’t Spencer’s fault. And I was wrong to blame him for it at first.

The truth is, I know exactly who Reid is. I know what kind of man he is. But more importantly, I know what kind of man he isn’t. He’s not a creep. He’s not taking advantage of her. He’s not manipulating her. If anything, he’s probably spent more time thinking about the nuances of their friendship than me.

Honestly, I think she scares him a little. Which I find comforting. 

And if my niece was going to date anybody I work with, which is something I never thought I would have to think, I’d want it to be Spencer Reid.

Not necessarily because he’s the smartest, or because I trust him professionally, or because I know he would give anything for the people he cares about. Though all that does help.

But because I’ve seen my niece happier in the last few months than I think I’ve ever seen her. It’s not like she was incapable of being happy before. She’s funny, and smart, and beautiful, and kind, but she’s never been the type to let people in easily.

She has friends, but there’s a difference between having people to go to the mall and to go to the movies with and allowing someone to get close enough to you that you bring them around the house everyday without even asking the man who owns it.

She didn’t even ask if Spencer could come over yesterday. I came downstairs at like 6:30 to get a cup of coffee and boom. There they were, sitting on the couch with textbooks spread everywhere. 

Nobody had asked me anything. I don’t even think they thought twice about it either. I mean, I would’ve said yes. But the fact that she forgot to ask says a lot more than just failing to ask. 

And she manages to do it two days in a row. 

I’m standing in the kitchen, leaning against the stove, while she digs in the refrigerator.

“What do you want for dinner?” 

“I don’t care,” she says, not even looking up.

“You’re helpful,” I sigh.

“I’m always helpful,” she stands up and smiles.’

“Always a liar, you mean.”

She starts to walk away without even taking anything from the fridge. I’m not even really sure why she was in there in the first place. She turns to me before she leaves the kitchen.

“Oh, Spencer will be here in like twenty minutes,” she says.

I raise an eyebrow at her. That’s exactly my point.

“Ask him what he wants for dinner,” I say.

She nods and starts to walk away.

“And ask Spencer if Papa Rossi said it was okay for him to come over.”

She stops in her tracks and turns back. The look on her face is priceless. So priceless I can’t help but laugh.

“I forgot to ask,” she says, looking apologetic.

“No, you did not.”

“I’m so sorry. I can tell him not to come if–”

“No, he’s always welcome here.”

“I’m sorry, Uncle Dave.”

“It’s okay, I’m just making fun of you.”

She rolls her eyes and walks to the living room.

_____

I find the two of them occupying the couch while I cook dinner tonight. They’ve somehow managed to spread across half the living room. Her planner is open on the coffee table. Spencer has his balanced on his knees. They’re supposedly organizing their planners together.

They’ve actually spent the last thirty minutes talking. I know because neither of them have written anything down. I hear bits and pieces of their conversation while I cook.

Something about professors. Then train schedules. Then… ancient Rome? Then they start debating over whether or not color coding a planner is useful or a waste of time. I take notice of the way Spencer automatically turns toward her whenever she starts talking. 

I stir the pasta. I feel like I’m always making pasta. Maybe that’s an unfair Italian stereotype. But I make good pasta so I’m okay with it. 

I look back into the living room. They’re actually using their planners now. She’s writing something down, Spencer is watching. He tells her there’s not enough detail. She says that there’s enough for her to remember. He says some memory statistic or some random fact or something that I honestly couldn’t care less about. Then he takes her planner out from in front of her.

I’m expecting her to throw a fit. She’s like a guard dog around that thing. If you even threaten to touch it she’ll bite your hand. But to my surprise, there’s no attack.

She just lets him take it.

He didn’t even ask. I’ve never seen her planner under the eyes of someone else without a fuss. And now it was in the hands of someone else and she was just sitting there. Completely comfortable.

I watch her shift closer to him. She’s looking over his shoulder at the planner. Her head is tiptoeing around the idea of leaning against his shoulder. She’s almost done it before she looks behind her into the kitchen. I know she sees me because she shifts back. Spencer’s eyes flick towards me, then to her. Then he straightens a little to create more space between them. I notice that too.

And I understand exactly what is happening. 

I’m making them uncomfortable.

I spent months worried about Spencer being around my niece because I was thinking about myself. And that translated to me teaching them that being themselves around me was a problem. 

It isn’t Spencer I’m worried about anymore, not that it ever was, he was just something to be used to cover my real worries. It isn’t the age difference, though that is something still on my mind, but that is something that I’ve realized isn’t being used as manipulation. It isn’t whether or not they’re together. I already know they’re together. 

What bothers me is that they’re still seemingly waiting on my permission.

I built this house, sorry, mansion, to be a home for my niece. Not a place where she needs to monitor her social life, especially now that she’s an adult. I built it to be safe for her and the people that she cares about. 

And whether I was prepared for it or not, Spencer Reid had become one of those people.  

I set the spoon down on the counter, two realizations coming into my head:

I’ve been stirring the pasta for nearly five minutes.

I should probably bring it up at dinner.

______

The sound of forks against ceramic plates echoes in the dining room. Nobody has said much, everyone is far too focused on their pasta. For a moment I debate on not saying something. But I know if I don’t say something now, I’ll probably spend another month watching them be weirdos.

I sit my fork down on my plate.

“So, Spencer.”

“Yeah?” he says, looking up with a mouth full of bread.

“Did you get home safe last night?”

Neither of them react. Spencer just nods.

“Good.” I take a sip of water. “It was pretty late.”

Spencer hesitates for a moment. She stops eating and looks up at me with only her eyes.

“It wasn’t that late,” Spencer says carefully.

“That’s true.” I take a bite of pasta. Then chew. Then swallow. “3:00 AM is technically morning, now isn’t it?”

They’re silent. Both of their expressions are exactly the same, eyes wide, forks suspended halfway to their mouths. I can’t help but chuckle looking at them. Because the panic on their faces in unbelievable. 

“Did you hear him leave?” She finally asks.

“I came downstairs for water.”

That makes their faces worse. Much worse. I know why. And they surely know why as well. My niece drops her face into her hands.Spencer looks like he’d rather be detained by the FBI. Which is unfortunate because he works for the FBI.

“I wasn’t exactly surprised.”

They exchange a confused look at each other. 

“...what do you mean?” She asks. 

I think about it. Because what do I mean? I wasn’t surprised to see my niece and my coworker cuddled up on my couch in the middle of the night?

“You guys really think I don’t know?”

“Think you don’t know what?” She asks. 

“A few weeks ago you told me you were going to Georgetown.”

“We did go to Georgetown. Spencer got a planner!”

“You told me on Friday you were going to Georgetown. You called me from Georgetown on Saturday morning…So where were you the night before?”

I watch the realization creep onto her face. And his.

“...Spencer’s apartment,” she quietly answers.

“In our defense it was storming,” Spencer immediately adds.

“That’s fair, I’m glad you were safe.”

Both of them give me a weird look.

“That’s it?” she asks. I knew she expected me to be angry. Or to yell. She still looks suspicious. “I still don’t know what you mean by not being surprised."

I stare at her. Then at Spencer. Then back at her. And I smile.

“I saw you kissing in the driveway.”

“Oh…” she says, her face pale. Spencer swallows hard. I see it all the way down his throat.

I start eating again, ready to end the conversation. They refuse to take another bite, just looking off into space.

“You aren’t…mad?” Spencer finally asks with a shaky voice.

There’s something vulnerable about the question and the way he says it. I look at both of them sitting across from me. I don’t feel worried, or upset, or angry about what’s going on between them. I just feel old. 

Very, very old.

“No. I’m not mad.” I say with a smile.

_____

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a/n: i have no idea why but this is like one of my favorite parts i’ve written. i think it’s because i write in rossi’s headvoice rather than a first/second person blend. anyways i wrote this part in like two hours but i really really like it :) also i don’t know when the next part will come out, perhaps next week? it depends because i’m very busy right now. but trust me when i say it will be worth the wait hehehe

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Friday

You know you failed before you even hand the exam in to your professor. You can feel it sitting in your stomach while you stare at question seventeen for ten minutes. Twice.

You know the material. Or at least you thought you did. But the second you got into the exam room, every concept somehow rearranged itself into a completely different language. 

By the time you leave the class frustrated. By the time you’re sitting in your car staring at the posted grade on your laptop screen, you’re fighting the urge to cry.

D.

You feel stupid. Dumb. Awful. Embarrassed. Pretty much every negative emotion.

Your phone is in your hand and Spencer’s number has been dialed before you even consciously decide to call him. You don’t really expect him to answer. It’s 4:34 on a Friday, he’s at work. And probably busy.

He answers on the second ring.

“Hey,” he says, sounding a little confused, but happy to be talking to you. You never call him first when you know he’s at work. Not because he said you can’t, but because you want him to be as focused as possible, because his job is important.

But one time wouldn’t hurt.

“Hi,” you respond, voice shaky as you hold back tears.

“What happened?”

“You were wrong.”

“What? Oh, you got your exam back. What did you get?”

“I got a D…” you say quietly, feeling shameful. 

He’s silent for a moment. Not because he’s judging you, but because he’s calculating. 

“That’s not ideal,” he says.

“Thanks for not calling me stupid,” you scoff.

“You’re not stupid. You still passed.”

“Barely.”

“You’re not stupid, Y/N.”

“I studied. And I actually tried. And I still did terrible, so it’s kind of hard to not feel stupid, Spencer.”

“Do you have a new chapter assigned?”

“Yeah for next week.”

“I’m coming over after work and I’m going to help you.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know. I want to though.”

“You’re not going to let me say no, are you?”

“Nope, I’ll be there around 6:00. I’ll see you then.”

You sigh.

“See you at 6:00.”

______

Around 6:15 you’re sitting on the couch with your textbook open between you and Spencer. Spencer, who’s turned what should be the most boring chapter of any textbook in existence into something that actually makes sense. Which is irritating, because he can explain in five minutes what your professor failed to explain in three lectures.

“You explain it way better than my professor,” you tell him.

“I don’t know if that is necessarily true,” he smiles. “But you are more likely to retain information from me.”

“Why?”

“Several reasons.”

“Such as?”

“You trust me, and you pay attention to me.”

“Well, yeah. I don’t see how that really affects how I retain information though.”

“Well, you’re actually far more likely to retain information when you hear it from someone you’re attracted to.”

Your mouth falls open. You stare at Spencer, who’s just sitting across from you smiling. Completely serious. Like he didn’t just say one of the most insane things imaginable.

“Okay, ego,” you tease, laughing.

“What?” he says, wrinkling his eyebrows.

“You can’t just tell people they’re attracted to you.”

“You admitted it!”

“I know I did, that’s not the point though!” You have to look away from him to keep yourself from laughing harder.

“It’s relevant to the discussion!” He points to your textbook. “Now, if you’re done bullying me–”

“I’m bullying you?” you interrupt.

“Yes.”

“You literally just told me I’m biologically programmed to listen to you because you’re attractive.”

“That’s not what I said!”

“It’s what you meant!”

“Do your homework,” he says, turning away from you.

You go back to your textbook, but you did have to admit, Spencer had a point. You remember every random thing he’s ever explained to you. Every weird fact he’s ever told you, every book he’s recommended, every conversation.. You remember everything he told you about journalism ethics that one time. And everything he told you about investigative journalism, even though that wasn’t even something you’d gone over in any of your classes yet.

Right. Classes.

The next hour passes fairly quickly. For studying time at least. You find yourself understanding things, not just memorizing them.

Spencer notices immediately when you’re stuck. And every time you’re stuck, he’ll read about the concept the way your textbook puts it, then explain in a different way that he knows you’ll understand. Every time something doesn’t make sense, he finds another example that he knows you’ll understand. And if you don’t get what he’s saying, he’ll start from the beginning. Every time.

He’s patient. He acts like he has all the time in the world to help you, which you know is false. No one should be this smart and this nice. But there he was. Right in front of you.

Somewhere around 8:30, you realize that you haven’t thought about your bad grade in nearly an hour. Which might be the most impressive thing Spencer helped you accomplish all evening. The disappointment is still there, but it doesn’t feel crushing anymore.

That’s because every few minutes Spencer says something that makes the material click. And every time it clicks, you feel a little less stupid. You’re no longer rereading the same paragraph over and over. Or staring blankly at the page for minutes on end. And you’re actually understanding what you’re writing in your notebook.

By the time you reach the end of the chapter, your notebook is covered in new notes, underlights, arrows, and highlights. And Spencer’s occasional corrections written in his perfectly imperfect handwriting in the margins. You smile as you look over them once more before leaning back against the couch.

“I think I’m done,” you say, relieved. 

“You think?” Spencer raises one eyebrow.

“I’m done,” you say, knowing he was waiting for a definitive statement.

“So then if I quiz you you’ll know all the answers, right?” He reaches for your notebook and ignores your groan. “What is the primary purpose of journ–”

“The primary purpose of journalism is to provide citizens with accurate, verifiable information they need to be free, self-governing, and make informed decisions,” you answer before he even finished the question.

“Good job,” he says, lifting an eyebrow.

“See, I understand it,” you say, hoping he’ll believe you and let you be done. He continues. You knew he would.

“Okay,” he says, flipping your notes. “What’s the difference between libel and slander?

“Libel is written defamation, slander is spoken.”

“Good. When reporting on a politically charged event, what is the difference between objectivity and neutrality?”

“Objectivity means verified facts and multiple sources from a non-polarized source. Neutrality is more about trying not to appear to take sides.”

“Good job,” he flips to another page. “And good wording too.”

You smile.

“Okay, in context,” he starts again. “Say a public official and a private citizen are suing a newspaper for defamation. Which case is harder to win?”

“The public official,” you answer.

“Why?” He asks, looking up at you.

“Because they have to prove actual malice.”

“Define ‘actual malice’.”

“That the journalist either knew the information was false or showed reckless disregard for whether or not it was true.”

“There!” he says, pointing at you excitedly. “That was exactly right.”

The more questions he asks, and the more you get right, the brighter his face gets. It’s like seeing you succeed brings him joy. Which would make sense, because you feel the same about him.

You answer each of his questions without too much of an issue, until he asks the exact question that you had stared at for twenty minutes during your exam today.

Question seventeen.

“how does hermeneutic underdetermination make news reports inherently uncertain?”

You stare at him for a moment, really thinking. And suddenly, the answer comes to you. In a matter of seconds. Not twenty minutes. You smile.

“Because the same facts can support more than one reasonable interpretation,” you answer confidently. 

Spencer looks at you for a second before closing your notebook. He smiles a proud smile.

“What?” you ask, grinning.

He leans forward and wraps you into a quick hug. You barely even have time to hug him back before he backs away, holding you still by your shoulders. He looks down at you. Before he can really think twice about it, and realize that this, Rossi’s living room, probably isn’t a safe place.

“There’s my smart girl,” he grins at you.

Your body reacts the same way it always does when he calls you that. And now he paired it with an objective statement.

My smart girl.

You were Spencer Reid’s smart girl.

You don’t know how long you sat there staring at him like an idiot. But it was long enough for him to realize that you were probably being too ‘PDA’ when your uncle was right upstairs in his office.

“Do you uh… wanna watch something?” He asks, letting go of you.

You nod in response. Because there was no way a word could leave your mouth right now. You stare at him, not moving for the remote. Or looking at the TV YOu just look at him.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” he finally asks you.

“No reason,” you say immediately looking away. 

“There’s definitely a reason for you to stare at me for twenty seven seconds.”

“We’re watching TV now,” you say, grabbing the remote from the coffee table.”

“That’s not an answer to the question.”

“I wasn’t trying to answer the question.”

You turn the TV on, still refusing to look at him. Mostly because if you look at him right now you’re going to think about him saying ‘there’s my smart girl’ again. Which feels dangerous to think about on your uncle’s furniture.

The TV eventually ends up on some random cable movie that neither of you really pay attention to or are really even interested in. 

Spencer’s arm eventually ends up around your shoulders. Every few minutes, one of you will glance toward the staircase.

Just checking of course. Just in case.

Because Rossi still doesn’t know. And while neither of you are technically doing anything inappropriate, explaining why you’re curled up together on his couch at 9:00pm on a Friday night feels like something that needs more planning.

And just like Rossi doesn’t know what’s going on between you and Spencer, you and Spencer don’t know what’s going on in the movie. Both of you are too focused on finding ways to touch the other that would still be easy to pull away from if either of you heard a noise from upstairs.

The first time a floorboard upstairs creaks, both of you quickly separate and look to the stairs. After a few minutes, and no emergence of Rossi, you guys come back together. 

Neither of you say anything. Because admitting that you’re both waiting for Rossi to appear would make this feel…

Wrong.

After separating another time because of a noise that leads to nothing, you rest your head on Spencer’s shoulder instead of just leaning against it. Spencer shifts slightly to make it more comfortable. He tightens his arm around you, both of you choosing to ignore that this position takes more effort to get out of.

The house remains quiet. No footsteps. No Rossi. Just the movie that you probably couldn’t name a single character in if it would save your life. 

An hour or so passes with no interruptions. Spencer starts correctly guessing plot twists in the movie. You don’t really know what’s happening, but he’s still spoiling it.

“You’re ruining the movie,” you say.

“You’re not even paying attention.”

“Yeah but I know what’s going to happen in ten minutes because of you.”

“I’m preparing you,” he laughs, and pulls you closer into his side. 

Another twenty minutes pass. Spencer was right about the plot twist again, but you don’t care anymore. You’re too focused on keeping your eyes open. You keep dozing off into Spencer’s side and jolting back awake. You hope he doesn’t notice. Of course he does.

“Tired?” He says, glancing down at you.

“No,” you lie.

“You’re yawning.”

“I am not!”

He raises an eyebrow. You immediately yawn. 

“That doesn’t count,” you say, annoyed that he can predict your yawns.

“So you faked it?”

“Mhm,” you hum, pointing at the TV. “Movie.”

“Oh so now you’re interested in the movie?”

“I’ve been interested!”

“What’s happening then?”

You stare at the screen. You can feel him smiling down at you.

“...there’s a guy…”

Spencer starts laughing. You shove his arm playfully. 

“You have no idea what’s happening,” he points out. You know he’s right.

“I know enough!”

“You were asleep for ten minutes during the climax, there’s no recovery for that.”

“I was resting my eyes!”

“I’ve never heard of anyone snoring while resting their eyes.”

You jerk your head up to look at him.

“I was not snoring!”

“You were a little.”

You hide your burning face.

“It was cute,” he says, trying to make you less embarrassed.

Eventually you settle back against him. The room is warm. The TV is quiet. His arm is still around your shoulders. The steady rise and fall of his breathing is making it harder and harder to stay awake. 

The movie becomes harder to follow. Not that you were really following it anyway. But now the sounds are blending together and the light from the TV is simultaneously too bright and too dim at the same time.

“Still awake?” Spencer asks you quietly.

“Yep.”

He asks you again five minutes later.

“Awake?”

“Obviously,” you answer, words slightly slurred.

Spencer smiles to himself. You don’t see it though. Because your eyes are closed again.

_____

The first thing you become aware of is warmth. The second is that something is pressing against your cheek. The third is that your neck hurts.

For a few seconds you stay exactly where you are, mind hovering somewhere between asleep and awake. The warmth is nice. You don’t particularly feel like moving. 

But your brain is slowly catching up.

The warmth doesn’t feel like your bed. Your bed doesn’t smell this good. Not that it smells bad, it just doesn’t smell like…

Spencer.

Your eyes open wide. Your stomach drops. You lift your head very slowly. 

Spencer is asleep. Actually asleep. Not reading, or pretending to be watching TV, he’s asleep. His head is tilted toward yours, glasses half off his face like they’ve fallen. His hair is messy. His arm is wrapped securely around your waist. You stare at him for a quick moment before your eyes drift toward the cable box.

3:07 AM

Fuck.

You start to panic. The studying, the movie, the cuddling, the fact that you fell asleep, the fact that he fell asleep, the fact that your uncle is somewhere upstairs hopefully asleep, the fact that it’s three in the morning.

“Oh my god,” you whisper. 

Spencer’s eyes open immediately. Like it flipped a switch. He’s already looking around and scanning the room. His eyes immediately go to the staircase, you follow them. 

Nothing.

“We should probably move,” he says, starting to gently push you away.

You quickly get up. He follows.

“He didn’t see us,” Spencer says as he starts to gather his things.

“You don’t know that!”

“I think I would’ve heard yelling.”

“That’s fair… But what if he came down for water?”

“What if he didn’t?”

“What if he’s standing in the hallway right now?”

Spencer turns his head toward the hallway.

“Don’t look!” you say.

“I’m checking!”

“STOP CHECKING!”

You look towards the hallway too. Nothing.

The next few minutes are complete chaos. Silent chaos though.

“Get your stuff,” you whisper, helping him.

“I’m trying!”

“Try faster!”

You’ve never seen someone put on their shoes so quickly.

A floorboard creaks again upstairs. The two of your turn toward the staircase terrified. 

Nothing.

Spencer motions to the door. The two of you start moving, every step feeling like an elephant is walking. When you finally reach the front door, Spencer reaches for the doorknob very slowly. Painfully slow. The sound of the latch clicking seems to echo through the entire house.

Spencer steps outside carefully, pausing to look back inside at you. He leans forward and kisses you quickly. 

“Goodnight, pretty girl,” he says, before turning away.

You smile and wave back at him, too scared to speak. You watch him walk away until he’s out of sight. Then you close the door and lock it. And immediately lean against it, your heart still racing.

_____

Read Part 22 Here! 🕰️ (coming soon)

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BUY ME A COFFEE

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a/n: i know i literally just posted about not updating this fic daily anymore but the other thing i’m working on is absolutely gut wrenching and i need something happy to write about because it’s making me physically ill (worth it tho)

also you’re welcome for the free intro to journalism lesson. the next chapter is going to be another rossi’s pov chapter, sorry if you hate that, but i know quite a few people really enjoyed it so shrug emoji

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taglist:

Monday

Your professor is standing at the front of the lecture hall explaining something about cognitive development theories. You’re trying to pay attention. You’ve written an entire page worth of notes. But this is one of those classes where the room is too warm, and you can hear the buzzing of the fluorescent lights, and the person behind you keeps clicking their pen every five seconds. 

Your phone buzzes. It’s a little too loud against the desk to ignore. You glance down at it, expecting an email or some social media notification. Instead, you saw text from Spencer.

SPENCER: Good luck on your exam review today.

You stare at the message. It takes you a second to even recall mentioning it to him. You hinted at it a few days ago while the two of you were walking to get coffee. It wasn’t a conversation, or really even on topic. It was just something you’d complained about for maybe thirty seconds. And somehow he remembered.

Of course he remembered, he’s Spencer Reid. But something about it still made you blush. Because he didn’t text you because he had a question, or because he needed something, or to tell you a fun fact. He texted you because he thought about you and thought about something going on in your life.

You smile. Then immediately stop because you realize you’re sitting in the middle of class. Then you look back at the message and smile anyway.

YOU: Thanks : )YOU: I’m surprised you remember that

Spencer responds instantly.

SPENCER: I remember most things.SPENCER: Good luck, smart girl.

Your face immediately burns from reading his recent text. Smart girl. You wonder if he has any idea what that does to you. Honestly, he probably doesn’t. And you’re not sure if that makes him calling you that better or worse.

You lock your phone and put it face down on your desk before anyone can see it. Unfortunately, that doesn’t stop you from smiling for the rest of class.

Tuesday

You and Spencer have been getting coffee together in the mornings before he goes to work for months. Long before any of this happened. Long before he looked at you and said he wanted you. So nothing about Tuesday morning was inherently romantic or even new.

You’re standing in line at the same D.C. coffee shop in the same converse you and him always wore. Spencer is beside you. It smells like coffee. Everything is exactly the same.

Except now he’s your boyfriend.

You catch yourself smiling while waiting in line. Then smiling while ordering. Then again when Spencer tells the barista to have a great day. You don’t even know why. You just feel stupidly happy.

Spencer is just sitting across the booth looking out the window when you realize you’re staring at him. Again. And to your embarrassment, he realizes too.

“You’re staring again,” he says without looking away from the window.

“I’m not!”

“You are.”

“I was thinking.”

He finally glances over.

“About?” he asks, raising one eyebrow.

You shrug casually. “You.”

The tips of his ears turn pink immediately. Then red. Then somehow redder. You grin, because somehow it still happens every single time. Spencer clears his throat and looks away.

“That’s very distracting,” he says, flustered.

“You literally asked,” you giggle.

“I wasn’t expecting that answer.”

You smile into your coffee. Because for all the things Spencer knows and for how attentive he is, he still has absolutely no idea what to do when you flirt with him. And honestly, you kind of love that.

Wednesday

You’re lounged on your bed with your planner open in front of you while on one of your evening phone calls with Spencer. The conversation has moved from your classes to his work schedule to what the two of you are doing tomorrow. 

Which is apparently spending the evening at his apartment.

“I should be back around 6:00,” Spencer says.

“Okay, I’ll be in the parking lot at 5:50,” you say, opening the cap of your purple highlighter.

“I heard that,” Spencer says.

“Heard what?”

“You’re writing in your planner, aren’t you?”

You’re glad he can’t see you blushing. He laughs anyway though.

“I heard your highlighter cap,” he says.

“No you didn’t.”

“What was that sound then?”

You don’t answer. Which is obviously enough of an answer for him, as he just laughs more.

“You’re the worst,” you say.

“Why?”

“You can’t even see me!”

“I don’t have to, I have ears.”

You look down to the purple highlighter in your hands.

“I hate you,” you say.

“No you don’t.”

“How would you know?”

“Well considering I’m the only person with their own color dedicated to them in your planner I would think the opposite of you hating me.”

“How do you know you’re the only person with their own color?”

“Y/N…”

“I’m hanging up.”

“You say that every time I bring up the highlighter.”

“Because you’re annoying!”

“You’re still going to come over tomorrow though.”

“You know I am,” you smile.

“Make sure you highlight it in purple,” he laughs.

“You know what, for that I’m gonna change it.”

“You’re changing it?” his voice is immediately filled with concern.

“Yep.”

“To what?”

“I don’t know.”

“You can’t just change it!”

“Oh so now you’re attached to it?”

“I’m not attached! You can’t spend weeks assigning me a color and then just rebrand me!”

You laugh. Because Supervisory Special Agent Dr. Spencer Reid of the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI is concerned about losing his color in some girl’s planner.

“I’m hanging up now, Spencer.”

“Wait!”

“Nope.”

“Am I still purple?”

“Goodnight, Spencer.”

“Y/N–”

You hang up. Your phone buzzes almost immediately.

SPENCER: For the record, purple is an excellent color.SPENCER: Please don’t rebrand me.

You laugh.

YOU: I won’t…this time : )

Thursday

You’ve been in the parking lot of Spencer’s apartment for somewhere between five and ten minutes before he arrives. Which is entirely his fault. Because if he hadn’t spent the entire day texting you things like ‘Don’t forget to bring your book tonight’ and ‘I fully intend on making sure you actually study tonight.’ and an ‘I know where you live.” (which would’ve totally creeped you out had it not come from Spencer) then maybe you wouldn’t have been counting down the hours and then the minutes and then the seconds until you could see him.

SPENCER: Are you here already?

YOU: Maybe… : )

SPENCER: That’s not an answer.

YOU: Maybe I am, maybe I’m not…

Three dots appear. Then disappear. Then appear again.

SPENCER: You’re here.

YOU: Maybe…

SPENCER: I can see your car.

You look up. Sure enough, Spencer is crossing the parking lot carrying his car keys and his satchel. He’s already smiling. It’s not a huge smile, but one that still makes your entire day better. You wait until he’s almost to your car before rolling the window down.

“You’ve been here awhile,” he says once he reaches your car.

“You don’t know that,” you smile.

“You got here before I did.”

“That doesn’t mean I’ve been here a while.”

“Are you coming inside with me?” He asks, motioning toward his apartment building.

“Eventually,” you nod.

“Eventually?”

“I’m enjoying making you wait.”

“That’s not very nice.”

You grin at him, not saying anything.

“Can we go inside now?” He asks.

You grab your backpack from the passenger seat and climb out of the car. Spencer takes a look at the ridiculously heavy textbook sticking out of it.

“Do you want me to take that?” He asks before you sling the bag over your shoulder.

“I mean I’m not gonna tell you no,” you say. He takes the backpack from your hands with a grunt. 

“How much reading do you have to do?” He asks.

“Not that much…” you say, looking down at your feet as the two of you start walking toward the building.

“How many pages?”

“Not that many…”

“Y/N…”

“Thirty…” you mumble.

“Only thirty?”

“Yeah, it’s not that much.”

“Then why are you acting like you’re going to spend four hours reading?”

“Because I’d rather be hanging out with you.”

Spencer pauses at the first step. You continue up a few before realizing he’s still down there, standing, looking completely caught off guard.

“What?” you say, turning around to look at him. He smiles and shakes his head and starts walking up the stairs again. By the time you reach his apartment, he’s recovered enough to pretend he wasn’t flustered. But you knew better than that. His ears are still slightly red. Not that you’d ever point that out.

He ignores you and unlocks his apartment door. The familiar scent of coffee, books, and Spencer hits you. Your brain has started to link the three scents as one. As soon as you walk in he hangs his keys by the door and sets his satchel down.

“Okay,” he says, handing you your backpack from off his back. “Study.”

“We’ve been inside for like six seconds!” You say, taking the bag.

“You have an exam tomorrow. Study, then we can hang out.”

“Yes, Dad,” you mock and start walking toward the couch. He glares at you, but follows you. 

After an hour you’re both still on the couch. Spencer is reading some philosophy book while you study your textbook.

Or at least are supposed to be studying your textbook.

Your textbook is open. Your notebook is open. You look very academic. But the problem is Spencer looks very attractive. And that doesn’t mix well with trying to be studious.

He’s still in his work clothes. His hair is slightly messy. His glasses are sliding down his nose, but not far enough to warrant being pushed up. His tie has been loosened a bit, and the top two buttons of his shirt are undone. He looks so entranced in his book. He looks gorgeous.

You try reading. You really do. You manage to make it though about half a page before having to look at him. Then you’re able to read a few more paragraphs before having to look back at him. Then a few sentences. Then you can’t even get through a few words. Your textbook might as well be written in a whole other language. You close it and drop it on the coffee table. The thud startles Spencer slightly.

“Are you done?” He asks, looking at you.

“No.”

“Then why’d you stop?” 

“You’re distracting,” you say. For some reason you’re not hesitant or embarrassed at all.

“Me?” his eyebrows lift.

“Yes, you.”

“I’m just sitting here reading?”

“Yeah, but you look really good today.”

He doesn’t answer. His ears start turning pink. Then red. And that’s answer enough.

“What?” he manages to say with a cracking voice.

“You’re hot.” you say.

His mouth opens like he’s going to speak. Nothing comes out. You watch his entire face go bright red. You giggle at him.

“Don’t laugh at me,” he says.

“Sorry, you’re just so easy to make nervous.”

“You’ve never said that before!” he argues.

“”Well look at you,” you say, making it obvious you're looking him up and down.

He looks horrified. Not because he dislikes it, but because he has no idea what to do when you compliment him. Or honestly when you look at him like that. He keeps staring at you, his face still red and his ears redder than you’ve ever seen them. But he’s still gorgeous. 

You last approximately four seconds before you can’t take it. You lunge forward on the couch and kiss him with fervor. His hands immediately come up to your waist, one against your skin, and the other sandwiching his book between his hand and your skin.

The newly familiar touch settles inside of you, making everything feel easier. You smile into his mouth. You shift closer, pressing your body into his. 

Spencer makes a quiet sound that you feel throughout your body. You slowly pull back with a smile, revealing his glasses sitting crooked on his face, which only makes you smile wider. His face is red and he looks completely stunned.

“Woah.” he says, eyes wide looking at you.

“What?” you laugh.

“That was…”

“Yeah, I know,” you say, backing away more and a little embarrassed now. “Sorry…”

“I didn’t say stop,” he says, pulling you closer with the hand that’s actually on your waist. 

Oh.

You look down at the book in his other hand, then back up at him. Without breaking eye contact, you take it from him and set it on top of your textbook. He watches the entire thing happen very intently. Very interested.

You use a hand to push at his chest to get him to lie on his back against the couch cushions. He naturally falls and situates you on his lap by your waist. For a moment he just lays there looking up at you. And you don’t tease him this time. Because you just sit there on his lap looking down at him.

Because he looks HOT.

Just like you had said. His glasses are still slightly crooked from where you'd bumped them earlier, him not having dared taken his hands off your waist to fix them. Several strands of his hair have fallen across his forehead, and the rest is just completely out of place from his usual neat swoop.

His tie is no longer straight either. Which does way more to you than it should. Somewhere between him loosening it and you calling him hot, it’s shifted off center from his chest. His chest, which was a little more exposed than you’ve seen before because of the two undone buttons.

His face is completely red. Not a little red. Completely. Ears included. Despite being the smartest person you know, and the smartest person anyone who knows him knows, Spencer still looks hopelessly overwhelmed every time your attention is undivided on him.

His hands tighten slightly at your waist. His eyes move over your face.

“What?” he asks, referring to you staring at him. Which is a little humorous considering he’s doing the same thing.

“Nothing,” you smile down at him.

“That’s never true.”

You giggle. Because he’s right.

“You’re just…really attractive,” you say.

His top lip trembles slightly, not like he’s about to cry, but more like he’s trying to hold a smile back. He brings a hand up to meet your chin, his thumb running along the bottom of your jaw, then coming up to trace around your lips. He pulls the bottom one down as he finishes his circle.

You close the gap between the two of you, pressing your chest firmly into his. You hover your lips just above his. His breath is hot against yours. He exhales shakily as his lips barely graze against yours. Their touch is so light you don’t think it would qualify as a kiss.

You press closer to him while moving your lips more eagerly against his. He returns your eagerness, his movements becoming a little sloppy. His hand that was on your face slides to the back of your neck and his fingers tangle in your hair as he pulls you impossibly closer.

One of your hands roams up to his face. He allows your fingertips to trace the beautiful contours of his jaw and cheekbones. His skin is warm and soft beneath your fingertips, the finest layer of sweat has begun to surface on his face.

Your fingers move to his hair, pulling gently. He lets out the smallest whimper into your mouth, which causes your entire body to react. You pull at it again, and are rewarded with another small hum. 

Interesting.

Your kisses are heavy, the passion between them leaves the both of you coming up for air. You pull back, resting your forehead against his. Your eyes lock with his, a gaze of longing covering the brown in his. You feel his chest rising and falling against yours. His hands rest on your hips, fingers digging a little roughly.

You stay there for a moment, forehead to forehead, breathing harder than before. Spencer opens his mouth to speak.

“As much as I’d love to keep doing this…”

“No.” You interrupt, already knowing where this is going.

“...you have an exam tomorrow.”

“Spencer,” you groan.

“I swore I’d make sure you actually study,” he smiles. 

“You’re so boring.”

“I’m so helpful,” he corrects.

You bury your face against his shoulder. He laughs and presses a quick kiss to the top of your head. The gesture is so unexpectedly sweet that it almost makes you forget you’re supposed to be annoyed at him. Until he reaches around your body at your textbook on the coffee table.

“No.” you protest.

“Y/N.” he grabs your textbook. 

You glare at him. He hands you the book anyways. You know he’s right, but that doesn’t mean you want him to be. You take the book and climb off of him. He sits up and grabs his own book. You settle into his side. Because if you’re going to study, you’re at least going to do it while leaning against your boyfriend.

He immediately wraps an arm around your shoulder, pulling you closer into his side. You pretend not to like it as much as you do.

You’re surprisingly able to focus much better now. Spencer sits beside you reading his own book while you work through your notes. Every once in a while he’ll glance over your shoulder to see what page you’re on. Which would’ve been annoying if it were anyone else. But somehow Spencer manages to make the supervision feel comforting.

“That’s going to be on your exam,” Spencer says as he reaches over and taps his finger on a paragraph in your textbook.

“You don’t know that,” you say, looking at him.

“It’s important. It definitely will be.”

“You’re just guessing.”

“Okay, let me know when I’m right tomorrow.”

You roll your eyes and go back to your notes. It takes you almost half an hour, but you finally place your pencil down for good. Spencer looks over his book at you immediately.

“Are you actually done?” he asks.

“Yep,” you smile.

“Let me see,” he says. You hand over your notebook. He scans each page. “Good.”

“That’s it?” 

“What?”

“That’s all I get?”

“You did a good job,” he smiles and sits his book on the table. He opens his arms. “Come here.”

“You’re not even trying to hide it,” you say, rolling your eyes at him.

“Trying to hide what?”

“You just made me study so you’d feel less guilty about distracting me afterward.”

“I was helping you!” He says, before giving you puppy dog eyes and softening his voice. “Please come here?”

You don’t argue this time. Partially because you’ve spent the last hour and half wanting to do just that, and the other part because he looks so cute begging. You slide across the couch and sit between his legs. He wraps his arms fully around your body and pulls you closer.

Then closer. And somehow closer again.

“Are you comfortable?” he asks.

“No.”

He tightens his arms. “Now?”

“No.”

“Really?”

“No, because your elbow is in my ribs.”

“Oh,” he adjusts. “Now?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

For a few moments neither of you say anything. Spencer’s hand drifts absentmindedly up and down your arm. Your legs end up tangled together without a conscious decision to do so.

“You know,” you say, tilting your head back to look at him. He’s already looking down at you.

“For somebody who claims I distract him you sure seem committed to keeping me close.”

“I like having you here,” he says, his ears slightly pink. 

“I like being here.”

He smiles, gently resting his chin on the top of your head. Neither of you acknowledge it. Or move away. Somehow that feels more intimate than anything else.

After a while of sitting in silence with Spencer, you check the time.

10:42 PM

“I should probably go soon…” you say, disappointment present in your voice.

“Yeah, you have an exam in the morning,” he says.

“Yeah, and you have work.”

“That’s normal. I’d let you stay longer if you didn’t have a test.”

You blush. Neither of you move for another five minutes. Then five more pass, and you decide to finally be responsible.

Spencer walks you to the door. You stand in front of him with your backpack slung over one shoulder. He leans against the doorframe.

“Good luck tomorrow, you’ll do great,” he says.

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes I do.”

You roll your eyes. 

“Text me when you get home,” he smiles.

“I will,” you smile back. 

He leans down and pecks your lips. 

“Goodnight, Spencer,” you say as you turn to walk out the door.

“Good night, pretty girl,” he says as you leave.

You’re glad you’re facing the other way. Because he definitely would’ve made fun of how red your face is.

_____

Read Part 21 Here! 🕰️ (coming soon)

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BUY ME A COFFEE

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a/n: the spencer i’m imagining in the makeout scene is the spencer from the photo i use in this series if you guys didn’t pick up on that

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Change is weird. As is time. And the amount of change that can happen in a short amount of time never fails to surprise you. Because two weeks ago, you were spending your entire day trying to ignore the fact that you were spending your entire day thinking about someone. And now you’re on that same person’s couch, curled up against him on a Saturday afternoon.

Spencer is tucked into the corner of the couch with one arm wrapped around your waist and a book in his free hand. Your back is pressed into his side and your head leans comfortably against his shoulder. 

Two weeks ago this would feel weird. You would be awkward. He would be awkward. But today, it doesn’t feel like that. You aren’t thinking about where your hands are, or whether you're sitting too close, or if you’re allowed to lean into him. You just are. 

Spencer feels safe. He feels comfortable. He feels…like…

Home.

The realization sneaks up on you unexpectedly. You decide not to think about that last part. So naturally you think about it even harder.

The apartment is quiet except for the sounds of pages turning and the occasional sound of the heater kicking on. Spencer’s thumb absentmindedly brushes against your side every few minutes. It’s not enough to cause a distraction, just enough that you notice. Every single time.

You’ve been trying to read your book for nearly twenty minutes. Trying. Because every few minutes your attention drifts towards Spencer. 

You glance over from your book. He’s reading.

You look back down. Two minutes later you look toward him again. Still reading.

You stare a little longer this time. His eyebrows are slightly furrowed. He has a few strands of hair falling into his eyes and his glasses are slipping slightly down his nose. The sleeve of his sweater is pushed up his forearm on the arm that’s around your waist. You realize this is the first time you’ve seen his arms. You smile to yourself, then immediately force your attention back to your book before he catches you.

“You’ve read the same paragraph three times.”

“What?” You say, snapping your head up.

Spencer doesn’t even look away from his book.

“The paragraph,” he says, turning a page. “You’ve read it three times.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Are you spying on me?”

“No.”

“THen how do you know that?”

“You haven’t turned a page and the position of your head hasn’t changed enough to make me think you’re onto the next page yet.”

You stare at him. He still hasn’t looked away from his book. 

“You don’t know that,” you argue.

“Actually, I do,” he finally looks down at you. “You weren’t reading either.”

“I was too!”

“You were looking at me.”

“I was not!” Your face is warm.

“You were.”

“I wasn’t!”

‘You were.” He squeezes your waist lightly, making you squirm into him.

“I hate that you know things,” you say.

Spencer marks his page in his book with a finger. He sits up slightly so he can have a better view of your face. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks. You hate that he knows that you were thinking. And you hate that there’s no way of getting around this conversation because the second you lie he’s going to know.

“It’s not really wrong…” you say, twisting the blanket between your fingers. He continues looking at you waiting for the rest of your sentence. “I still don’t think I’m ready to tell Uncle Dave.”

“That’s okay,” he says, his voice soft and genuine. “I said it was on your time.”

“I know, and thank you for that, really,” you say. “But…”

Spencer waits. Patiently. Like he always does. You continue. 

“I was thinking maybe telling Logan could make telling Dave feel easier.”

“Is that what you want to do?” he asks.

“If it’s okay with you, yes.”

“I think it’s a good idea.”

“Okay, do you…do you want to do it now?” 

“If you do.”

You look down at your phone sitting on the coffee table. Then you look at Spencer again.

“I’m 90% sure he’s going to make fun of me,” you say.

Spencer smiles. “Probably.”

“Wow, that makes me feel really good about this,” you say.

“Was I supposed to lie?”

“Yes, Spencer, that is a situation where you’re supposed to lie to me.”

“Okay, noted.”

You roll your eyes at him and reach for your phone.

“What if he freaks out?” you say.

“He won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“You just have to trust me.”

You look up at Spencer. He’s watching you. His face looks sincere. You do trust him. And you know that Logan will be happy for you. And even if for some asinine reason he isn’t, you know that Spencer won’t go anywhere.

You open your phone and start to find Logan’s contact. Spencer shifts a little closer to you. You can feel his breath down the back of your neck. You hit the little green call button under Logan’s name.

Ring.

You’re nervous now that you’ve actually called him. A little over two weeks ago you were sitting in your room telling your brother that there was no way Spencer Reid liked you. Now you’re about to tell him that he was right all along.

You don’t even notice that your leg is bouncing until Spencer’s hand comes to rest on your thigh. You glance over at him, he just gives you a small smile. The bouncing begins to slow, which surprises you. Because it’s literally just a hand. But somehow, the same Spencer Reid that you swore didn’t like you has now become your most efficient source of emotional regulation.

“I liked this idea a lot more two minutes ago,” you say, looking at Spencer.”

Ring.

“You’ll be okay,” Spencer smiles.

“That’s easy for you to say.”

Ring.

“Well, well, well,” your brother’s voice sounds from the other end of the phone.

“Not even a hello?” you ask.

“Nope, what do you want?”

“Am I not allowed to call my own brother?”

“No you can. Are you dying?”

“Yes, I’m seconds away from death and the first thing I do is call you.”

“Fair point, what do you need?”

You glance over at Spencer. The last ounce of courage you have has completely disappeared. He notices immediately. Because of course he does. He removes his hand from your thigh and takes your free hand that isn’t holding your phone. He gives you a nod, silently telling you to get on with it.

“Remember when you said that you thought Spencer liked me?” you say.

“NO WAY!” Logan says excitedly. You hear something fall on his end of the phone.

“What was that?” you ask.

“I stood up too fast.”

“Why are you standing up?”

“WAS I RIGHT?”

You don’t say anything.

“Y/N WAS I RIGHT?”

Spencer smiles to himself. You move the phone in his direction.

“Yeah,” Spencer says, “you were right.”

“OH MY GOD HE’S THERE?” Logan says.

“Hi,” Spencer says innocently. It’s cute.

“Come on, Y/N, say I was right.” Logan cheers.

“Yeah…” you say.

“Yeah what?” Logan prompts.

 “You know what,” you say, refusing to give him what he wants.

“I want to hear you say it,” Logan says. Of course he does. 

You look at Spencer, who’s just smiling.

“Say it,” Logan pushes.

You sigh dramatically. 

“You were right,” you finally say.

“I KNEW IT!” He shouts.

“Okay, yeah, you did,” you say.

“I literally told you so,” Logan brags.

“You’re so immature,” you say.

Eventually, Logan settles down enough to breathe. 

“Have you told Uncle Dave?” Logan asks, voice more serious.

“No…” you answer, exchanging a look with Spencer.

“Y/N…” Logan says in a tone you know all too well. The ‘older brother tone’ that usually means he’s about to give you a life lesson you weren’t really asking for. “If he finds out on his own he might kill you guys…”

You hate that he’s right.

“I’m just saying,” Logan continues after no one answers. His voice is a little less serious now. “If you two are doing all this hand holding and weird stuff–”

“GOODBYE LOGAN!” 

You hang up.

Neither you or Spencer speaks for a moment. You just sit there, curled up against him.

“He seemed…excited,” Spencer finally says.

“That’s one way to describe it,” you laugh.

“I think he almost blew out my eardrum.”

“He’s good at that.”

Spencer smiles and gets comfortable leaning against the couch again. His arm remains wrapped around your waist, his hand barely breaking the barrier of the hem of your shirt and your skin. His thumb traces absent-minded patterns against your bare side. Your phone sits forgotten on the coffee table, but the conversation keeps replaying in your head.

You chew your lip, thinking. Overthinking. Spencer notices. Obviously. There seems to be nothing that he doesn’t notice.

“What?” he says, looking over your shoulder at you.

“What, what?” you look up at him.

“You’re thinking again.”

“Brains tend to do that.”

“You know what I mean.”

You do. You stare at the T.V., then at the coffee table, then at your phone. Anywhere except for him. Because your eyes and mouth know what you’re going to say before your brain.

“What are we?”

Spencer’s fingers still from their drawings. You regret speaking.

“Forget I said that…” you mumble.

“No,” he says.

“Please.” You bring both your hands up and groan into them.

“You don’t get to ask a question and then immediately take it back,” he says, gently pulling one of your hands away from your face. You look at him reluctantly.

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” you say.

His eyebrows lift. “I don’t?”

“No. Honestly, I’d rather you not.”

“Okay,” he says. You can’t detect any emotion in his voice. You start to panic.

“Wait, that was mean, I’m sorry,” you spit out.

“It was a little mean,” he agrees playfully. 

The playfulness doesn’t last long though. His expression softens to something more caring. And his voice is serious again.

“What do you want us to be?”

His response takes you by surprise because that’s nowhere close to what you expected. You don’t really know what you suspected, but it wasn’t for him to flip the question back on you.

You look down at your hands, then away, like somehow the answer might be written on the wall.

“I don’t know,” you shrug. 

Spencer waits patiently. You hate it. Because it means you actually have to answer.

“I just…” you start, then take a deep breath. “I know I like you…”

Your words make him smile, which makes your face warm.

“...and I know I want to keep doing this…”

His smile grows.

“...and I know I don’t really want anybody else.”

Spencer’s face becomes almost sympathetic looking.

“What about you?” you ask him.

“You.”

“What?”

“You asked what I wanted. I want you.”

You stare at him. His answer was fast and certain.

“Take me out to dinner first,” you say. 

And then immediately regret it.

Spencer laughs. You hide your face against his shoulder.

“Don’t laugh at me,” you say, voiced muffled by his sweater.

He brings a hand up to the back of your head, pulling you closer into him. 

“I’m not laughing at you,” he says.

“Yes you are,” you whine, face still in his chest.

“Look at me,” he says, using his hand to tilt your head up to him, not really giving you an option to look away.

Reluctantly, you open your eyes at him. His expression is soft. Not amused or teasing like you expected.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” he says.

“Then what did you mean?” you ask quietly.

“I mean I want this,” he brushes his thumb across your cheek. You keep looking at him, waiting for him to continue. He does.

“I want you to be the person I call as soon as I’m home from a case. I want to spend every weekend I have off with you.”

His voice stays calm and certain, like what he’s saying is a fact.

“I want to be the person you tell about your classes, and I want to hear about whatever page you accidentally ripped out of your planner again.”

“That was one time,” you smile through tears that are fighting to come out.

“It was three.”

“It was one page that I told you about three times.”

Spencer laughs softly before looking deeply into your glossy eyes.

“I want all of it,” he says.

“You’ve really thought about this,” you say, taking notice of how much more in depth his thoughts were than yours.

“I think about most things,” he smiles.

“Not helping.”

“Sorry.”

Neither of you speak for a moment. The T.V. plays through the background. Neither of you even know what’s on anymore.

“Okay,” you finally say, after what felt like five minutes of just sitting there staring at him with your head in his hands.

“Okay?” he repeats, confused. Which is funny, considering he’s supposed to be a genius or whatever.

“If that’s what you want,” you say.

“It is.”

“Then I think that answers the question.”

“So you want to do this?” His smile falters slightly. Only slightly.

“I think so?” You say, sort of sarcastically.

“Like… officially?”

“Spencer,” you stare at him. “You literally just said you wanted me.”

“I know?”

“And I said I wanted you.”

“I know.”

“You’re still confused?”

“I’m not confused.”

“You sound confused,” you giggle.

“I’m verifying,” he says, rubbing his thumb on your cheek. “So…are we officially dating?”

He asks the question like it’s just a normal, Spencer Reid style question he’d ask to anyone. It’s so simple. After weeks, maybe even months, of nervous conversations, and kisses, and sharing books, and overthinking, it all comes down to such a simple question.

“Yeah,” you say, looking up at him.

The biggest smile you’ve ever seen spreads across his face.

“Yeah?” he repeats. A faint blush spreads across his face and ears. “You’re my girlfriend now.”

You smile and nod. You don’t trust yourself to respond with words. Spencer shifts his hands slightly against your face, not enough to move you, just to hold you a little closer.

And suddenly you’re very aware of how close he is. And how warm his hands are. And how he’s looking at you like you’re in a 2x2 white box with nothing else inside aside from each other.

His eyes flick down to your mouth. Then back up to your eyes. You can feel yourself smiling. He’s smiling too. He leans forward slowly. Slow enough that you could stop him if you wanted to. You don’t.

Every nervous thought in your head disappears the moment his lips touch yours. He cradles your face softly in his hand, making small movements with his thumb. So small you almost miss it, but enough that it makes your heart swell. Because it’s Spencer. And he has a way of doing that.

You reach up and grab the front of his sweater, pulling your body closer to him. He makes a quiet sound against your mouth that sends butterflies though your entire body. He smiles into the kiss, making you smile too.

Which ruins any chance of keeping the kiss serious, because the moment you feel your teeth click against his, you both laugh. 

“Yeah,” you smile, pulling back only enough to be able to look at him.

“You’re my girlfriend,” he repeats, smiling wider than you probably have ever seen.

The second he says it you feel embarrassed again. You hide your face in his shoulder once more.

“Nope,” you say, jokingly, hoping he picks up on that. He does.

“You just agreed!” Spencer laughs.

“I know.”

“You’re my girlfriend.”

“Stop saying it.”

“You are my girlfriend.”

“Spencer!”

“My girlfriend.”

You groan into his sweater. You feel him laugh. The tension of worrying about Rossi, or the future, or anybody else has been put aside. You both know you’re eventually going to have to tell him. But now? At this moment? It can just b e yours together. Curled up on his couch, not worried about anything besides each other.

_____

Read Part 20 Here! 🕰️ (coming soon)

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BUY ME A COFFEE

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a/n: sorry for being MIA for the last couple days, sixteen year old me is alive again and i have been going to so many concerts i yearn for live entertainment also ngl this was written over like three separate days and multiple different states of sobriety and is not proof read so if it's a mess i apologize

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Check This Out!: Spencer Reid A-Z Masterlist

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Walking into a bookstore holding Spencer Reid’s hand felt surreal. The little bell above the door chimed softly as you stepped inside together, him only slightly ahead of you to stagger your bodies to fit through the doorway. You wondered if it was obvious that this was a new thing, or if it seemed natural.

The bookstore smelled like old paper and coffee. Sort of like Spencer smells. Warm lighting glows over crowded shelves, and you can hear as people chat and turn pages. It was exactly the kind of place the both of you would go to on your own, so it naturally made being here together feel more intimate.

Spencer looked happier the moment he walked in the door. His shoulders relaxed more and his eyes and entire face lit up. His grip on your hand tightened unconsciously before he caught himself and loosened it again.

“You’re like a little kid at Disney World,” you tease.

Spencer looks down at you. “This is better than Disney World,” he grins.

“You’re such a nerd,” you giggle.

“Is that a bad thing?”

The sound of you laughing made him smile wider. Which you found adorable.

You wander slowly through the aisles of the bookstore. Spencer keeps pulling books off of shelves to show you paragraphs and quotes you’d like in them. You make the mistake of letting him see the philosophy section. 

He walks over and grabs three books at once.

“Of course,” you giggle.

“What?” he asks, looking up from the books in his hands.

“You saw the philosophy section and immediately forgot about everything else.”

“That’s not true!”

“Spencer, you walked away from me in the middle of your sentence.”

“Oh…okay maybe a little.”

He gives a weak smile. You smile at him and lean against the shelf.

“You’re adorable,” you say, shaking your head.

Spencer’s ears immediately turn pink. Which only makes him more adorable.

“I’m choosing to interpret that as non-derogatory,” he says, looking down at the books to regain his composure. Which is also adorable.

He looks at the philosophy books for a while, sharing fun facts about theories and philosophers with you as he pulls books off the shelves. Eventually, he gets bored, or maybe can tell that you’re bored, and decides it’s time to move on.

“What do you want to look at?” He asks you, accepting that it was your turn to find something to spend 30 minutes looking at.

“The only place I can enjoy that you don’t really understand,” you say mischeviously.

“Planners?”

“You really are a great profiler, Dr. Reid,” you joke. His ears go red again. You can’t decide if it’s because of the compliment or because of the title. Either way, it’s still adorable, and the second you figure out what is causing it you’re never going to stop doing it.

You find heaven in the planner section. There are dozens of planners arranged by size, layout, and style. There are solid colors, floral colors, cartoon covers, miscellaneous designs, leather covers, a few knitted covers, if there was something specific you were looking for, you could probably find it here.

You pull out one with a clean and simple monthly layout and show it to Spencer. 

“These are dangerous,” you say.

He tilts his head at you. “Dangerous?

“Yes, because they trick people into thinking they’ll become organized overnight.” You flip to another spread. “Then they don’t use it for two days and completely abandon it because it’s too much to catch up with.”

“That sounds like you’re speaking from experience.”

“I’ve been ‘the planner girl’ since third grade, people trust me to help them. I’ve seen things.”

Spencer smiles and picks up a different kind of planner. “So what’s the correct one then?”

“That depends on the person,” you say, taking the planner from him and flip through it. “This is a daily planner. These are great if your everydays are completely different and you want detailed breakdowns.”

“That sounds useful for me.”

“Actually, probably not,” you say, putting the planner back. 

“Why not?” he asks, genuine curiosity in his voice.

“Because your weeks are unpredictable, but your individual days are mostly all the same. You’ll spend more time setting it up than actually using it.”

“Are you…profiling what kind of planner I would need?”

“Am I correct?”

“Yes. That’s why I’m asking.

“I know you.” 

The words slip out naturally. His expression softens. You look away before your brain can overanalyze it. You pick up another planner and hand it to him.

“This one is probably better for you. It has a monthly overview at the beginning and then weekly spreads with lots of room for notes and appointments and things like that.”

“I never really knew that planners were this serious,” he says, flipping through the planner you handed him.

“Oh, they’re very serious,” you say.

“I’ve always wanted to try a planner,” he says casually.

You look up. “Really?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, I mean I don’t really need one, but I do think that it would be a nice thing to have, you know…”

Of course Spencer Reid didn’t need a planner. He had an eidetic memory, he couldn’t forget something if he tried. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was using this as an excuse to spend time with you. Which would’ve been understandable a few weeks ago, but now that he’s literally been on top of you swapping spit it seemed a little redundant.

You don’t mention that though.

“...I just never really knew where to start.”

You smile. “I can help you.”

“Really?” he asks.

“Of course. I have tons of extra supplies at home that I don’t really use anymore. Just get a planner and I’ll help you set it up sometime.”

“What about right now?” he asks. He suddenly looks uncertain. “Unless you don’t want to.”

“No, I do,” you smile. “I should probably just call Uncle Dave and make sure he’s okay with you coming over today instead of tomorrow.”

“That’s fair,” he nods.

“Give me just a second,” you say, pulling out your phone. “You keep looking for a planner you like.”

You step away and dial your uncle. He answers on the third ring.

“What did Reid break,” he asks when answering the phone.

“Why is that your first assumption?” you ask him.

“Experience.”

You roll your eyes despite the fact that he can’t see them. “We’re in Georgetown. Spencer wants help setting up a planner. Is it okay if he comes over today instead of tomorrow?”

“He can come over both days.”

“Oh…okay. If that’s an option then I’ll ask him.”

“It’s an option.”

You smile. “Okay, we will probably be back in an hour. Give or take.”

“Be smart, I’ll see you soon. I’ll find something to cook tonight as well”

“Thank’s Uncle Dave,” you say and hang up the phone.

You look towards Spencer who is completely entranced by the planners. You walk over to him and place a gentle hand on his lower back, which makes him jump a little bit.

“Uncle Dave says you can come over,” you smile. He looks pleased. “And apparently you’re still invited tomorrow as well.”

“Oh…” Spencer says, trying to hold back his smile. “That’s really nice.”

The two of you spend another twenty minutes debating planners like it’s a life altering decision. Which it is. Spencer has absolutely no idea what he’s getting himself into. He originally chooses a massive leather-bound portfolio style organizer. You immediately take it away from him, explaining that he needs something more manageable. And that doesn’t look like it belongs in a law firm.

Eventually, after way too much discussion, Spencer chooses a medium-sized weekly planner with a simple brown cover with monthly overviews and enough room for notes without becoming overwhelming. You approve of it immediately.

“This was the best choice you could’ve made,” you say smiling.

“I feel like I’m being graded,” he says.

“You are.”

“Did I pass?”

“Yeah, after some tutoring.”

Spencer smiles and starts walking to the checkout counter, surprisingly with only the planner in hand. He buys the planner and you walk outside. The early afternoon air smells of coffee and rain.

You notice a little coffee shop across the street with a cute little awning above the doors. Spencer follows your gaze.

“Do you want to go?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you smile. 

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

Inside of the coffee shop is small. It’s the kind of place that stays open because people keep recommending it to their friends. So the best kind. The smell hits you before you open the door. Coffee. Fresh Pastries. Something with cinnamon.

You order an ice vanilla latte while Spencer gets plain black coffee, because apparently he’s eighty years old.

“You don’t put anything in it?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “Just sugar.”

“That’s crazy,” you say.

“It tastes like coffee,” he defends.

The barista is smiling at you and him. It makes you feel good, the fact that he’s still himself in public with you. You approach the counter to pay and reach for your wallet.

“Absolutely not,” Spencer says as he pulls his out.

You look up at him. “What?

“I’m paying,” he says, handing his card to the person at the checkout before you can argue. You argue anyways.

“You don’t have to,” you say.

“I know,” he says. “I want to.”

The answer isn’t awkward or hesitant. It’s natural. Simple. Like it isn’t even a question. Something warm settles in your chest and you don’t argue after that. Mostly because you secretly like it.

You each take your drink and head back outside. Spencer manages to carry his coffee and the planner in one hand. Which leaves his other hand free.

You notice it at the same time. There isn’t a conversation, or anything weird or hesitant behind it. His fingers just find yours. Naturally. And this time neither of you freezes. There’s no panic or overthinking. Just Spencer’s hand sliding into yours as if it was breathing. The thought makes you smile. 

The walk back to the parking garage is slower than before. Neither of you seem particularly interested in rushing. By the time you reach his car, Spencer is halfway through explaining something about…something.

You aren’t really listening. Not because you don’t care, but because you’re watching him. Again. You should probably stop doing that. You don’t.

“...which is unusual because most independent bookstores operate on lower margins than chain retailers like Barnes and Noble.”

He opens your door while talking. Without even thinking. A month ago you wouldn’t have thought twice about it. Now you notice the way he waits for you to get fully seated and start to pull the seatbelt across your body before he closes the door. You notice the small smile he gives you before walking around the front of the car.

You take a sip of your coffee and stare at the windshield trying very hard not to think about the fact that you’re officially in whatever stage comes after “I like you too.”

The driver’s side door opens and Spencer slides into the seat. He puts his coffee in the cupholder and looks over at you. You expect just a little smile or something, but he keeps looking. For what feels like forever.

“What? you ask, shifting awkwardly in your seat.

He doesn’t say anything. He just keeps looking.

“Spencer,” you call.

“Hmm?” he says, snapping to attention.

“Why are you looking at me?”

He blinks like he forgot you were waiting for an answer. 

“You’re really pretty,” he says earnestly.

The words catch you off guard. Not because you don’t know he likes you. You do. He literally hid a note in a book. You kissed on his couch. You know. But this felt different. Because Spencer had never said anything like that before. Your face immediately goes hot, and you know you’re blushing.

You’re not that embarrassed that you’re blushing at his compliment, because he’s blushing at his own sentence. His ears are doing the thing you love.

“I just…” he starts. Then stops.

Then starts again. “I was looking at you and then I thought it and then I said it.”

His explanation somehow makes it worse. Or better. Definitely worse. But possibly better.

You look down at your coffee because making eye contact suddenly feels impossible.

“Thank you,” you mumble.

“You’re welcome,” Spencer smiles.

You take a sip of coffee solely because it gives you something to do with your hands. Unfortunately, it doesn’t help. Because now every time you look at Spencer all you can hear is: “You’re really pretty.”

The drive back to your house is easy. Much easier than the drive back from The Smithsonian. That was bad. You talk about books, Spencer brings up some random fact about octopuses that somehow  becomes a fifteen minute debate over the correct plural of the word. Which of course, Spencer was right about.

Eventually, you shift the topic. You’ve been avoiding it, but it had to be done.

“We should probably act normal around Dave…” you say quietly, but loud enough Spencer can hear you.

He glances over. “Normal?” he says like it’s his first day on Earth.

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah.”

“I just don’t want to tell him yet,” you say staring out the window.

Spencer nods. He doesn’t look disappointed, just thoughtful.

“I understand,” he says. 

You relax a little bit and smile, ready to end the conversation. You thought that was that, until Spencer spoke again.

“Do you think we’ll tell him eventually?” He asks.

You look over. Spencer is watching the road. His hands are steady on the wheel. 

“I think we’d have to eventually,” you say. “I’m just not ready yet.”

“Okay,” Spencer nods.

“Okay?” you repeat, a little confused about his response.

“It’s your decision.”

His answer surprises you. Maybe because you expected him to argue or push, or at the very least look upset.

“Whenever you’re ready we can tell him,” he says.

‘We’ll.’

We. Will.

The words make you a little nervous because of how naturally he says them. Like whatever you and him are belongs to both of you. LIke you telling Rossi on your own was never an option.

“Besides,” he continues, “I’m ready whenever you are.”

Your brain short circuits.

Ready.

Ready for what? Ready to tell Rossi? Ready to be official? Ready to put a label on whatever you were? Ready to be your boyfriend?

You don’t ask. Mostly because you’re pretty sure if you do your brain will stop functioning and make it impossible to act normal around your uncle tonight.

So instead you stare out the window and pretend your heart isn’t acting like you ran a marathon.

“Are you okay?” Spencer asks, glancing over at you.

“Yep.” you answer shorter than you mean to.

“You sound stressed.”

“I’m fine.”

“Hm.” You hate how unconvinced he sounds. And you hate even more that he’s right to doubt. “What’s wrong?

“It’s nothing,” you sigh.

“It isn’t.”

“How do you know?” you say, looking over at him.

“Because when you’re actually fine you say you’re fine and then change the subject. This time you said you’re fine and then went quiet.

You stare out the window for another few seconds, realizing that you’re never going to be able to hide your emotions from a profiler. You stare out the window for a few more seconds before finally giving in.

“I’m just really scared to tell Uncle Dave,” you admit.

“Oh,” Spencer says, his expression softening immediately. He looks sympathetic.

You pick at the cardboard sleeve around your coffee cup.

“I promised him that we’d just be friends.” You scoff. The words feel ridiculous now. “I told him I had absolutely no intention of doing…this.”

Spencer is quiet for a second. 

“If it makes you feel any better,” he finally says. “I also promised him that I only thought of you as a friend.”

You glare at him. His eyes are still on the road so he doesn’t notice.

“Oh my God,” you say, hiding your face in your hands. “He’s gonna hate us both now.”

Spencer laughs. You’re not joking.

“I’m serious, Spencer.”

“I know.”

“No you don’t.”

“He’s not going to hate us.”

“You don’t know that!”

“I know Rossi.”

“Yeah. You know AGENT Rossi.”

Spencer glances over. The look on his face tells you that he understands what you’re trying to say. You stare down at your coffee, unable to look at him.

“If he gets mad,” you say quietly. “I don’t really know what happens.” 

Spencer waits for you to continue.

“I kind of don’t have anybody else…” you admit. Spencer looks at you sadly. “I mean, I have Logan, but he lives in Washington and I don’t want to move across the country again.”

“You have more than Rossi and Logan.”

You ignore him because that’s not really the point.

“I live with him,” you say, your voice barely above a mumble now. “I mooch off him.”

“You don’t mooch off Rossi.”

“I do. I don’t pay rent, I don’t pay for college, he pays for my gas, I don’t do anything to help, and I know he’s rich and stuff but if I don’t have him…I don’t really know what I’d do.”

It’s silent. Spencer reaches over and finds your hand. He brushes his thumb gently over the top of your hand.

“You’d still have me,” he says. His voice is calm and steady. 

Your heart twists, not from butterflies this time, but from something that hurts a little bit. Because he means it. Completely. You smile.

“Yeah,” you say, squeezing his hand. “That’s very sweet.”

“It was supposed to be practical reassurance.”

“Well you were being sweet in the process. And I love that, but I still don’t want my uncle to hate me.”

“I know.” His hand tightens around yours. “I understand.”

You look over at him. Suddenly you remember that Spencer knows what it’s like to lose people. And to be afraid of losing them. He’s told you about his dad. And you know about how much Jason Gideon meant to him, and of course, you know about Gideon leaving the BAU. That’s why your uncle went back afterall. Come to think of it, Gideon is kind of the whole reason you know Spencer.

But all that feels like more of a loss than this. This is just you being dramatic and overthinking. Because while he won’t be happy, deep down you know that your uncle wouldn’t disown you.

At least you’re pretty certain.

Spencer glances over and catches you staring at him. 

“We will tell him when you’re ready, okay?” he says.

“Thank you, Spencer,” you smile.

“You don’t have to thank me.”

Maybe you do, maybe you don’t. Either way, you don’t say anything else.

The rest of the drive passes easily. Before long, familiar streets fill the windows. Followed by your neighborhood, then your driveway, then the outside of your house. Neither of you move for a moment after he parks, the both of you mentally prepping to act as normal as possible around Rossi.

“Ready?” Spencer finally says after what may have been five full minutes.

“Yeah.” you say, and get out of the car.

_____

Read Part 18 Here!

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BUY ME A COFFEE

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a/n: i know i left this on a major cliff hanger, but don't get mad pls the next part is already released (i posted them at the same time) i've just found that 6k word fics don't do as well as 3k ones so i split it up.

anyways click here to see spencer get really really embarrassed by rossi bc i was feeling really evil whole writing part 2

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You’ve spent four days imprisoned in your own mind by the contents of that note Spencer put in the book he gave you.

I like you, Y/N. :) – Spencer

Everything about it felt so… him. 

The grammatically correct punctuation, the smiley face, the fact that it was in a book? it was all so very Spencer.

And it made everything make sense too. The phone calls, the dinners, the impromptu bookstore trips, the museum.

The hand holding.

You think about the way he looked at you on the sidewalk. The way he stopped himself from letting go. The way he looked almost relieved when you held on.

It all made sense.

Part of you wanted to call him immediately. But more of you felt like that was the wrong move. It felt like there should be a correct time to tell him you found the note. And you’d been waiting for that time to come.

It just hadn’t yet.

It’s Friday morning now. You’re meeting Spencer at his apartment so you can go to a bookstore in Georgetown together. You’re sitting in your car waiting for him to come outside. 

The rain is loud and heavy. You can see the water pooling in the road. And the lighting is definitely something that should be worried about. 

Your phone rings. It’s Spencer.

“Hey,” he says, not even giving you enough time to respond before he keeps talking. “I don’t think the bookstore is a great idea.”

“Yeah, you don’t say.”

“Are you driving right now or are you in a safe place?”

“It depends.”

“What does that mean?”

“How safe is sitting inside of my car in the parking lot of your apartment complex?”

“Moderately safe.”

“Yeah, it’s raining pretty bad out here.”

“You definitely shouldn’t drive all the way back home.”

“I know.”

“Do you maybe want to come inside?”

The way he asks was almost like he was planning to invite you inside all along, which makes you smile.

“Sure, fair warning though, there is absolutely no way I am getting inside without getting soaked. ven with my umbrella.”

“That’s okay,” he giggles, “I have towels.”

“Okay, I’ll be inside in a second.”

“Okay, go up the stairs and its the second apartment on the left. Number 23.”

“Okay, see ya in a sec,” you say before you hang up and prepare for your next thirty steps to feel like war. 

You grab your umbrella from the passenger side floorboard and prepare yourself. Within three seconds of opening your door your jeans are soaked from the knees down. Your umbrella was basically useless. By the time you reach the front door of the complex, you are pretty much completely soaked.

The door opens before you can pull it yourself. A completely dry Spencer is standing there holding the door and a towel. Both of you stop and stare at each other for a moment, saying nothing.

Because for you, this is the first time since you got the note.

And for him, well, this is the first time he’s seen you soaking wet in the freezing rain. 

“You weren’t exaggerating,” he says.

“No,” you say, “I wasn’t.”

“You look like you walked through a car wash.”

“I feel like I did.”

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but enough to show that nothing has changed.

“Come inside before you get pneumonia,” he says, stepping away from the opening of the door to let you inside.

“I don’t think that’s how pneumonia works,” you say, but step inside anyways.

“Actually–”

“No.”

“What?”

“No ‘actuallys’ while I’m soaking wet.”

“I wasn’t going to,” he says and hands you the towel. “I was just going to explain how pneumonia develops.”

“Exactly,” you say, wiping your skin with the towel.

“You know me too well,” he says.

And you know way more than he thinks you do.

You follow him upstairs and inside his apartment, clothes still dripping with rainwater. 

Inside his apartment is exactly what you expected. Books everywhere. Stacked on shelves, stacked beside shelves, stacked on tables, books everywhere.

“You have a problem,” you say smiling.

“No I don’t!” he argues, knowing that you’re referring to his hundreds, maybe thousands, of books.

“There’s books in your kitchen!”

“I’m in the market for another shelf,” he says while handing you a dry towel. His eyes drift toward your jeans. “Those are not going to dry anytime soon.”

“I know, I’ll deal with it though.”

“You’re shivering.”

“I’ll be okay.”

“No, you’re going to get sick, I probably have some–”

“Spencer,” you interrupt. “I’m not putting on your pants.

His ears and cheeks turn a little red. “I wasn’t suggesting that…I was suggesting sweatpants.”

You stare at him.

“They’re clean,” he says. He disappears down the hallway while you do your best to wring your soaked hair out with the towel. He returns carrying a pair of grey sweatpants and a bright orange Cal-Tech hoodie that you could not picture him wearing no matter how hard you tried.

“They have a drawstring,” he says, holding the clothes out to you. “The bathroom is right over there.” He points.

You take the clothes and follow his point to the bathroom, latching the door behind you. For a second, you just stand there, staring at the borrowed clothes that are folded up on the counter. 

You pull your soaking wet shirt over your head, then your jeans go down. You have to consciously stop yourself from thinking about the fact that you’re standing in Spencer Reid’s bathroom changing into his clothes.

You pick up the hoodie first. It’s enormous. It looks too big even for him. The sleeves go a good six inches past your fingertips. You roll them up to expose your hands enough to put on the sweatpants, which are somehow worse.

Because Spencer was tall, and as a tall man, his pants were going to be long. But these pants were long. You have to roll up the waist band four times to even get the baggyness to start at your calves rather than your knees or thighs.

You hardly recognize yourself when you look in the mirror. Not because of the clothes, but because of the smile. You hadn’t even realized you were smiling until you saw yourself. 

You leave the bathroom feeling ridiculous. You’re comfortable, but you look ridiculous. Spencer looks over at you, then immediately looks away again, suddenly becoming very interested in a spot on the wall.

“Spencer,” you say.

“What?” he doesn’t look at you.

“You looked.”

“I did not.”

“You definitely did,” you smile.

“I was assessing whether the clothing fit.

“Okayyy,” you giggle. His ears are red. You notice, but pretend not to.

“Are you hungry?” he asks.

“A little.”

“I have grapes…rice crispy treats…and…juice.”

You laugh, “Grapes are fine.”

Spencer goes to the living room and turns Doctor Who on the T.V. He sits down next to you on the couch with a bag of grapes to share in his lap. And somehow it’s the most normal you’ve felt with him in weeks.

The rain hits the windows hard. It sounds like they might break, but you know they won’t. The bookstore trip has long been forgotten. And you’ve managed to push the note into the back of your mind.

You and Spencer fall into the same rhythm you’ve always had. You talk through parts of the Doctor Who episode, neither of you caring when the other talked with a grape in their mouth. You argue over details, and make fun of the cheesy parts.

You laugh with him, not nervously or awkwardly, genuinely laughing. And it feels nice. Because this is why you became friends in the first place. It wasn’t the butterflies, or the hand holding, or the note, it was this. It was being able to spend hours together and never running out of things to say. For the first time since the Ocean’s 11 night you stop feeling nervous. Because whatever this is, whatever the two of you are, it started with a friendship, and that’s still here.

You and Spencer have eaten the whole bag of grapes by the time the episode is over. Spencer reaches for the remote. You know this is the moment, it has to be. Because if it’s not, you might never do it.

“Spencer,” you say, your voice soft.

He looks over at you. “Yeah?”

“I finished Brave New World.”

His face goes white. He’s not blushing because he’s nervous or embarrassed this time, he’s white because he is terrified. Because he knows. He knows that you know.

He looks at the coffee table. Then the T.V. Then the wall. Anywhere except at you.

“W-what did y-you think of it?” his voice is nervous and cracky. 

“It was good,” you say, doing your best to keep your voice soft and steady.

“Good?”

“Yeah.”

He’s silent. You can tell he wants to crawl into a hole and never ever come out.

“Spencer,” you say again, in the same tone as the first time.

His eyes close briefly, like he’s bracing himself. He forces himself to look at you. The expression on his face makes your heart ache. Because he is terrified. Absolutely terrified. He’s terrified that he got it wrong. That he made a mistake and misunderstood everything.

“Yeah?” he finally says quietly.

You smile. Because the answer is simple. It’s always been simple. You’ve just been overcomplicating it.

“I like you too.” 

Spencer stares at you. It felt like everything, both inside and outside, had stopped. For the first time since you met him, Spencer Reid is completely speechless.

His eyes drop down to your – his – hoodie. Then the pants. Then back up to your face. He opens his mouth like he’s trying to speak, but he closes it again. You give him a small smile. He opens his mouth again. 

You wait. And wait And wait.

And then something inside of him finally gives up on restraint entirely.

He leans forward on the couch, reaching for you. He isn’t hesitant or unsure in the slightest. It’s immediate, like the last few months of everything that had gone unsaid or redirected or avoided for far too long just fell into place.

One hand comes up to your face. It’s warm and a little shaky, like he still can’t quite believe you’re real. His thumb brushes your cheek once. You barely have enough time to inhale before he crashes his lips onto yours.

It’s not soft in the way you expected it to be. It’s not tentative or questioning at all. It’s hard and passionate, like months of restraint breaking all at once.

Your brain doesn’t catch up immediately. For a split second, everything is just sensation.

His hand on your cheek, steadying you like he’s afraid you might run away or disappear. The way he leans in slightly more after the first contact. The warmth of him. Everywhere.

Your body finally catches up and you kiss him back. He reacts instantly, like he’s been waiting for permission that he didn’t really think he’d ever get. The hand on your face tightens slightly, not forceful, just… anchoring. 

His lips move against your like he’s memorizing you. Not rushed in the frantic sense, but desperate in the way of someone who has been holding something in their hands for too long and is finally allowed to stop pretending they don’t want it.

He tastes sweet but slightly tart. It’s the grapes. It’s absurdly ordinary, but it reminds you that this is real. That the world didn’t pause, and that he’s on top of you in his living room with the t.v. still on and you’re still wearing his clothes.

Spencer shifts slightly closer as if the small distance between you had become unbearable. His other hand comes up to the other side of your cheek to hold you, like he’s been trying not to do this exact thing for so long.

Your thoughts scatter completely, but there’s no overthinking this time. Just him. On top of you. His mouth is sloppy and wet on yours. His hands warm and protective against your face.

And the strangest part is how gentle he still is. He kisses you like he’s afraid of breaking something fragile, only being rough where it’s supposed to be.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only a small amount. Not enough to leave, just enough to breathe. His forehead is close enough to brush against yours, one hand still on your cheek like he hasn’t decided it was time to stop touching you yet. His other arm is beside your face, holding him up. His eyes open like he’s coming back from somewhere else entirely. And he looks at you like he still can’t quite believe you're real.

“You–” he starts, but immediately stops, like the words are too loud,

You let out a breath that feels halfway between a laugh and utter disbelief. “Yeah?”

He swallows. His thumb moves against your cheek almost absentmindedly. His expression looks…exhausted? Like he’s been holding his breath.

“I’ve been trying not to think of you like this,” he admits quietly.

“Why?” you ask.

His eyes close for a second, like the answer is obvious but unbearable at the same time.

“Because I didn’t know if I was allowed to,” he says finally.

Your hand comes up without you really thinking, gently grabbing his wrist that was connected to the hand cupping your cheek. You don’t pull him closer or away. You keep him right where he is.

“You are,” you say simply.

His eyes open wide, something shifts visibly. Not confidence exactly, but more like a decision finally clicking into place after being over processed for months.

“Okay,” he says, exhaling like he’s accepting a fact that he refuses to believe.

There’s a pause. Only this one doesn’t feel awkward. It feels heavy, the arbitrary space between you has changed and now you have to figure out the shape. He looks at your mouth for a second, then immediately flashes his view back to your eyes.

“Can I…” he starts softly. He stops and shakes his head, like he’s frustrated. You rub small, comforting circles on his wrist that you’re holding.

“You don’t have to ask like that,” you say gently.

He creases his brows, confused. “Like what?”

“Like you’re afraid of me.”

“Okay,” he says again, quiet, before he leans into you.

The second kiss is different. 

It’s not a sharp, stunned collision like the first. It’s slower, still intense, but more like he’s trying to make a moment instead of catching up with one. There’s a pause where he pulls back to check you again. When you don’t pull away, he settles more comfortably.

The kiss deepens slightly, not rushed or overwhelmed, just closer and more deliberate. You feel his warmth everywhere. His hand on your cheek, the way he shifts closer without hesitation, a quiet confidence within him that you’d never seen, or expected, in him.

He pulls back slowly, holding his head above yours to look into your eyes. His are softer now than they’ve been in a long time. He looks…

Calm.

Not calm as in nothing has changed, but calm because he finally stopped pretending it didn’t.

For a while neither of you moves. Spencer is still hovered over you on the couch. The second episode of Doctor Who is well over halfway through, but neither of you pay it any attention. You can’t stop smiling. Neither can he.

“You kissed me,” you finally say, still smiling.

“I’m sorry,” he says, immediately covering his face with one hand.

“No, no, I wasn’t complaining,” you laugh.

He peeks out from between his fingers. “It sounded like an observation.”

“It was.”

He groans, which makes you laugh harder. For somebody with criminal interrogation training, Spencer Reid is sure easy to make flustered.

“You kissed me,” you repeat, both to yourself, and to give him a chance for a more put together response.

“You didn’t even ask,” you say, now debriefing with your own mind.

His eyes widened. “I asked the second time.”

“That doesn’t count.”

You stare at each other for a second. Then both of you start laughing. Spencer sets up and settles back against the couch. You sit up beside him. Neither of you move very far away.

“So,” you say, breaking the comfortable silence.

“So,” he responds.

You turn to look at him. “How long?”

He immediately knows what you’re asking. His ears turn red and he stares at the coffee table. You wait.

“A while…” he finally says.

“That’s not a length of time,” you giggle.

“Technically it is.”

“Spencer…”

He sighs. You feel oddly victorious in the way that you can fluster him so easily right now.

“A while,” is all he can come up with. You stare at him, obviously waiting on a better answer. He doesn’t give you one. “Your turn.”

“My turn? You didn’t even answer!”

“How long have you liked me?”

“A while,” you smile, deciding to be annoying. 

“You made fun of me for that answer!”

“I know.”

“You’re a hypocrite!"

“I know.”

Spencer smiles. You both stare at each other, smiling. He eventually glances towards the window. The rain has started to slow. The realization sets in that you’re eventually going to have to leave. He’s staring out the window, quiet. For once not because he’s thinking about history or physics or something nerdy. He’s thinking about you. 

“What time is it?” he asks after a while.

You look at your phone. “Almost nine…” you say, disappointed.

“Oh.” he sounds disappointed too.

The room falls quiet again, still a comfortable silence. You reach over and take his hand. Just because you can. Spencer looks down at your hands and then back up at you and smiles.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” he asks.

“Tomorrow?” you blink.

“Yeah.”

“You already want plans for tomorrow?”

His ears turn red again, which you can now safely admit is one of your favorite things.

“Maybe…” he says sheepishly.

You laugh.

“So are you free tomorrow?”

The hopeful look on his face tells you that you shouldn’t tease him further.

“Yeah, I am.” you say softly.

“What do you want to do?” he says smiling.

“I don’t care,” you say. “What do you want to do?”

“I don’t care,” he repeats.

“You have to care to do something,” you say smiling.

“I care about spending time with you,” he says.

You smile. And you realize that you can’t wait to see him tomorrow.

_____

Read Part 17 Here! 🕰️ (coming soon)

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BUY ME A COFFEE

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a/n: hi thank you for the applauses i’ll be here all night. (literally, i'm posting the next TWO PARTS later today bc i literally am so tired of waiting and i know most of you guys are too so ur welcome hehe)

i debated on not having them kiss yet and just ending the part after the confession, but then i thought about it and i kinda realized that two people who like each other + alone in an apartment during a rainstorm, they HAVE to.

also, before writing this part when i would think about the first kiss i always thought i would write it to be like soft and sweet and stuff. but then i thought about literally any kiss scene spencer has in the show and that man can make the fuck out, even in season one he was open mouth kissing. so i will not tolerate any ‘early seasons spencer would never’ YES HE WOULD HE WAS A FREAK !!

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You spend most of Sunday morning trying not to think about the fact that Spencer is picking you up. He’s not meeting you somewhere, he’s picking you up from your house. Like a date.

Which is not what it was. Probably. Hopefully. Maybe. You have no idea.

Spencer pulls into the driveway at 9:03. You grab your coat and head downstairs. Spencer is waiting beside the car when you step outside, which somehow makes this seem more like an unagreed upon date. Especially because he looks nervous too. The kind of nervous where he keeps adjusting the strap of his satchel and avoiding eye contact.

The drive to D.C. was surprisingly easy. Not because the awkwardness disappeared, but because eventually you both forget that you’re supposed to be being awkward.

The Smithsonian has that effect on Spencer. The second he gets excited about something, the rest of the world stops existing.

And you find that adorable.

And once Spencer starts talking about something he loves, stopping him becomes impossible.

Not that you’d ever want to.

The Smithsonian opens at 10:00. You and Spencer arrived at 9:56. The Smithsonian closes at 5:00. You and Spencer leave at 4:54.

One exhibit became two. Two became five. Five became ten.

Somewhere around noon, you completely lose track. You walk through galleries, historical exhibits, scientific displays, planetariums, entire sections devoted to things you didn’t even know existed. Somehow Spencer knows something about all of them. 

He tells you about aviation history for twenty minutes. You absorb about half of what he says. Not because you weren’t listening, well, you weren’t listening. But you weren’t not listening because you found him annoying, you weren’t listening because you were too busy watching him.

The way he talks, the way he moves his hands, the way his eyes light up whenever something catches his attention, the way his teeth show more in his smile when he’s excited, everything. 

And Spencer Reid rarely notices when people watch him. He gets so focused on whatever he’s explaining that he forgets anyone could possibly be looking. Which means he misses the fact that you haven’t really heard anything he’s said in the past ten minutes.

“...and that’s actually why the original preservation methods were considered controversial.” 

You blink. “...right,” you say.

“It’s really interesting,” he says.

“It is,” you smile.

____

By the time you leave the museum your feet hurt. Spencer Reid walks really fast when he wants to see the entirety of the Smithsonian in one day. He talks the whole way back toward the parking garage.

You’re walking through downtown D.C. at 5:00pm. There is traffic everywhere. The sidewalks are so crowded your forced to walk in a line with Spencer, following behind him,

You’re stopped at a crosswalk while Spencer is explaining something involving exhibit funding and government allocations. The walk signal changes and without even looking at you, Spencer reaches back.

He takes your hand, and keeps walking. Like he’s done it a thousand times. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You follow automatically. Spencer keeps talking.

“...and federal appropriations are actually far more complicated than most people realize…”

You smile. He doesn’t notice. The two of you reach the sidewalk on the other side and continue walking forward. Spencer is still talking.

“...and that’s only one part of the budget because private donations are–”

You look down and realize that he’s still holding your hand. You don’t say anything, and you’re careful not to move a muscle in your left arm. You just keep walking behind him. Holding his hand. Like it’s completely natural.

Then he notices too. He stops walking and his sentence cuts off. His eyes drop to your joined hands.

“Oh…” is all he says.

You bite back a nervous laugh and repeat his “Oh,” back to him.

“I wasn’t aware I was doing that…”

You’ve never heard someone sound so genuinely confused about something their own body was doing.

“You’ve been holding my hand for half a block.”

Spencer looks mortified and starts loosening his grip, preparing to let go. And for the first time, probably a lot later than you should have, you take initiative. 

You tighten your fingers around his. Not too tight, just tight enough to stop him. His eyes meet yours, and neither of you say anything. 

People continue to walk around you. Cars still drive by a little too fast. The city continues to exist. Yet, somehow, you and Spencer are standing in the middle of a busy sidewalk in Washington D.C. staring at each other like you’ve both forgotten how conversations work.

You smile at each other, then continue walking. Your hand in his. His hand in yours. All the way back to his car. He doesn’t speak on the walk back. He couldn’t if he tried. Because he’s painfully aware of what is happening. As are you.

The drive home is a disaster. It’s somehow more awkward than the phone call. It’s quiet. The kind of quiet that only exists because you are thinking the exact same thing as each other. And the kind of quiet that only exists because you are both actively avoiding talking about it.

Spencer tries to break the silence by talking about museum attendance statistics. Then the silence comes back. You try to talk about a painting there that you liked. Then silence. The weather is brought up. Silence. The two of you can’t even hold a conversation about books.

It feels like trying to walk normally after realizing everyone is watching you. Every conversation requires effort when it normally comes so easy. Every sentence and glance feels dangerous.

After the longest forty five minutes of your life Spencer pulls into your driveway. The house looks the same as it always does, which seems wrong. Because everything feels different.

“Oh,” Spencer says before you get out of his car. “I almost forgot.”

He reaches into his satchel and pulls out the paperback of Brave New World. The same copy he had mentioned earlier this week. You smile and take it from him.

“Oh yeah, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he smiles back.

When you go inside your uncle is already waiting with the table set. Dinner tonight is awful. Not because of the food, it is incredible as always. But because every single time you look up, Spencer is already looking at you. Then both of you look away immediately.

You know your uncle notices something is off. Anyone could. But you’re eternally grateful that he doesn’t address it at dinner, or even after Spencer leaves. Because honestly, if he were to mention it to you, you think that you might explode.

As Spencer is leaving, Rossi invites him to dinner next week, which of course he agrees to. Spencer looks at you as if he doesn’t know whether to hug you tonight or not. But you reach for him, because you know if you don’t hug, that would make everything that your uncle saw at dinner seem far more suspicious. And you really could not deal with explaining anything to him. 

Not tonight at least.

_____

Later that night, you’re lying in your bed, of course, overthinking everything from the last week. You reach for the book he gave you today to hopefully distract yourself from your head.

You cozy up in bed and open the cover. When you do, a folded piece of white paper falls into your lap. 

You look down, confused. You assume it’s likely just a receipt or a piece of scrap paper Spencer had used as a bookmark.

But you unfold it, and freeze. 

Because written in familiar handwriting are six words.

I like you, Y/N. :)  – Spencer

_____

Read Part 16 Here! 🕰️ (coming soon)

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BUY ME A COFFEE

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a/n: so um... don't get mad guys... but this is exactly how my ex boyfriend told me he liked me... same book and everything... don't get mad...

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The next morning you wake up before your alarm. You’re already wide awake the second you open your eyes, which is annoying. Your body clearly missed the memo that sleep is supposed to be restorative. For a few seconds, you just lie on your back staring at the ceiling. For a moment, you’re at peace.

And then it hits you. You held Spencer Reid’s hand yesterday.

And now your mind has immediately become just as complicated as it was last night. Your first instinct is simple: you are not going to think about it. And you wish following this instinct was as simple as it sounded in your head.

It was just hand holding. That’s all. People hold hands all the time. Friends hold hands. Family members hold hands. Family-adjacent people probably hold hands in some cultures or situations or whatever logical explanation exists.

You bury your head into your pillow trying your best to force the thought out. Unfortunately, that is impossible. So you get up.

You go to the bathroom to brush your teeth. You lean over the sink, staring at your reflection in the mirror and actively refuse to engage with your own brain. It doesn’t matter that your thoughts keep circling back to it like a dog that found something. You are in control. You are normal. You are…

In love with Spencer Reid?

No. You immediately skip over that thought. 

You squeeze the toothpaste onto the brush a little too aggressively.

The thing is, it wasn’t even a big deal. There wasn’t a confession or some moment where it felt like any feelings were being traded. Just your hand in his. Like it was almost natural.You rinse your mouth and go downstairs where coffee becomes your next project.

You feel like you’re just going through the motions as you make coffee. You’re definitely pouring water and pressing the buttons, but your mind refuses to stay present. Every second is filled with the same replay of his hand in yours.

You stare at the coffee pot, ignoring the fact that it’s ready and going back upstairs. 

By the time you get dressed, you’ve already had enough of yourself. You pick clothes without really seeing them, pulling them on while your thoughts keep slipping sideways into the same moment over and over again.

You find it rather annoying too. Perhaps if something major had happened this would feel warranted, but this was literally just hand holding. Even middle school couples hold hands without making a big deal about things.

You lay down on your bed and open a sketchbook, telling yourself that the day will proceed normally if you simply refuse to participate in whatever your brain is trying to get you to do.

At 7:42 your phone rings.

Spencer.

You’ve talked to him hundreds of times. Hundreds of different conversations, easy ones, long ones, quiet ones. Answering the phone was nothing new. Except for the fact that you now know what his hands feel like.

Answering the phone should feel normal. 

It doesn’t feel normal.

“Goodmorning,” you say when you answer the phone.

“Hi,” he says back.

And there it is. His voice. Exactly as you know it. It’s familiar in a way that should be comforting, but instead it has edges that you hadn’t noticed before. You can picture him without trying, one hand on the wheel, eyes on the road, hair slightly damp from the shower.

You hate that you can picture him so easily. But you hold on to it, because if not that then your brain slips to other things. Things you didn’t ask to remember. Like your hand in his. And the fact that neither of you moved it away.

You sit on the edge of your bed, forcing your posture to stay casual, as if somehow that could influence your brain. 

“So,” he says after a moment.

You didn’t realize that you hadn’t said anything after goodmorning.

“I finished a book I think you’d like,” he says.

“What book?” you ask quickly.

“Brave New World.”

“Oooh, yeah. You should let me borrow it.”

“Okay.”

You can hear it in his voice that he’s smiling. 

He pauses, not for long, but enough for it to be noticed that neither of you knew what to say.

You didn’t know it, but in his car, Spencer was gripping the wheel a little harder than normal. He keeps replaying yesterday in fragments he didn’t ask for either.

Your hand. How soft it was. How it felt small inside of his. Your fingers. And how they fit perfectly between his.

He hates it. He hates it more than he could properly explain. It’s not like anything changed. But that’s what’s upsetting him. Because nothing has changed, but it feels like everything did.

He clears his throat. “So, uh…”

You freeze, body telling you he’s going to mention it. And while part of you thinks that addressing it could ease the situation, another part, the bigger part, tells you that addressing it will only make things worse.

“I was thinking,” he continues. “If you want to of course…we could go to the Smithsonian this weekend? There’s a new exhibit I’ve been wanting to check out.”

“Yeah, yeah we should,” you say, the relief obvious in your voice.

“Okay,” he says, “Want to go Sunday before dinner? I can pick you up in the morning.”

You smile, because he already assumed he was getting invited for dinner this Sunday. He assumed right though.

“Okay, that works,” you smile.

“Cool,” he says, like he’s relieved to have successfully navigated something far more complicated than it should be. “I’ll bring the book too.”

There’s another pause. Longer this time. Worse. 

“Alright,” Spencer finally says. “I’ll talk to you later, Y/N.”

“Bye.”

The call ends. You just sit there for a moment staring at nothing. Something has shifted, and neither of you have a language for it. The only reason you stop staring is because there’s a knock at your bedroom door and your brother sticks his head inside.

“You alive?” he asks.

“Barely,” you say.

“Better than not at all. He walks into your room and immediately sits at your desk chair, spinning it around and sitting backwards in it.

“What?” you ask.

“Was that him?”

“Who?”

“Oh come on, was that Spencer?”

“Yeah.”

“Why do you guys call so early?”

“He calls me on his way to work.”

“Oh,” he pauses. “Where does he work?”

“With Uncle Dave.”

Logan straightens his back. “Is he like…an intern?”

“No…”

“He’s an actual agent?”

You nod.

“He looks…like twelve,” Logan says.

“He does not,” you giggle.

“He definitely does.”

“No he doesn’t,” you’re smiling. 

“He looks like somebody dropped off a gifted high school student into a government building.”

Well, he’s not all that incorrect.

“He’s twenty six,” you say, knowing he was about to ask.

Logan raises his eyebrows in shock. “You’re kidding.”

“No, he is.”

“There’s no way,” he stares at you. “He’s older than me?”

You nod. “He’ll be twenty seven in October.”

Logan’s mouth falls open. “Absolutely not!” 

His voice isn’t stern like he’s upset, he’s more surprised than anything else, which makes you feel a little better.

“That’s insane,” Logan says. “He looks nineteen.”

“He gets that a lot,” you say.

“I bet he does.”

You smile. “Uncle Dave made a huge deal about it,” you say while looking down, toying with the fabric of your blanket. 

“Oh I bet he did.”

Your smile fades as you remember that conversation. The arguments, the concern, and the weeks of hiding. Logan notices immediately.

“Does it bother you?” he asks.

You hesitate. You never really stopped to think about if you felt weird about it.

“A little…” you say.

“The age thing?” Logan clarifies.

“Sometimes,” you nod. You look up at him. “Do you think it’s weird?”

He shrugs. “It’s not my favorite thing in the world.”

You wince. “Thanks.”

“I’m being honest.”

“I know,” you sigh.

“But it’s not necessarily bad.”

You tilt your head.

“You’re both adults,” he continues. “I think that it’s enough of a difference that I’d probably ask questions, but from meeting him once, he seems like a good guy.”

You relax your shoulders and smile. “He is.”

“I can tell.”

You look down at your hands. Logan notices.

“You really like him,” he says. It’s not a question.

You stare at your hands for a moment. 

“Yeah,” you finally say.

The admission leaves your mouth quietly, but it feels huge. Like there’s been a boulder on your shoulders for months and it’s finally been lifted. 

Logan smiles a genuine smile at you. 

“I hate you,” you say, throwing a pillow at him.

“No you don’t,” he says, catching it.

You don’t. He knows it. Logan stares at you for a long second. Then he narrows his eyebrows at you, which is terrifying.

“What?” you say cautiously.

“Well you finally admitted it, so now I gotta ask questions.”

You groan, knowing he’s not going to leave until he knows everything.

“How long have you liked him?” he asks.

You bury your face in your hands. “Logan,” you say embarrassed.

“How long?” he repeats.

“I don’t know.” You’re honest.

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only answer I have.”

“That means it’s been a while.”

“Maybe.”

“How long is maybe?”

“I don’t know.”

“A month?”

You don’t answer. 

“Two months?”

“Logan, I don’t know.”

“Three?” he pushes.

You throw another pillow. This time it hits him.

Good.

“So what happened?” He asks.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, something had to happen.”

“Nothing happened.”

He gives you a look. “He calls you every day.”

“Not every day.”

Logan leans forward. “Something happened.”

You stare at him. Then at the wall. Then back at him. He waits. Patiently. The thing that the Rossi’s were best at. 

“We held hands…” you finally say, so so quietly. Logan is silent. You start to think he didn’t even hear you.

“What?” he finally says.

“Nothing,” you say, hoping he didn’t hear you and the ‘what’ was a ‘what did you say’ kind of what.

“No, no go back.”

“We held hands…”

“When?”

You stare at him. His eyes widen.

“WHEN!?” he repeats.

As flustered as you are by this whole situation, you have to admit that you enjoy your brother being so invested. 

“Yesterday…” you say.

“YESTERDAY!?” he echoes. 

You shush him.

“Like yesterday yesterday?”

“Yes, Logan.”

“Like yesterday when I was here?”

You nod. “While we were watching Ocean’s 11.:

“You held hands while Uncle Dave and I were in the room?”

“It wasn’t weird like that!”

“Neither of us noticed?”

“Apparently not.”

“And you think he doesn’t like you back?”

“I just don’t know why he would.”

“Y/N, guys who don’t like don’t hold hands during movies.”

“It wasn’t intentional!”

“Did he pull away?”

“No…”

“Did he start it?”

“I don’t know.”

“How do you not know?” he laughs.

“It just kind of happened, I don’t know who started it.”

Logan keeps laughing. He’s finding this way too amusing.

“Stop laughing,” you say.

He takes a deep breath, trying his hardest to stop.

“So,” he says after finally calming down. “What happened after that?”

You hate this conversation.

“You were literally there,” you say. “Nothing happened.”

“He didn’t say anything at all?” 

“No,”

“What happened this morning then?”

You pause. “Nothing.”

He looks at you. “Something had to happen between last night and now for you to admit that you like him.”

You hate that he has a point.

“He called.”

“That’s normal.”

“It just felt weird. It was…awkward.” 

“Continue,” Logan nods. You hate that he’s invested now.

“He asked if I wanted to go to the Smithsonian this weekend.”

Your brother’s entire face lights up. “So a date.”

“It’s not a date.”

“Mhmm.”

“He asked if I wanted to go see a new exhibit.”

“Alone?”

You pause. 

“...yes.”

Logan grins and shakes his head. “Oh, that’s rough.”

“Why?”

“Because neither of you know if it’s a date.”

“It isn’t!”

“Do you want it to be a date?”

Your stomach twists. That’s a hard question.

“I don’t know,” you say. “I hate this.”

“No you don’t.”

You kind of do. But you also kind of don’t. For the first time since all of this started, you’ve actually admitted that you like Spencer. Logan just stares at you as a million thoughts go through your head. Then he laughs.

“I’ve reached a conclusion,” he says.

“What?”

“Good or bad news first?”

“...bad.”

“The bad news is that you’re both idiots.” You stare at him. “The good news, you’re both idiots.”

“I hate you,” you say.

“Hey,” his voice is sincere now. “For what it’s worth, I really do think he’s a good guy.”

The words catch you off guard. Because underneath all the teasing, that’s what you’ve been the most worried about. It wasn’t whether Logan would make fun of you, or if he’d understand. You were worried that Logan wouldn’t like him.

“Yeah, he’s great,” you smile.

“But,” your heart drops. “If he breaks your heart I’m killing him and making Uncle Dave help me hide the body.”

_____

Read Part 15 Here! 🕰️ (coming soon)

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a/n: i hate sending Logan back to Washington but I think I might have to :( he'll come back though I promise.

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The first time Spencer came over by himself felt weird. Not bad weird, just… weird. 

For months Spencer had existed in very specific places. Places like coffee shops, and restaurants, and bookstores, and within phone calls. He existed at a constant in places that belonged equally to both of you.

Your house was not one of those places.

Then one Sunday afternoon, when you were sitting on the couch reading a book, your uncle looked up at you from his chair.

“Reid is coming over for dinner tonight,” he said calmly. Like it was a normal occurrence.

“What?” you say, fully believing that he is joking.

“Reid.”

“I know who Reid is.”

“Good.”

You stare at him. “You’re inviting Spencer?”

“I’m making dinner.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I’m aware.”

“Why are you inviting Spencer?”

“He likes my cooking.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”