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Spencer Reid’s earliest memories were not linear.

They didn’t arrive in neat timelines or clearly defined years the way most people’s did. Instead, they came in fragments, sensory impressions stacked on top of one another like transparencies. The smell of old books and pencil shavings. The squeak of sneakers on linoleum floors. The grounding weight of silence that followed him everywhere like a shadow.

And you.

You were always there.

Not as a single moment he could point to, but as a presence threaded through everything else. A constant variable in a life that otherwise felt too fast and loud. When he tried to trace the beginning of you, his mind failed him. You simply existed, already seated beside him at a small desk that was too short for his legs, already tugging at his sleeve because he’d drifted too far into his thoughts.

He remembered the way classrooms felt before you. So overwhelming in their chaos, filled with scraping chairs and overlapping voices that made his chest tighten. And then he remembered how that sensation softened once you started sitting next to him. How the noise blurred at the edges when your knee pressed lightly against his under the desk, a small, unconscious anchor that told his body it was safe to stay.

You learned early that he startled easily.

Not from fear, exactly, but from intrusion. From the suddenness of touch that didn’t announce itself, from hands that appeared without warning. So you announced yourself in a language only the two of you seemed to share. A gentle brush of fingers against his arm before leaning closer. A whisper of his name before tugging on his sleeve. Your touch was never sharp. It was slow. Predictable. Kind.

He remembered your hands most vividly.

They were always warm, even in winter, even when you’d come inside from the cold with pink cheeks and a runny nose, fingers immediately seeking his like they had a homing instinct. You held onto him the way children hold onto railings, not because they’re afraid of falling, but because it feels wrong not to. During assemblies, when hundreds of bodies packed together and the air grew thick and stale, you would lace your fingers through his and squeeze in quiet reassurance, counting his breaths with your thumb like you were teaching him how to exist in the world without it hurting.

No one ever told you not to touch him.

Maybe the teachers saw how he calmed when you did. How his foot stopped bouncing. How his gaze returned to the room instead of disappearing somewhere far away. Or maybe they simply didn’t notice, because you were small and bright and harmless, and he was the strange, gifted boy everyone had already decided was fragile.

Spencer never thought of it as touch.

It was just you.

You leaning against him during silent reading, your head resting briefly on his shoulder as if it were the most natural thing in the world. You sitting on the floor beside him during recess instead of running with the other kids, tracing shapes into the carpet while he explained things he was too young to have words for yet. You pressing your forehead to his when he cried quietly in the nurse’s office after another kid called him a freak.

You were there when the world became too much.

You were there when he forgot how to be small.

By the time Spencer realized most people didn’t live their lives with someone’s hand wrapped around their sleeve, it was already too late. The habit had settled into his bones. Your presence had become synonymous with safety, with warmth, with the idea that closeness didn’t always have to hurt.

And so, years later, when Spencer Reid invited you to a BAU Christmas party, he didn’t consider it an anomaly.

He didn’t stop to question the decision or examine the possible outcomes the way he usually did. Inviting you felt less like a choice and more like a continuation, like picking up a sentence he’d started years ago and never quite finished. He didn’t think about the way your hand would inevitably find his arm when you arrived, or how your fingers would curl around his sleeve with the same quiet certainty they always had. He didn’t think about how his body would recognize yours before his mind ever could, adjusting instinctively, shifting just enough to make space for you.

He only knew that where you were, he could breathe.

“Spencer!”

Your voice reached him before you did, cutting through the low murmur of conversation and soft instrumental Christmas music drifting through the bullpen. Spencer turned just in time to see you weaving through the room, eyes alight, cardigan slightly crooked like you’d put it on in a hurry. You crossed the distance between you quickly, as if drawn by gravity, and slipped into his space without hesitation.

Your hand landed on his arm and squeezed once, affectionate and grounding.

“Oh my god,” you said, glancing around with wide eyes. “Everyone’s so tall.”

Spencer smiled immediately.

It happened before he could stop it, before his brain could catch up and assess or analyze. The tension he hadn’t even realized he’d been carrying all evening loosened, his shoulders dropping a fraction as your warmth settled in beside him. The room felt quieter suddenly, smaller, more manageable.

“They are?” he asked, blinking. His gaze followed yours as he took in the room properly for the first time: Morgan towering near the refreshment table, Emily leaning casually against a desk, Hotch standing straight as ever near the tree. “I mean—yes, I suppose they are. The average height here is probably above the national—”

“Spence,” you interrupted gently, laughter soft and fond as you leaned into his side. Your shoulder brushed his chest, your head tipping toward him in a way that was so unconscious it felt rehearsed. “I’m not asking for data.”

“Oh,” he said, equally gentle. “Right. Sorry.”

You tilted your head against his shoulder for half a second, just long enough for the contact to register, just long enough to remind his body of something old and steady. It was the same motion you’d made as a child when you were tired or excited or simply content to be near him.

“I think I’ve just spent too much time with little humans,” you continued thoughtfully, eyes still scanning the room. “Adults feel…elongated.”

“Elongated,” he repeated, testing the word like it was a new puzzle piece. “That’s a good descriptor.”

You straightened slightly, pleased. “Thank you. I pride myself on my vocabulary.”

Then you looked up at him, your expression softening in a way only he ever seemed to notice. “You okay?”

“Yes,” he answered immediately, the truth spilling out before he could overthink it. Then, after a beat, quieter and more honest: “Better now.”

Your thumb brushed absently over the fabric of his sleeve, tracing a small, unconscious arc. “Good.”

The BAU around you hummed with quiet holiday energy. Paper cups clinking, someone laughing near the coffee station, the faint smell of pine and sugar cookies lingering in the air. White lights blinked lazily along the edge of desks, reflecting off computer screens and tinsel. It was festive in a restrained, slightly awkward way. Very on brand.

You took it all in with open curiosity.

“So,” you said, gesturing vaguely with your free hand, never letting go of him. “This is where you disappear to all day.”

“Disappear is…not inaccurate,” he said. “Although I do technically remain in the same physical location.”

You grinned. “Good to know. And these,” you added, nodding toward the team, “are your work people?”

He nodded. “They’re…important to me.”

Something softened in your expression at that. Your grip on his arm tightened just a little. Not possessive, just protective. “Okay,” you said quietly. “I’ll be good.”

He frowned, confused in the way only Spencer Reid could be. “You’re always good.”

“I mean,” you clarified, smiling, “I’ll try not to embarrass you.”

“You don’t,” he said quickly, the words tumbling out with quiet urgency. Then he hesitated, searching for the right phrasing. “I mean…you’ve never been a source of embarrassment.”

You laughed, warm and delighted, and leaned closer again. “That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

Across the room, the team watched.

JJ’s eyebrows lifted. Emily’s lips parted slightly. Morgan’s grin grew slow and incredulous. Because it was like watching a celestial event. So rare, impossible, beautiful in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

Spencer Reid, fully relaxed.

Spencer Reid, smiling without restraint.

Spencer Reid, being touched without recoiling.

It was like seeing Halley’s Comet.

And neither of you even noticed.

It was crazy.

The moment Spencer finished introducing you—barely managing to get your name out before you were already smiling at everyone—you launched into a story like the words had been waiting just beneath your tongue all night. You stayed tucked into his side, your hand still looped comfortably around his arm, fingers absentmindedly gripping his sleeve as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Your free hand moved constantly as you spoke, expressive and animated, tracing invisible shapes in the air. You talked with your whole body, voice bright with wonder and enthusiasm, the kind that pulled people in without effort.

“So my class is doing this thing where they write letters to Santa,” you said, eyes darting between the team members as if you were letting them in on something important. “Which is adorable, obviously. Like, painfully adorable. But then one of my kids raises his hand and asks if Santa has an email because,” you paused, lips twitching, “‘writing is too slow.’”

You laughed, breathless and delighted, and without thinking leaned your head briefly against Spencer’s shoulder, the motion unconscious and practiced.

Spencer felt it before he processed it.

His hand twitched at his side before lifting and settling gently at your elbow. His fingers barely pressed, just enough to keep you steady, to anchor you where you were.

No tension. No hesitation.

Just instinct.

“Statistically,” Spencer added calmly, slipping into the conversation like he’d always been part of it, his voice low and thoughtful, “children are adapting to digital communication at increasingly younger ages. Their frustration tolerance for slower methods is decreasing.”

You turned to him like he’d just solved a mystery.

“See?” you said triumphantly, pointing at him before looking back at the team, still clinging to his arm. “This is why I keep him around. He makes my classroom chaos sound academic.”

“I think it already is,” Spencer said softly, glancing down at you. “You’re shaping cognitive development during a critical stage.”

You blinked, caught for half a second, then smiled and leaned a little closer. “That’s because you’re sweet.”

Across the room, JJ’s chest tightened a little at the way Spencer looked at you. Completely unguarded, eyes warm, attention wholly yours. There was something deeply familiar in the way he stood with you, like this version of him had always existed and the rest of the world just didn’t get to see it.

There was history there.

Emily tilted her head, studying you with open curiosity. “Kindergarten?” she asked, impressed. “That takes a special kind of patience.”

You nodded solemnly. “And an acceptance that glitter is now a permanent lifestyle.”

Morgan laughed, arms crossing. “You seem… surprisingly cheerful about that.”

You shrugged, squeezing Spencer’s arm again like it was second nature. “They’re good kids. Loud. Sticky. But good.”

Spencer watched you as you talked, the way your nose scrunched when you laughed, the way you rocked slightly on your feet when you got excited. Heel to toe, like you always had. He remembered you doing that in the school library, whispering about wanting a classroom full of color while he folded paper into perfect stars, sliding the prettiest ones toward you without saying a word.

Back then, you’d leaned against him too.

He remembered thinking, even then, that it was easier to breathe when you did. That the world felt quieter when you were close.

“So anyway,” you continued, still glowing, squeezing Spencer’s arm again as if the story itself needed anchoring, “they decided glitter was a necessary addition.”

You nodded decisively, brows knitting in mock seriousness. “Which it is. Artistically speaking. But now I’m finding glitter in my shoes. In my bag. I’m ninety percent sure it followed me here. Like a parasite.”

Spencer hummed thoughtfully, his grip at your elbow adjusting just slightly, protective without being possessive, familiar without being conscious. “That’s consistent with craft-related contamination,” he said, utterly serious. “Glitter has a high persistence rate once introduced into an environment. It’s extremely difficult to eliminate completely.”

Your eyes widened like he’d just confirmed a conspiracy. “I knew it.”

A quiet laugh escaped him before he could stop it.

Morgan finally couldn’t help himself. “Reid.”

Spencer glanced over, distracted but polite. “Yes?”

“You okay there, man?”

“Yes,” Spencer replied without hesitation. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Emily exchanged a look with JJ.

When you eventually stepped away to grab a drink, you did it reluctantly. Like you were peeling yourself out of a place you belonged. Your fingers brushed along Spencer’s wrist as you went, the contact light but intentional, a familiar goodbye that wasn’t really a goodbye at all.

“I’ll be right back,” you said, already half-smiling like you knew you would be.

Spencer nodded, though the words didn’t quite register.

He didn’t track your movement analytically. Didn’t follow the angles of your path or note the number of steps between desks the way he usually did with everything else. His mind didn’t reach for data or probability or pattern.

He just…watched.

Watched the way the room seemed to expand the second you left his side, noise rushing back in where you’d been like air filling a vacuum. Watched the lights feel harsher, the music louder, the conversations less distinct. The warmth at his arm faded too quickly, leaving behind something hollow and unfamiliar, an absence he couldn’t immediately name but felt acutely.

His hand lingered where you’d been, fingers curling slightly, unconsciously, like they were waiting for the shape of you to return.

And the second you were out of earshot—

“You let her touch you,” JJ said gently.

Spencer blinked, still looking in your direction. “She’s always touched me,” he replied, confused by the implication.

“For your entire life,” Morgan added, voice softer than his usual teasing, like he was stating a fact rather than a joke.

Spencer finally looked away from you.

He paused.

Not because he disagreed, but because something in his chest shifted, slow and seismic, like a realization settling into place after years of being ignored.

He thought of scraped knees on hot pavement and you pressing Band-Aids on crooked because you were too young to care about precision. Of science fairs where you’d sat cross-legged beside him, handing him pencils while he talked too fast and too much. Of long nights on the phone after his mom had bad days, your voice low, telling him it was okay to be tired.

He thought of thunderstorms, of you padding down the hallway in socked feet, climbing into his bed without asking, curling into his side like you’d always known you were allowed. Of how you’d held onto him then, too. Like he was solid ground. Like he wouldn’t disappear.

“Oh,” he said softly.

The word barely made a sound.

Across the room, you turned just then, drink in hand, eyes searching until they found him. Your face lit up immediately, the same unguarded smile you’d worn when you were seven years old and had decided that Spencer Reid was your friend.

You walked back without hesitation.

Your hand slipped into the crook of his arm again, familiar as breathing.

“Miss me?” you asked lightly.

Spencer didn’t even notice the moment his hand closed over yours.

But the team did.

The BAU bullpen looked exactly the same the next morning, down to the smallest, most mundane details that Spencer Reid usually found comfort in. The fluorescent lights hummed softly overhead, an unchanging mechanical sound that blended seamlessly with the quiet tapping of keyboards and the low murmur of early-morning voices. Computer screens glowed in muted blues and grays, some already filled with case files, others blinking patiently as they waited to be logged into. A printer whirred somewhere near the back, followed by the faint thump of paper landing in a tray. The ever-present smell of burnt coffee hung in the air, bitter and sharp, curling around the cleaner scent of paper, toner, and industrial disinfectant. Everything was familiar. Structured. Predictable in a way that usually steadied him.

And yet Spencer Reid felt…exposed.

It wasn’t the kind of exposure he could quantify or explain with statistics or probability. It wasn’t logical. It was the subtle, unnerving awareness that something about him had shifted, had been seen, and that the room, unchanged as it was, somehow knew. As he stepped inside, he adjusted the strap of his messenger bag on instinct, fingers tightening briefly around the worn canvas. He could feel it then: the way attention moved toward him, quiet and understated. No one was staring outright. No one needed to. It was in the pauses, the half-glances, the way conversations seemed to soften and bend in his direction. Enough to make his skin prickle, a faint tension humming just beneath the surface.

He reached his desk and set his bag down carefully, aligning it with the edge the way he always did. He nudged it a fraction of an inch to the left. Straightened the strap. Sat down. The ritual mattered. His hands hovered over the keyboard longer than usual before he powered on the monitor, as if delaying might give him time to recalibrate, time to return to the version of himself that fit more neatly into this space.

“So,” Morgan said.

The single syllable cracked through the air like a starting gun.

Spencer looked up, heart giving an unhelpful, traitorous skip. Morgan was leaning casually against the edge of his desk, arms crossed over his chest, posture loose and confident. There was already a grin pulling at his mouth, the kind that told Spencer this was not a neutral observation. Emily had turned fully in her chair, one leg hooked over the armrest, her gaze sharp and assessing in that familiar, almost profiling way. JJ stood nearby with a stack of files pressed to her chest, eyes bright, expression far too gentle to be innocent. No one else in the bullpen appeared to be paying attention, but Spencer knew better. This was a controlled environment. An audience existed whether he acknowledged it or not.

“Yes?” He said, straightening, shoulders pulling back automatically.

“Big night,” Morgan said lightly.

“It was a Christmas party,” Spencer replied. “That’s not statistically significant.”

JJ’s smile widened just a little, like she was trying not to laugh. “You brought someone.”

“Yes.”

Emily tilted her head, studying him. “Someone you’ve known since you were…what, eight?”

“Seven,” Spencer corrected without thinking.

Morgan’s grin deepened, pleased. “And yet none of us have ever met her.”

Spencer frowned, brow furrowing as he processed the implication. “That doesn’t mean—”

“It means,” Emily interrupted smoothly, “that when we did meet her, she was wrapped around your arm like she’d been there a thousand times before.”

Spencer opened his mouth, then stopped.

He paused, visibly recalibrating. This was a question that required precision. Language mattered. Context mattered. He searched carefully for the right explanation, the kind that could translate something deeply intuitive into something reasonable.

“She was comfortable,” he said finally. “We have a long-standing familiarity with physical proximity.”

Morgan let out a low, impressed whistle. “Listen to him.”

JJ laughed quietly. “You don’t even let me touch you.”

Spencer blinked, genuinely confused. “You touch me frequently.”

“On the shoulder,” JJ clarified gently. “For about half a second.”

Emily leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees. “She leaned her entire body on you.”

Spencer felt heat creep up the back of his neck, ears warming in a way he absolutely did not appreciate. “That’s…different.”

Morgan raised an eyebrow. “How?”

Spencer hesitated.

He did what he always did—searched his mental catalogue for the correct word, the right classification—but came up empty. The truth hovered just beyond his reach, too large, too amorphous to pin down with language. It wasn’t about touch alone. It wasn’t about habit. It was something quieter. Older. Something that lived in muscle memory and breath.

“I don’t know,” he admitted quietly. “It just is.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was knowing.

Then Garcia’s voice burst cheerfully from her office, bright and theatrical. “Oh my god. Are we talking about the girl?”

Spencer winced. “Garcia—”

“She was adorable,” Penelope continued, rolling herself halfway out of her chair, eyes sparkling. “Sunshine in human form. And you looked—” she paused theatrically, one hand pressed to her chest, “—unreasonably happy.”

Spencer dropped his gaze to his desk, suddenly very invested in the pattern of the wood grain. “I am happy regularly.”

Morgan snorted. “Reid, you smiled without being prompted.”

“That happens,” Spencer said, voice weaker than he liked.

Emily smiled, kind and knowing. “You held her hand.”

Spencer froze.

“I—” He stopped short, memory rushing in with startling clarity: your fingers sliding into his, warm and sure, the way his thumb had moved without permission, tracing the back of your hand as if it had always known where to go. “That was…not intentional.”

JJ’s expression softened completely. “But you didn’t pull away.”

“No,” he admitted, voice barely above a murmur.

Hotch chose that moment to step out of his office, coffee in hand, gaze sweeping over the bullpen with practiced efficiency. His eyes lingered on the loose semicircle, the half-smiles, Spencer’s unmistakably pink ears.

“Is there a reason work hasn’t started yet?” Hotch asked.

“No reason,” JJ said quickly. “Just…team bonding.”

Hotch’s eyes lingered on Spencer for a fraction longer than necessary, then he nodded. “Reid. Briefing in ten.”

“Yes, sir.”

As the team dispersed, Spencer sat back down, heart beating just a little faster than usual. The bullpen slowly returned to its normal rhythm, the noise settling into something familiar again.

His phone buzzed against the desk.

He glanced down.

Good morning! <3

Did your work people survive me?

Something warm unfurled in his chest, slow and undeniable, spreading outward until it softened the tightness he hadn’t realized he was carrying.

His lips curved upward before he could stop them.

Emily noticed immediately. Morgan did too.

“Oh,” Morgan said softly. “He’s smiling again.”

Spencer straightened abruptly. “That’s irrelevant.”

He typed back carefully.

Yes. They found you memorable.

The reply came almost instantly.

That sounds ominous >:(

A quiet huff of laughter escaped him, softer than he meant it to be. His fingers hovered over the keyboard as he debated his response, eventually attempting one of the strange combinations of symbols you’d taught him.

Around him, the BAU kept moving.