Izzy

Ostensibly, you’re here because you want to be certified as a swim instructor, like James is. Amina is also your camper, the only one this session who showed up without already knowing how to swim, and so your boss thought it would be helpful for you to observe her daily lessons with James. These are all very true and practical reasons for your being here. 

Another one is that you’d been so shocked at James’ handsomeness the first day you met that you hadn’t said a word to him for fear of embarrassing yourself, and still he’d been friendly enough to come over to you in the mess hall that night to try and make friends. You have more than one reason for wanting to be around him. 

“Well, you have a golden opportunity here,” says James, his eyes leaving yours after a drawn-out second to focus on Amina. “I’m going to step back here, and I want you to kick your legs and splash me in the face as hard as you can. Okay?” 

Amina nods. You press your lips together as James puts on a good show of dread, stepping behind her and helping to lift her ankles to the surface. “Ready?” he asks, a put upon waver in his voice. “Go!”

Amina starts kicking, and James throws up his hands, pretending to fall back. 

“Ah, oh my god! You’re so strong! I bet if you kicked with your whole legs instead of just your feet it’d be—woah, yeah. Wow, you’re drowning me back here!” 

Seemingly for effect, James does allow himself to get completely soaked. By the time he tells Amina to stop, his curly hair is dripping and slickened in spots to his forehead and his chest shines with tiny water droplets. You do not get at all distracted by either of these observable facts. 

“That was brilliant,” he says, helping Amina off the wall so she can find her footing again in the shallow end. “We’re almost done for the day, but before you go I want to practice floating one more time, alright?” 

You watch your camper’s expression cloud over. They practice this at the end of every lesson, but it’s the skill Amina struggles with the most. James’ eyes seek you out. 

“Maybe y/n can help us out today,” he says. “What do you think?” 

“Yes!” Amina agrees excitedly, while you tilt your head at him. 

“Me?” 

James nods. “Do you mind hopping in? I need a floater.” 

You shrug, standing to strip out of your clothes to the one-piece you wear underneath. It’s not a sultry process, but you’re conscious of how on display you are as you slide your shorts down your hips, stepping out of them. You accidentally meet James’ eyes when you turn around to get into the pool, and you think his cheeks may be a tad darker than they were a minute before. 

Amina cheers as you lower yourself in. James wades over to you. You don’t let yourself notice how he’s become taller than you again now that you’re on even footing. 

“I’m going to do with you just like I do with Amina, okay?” he asks, and you nod, knowing what he’s really asking. I’m going to touch you. Will you let me? 

You lean back, letting your legs rise to the surface. James’ hands come up under you a moment later. One pressing up lightly beneath your knees, the other at the small of your back. Making like he’s holding you up even when you don’t need for him to. James grins down at you, his face blotting out the sun, then looks up to say something to Amina you can’t hear with your ears below the surface of the water. 

You don’t really know what to look at. It feels silly to close your eyes, so you keep looking at James. At the shape of his neck, the way his jaw casts the top half of it in shadow, the sun-warmed shelf of his shoulders. His voice is a lulling, indistinct thrum. 

After a minute, his hands fall away, showing Amina how you float on your own, and a short while later James is tapping your shoulder to signal that you can stand up. 

“That was some superb floating,” he praises as water empties from your ears. “But I think you can show her up, Mina, what do you say?” 

You back out of their way, but James grabs your arm. 

“Don’t go far,” he says, his hand warm around your wrist. “We might need you again.” 

“Can I help?” you ask. 

James’ eyes flick to you and away again. “Mm, sure. Could you hold it still for me? Just be careful, it might be heavier than you think. Don’t let it pinch your fingers.” 

You scoot closer, curling your fingers underneath the smooth wood of the door and lifting upward. 

James hums approval. “Thanks, angel.” 

You look up to smile at him, and your mouth dries up. The view from down here. You’re looking up James’ torso, at the underside of his jaw as he frowns concentratedly, the bulge of his tricep as he adjusts the door just so. He leans forward a tad, granting you a glimpse up the shadowy inside of his camp t-shirt. 

The whirring of the drill feels like a droll mimicry of what’s going through your head. 

“Screw?” James extends a hand to you. 

You swallow hard. “Hm?” 

He glances down. You can only pray your eyes haven’t reconfigured themselves into cartoon hearts. “Can you pass me that other screw there, please?” he asks. 

“Oh.” You look around you, nearly dropping the door and crushing your fingers as James feared. You find a small screw hiding beside your shoe. “Here you go.” 

His dimple flickers as he takes it from you. “Thanks.” 

You nod, wetting your lips. God, you feel like you need to go find your water bottle. The midafternoon heat came on so suddenly.

She’s your best friend at the office, and for that you get your very own mini tree on your desk. Hers is a little more extreme, her usual collection of trinkets joined by mini Santas and snow globes.

Much like her desk, Penelope tends to change her wardrobe with the seasons. Today, it’s a pair of red tights, a plaid two piece set, and a gorgeous pair of heels that you’re sure would end with a face plant if you were the one wearing them. You tell her just as much as this morning’s greeting.

“I’ll lend you them sometime for a test drive,” she says.

“Do you have a waiver I can sign?” you respond.

She trots off with a giggle and a wink, and you blow her a kiss before turning and sinking into your seat, the rolling chair squeaking beneath you.

You unravel your striped scarf from your neck, unbuttoning and shrugging off your peacoat next. Your wardrobe is not as extravagant as Penelope’s, but you like it, and she assures you it’s ’cute as a button,’ anyways. You’re wearing tights too, a regular sheer black pair with a run on one of your thighs that you hadn’t noticed until you’d gotten into your car this morning, and it was too late to go inside and search for another pair by then.

Over those, a dark grey pleated skirt not quite long enough to hide the rip, and a black sweater that’s neckline is a bit stretched, but not enough to stop wearing it to work just yet.

You tug your sleeves over your knuckles before turning on your monitor and starting on the boring stuff. Emails, case reports, the stuff that people tend to forget about when you talk about being an agent.

It’s a habit of yours to start slow in the morning. Ease yourself into it, in a sense.

Just like it’s a habit to not make a coffee right away, and to look up from your computer whenever you hear footsteps approaching, to fight a silly grin when those footsteps belong to Spencer Reid.

Spencer, with his mismatched patterned socks and sweater vests and messy hair. With his unending supply of facts and the way his tongue pokes out the tiniest bit when he’s really focused. With his lending you books and bringing you a coffee every morning without fail.

Even when you’re away on a case, he finds a way to be the one to give you your first dose of caffeine of the day.

You lose the battle against yourself, a smile spreading as he approaches and sets a paper cup covered in cartoon snowflakes down on your desk.

You’d joined the BAU a few years after him, only worked a couple of cases with Gideon before Rossi came along, and you’d taken a liking to Spencer quickly. How smart he is, how much he cares. He was your desk neighbor, and you’d sort of taken it upon yourself to cheer him up the best you could after Gideon left.

It was small stuff at first. Making sure nobody took his favorite mug from the kitchen, asking him follow up questions when he’d spew out a statistic like it was nothing. You’d even offered to play chess with him (if he taught you), and though it took some time, he’d eventually taken you up on that offer.

So, you became friends. You became friends with the entire team, of course, but it was different with Spencer. In the beginning, it was just something about him, how you felt around him, that you couldn’t name.

Now, on the other hand, it’s feelings feelings. Feelings that you sometimes think might be reciprocated.

Like when he saves the seat next to him for you on the jet, nodding towards it with a gentle, almost shy smile to let you know it’s yours. Or when he hears you cursing at your dried-out pens and wordlessly hands you one of his nicer ones. Even in the way he speaks to you, some days. How he fusses if you get hurt on a case or tells you that your ideas are good in a voice softer than he uses with the others.

Most of the time, you convince yourself you’re reading into it too much. Getting your hopes up.

But then, there’s the morning coffees like today’s. He doesn’t walk in with a tray for the whole team. Just one for you, and one for him. Never anything more.

It makes your chest bloom with hope. A dangerous, beautiful thing that has you spinning in your chair and standing to face him.

Spencer’s cheeks are a little rosy from the cold, his hair windblown and curling around his ears. “It’s a sugar cookie latte today.”

“How is it you always know what flavor to get me?” you ask, picking up your cup and taking a sip.

“Well, I am a profiler.”

“And a Doctor,” you nod, depositing your coffee back onto your desk. “Double smart,” you say, tapping your temple.

He huffs, bashful. “Or maybe it’s just a lucky guess.”

“Spencer Reid? Guess? Never thought I’d see the day.”

He shakes his head. “Okay, fine. I just.. know you.”

And it’s true. Better than you think he does, even. Spencer watches you a lot. Has his eyes on you when you aren’t looking. On the frustrated furrow in your eyebrows when you're stuck, or the way you scrunch your nose when you’re about to sneeze. How you squeeze the armrest (or, when he’s lucky, his arm) when the jet takes off, the way you hold your pencil differently than what’s taught in school.

You don’t know it, but he feels for you the same way you do for him. Ever since you walked in, really. He found you pretty immediately—yes, Morgan noticed, and no, he has not let it go since—but it was you who won him over.

Your words and your actions and your mind.

With every coffee, he hopes he’ll work up the courage to ask you to get one with him sometime, but he hasn’t. He worries too much that it could ruin things when they seem so wonderful already.

He doesn’t want you to stop borrowing his pens and forgetting to give them back, to stop calling him when you’re stuck on the paper’s crossword and have him solve it for you over the phone.

“Yeah. You do,” you say. Quiet and warm. You fiddle with a loose thread at the cuff of your sleeve before following up with a: “Thank you, Spence.”

His eyes go soft at the nickname, just for a second. And maybe it’s the way he looked at you that makes you a little braver this time around. Maybe it’s the way his cheeks are still a little red, despite being inside for long enough now. Maybe it’s the way his hands twitch at his sides, like he wants to touch you.

But whatever it is, it has you leaning in for a kiss on the cheek instead of your usual squeeze of the shoulder or quick hug.

Only, you’re wearing these stupid new shoes that have platforms you still aren’t used to, so you trip a little and your kiss lands on the corner of his mouth. Not his cheek.

You pull back quickly, eyes wide, worried that you’ve just absolutely made everything awkward.

Clumsy and weird. So not what you were going for.

Meanwhile Spencer looks a little stunned and speechless. Spencer, who always has something to say, rendered silent.

“I-” you fumble for the right words. Before you can make things better or worse, the phone on your desk rings. “Um. I should get that,” you say. It almost comes out like a question.

“Of course,” he says, and he’s off to his desk.

“Thanks again,” you try, but by the time it comes out Spencer’s already seated and busying himself with something in his notebook.

You’re lucky that nobody’s around, that the team is still scattered around and getting settled. Because if any of them saw, you’d never hear the end of it.

After you hang up the phone, you drop your forehead onto your desk and wish you had a pillow to scream into. So. Embarrassing.

There, with your arms circled around your head, you don’t see Spencer pressing his fingers to the spot you’d kissed.

-

The almost-kiss (or, the incident, as you’ve been referring to it in your head) is swept away after that. You get a case, work takes over, and you and Spencer are back to normal. It’s just a blip, you think, even though it runs through your head constantly. You try not to wince every time.

If Spencer feels any type of way about it, he does a good job of not letting it show. He still brings you coffee—you’ve stuck to simple ‘thank you’s—still tells you about things he’s read that he thinks you’d find interesting.

Even now, how he guides you along behind the team with his arm looped through yours.

Penelope’s taken it upon herself to be the BAU’s very own Buddy the elf or something, and this time it’s with a planned evening of figure skating under the guise of team bonding.

Hotch had politely declined, saying he’d promised Jack he would take him skating already. Rossi declined as well, albeit less politely. He left you all with a “I’m already plenty bonded. Maybe even too bonded.” but softened the blow by promising Garcia he’d bring her a jar of his homemade spaghetti sauce.

So, it’s you, Spencer, Penelope, JJ, Morgan, and Emily.

It’s an outdoor rink, set up near a huge Christmas tree that spreads a warm glow over it. There’s a hot chocolate stand on one end, the counter to pay and rent skates on the other, and string lights suspended over the entire thing.

“It’s so pretty,” you say. Spencer’s the only one close enough to hear you with all the families and friend groups and couples floating around.

He doesn’t take his eyes off of you, off of the way the lights make your eyes shine or the way the wind twists your hair around its cool fingers, and says: “Yeah, it is.”

You look over at him and grin quickly before tugging him along to catch up with the rest of the team who are already grabbing skates and gearing up.

Morgan’s off first, of course. Showing off and skating backwards and nearly running a woman over before flirting her annoyance away. JJ, Emily, and Penelope aren’t too far behind, their arms linked and heads bent together as they get their footing.

Garcia looks over her shoulder at you and tells you to “hurry up! It isn’t team bonding if we’re all separated!”

Though, you do wind up separated. You and Spencer are easily the worst ones at this.

At first, Morgan takes on the task of teaching Spencer with a tease of “you look like Bambi on ice, kid.” Penelope does the same with you, letting you squeeze her hand and practically drag you along beside her. No wonder she’s a natural, with the shoes she’s used to walking in every day.

JJ and Emily linger around, always side by side whether they’re laughing at your expense or Spencer’s, or about something totally unrelated.

Eventually, you and Spencer are deemed lost causes and left to fend for yourselves while the others do their laps at speeds that make you nervous even watching. So you stick together, your gloved hand grasped in his, and even through the fabric there’s a buzz travelling up your arm.

If you think about it long enough, it feels just a tiny bit like a date. That is, until Morgan laps you and laughs while doing it.

Aside from that, it’s nice. Really nice. Spencer’s hand is a welcome weight in yours, and every so often you drift close enough that your entire arms touch and it warms you from the inside out. You can’t even bring yourself to care about how silly you must look, taking slow, nervous strides.

Not even when you fall the first time, which is entirely your fault, or the second, which is more so on Spencer. You don’t mind that you’re a terrible skater because you aren’t doing it alone. And what a lovely thing it is, to be bad at something with someone else.

Beside you, Spencer smiles to himself when you squeeze his hand a little tighter. It’s the first time you’ve truly held hands. Sure, you’ve reached over and given his a squeeze when he was frustrated. Or he’s held one out for you to climb off the jet, but never for this long.

And yeah, okay, maybe it’s only because you’re both in need of some support at the moment, but Spencer counts it all the same. Your hand is in his and he almost wishes, despite his aversion to shaking hands with anyone else, that neither of you had gloves on so he could feel your skin against his.

Palm to palm, fingers intertwined, his thumb tracing your knuckles. Intimate, like the couples he sees skating by. Romantic like them.

In his distraction, and maybe yours, too, you and Spencer fall for the third time. This one is probably the worst, your paths sort of cross and you trip over his feet and he trips over yours and then you’re going down.

Spencer winds up on his back, and you, somehow twisting to try and catch your fall, end up right on top of him. Your chests are pressed together, rising and falling in tandem, your hands pressed to the ice by his shoulders.

What makes everything else fade away, though, is the way your noses brush when you land. How you can feel his breath on your lips, how he could count every eyelash framing your eyes that search his face.

You see it again, how he looked at you before the incident, the thing in his eyes that made you want to kiss him on the cheek then makes you want to kiss him elsewhere now.

Spencer’s eyes flick between yours, like he’s looking for an answer, and you blink slowly, as if you’re trying to give it to him. He lets one of his gloved hands settle on the small of your back, the other thumbing a stray hair from your face.

Your eyes flutter shut and you think, maybe this time it’ll work. Maybe this is how it’s meant to go.

But instead of Spencer’s mouth on yours someone skates by rather quickly and you get a splash of ice to the face. You open your eyes to find that Spencer’s suffered the same fate, his eyes squeezed shut and his mouth tugged down in a small frown.

You laugh and roll off of him, laying down next to him on the ice, your head lolled to the side to look at him. You brush some of the ice from his face, “Sorry. My gloves are probably cold.”

He grabs your wrist and holds your hand to his cheek, just for a moment, before letting go and twining your hands between you instead.

“I’d much prefer your hand to whatever is in this ice. Gosh, it’s probably so dirty.”

You laugh again, and this time Spencer joins you. And it’s nothing like the incident. It isn’t awkward or strained, it’s so easy, like your breaths mingling is a regular occurrence. Like it’s just who you are to each other.

He tilts his head towards you, too, so you’re facing each other on the ice. Probably in everyone’s way, but neither of you can bring yourselves to move just yet.

“Are you okay?” he asks. “I should’ve asked before.”

“I think I should be asking you that. You didn’t hit your head, did you?”

“No. I’m completely fine,” he says.

Better than fine, he thinks. So much better.

And then there are a few sets of skate-clad feet stopping nearby, and you and Spencer look up to find the team surrounding you. Morgan, shaking his head with a smirk. JJ and Emily sharing a look before huffing.

And Penelope, declaring: “Well, I think this might be a sign it’s time for some hot cocoa.”

-

You find yourself in limbo between cases.

It’s then that the regular office stuff is meant to get done. It’s also when you kill time by playing solitaire on your computer or watching Spencer do some sort of ‘science magic’ trick again. Even, on especially slow days, hiding out in Garcia’s office and chatting.

Maybe sometimes being grilled by her. “So have you made a move on our resident genius yet?”

“Pen! You’re lucky the door’s closed.”

“Just saying, you guys looked real cozy the other night. And don’t tell me he doesn’t feel the same because I know his face and it does not look like that when he’s with me or JJ, or anyone, actually.”

And the thing is, you can’t even tell her she’s wrong. You replay moments between you and Spencer over and over. When you shut your eyes and let the water wash over your scalp in the shower, when your face is squished into your pillow at night.

You don’t want to call it anything specific, too afraid to jinx it or get your hopes up, but there’s something there.

Something that makes your chest heart ache with hope, that makes you wonder if maybe you could be more than friends and if maybe you’d be really good together like that.

At your silence, Penelope sighs, that damn twinkle in her eye. “You’ve gotta do something before I blurt it out for you.”

“You would not.”

“No, I wouldn’t. But please, put me out of my misery.”

You roll your eyes (fondly, of course) and stand. “Time for a refill,” you say, holding up your empty mug. “Bye, Garcia.”

“Oh! Take mine too? You know, to buy my silence.”

So you walk out with your plain powder blue mug in one hand and Penelope’s rainbow unicorn in the other. You hope Hotch isn’t around to catch you with evidence of where you’ve been instead of at your own desk.

It’s almost Christmas now, and while being in the office might not make you feel the most festive ever, it’s nice to see it glow differently. The lights from the christmas tree, the overcast skies through the windows.

You’re even wearing a sweater that could be perceived as something holiday-ish. Navy blue with white stitching that looks like snowflakes.

The coffee pot in the kitchenette has just enough left for you to fill your own mug, so you put on a batch of decaf for Penelope. She says she can taste the difference, but when you hand it to her, she never does.

You sip your own drink as you wait, lower back leaned against the counter, ankles crossed in front of you.

Spencer walks in to find you like that, and for a split second, he lets himself imagine you in the same position, only in his kitchen instead of the BAU’s. He thinks you’d look perfect there, like a space has been carved out for you all along.

“Hey,” he says. “I can come back.”

“Don’t be silly,” you tilt your head, urging him to come in. “I’m making decaf for Garcia, so you might have to wait if you want another cup.”

“That’s alright, I just…” and Spencer realizes that he’s forgotten what he was meant to be doing in the kitchen. He busies himself by cleaning his mug and setting it on the drying rack.

“Going home for Christmas?” you ask him.

“Don’t think so. I’ll visit in January.”

“Tell Diana I say ‘hi,’” you say.

“I will,” Spencer, delighted that you care enough to say it, smiles softly. His mom is probably the only person who he’s outright told about his feelings for you. About you joining the team and fitting right in and feeling like he was meant to cross paths with you.

He moves to lean against the counter next to you, his elbow kissing your arm. “How about you?”

“Not this year,” you shake your head, mug set down on the counter, fingers tapping the surface. “Just me, my couch, and some cheesy movies, I think.”

“Professionals say that watching cheesy movies is good for you. It can boost serotonin and other feel-good chemicals in the brain.” Spencer rocks back on his feet. “So, it's actually a pretty good Christmas plan. You know, scientifically.”

You watch him as he speaks, a smile creeping over your face and up your cheeks. You love it when he does that, goes on about something right away. It’s his way of saying he hears you, that he’s listening. You've always found it endearing, even on the first day you met him. “Do studies say anything about watching cheesy movies with company?” you ask.

There you go, Pen. I said something, you think. It’s not necessarily outward flirting, but it’s a door cracked open just enough that it could be, if he wanted.

Before he can respond, Morgan comes in, Emily not too far behind him. Derek looks above your heads, and laughs. Instant and loud. Emily follows his gaze and hums, satisfied.

“What is it?” Spencer asks, genuine confusion on his face, a sweet worry in his brow.

“Look up, pretty boy,” Derek says, pointing at the ceiling. “Mistletoe.”

You look up, too, and sure enough, there it is. mistletoe hanging from the ceiling right above you. Your eyes go to Spencer first, then Morgan and Emily, and back to Spencer.

“Oh. I didn’t-” from Reid.

“Um,” is all you can muster.

“You know what that means,” Derek teases, wiggling his eyebrows.

While you’ve been wanting to kiss Spencer for who knows how long now, that want heightened after coming so close, these are not the circumstances you would have chosen.

The audience has you flustered, and Spencer is actually blushing. Like, pink cheeks and the tips of his ears warm type of blushing.

That’s not the reaction of someone who feels nothing, that blossom of hope tells you.

“You’re supposed to kiss,” Emily adds, poking further. “In case that wasn’t clear.”

“Didn’t we just have another harassment seminar last week?” you say, trying to diffuse the situation. To move it along.

It’s enough to get the pair of them to give up and walk away. Emily murmurs something to Derek on their way out that you don’t quite catch, their laughter fading further away.

“I’ve never been under mistletoe before,” Spencer tells you. “I don’t- I knew of the tradition, it has Celtic roots. Anyways-”

“Spence, it’s okay,” you stop him kindly. “You don’t have to kiss me. Obviously.”

And Spencer hears the whole sentence, in theory, but his mind zeroes in on the words ‘kiss me’ coming from your mouth and he thinks about it. Because of course he wants to.

He thinks you’re beautiful and brilliant and if he was braver, he probably would have kissed you a while ago now.

Spencer starts small, his pinkie brushing against your hand lightly. Yours responds, almost like an instinct, hooking through his like chain links.

You turn your heads towards each other at the same time, your eyes meeting and something passing between you. Something that doesn’t need words. You can just tell he’s thinking the same thing you are. That you’ve opened a book to the same page, read it at the same pace.

Spencer leans down just as your chin tilts up, your eyes flutter shut when his free hand runs a knuckle against your cheek, so soft you could have imagined it. His nose slides against yours, and then-

“We have a case!” Garcia’s voice slices through.

You break apart instantly, but your pinkies stay linked on the counter.

“You guys have gotta see this. Santa gone wild! Conference room!”

She gives you a very pointed glance before rushing off, her heels clicking away. You’ll be hearing about this later, no doubt.

For now, you lean your temple against Spencer’s shoulder, just for a second, before following in Penelope’s wake through the bullpen. He sets his chin on top of your head when you do, and then to his shoulder when you're gone.

Almost, he thinks.

-

You’re away for a case on Christmas. Not the same one, but away is away.

You especially feel for Hotch, who would never let his mindset affect his work, but you can tell he’s disappointed in the way he frowns at his phone after hanging up with Jack. Rossi tried to tell him you could all handle this one, but Hotch isn’t a quitter, either.

At least you hadn’t had anything planned, really. Nobody to see, nothing to do. Though this probably isn’t the most ideal holiday, either, it’s what comes with the territory.

It’s late now, night fading into early morning, and you’re only just getting back to your hotel after the day. A couple team members stayed back, but Emily had taken one look at you and convinced you to go get some sleep.

You’re sluggish as you get ready for bed. Stripping out of the clothes you’ll probably have to put back on tomorrow because your go bag only has room for so much before hopping into the shower. You don’t wash your hair, but you let the hot water seep into your skin, let it beat against your aching shoulders.

You’ve not been keeping track of time since getting back, but you can’t really be bothered to. So, pajamas on, you slip into bed and let the TV softly hum through the room. Silence is hard for you when you’re on a case. Your brain never quiets.

A few minutes later, there’s a knock on your door. You think you imagine it the first time, blame whatever show is playing on the TV, but then it comes again, soft rapping against heavy wood.

Tossing the blankets away, you shuffle over to the door and look through the peephole to see who it is. You’re surprised to find Spencer on the other side, but you open the door for him easily. You’d always open the door when he knocks.

“Hi,” you say, a hint of a question in your voice.

“Hi. I didn’t wake you, did I?” he checks, his hands hidden behind his back.

“No, of course not. It’s hard to sleep when we’re away.” You open the door wider, moving out of the way. “You wanna come in?”

He nods, “Thanks.”

Spencer walks around you, always keeping his back out of your sight, eventually walking backwards through the room once you’ve shut and locked the door.

“What are you hiding back there, Dr. Reid?”

He releases whatever he’s holding with one hand to scratch the back of his neck, to mess with his hair. “Could we- Is it alright if we sit?”

You squint at him, but nod.

As you sink onto the mattress beside him, your bare knees brushing against the fabric of his pants with how you twist to face each other, you realize he’s never seen you in your pajamas.

They’re nothing crazy, a simple pair of shorts and a buttoned top, but it feels exposing in a way. Vulnerable. Especially with him still in his regular clothes. There’s something domestic about it, like you’d been waiting for him to come home to you or something.

“What’s up?” you ask, flicking your gaze from where your legs touch up to his face.

“It’s past midnight,” he says. “I, uh, wanted to give you this,”

Spencer pulls a brown paper-wrapped bundle from behind his back, a curled red bow tied around the middle.

“Are you my secret Santa?” is your first guess, because you always do that with the team.

But he says “No, I got Morgan. But I saw this, and I thought of you, so..” He holds it out, and you take the present from his hands, tracing the bow.

“You didn’t have to-”

“I know,” he stops you. “I wanted to. Open it.”

You look at him for a second before you do, the softness of his eyes and how the TV splashes colours onto the side of his face. The way his smile is barely there, bashful and encouraging all at once.

The present is unwrapped carefully, your fingers pulling the bow undone, the ribbon set aside and not tossed away, because you’ve decided you’d like to save it. Beneath the paper sits a copy of your favorite book, its pages warm and weathered.

There’s a bookmark placed in it, along with sticky notes poking out between the pages. You opt for the bookmark first and find that he’s marked the page listing the copy as a first edition.

“Spencer.”

“I read it,” he tells you. And you thumb the pages, your stomach fluttering because you know this book isn’t something he’d pick up on his own, but he did. For you. “And I, um, wrote some notes. On sticky notes, of course. Didn’t wanna ruin it.”

“I would never think your handwriting ruined anything,” you admit.

He pushes his hair from his face. “So you like it?”

“I think it’s the best gift I’ve ever gotten.” You drop the book delicately in your lap to lean towards him and wrap your arms around his neck. He responds with his around your waist. “Thank you, Spence.”

“You’re welcome,” he says, his voice low in your ear and his arms tightening the tiniest bit around you.

And it feels so intimate, holding him in silence for a few seconds, him holding you, too. Your heartbeats, your breaths, speaking to each other where you don’t have the words.

When you pull away, you don’t go far, leaving your arms around his neck but leaning back enough to see his face. He mirrors you, his fingers tangled in the fabric of your top, yours in the hair at the nape of his neck.

And you think about the past couple of weeks. How things have shifted between you, this new awareness sneaking in through a cracked window. It’s like you’ve come to an understanding without speaking, that there’s something more here, something worth sticking around for.

You think about the book still sitting in your lap. How he presented it as if he’d found it casually but you know first editions are hard to come by. That he spent time looking for it and then reading it and writing his thoughts in the margins.

It’s the annotating that makes your heart sing the loudest, because it’s Spencer opening up to you in a different way. Letting you see inside that gorgeous brain of his. Inviting you into his train of thoughts.

“I love it, Spencer,” you whisper. And you’re talking about more than the gift. You think he knows that.

“Yeah?” he says, just as quiet. You nod. “Good.”

And there it is again, that feeling. You both move closer. Spencer’s thumb is tracing shapes against your back, the hem of your shirt moving up with the movements. Your hand cups the back of his neck, pulling him in. But no, not really pulling; he comes willingly.

Spencer’s nose pokes your cheek first, then he tilts his head so it sits against yours. Your lips part, your breath fanning across his face and he shuts his eyes first this time. Your mouths brush, a whisper away from locking, and then everything goes dark.

The TV flicks off, and the room is bathed in darkness save the sliver of moonlight slipping between the curtains.

“I think the power’s out,” you announce.

Spencer huffs a small laugh and drops his forehead to your collar. “I’m not a fan of the dark.”

“Then stay,” you tell him, lips at his temple.

And he does. Spencer takes off his shoes and his socks, his belt, his tie. He makes himself as comfortable as he can, though he’d bear just about anything to stay with you a little longer.

Soon enough, you’re settled in bed, you, under the covers, him on top of them. Your new book is placed delicately on the nightstand.

You lay facing each other, heads at the edges of the pillows so you can be as close as possible. One of your arms sits atop the comforter, and Spencer wraps his hand around your wrist.

“It’s not just me, is it?” he asks you, so gentle you might’ve missed it.

You know what he means.

“No, Spence. It’s not just you.”

-

+1

That morning, you’d woken up with Spencer still there, his hand still holding onto your arm, his hair smushed into the pillow.

It’s easily the best you’ve ever slept on a case.

It wasn’t awkward then, either. Not even with eye bags and morning breath. Spencer smiled as soon as he opened his eyes, as if realizing he hadn’t dreamt you, that this was real. You walked him to the door so he could go back to his room and freshen up. You held his hand all the way there, and he pulled yours up and pressed a kiss to your palm before slipping out the door.

You’re almost glad it happened in a hotel room first, because you’re not sure you’d survive a full morning of Spencer Reid in your apartment. Even more, you in his.

The case wrapped up that day, too. Much to Penelope’s satisfaction, the team would be home before New Year’s. To really sweeten the deal, you also haven’t gotten called away on another case yet.

So, encouraged by Garcia, of course, the team is out on New Year’s Eve at a bar that’s way too crowded. Well, everyone save Hotch, who wanted to be home with Jack after missing Christmas, which you’re sure he’s still beating himself up over. None of you fought him on it.

Rossi passed too, though he said something along the lines of wanting his first minutes to be spent at home with a nice glass of wine and a good cigar. You tried to fight him on it a little.

Derek somehow—you don’t think you want to know exactly how, considering he’s since wandered off—snagged you all a booth, and you’re grateful for the break from standing in your platforms. Your bare legs stick to the leather seats, but you’re enough drinks in that you can’t seem to care about that.

What you do care about, is the fact that Spencer’s yet to show. You keep looking over at the door like an idiot, hoping the next person squeezing themselves in will be him.

Penelope notices from where she sits next to you, nudging your shoulder with hers, “How about you?”

“Hm?” you hum.

“We’re talking New Year’s resolutions,” JJ clarifies.

“Oh! Um,” you drag a finger through the condensation on your glass. “I want to be braver, I think.”

“FBI not brave enough for you?” Emily asks.

“Outside of work, I mean. But you’re much braver than me, Em.” She waves it off. “I just want to- I don’t know. Try new things and be bad at them. Say what I mean. That sort of thing.”

Garcia grins knowingly. “I love it.”

You shove her gently, playfully, “‘Course you do, nosy.”

“It’s my job to be nosy!”

“Doesn’t look like the office to me.”

They laugh, and you do, too, but you also take the chance to look over at the entrance yet again. This time, you find what you’re looking for.

Spencer stands out in a bar like this. Yes, because he’s tall, but also because he’s still dressed like Spencer. Button up and cardigan. A tipsy grin widens over your face as you wave him over. Down a couple sips of your drink while he weaves through the crowd.

You’re surprised he actually came. You’d hoped he would, obviously, but you can’t remember the last time Spencer came out to a bar with you all, let alone one this full of sweaty people and sticky floors.

More than surprised, you’re ecstatic. And just intoxicated enough to express it.

“Spencer!” you cheer when he gets to the table, practically leaping out of your seat to wrap your arms around his neck. He’s stunned for a second, but squeezes you back, letting you be the one to pull away first. “I thought you ditched us.”

“I’d never ditch you.”

The words aren’t meant for the table, he doesn’t say them loud enough for them to hear. They’re just for you.

Your face softens as you take your seat again, scooching over to make room for Spencer.

“Boy genius,” Penelope starts, “New Year’s resolution, go.”

“New Year’s resolutions were said to have originated over four thousand years ago. Babylonians would make promises to the gods during Akitu.”

“Huh,” from you, fascinated.

“No,” from Emily. “Like, what’s your New Year’s Resolution?”

“Oh,” he flushes a little. “I’ll tell you if it comes true.”

“It’s not a wish, Reid,” JJ says.

“Mine is,” he replies.

His pinkie wraps around yours atop of your leg beneath the table. Those words are meant for you, too.

At about half an hour to midnight, Penelope decides it’s time to dance, and she drags Emily and JJ with her, widening her eyes at you and nudging her chin towards Reid as she walks away. Real subtle.

He beats you to it. “Do you wanna dance?”

“Do you?”

“I’d, um, like to try.”

“Yeah, okay,” your smiles come easily and freely tonight. Not held back by second-guessing or overthinking. It’s nice to let yourself really feel it.

You take Spencer’s outstretched hand and let him guide you towards the dance floor. He stays on the outskirts, out of view from JJ and Emily and Penelope. He wants this moment to be yours, nobody else’s.

So, you dance. Or, attempt to. It’s mostly full of you laughing when Spencer moves awkwardly or bumps into someone. Trying to teach him some tips and eventually just accepting defeat.

The song playing isn’t slow, not at all, but you figure maybe swaying is your best bet, so you take Spencer’s hands and place them on your waist. Take a step closer and put your hands on his shoulders.

“You can’t mess this one up,” you promise. “Just move with me.”

He does, his fingers pressing little divots into your skin through your shirt, his eyes first on your feet, then moving upwards to watch you, to mirror you.

You stay that way until your hands are clammy where they press against his shirt, until your chests are nearly pressed together and the rest of the room sort of melts away. Until you try to say something but decide you want to make sure he can hear you.

“Wanna get some air?”

Spencer nods, letting you drag him through the crowd again to get to the door, both of your hands wrapped around one of his.

As soon as you step outside, everything becomes muffled. The music inside is still audible, but distorted as it filters through the walls. You can hear people cheering and shouting in the distance, can hear the faint ringing in your ears. The way Spencer sucks in a breath when he sees you shiver.

He shrugs off his cardigan and drapes it over your shoulders without a word.

You press your nose into the fabric, the smell, the cool air hitting your cheeks and swirling around your legs sobering you. “Thanks.”

“Looks better on you,” he says, brushing a strand of hair from your sticky temple.

You decide that now is as good a time as any to act on your resolution. That there will never be a perfect moment or opportunity.

“Spencer?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m going to say something.”

“Okay.”

You pivot to face him fully, his hands finding yours and squeezing them. For warmth or comfort, you aren’t sure, but you soak it in either way.

“I told the girls I want to be braver-”

“I think you’re plenty brave-”

“I really like you. As in, more than friends. As in, I think about being with you all of the time.”

Spencer’s eyes soften, warm with the streetlights reflected in them, his face broken up by a sneaking smile, knowing and understanding and so fond you could melt.

“I really like you too, pretty,” he says. Pretty, like a fact. “You must know that.”

“I thought- I had a feeling. That you did,” you smile, suddenly sheepish. “I didn’t wanna assume.”

You shiver again and Spencer moves to pull his cardigan tighter around you, to do up the buttons and run his hands up and down your arms. He doesn’t even say anything, doesn’t even think. He just takes care of you, easy as breathing.

You tug at the hem of your mini skirt absentmindedly. Spencer traces the movement, and you notice.

The countdown creeps through the doors, voices mingling and slipping through the cracks to fall onto the pavement at your feet.

Ten, nine, eight.

“Can I know your New Year’s resolution now?” you ask.

Seven, six, five.

“I’d really like to kiss you,” he confesses.

Four, three, two.

“Finally,” you sigh.

One.

He pulls you in with his grip on the cardigan, or maybe you’re the one who pulls him in, cool hands on his flushed cheeks, but either way, you collide right as whistles and cheers of ‘Happy New Year!’ echo around you.

You’re not sure what you’d imagined, but you know the real thing is better.

Spencer’s lips are soft against yours, but they aren’t timid. He kisses you like he’s been waiting as long as you have, maybe even longer. Like he doesn’t only want you, but needs you, too.

His arms shift to twine around your waist, pulling your bodies flush together. The warmth of him seeps into you, one of your hands slipping to the back of his neck to keep him close.

You hardly feel the cold anymore. It’s just Spencer all around.

Neither of you pull away until you absolutely have to, until your chests are heaving and your hearts are racing. Even then, Spencer places one, two pecks on your bottom lip before moving back slightly.

Your breaths dance in the space between your faces. Spencer leans his forehead against the crown of your head. You fiddle with strands of his hair.

“Same time next year?” you ask, still panting a little.

“Can’t wait that long,” Spencer says into your hair. “How about tomorrow?”

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