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remus having boyfriends and constantly breaking up with them and people ask why and his answer is always; “it wasn’t serious”.
everyone accepts that he means it literally. not in the way that ‘it wasn’t sirius’.
sirius never asks him because he’s secretly happy that remus isn’t with them anymore.
one day his curiosity gets the better of him. “c’mon moony, you’re always dating new people and then breaking up with them. what keeps happening?”
“they weren’t you,” remus replies simply.
(The little text blurb on the right is actually from an interview with Mgg for a magazine, it was written by Jonathan small for chic geek, I just edited it a bit)
warnings & tags: MDNI, sub!spencer, soft!dom!reader, clicker training yay, oral (f receiving), spanking, handjob, edging, spencer is on all 4s, orgasm control, praising, use of 'good boy', teeny tiny bit of fingering, locking spencer's head between your legs, dog analogy, NOT petplay, title is an alyssa grace song
summary: In theory, operant conditioning—specifically clicker training—is simple: apply the right consequences and the brain learns to chase the reward. In practice, Spencer finds that his sharp mind is truly just as vulnerable as a dog’s when you become the reinforcer.
w/c: 4.7k
a/n: I had so much fun training my reid and I hope you have fun reading this too. I might have a few ideas for some later progress of this experiment... but for now this is my attempt at rewiring his brain.
+ thanks to the beautiful judge of this @hotchnerss <3
Experiencing sexual arousal is caused by a complex mixture of hormones, psychological triggers, and physical touch.
When you encounter a trigger, your nervous system sends chemical signals that increase blood flow, heart rate, and focus.
To most, it feels involuntary. But underlying every urge is a simple mechanism of stimulus and response. And mechanisms can be conditioned.
Which brought you to Spencer.
The two of you had a fairly secure arrangement of being coworkers with benefits, and that relationship slowly developed to friends with benefits.
Spencer had managed to plant a seed in your head when he first brought up the applications of operant conditioning in human sexual arousal during one of his unsolicited lectures over coffee on one of your breaks at work.
He’d rambled about target behaviors, reinforcement, and how clicker training could theoretically work on humans just as easily as dogs.
“Are you asking me to clicker train you, Reid?” you teased, bringing your cup down to the table with a quiet clink while watching his eyes dart nervously to your mouth.
“What— no, I was just.. talking” he stammered, his cheeks turning an angry, flustered red. He fumbled with his paper cup, shifting in his chair like he’d just been caught doing something wrong, “I was just explaining how the brain links habits to physical reactions. It’s just an interesting concept. I wasn’t saying you should— I mean, unless you think— no, forget it.”
He took a hurried sip of his coffee to shut himself up, burning his tongue in his haste to escape the conversation.
“No, no, I’m not judging at all,” you murmured, setting your palm beneath your chin, “it’s completely chill if clicker training is a fantasy of yours—”
“It’s not.” he protested, his voice cracking slightly, “And this conversation is completely inappropriate in the workplace,”
“We’re just talking about human psychology,” you shrugged, biting back a small smile at the flush creeping up his neck, “nothing inappropriate about pure scientific curiosity, Spencer. Unless, of course, you brought it up for a completely non-academic reason.”
His mouth opened then closed again.
You gave him a teasing smile before pushing yourself to your feet, collecting your empty cup from the table, heading toward the break room.
You couldn’t stop thinking about the conversation.
It was two days later when you found yourself standing in the pet aisle of a local supply store after work. The neon lighting hummed overhead as you stared at a display of plastic training tools—rows of cheap, brightly colored devices.
You reached out and picked up a bubblegum one. It fit comfortably in the palm of your hand.
You pressed the metal tongue with your thumb.
Click.
The sharp, metallic snap echoed loudly in the quiet aisle. It was clean, sharp, and utterly distinct.
A faint smirk tugged at your lips as you tossed the item in your basket, excitement knotting low in your stomach.
Just as you paid and walked out to your car, your phone started buzzing in your hand. Spencer’s name lit up on the screen, and you immediately picked up.
“Hi,” you greeted softly.
“Hey! Uh, I just wanted to double check if we were still on for tonight? Unless you’re tired, or— or if something came up, of course. I know it’s getting late, so I completely understand if you’d rather just call it a night—”
“Spencer,” you cut in gently, the smile obvious in your tone as you unlocked your car, “plans are still on. I’m heading home right now.”
There was a brief pause on the line, followed by the sound of him exhaling, “Oh. Okay, great. I’ll.. I’ll head over to your place now, then.”
“Perfect. Oh, by the way— remember that whole conditioning thing you were talking about on wednesday?”
“...yeah? What about it?”
“I bought a clicker,” you stated plainly, watching your rear-view mirror as you backed out of the parking space.
“You what?” he asked, his voice suddenly much lower, laced with disbelief and quiet hesitation, “you’re actually doing this?”
“Only if you want to test the hypothesis.”
He cleared his throat, the sound thick and strained, “Okay,” he quietly mumbled out the only word his brain could come up with.
That brief, quiet agreement was as close to an eager confession as you were going to get out of him.
He wanted so intensely, harbored these deep cravings that made him look like he was going to burst at the seams whenever they came near the surface. Yet actually vocalizing those needs felt like stripping himself completely raw.
“I’ll.. I’ll see you at your place,” he murmured, the words tumbling out.
“See ya,” you let your smile bleed into your voice before hanging up.
You knew Spencer’s tendencies all too well. It was a pattern you’d come to learn by heart. He was extremely shy about what he wanted, utterly terrified of the vulnerability that came with naked honesty.
He’d usually just sit there, squirming and trembling under the pressure of everything he couldn’t bring himself to say.
——
That first night had started exactly like that—with Spencer standing awkward and rigid in your living room, staring at the pink plastic device in your hand as you held it with a wide grin on your face.
Click.
“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, shaking his head as his eyes avoided looking at the clicker in your hand.
You raised an eyebrow, “You were the one to give me the idea. But, if you don’t wanna do this—”
“—Okay,” he sighed, “but if we’re actually going to do this, we should establish some parameters first.”
Your smile deepened as you stepped closer to Spencer, eyes searching his, “Of course we should,”
“Why are you smiling like that?” his gaze followed your movement before reluctantly settling on your face.
“Because you’re adorable when you get all serious,” you tipped your chin up to him, “tell me what your boundaries are.”
“Well..” he hesitated, “the usual. And I think my only condition is that we don’t use it outside of this.”
“Deal. But could you explain how I’m going to train you?”
You didn’t go into this completely unprepared. You’d done very thorough research the night before, but you couldn’t resist letting Spencer ramble about it himself.
Spencer straightened his posture, tucking his hair behind his ears, “Well, clicker training is a positive reinforcement training approach based on operant conditioning. Operant conditioning posits that consequences can be applied to behaviors to strengthen desirable ones and remove undesirable ones,” he took a deep breath, his words coming out in a rush, “These consequences can be reinforcement—encouragement—or punishment—discouragement. They’re further broken down into positive and negative as seen from the trainee’s perspective.”
You nodded along, though your attention was beginning to drift from his words. Without quite realizing it, you found yourself leaning closer, your body seeking his as your breath mingled in the small space between you.
“It’s pretty simple, ‘good’ behavior is rewarded with the trainer’s affirmation and a few clicks.”
“Got it,” you murmured, licking your lips, “So basically, you do something I like, and I click and reward you.”
His mouth twitched at your words, already visualizing every filthy application of the theory he was preaching—how much power he was handing to you so eagerly.
“Technically, yes. It’s very fascinating. I can go into more detail, but I think you..” he parted his lips, his mouth hanging open as your gaze completely paralyzed him, “I think that’s all we need to know for now..” his voice grew quieter the closer you leaned, fading into a hushed exhale right against your mouth.
The click was still just a click, and neither of you expected a single night to be enough to create a lasting association, but Spencer definitely enjoyed it.
He was still shy about admitting that, but the lingering flush in his cheeks and the way his eyes kept drifting to the clicker in your hand were enough to leave you curious about just how far you could take it.
----
Over the next month, that bubblegum clicker became the centerpiece of your nights together. You experimented with pacing, rewards, and target behaviors, paying close attention to how Spencer’s body learned to react instinctively to your clicks.
It was nearly impossible for him not to become conditioned to the sound, especially when those clicks were always followed by some form of affection.
The click became a promise he patiently anticipated with every session.
Eventually, you stopped giving him that affection so freely, and your touch became something to be earned.
Care and attention were now inseparable from the device; without the click, there was no reward.
He slowly started to hate the excitement and strange pride he felt whenever he heard that familiar click. He never meant to become so obedient, but he’d grown to unthinkingly follow commands now, chasing the reward he so desperately craved—your validation.
——
The difference between wanting your approval and needing it had become difficult to distinguish. The line between the two was already thin, but now it was completely blurred.
You sat back against your leather couch, knees spread wide, watching Spencer kneeling on the floor between your thighs.
His long, bare frame looked awkward and compressed folded into the gap at your feet, his spine curved sharply as he tried to stay close.
His thighs were locked together to brace his balance, the glistening bead pooling at his tip, painting a small clear spot on his skin.
He stared up at you with wide, disbelieving eyes that burnt into your skin as though he were looking at an angel who had somehow descended within his reach.
His hands were planted on your calves, slightly massaging them and kneading the muscle to keep his own hands from shaking.
You rested your elbow on the armrest, the small bright clicker held loosely in your hand as you twirled it lazily between your fingers.
Spencer’s eyes darted between your bare heat and the clicker, unable to choose between staring at the prize between your legs or the pink plastic in your hand.
“Go on, Spence,” you encouraged without touching him.
He swallowed hard, leaning forward to pepper feather-light, tentative kisses along your inner thighs, sucking on the delicate skin as your hand threaded through his messy, slightly greasy hair, giving him just enough pressure to reassure him that he was on the right track.
He worked his way higher, his breath hot against your sensitive skin as his hands clung on your thighs.
When he finally reached your dripping pussy, his lips parted and sealed over the hypersensitive bundle of nerves at the top, sucking firmly on the sweet spot with instant dedication that made your back arch off the couch.
Spencer’s eyes flicked to your hand, waiting for that unmistakable sound to tell him that he’s starting off well. But, your fingers stayed perfectly still.
Two of his fingers spread your folds wide before he dragged his tongue down in one long, slick stroke—
Click click.
Spencer flinched at the sharp snap near his ear, his breath catching against your wetness.
“Good boy,” you praised, gently tugging on his hair, “just like that, Spencer.”
To him, the click marked the exact second he succeeded. And the gasp that escaped your lips was all the validation his brain was itching for. He immediately pushed his face deeper against your pussy, his tongue plunging into your tight entrance with eager hunger that made your toes curl.
His hands gripped your thighs, fingers splaying against your overheating skin as he urged them further apart, his focus purely primal, like a hound lock-jawed on a bone, completely consumed by the need to please you.
Spencer tried so hard to stay quiet and controlled, fighting against the desperate sounds clawing their way up his throat.
But the moment he let out an involuntary whine into your heat, you pressed your thumb down.
Click click.
“Let me hear you, Spencer,” your hips twitched against his flush, wet face, “don’t hide those pretty noises,”
The instant feedback made him melt against you.
To earn the next click, he stopped suppressing his noises, letting out needy, trembling moans directly against your core.
Every time he hit the exact speed you wanted or let out a low, needy hum into your heat, you gave him two clicks.
Click click.
“God, so good for me,” you lolled your head back, feeling his nose brush against your swollen clit as he took a ragged breath.
Spencer was lapping at every drop of you as if he were trying to swallow you whole, his mouth slick, jaw aching, entirely intoxicated by the sweet taste of you.
“So perfect— fuck— you’re doing so good, baby,” you moaned.
His tongue flattened against your center to smear your juices around, burying his face so flush that every breath he took sounded like a drowned man coming up for air.
You tilted your head to take a better look at his bare body, admiring the fine layer of sweat coating his ribs and how his muscles strained with the effort of holding himself steady, your gaze finally landing on his erection.
His hard length was leaking against his stomach, twitching painfully, completely unsheathed and starving for touch.
“Look at your poor dick, Spence,” you purred, “So hard, leaking all over yourself, and you haven’t even touched it yet.”
He let out a muffled whimper, curling his tongue inside of you, making your hips buck instinctively at the overwhelming stretch.
He pumped his tongue in and out of you, nuzzling his whole face deeper, his chin applying more pressure just under your opening that pulsed around him, greedy and drenched.
Click click.
His lips dragged out every flutter of your inner walls, sucking at your tender flesh.
“That’s it,” you gasped, fingers digging hard into his scalp, “That’s it--don’t stop,”
“I am,” he whimpered, the sound muffled by the wet friction of him devouring you, “I’m trying— god, you taste so..” he pulled back to look at his work before diving back in, “..so good,”
Your lips twitched into a smile at his breathless words, giving him two clicks for his verbal effort.
Click click.
You loved it when Spencer got talkative during sex, even if it didn’t happen very often. It was obvious that it took a lot of effort for him to string words together to compliment you, so hearing his quiet praises felt extra special.
“I really wanna make you finish,” his eyes fluttered as he stared up at you, his head still moving as he worked his tongue endlessly against your sweet spot, “please...”
You hooked your knees over his shoulders, resting your calves against his sweaty back, and tilting your hips upward.
“You’re doing so good, Spencer,” you gasped, staring down as he pushed your legs closer together over his neck, locking himself in place.
Click click.
“Good boy,” you whimpered, feeling your legs grow numb around his head.
Spencer doubled his efforts, his tired tongue swirling, pressing, and flicking over your clit with a relentless rhythm that made your thighs press harder around his head.
The pressure inside you built at a terrifying speed, your hips bucking involuntarily against his face, chasing the edge.
Click.
He whined into your wet skin, evidently excited at the signal that he was right on target, eager to finally push you over the edge and feel you unravel against his face.
Click click.
“Spencer— right there, baby,” your nails bit into his damp scalp as the coiling heat in your stomach turned into a tight, unbearable ache.
The orgasm hit you like a violent wave. It overtook you completely, every muscle in your lower half seizing as pleasure flooded through you.
A suppressed, broken cry escaped your throat as your walls clamped down around nothing before Spencer quickly brought his thumb to your hungry core, pushing it in and out of you in sync with your pulsing walls.
Everything turned extremely messy as Spencer’s mouth became sloppier, trying to drink in every drop of your release.
His finger found its way to your g-spot while his lips sealed tightly around your clit, sucking the soul right out of your body, emptying you of every bit of tension.
Spencer kept his face pressed against your pussy even after you rode out the last of your climax, completely dazed drunk on your taste, loving exactly where he was locked.
When you finally untangled your legs from his neck and let them fall weakly on either side of his head, his hands slid down to wrap around your ankles, letting out a small, almost inaudible whimper.
He dragged his face up just enough to rest his wet chin on your stomach, pressing a soft kiss to your belly as his breath came in ragged, shallow puffs against your skin.
“How did I do?” His head lazily tilted, going weak on your soft flesh as he looked up at you through heavy-lidded eyes, silently waiting for his final reward.
You cupped his drenched, glistening cheeks, leaning down to kiss him deeply, tasting yourself on his mouth, “You did incredible, Spencer,” you whispered softly, feeling him shiver under your hands.
“You took such good care of me. It was perfect,” your teeth tugged on his bottom lip as you pulled away with a fond smile, “Now get on all fours on the bed. Let me give you your reward.”
Spencer pushed himself off the floor with unsteady arms, his legs heavy and trembling.
The dim orange light reflected off his glistening, rosy skin, casting an unreal glow over him, making him look entirely edible.
Seeing him stiffly walk away into your bedroom, his head held low as he awkwardly stared at his erection stirred primal hunger claw at your gut—igniting the urge to crawl up behind him and show him exactly what his assets were good for.
——
His long frame looked taut and ready as he propped himself on all fours, his bones sharp and jittery, and his dark hair messy as he buried his head briefly into the pillow until you stepped behind him.
All you could do was admire him, your hand tracing the small of his back, feeling his tailbone tilting up toward you, inviting the contact.
Click click.
“What do you want your reward to be, Spencer?”
“Whatever you wanna give me,” he dropped his head, his words sounding more like an absolute plea—total surrender and a ruined beg to be handled.
“Head up,”
He immediately complied, picking his head back up, his neck muscles visibly straining.
Click click.
You rubbed his bare cheek, soothing the area you were so thrilled to ruin, “Do you want me to turn this pretty ass all pink and sore?”
“Mhm,” he quietly hummed in response, giving in to every word you said.
“No, Spencey, I wanna hear your words,” you shook your head, withdrawing your warm hand, making him whimper in response.
“I do,” he nodded, staring at the headboard, “I want you to spank me— do anything you wanna do to me,”
Spencer knew exactly what you liked to hear.
It was a fascinating role reversal. On the surface, you were in charge. Spencer’s pleasure was in the palm of your hand. Every move was completely up to you, but his fingers were entirely woven into every crevice of your brain, calibrated to make touching him completely irresistible.
He knew your responses just as thoroughly as you knew and conditioned his.
He knew which tone of voice made your grip tighten, which subtle shifts in his posture made you reward him earlier than you’d planned.
Although his tactics didn’t always work, it was nice seeing him try to work you.
Your fingers lightly brushed against his aching balls, giving them a firm squeeze to pull a high-pitched squeal from Spencer’s lips.
His pretty noises reignited the heat pooling between your thighs.
You brought your hand down, the heavy, solid thud of flesh on flesh echoing loudly.
Spencer gasped, his hips jerking forward with a sharp intake of breath as a deep, radiating heat instantly fired across his pale skin, sending a full-bodied shiver straight down his spine.
Click click.
“Good boy,” you praised, your voice dropping an octave as you traced your palm soothingly over the newly warmed mark, feeling him melt into the friction. “You take it so well for me, don’t you?”
You pressed your palm firmly against his rear, hoping that the friction would cool down the fire in your hand.
The lingering throb was already addicting.
Your hand swept down with heavier, more deliberate force, planting a second strike right beside the first.
“Mmph—” He buried his face deeper into the pillow, his knees trembling violently against the sheets as his neglected erection throbbed helplessly.
“Look at how red you get so easily… and I’ve only spanked you twice” you cooed, your pointer finger tracing the outline of the angry red handprint on his ass, “so pretty,” you whispered, giving him two clicks just for being so beautiful and patient.
Click click.
A third open-handed spank bloomed hot across his right cheek, making him gasp into the pillow. Before the sting could fade, your hand snuck between his thighs and wrapped around his thick, dripping length, pumping him a few times.
“Ah—!” his hips bucked, seeking friction from your hand that quickly unwrapped itself off his dick.
Click click.
Another spank hit his left cheek, followed immediately by more tight strokes that made his eyes roll back into his head.
“O— oh my god!” his entire body twitched.
The sensory overload completely wiped out his ability to think. He was trembling, completely at the mercy of the sound, the sting, and your hand.
Spencer’s cock was painfully hard, heavy and twitching between his trembling thighs.
He was on the edge of release—so hypersensitive that a single firm squeeze from you would ruin him instantly, sending him over the brink before you even gave him permission.
Every time the clicker snapped, his body reacted automatically—his pulse spiking, his throat letting out fractured whimpers, and his hips thrusting blindly into your palm.
You leaned down to the curve of his hip, pressing a soft firm kiss to his reddened cheek before dragging the wet trail of your parted lips along the burning skin to calm the sting down.
“You’re taking it so well,” you whispered, your warm breath fanning over the tender flesh, “very good for me, Spencer.”
Your hand slid down his inner thigh, fingers lightly brushing the glistening tip of his cock without wrapping around it.
“Please,” he begged, a shuddering breath leaving his lips.
“So greedy,” you purred, resting the cool pink plastic against the nape of his neck, “you’re already so close to coming, and I’m not even close to being done with you.”
“But I’ve been so good,” it sounded like he was about to cry.
“I know..” you rubbed the inside of his thighs, “but you need to learn some patience,”
“I am patient..” he whimpered, weakly shaking his head, “but I really, really need to cum,”
“I know, baby..” you cooed, your voice dropping to a low, soothing hum as your thumb gently stroked the sensitive skin of his hip. “I know how hard this is for you. But look at how beautiful you are like this.”
“You’ve been so perfect for me tonight. Don’t ruin it by rushing now, okay?” You patted his hip.
“Okay,” he rasped, forcing steady breaths into his lungs.
You delivered a sudden, firm spank to his left cheek, aiming for a pale spot that was prettily waiting for its own searing bloom of color.
“Mmm— fuck—!” Spencer’s hips stayed put, his rear absorbing the impact with only a shudder, fighting his own body to remain still for you.
Click click.
“There’s my patient boy,” you murmured, letting your palm wrap around the base of his swollen shaft.
You slowly pumped his dick, your fingers slick with his pre-cum as you gave his tip extra care.
His hips twitched wildly into your grip, his toes curling as you picked up the pace, finally granting him the mercy of pure bliss.
But that didn’t last for long as you quickly eased off when he got too close to the edge, leaving him under nothing but the pressure of the air.
“No, no, no— please, let me come—” he choked out, his head thrashing blindly against your pillow.
You padded to the head of the bed, catching his chin, tilting his head up until his unfocused, tear-shiny eyes met yours.
“Breathe, Spence,” you ordered softly as he frantically panted, “Look at me. Did I say you could move?”
His throat worked as he tried to quiet his ragged chest, “N— no…”
“Then keep your hips still,” you raised your brows, tapping the cool casing of the clicker against his cheekbone, “you won’t get another touch until you’re completely under control.”
“I promise I won’t move,” he whispered, his pleading gaze locked into yours.
“Good.”
You silently repositioned yourself by his feet, contemplating just how much longer you were going to make him wait.
Every time your hand brushed his ass lightly, he would arch his spine and whimper in encouragement for you to shift your attention back to his dick.
The raw distress in his whimpers made a pang of sympathy tug at your chest. The sight of his flushed skin was almost too pitiful to handle.
So you jerked him off again.
You wanted to bring him so close to coming before deciding if he was truly deserving of his release.
“God, yes— pleasepleaseplease— I can’t do this anymore!” he sobbed, his entire frame impressively frozen, locked tight as you fucked him with a fast, grueling pace.
Click click.
The clicks were quickly answered with a loud whine. It was cute. Completely pathetic and feral, but cute nonetheless.
“Hold it, Spencer, I know you can,” your thumb involuntarily abused the metal tongue of the clicker, going just as fast as his racing pulse.
He squirmed under your touch, biting down on his bottom lip, almost drawing blood to stop himself from falling apart already.
Lasting an additional four minutes was enough to impress you and give him permission to take what he needed.
“Come for me, Spence,” you finally gave him the green light to let go into your palm.
Click click.
And he spilled his load right on cue, his back arching to rub himself against your forearm.
His hot cum coated your hand instantly, heavy and slick, running between your fingers and dripping onto your sheets.
“There you go…” you squeezed his dick, swirling your thumb on the soaking, pink crown, “..let it all out, baby. You did so well,”
Your mouth went straight to his trembling thighs, kissing them until he fell limp onto his stomach.
Spencer was left to be a ruined whimpering mess that weakly clung onto the sheets.
You licked your hand clean of his juices, eagerly tasting him as you splayed your fingers to catch the remaining moisture between them before crawling up beside him.
He rolled his head toward you, his eyes heavy-lidded and glassy.
His hair was stuck to his damp forehead, and when you reached out to brush it aside, he leaned his face into your touch.
“Look at you,” you smiled, holding back a chuckle as you traced his cheekbone, “completely wrecked.”
“M’not…” he pouted.
His arms wrapped loosely around your waist when you finally made him melt against you after such intensity.
You quickly felt his thumb trace soft circles on the small of your back.
“You know,” he mumbled into your collarbone, his voice a sleepy hum, “the reinforcement schedule was.. extremely irregular near the end.”
“Oh, really?” you grinned, “are you reviewing my performance, Doctor?”
“I’m just pointing out that inconsistent reinforcement tends to produce higher response rates. Which means..”
A slow, faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips—a rare, quiet glimpse of the sharp mind beneath all that bashful obedience, “you’ve made it impossible for me to stop.”
“Yeah, okay,” you chuckled at his sleepy analysis of the little experiment he had willingly subjected himself to.
synopsis: at your first sleepover at spencer’s apartment you find yourself being introduced to his most special friend- his childhood teddy bear.
pairing: spencer x gn reader
genre: fluff!
wc: 1.7k
notes/tags: new established relationship, cosy domestic spencer, had to rewatch the instincts & memoriam for literally the tiniest details ever (agony), little sad tidbits about his childhood with some canon and made up aspects :3 he loves his mother so much and hes so soft and sweet and cute and
masterlist // pls reblog if you enjoy it rly helps promote the fic!
———————————🧸————————————
“Oh, could you grab my pyjamas please?” Spencer called from the bathroom through a mouthful of toothpaste. “In the drawer.”
“Sure.” You called back, a little giddy.
Things were still new between you and Spencer, with this being the first time you’d ever stayed the night. There was a buzz in the air, both of you excited like teenagers at a slumber party over popcorn on his sofa. You’d spent the evening watching movies, your legs slung over his lap and his hand cradling your knee, until you both began to feel your eyelids grow heavy. You’d shuffled into his bedroom, only for you to spark back to life once a realisation hit you. This was a whole new stage of domesticity for you both.
You’d parked yourself on the edge of his mattress, holding yourself back from swinging your legs as you bit back a grin. You’d been picturing him in his pyjamas, a soft shirt and baggy pants so different to the usual crisp ironed silhouette of his work clothes. You wondered what his hair looked like in the morning, tousled from his pillow as he tried to sleepily smooth it back. Butterflies danced in your stomach as you pictured waking up beside him, seeing his flushed cheeks and hearing his lazy morning rambles inches away from you as you lay anchored to his chest.
With a hop, you sprung up from the bed, practically skipping over to the drawers across the room. With a flourish you pulled one open, eager to see what he slept in. Oh, you sighed, wrong drawer. Your lips melted into a small smile as you took in a mountain of colourful socks, oddly unorganised compared to the rest of his bedroom. Stripes and polka dots in every colour piled on top of neons and silly cartoon pictures, a set of ‘days of the week’ socks each highlighting a different star in the Big Dipper catching your attention the most.
You were sliding the drawer closed when you caught a glimpse of something in the back, poking out between two pairs of dinosaur socks. Something brown and fluffy, two beady glass eyes staring up at you.
“Who’s your friend?” You asked, leaning against the bathroom doorframe. In your hands you held an old, well-loved teddy bear. Its fur was a little matted with age but still soft in its little brown curls, and on its chest sat an embroidered comet with its threads surprisingly still mostly in tact.
Spencer’s eyes widened in the mirror, his cheeks turning red almost instantly. “Where did you find that?” He tried to feign indifference, but his voice wavered.
“Stashed away in your sock drawer.” You turned the bear over in your hands so that he was looking at you. Were you just getting tired or did its eyes look sad? “What was it doing in there?”
“No idea.” He shrugged, moving to take it from you. “Must’ve forgotten he was there.”
Cocking a brow at him you hid the bear behind your back, trapping him between you and the doorframe and out of Spencer’s reach. “He?”
“It.” He corrected himself. You brought the bear forward, gazing down at his little face as Spencer brushed past you into the bedroom. His little glass eyes definitely looked sad.
“‘He’ implies an identity.” You said, following Spencer as he perched on the edge of the mattress. “He’s clearly important. Why were you hiding him from me?”
“I was embarrassed. I didn’t want you to think I was-” he paused, brows creasing as he searched for the right word, “uncool.”
You smiled at him, a little loose and sappy. This was the man who first said hi by complimenting your edition of Great Expectations that he saw peeking out of your bag on the subway. The same man who called his mother before your first date to ask her what flowers he should bring you. He once took you to a chess tournament and commentated on every match with low whispers in your ear, sprinkling in a handful of sassy comments and tutting about moves he believed to be, what he called, ‘idiotic and completely incomprehensible’. ‘Uncool’ wasn’t even a word that came to mind.
“I think he’s very cool.” You shifted closer until your knees were touching, the bear resting in your lap as you toyed with him. “What’s his name?”
“Carl.” Spencer answered fondly, finally allowing a boyish grin to grace his face.
You nodded in recognition. “Sagan.” It made perfect sense. You recalled him telling you a childhood story about him making a salt model of the universe, intended as a birthday gift for his hero. You were pretty certain he could work Carl Sagan into any conversation given the opportunity.
“Well thank you for formally introducing us.” Propping the bear up with your hand, you tilted his head sadly to the side. “He must hate me.”
“He doesn’t hate you.” Spencer frowned.
“Oh, I bet he does. I bet he was thinking who is this mean, mean person I’m being shoved into a dark, scary drawer for?” The bear’s head bobbed in your hand as you jostled him like a puppeteer until your boyfriend reached over, taking him from your hands. He was gentle, handling his little best friend with a carefulness you’d only ever seen reserved for you. His gaze was loving, suddenly belong to a much, much younger version of him.
“Yeah. I’m sorry about that, Carl.” He murmured, voice tender. His fingers hovered over his fur, the familiar softness transporting him somewhere else.
You’d never quite seen this look on his face before. Spencer was someone who often acted older than he was, desperate to be seen with the sense of maturity he thought he ought to carry. There were always cracks in his mask, of course, he was far too passionate about things to keep it hidden for long. Whenever he was rambling, especially about something- for lack of better words- nerdy, there was that twitch of his lips that often gave way to a bright grin, that little glimmer of excitement in his eyes as his words poured from his brain faster than his mouth could keep up. It was almost that look you saw on his face now, but quieter. Gentler.
“How long have you had him?” You asked softly as his fingers moved to trace the embroidery on the bear’s chest.
“Since I was eight. He was the only toy I kept when…” He trailed off, flashing you a small smile, weaker than the one he wore earlier, before continuing. “I never could outgrow him.”
“Who could? Look at his little face.” You cooed, staring at the bear’s glass eyes once more- significantly less sad-looking in Spencer’s hands. “Where’d he come from?”
“Science museum gift shop.” He chuckled, face lighting up at the memory. “My mom took me. They had an interactive astronomy exhibit I’d been desperate to go to- not that I said anything. She found a flyer for it in my room and for my birthday she surprised me. It’s one of my favourite memories with her. We didn’t get many days out like that.”
His voice trailed off, his thoughts going with it. The room you were both in disappeared before his eyes, rearranging itself into the bedroom of his younger years. Toys were a scarcity, limited to models he’d made himself. They’d been replaced long ago by notebooks, pages and pages of poems and songs copied out to calm his mother. He’d told you about it once briefly, how he did it to soothe her paranoia. There was no time for toys when he was growing up so fast, but still in his small hands he held Carl. When he was too fretful to fall asleep, his door cracked open enough to hear Diana down the hall, his bear stayed awake with him. When he came home from school late and the sky outside the window was black, he had someone to confide in.
It was less and less often that he got good days with his mother, but Carl served as a reminder for every single one, most of all that day at the museum.
“I guess you could say he’s my oldest friend.” Spencer smiled with an embarrassed laugh, clearing his throat as he tried to steady his expression.
“Well, I’m very honoured to finally meet him.” You reached out, shaking his little paw between your fingers. “I take it he doesn’t usually live in your sock drawer?”
“No, no- he takes the left side of my pillow usually. Sometimes he sits at my desk when I’m working.” He wrinkled his nose, debating whether he should say more. “He, uh. He sits on the other side of the board when I play chess by myself. He’s pretty good at it.”
You laughed, feeling your cheeks ache as you leaned into him and propped your head on his shoulder. You’d been prepared to see him in his pyjamas, you were working up to being prepared to sleep in the same bed. What you hadn’t been ready for was meeting your boyfriend’s teddy bear. If it was even possible you loved him even more now, heart swelling as you pictured him coming home to his little roommate. Did he talk to him about his day? Tuck him in before he left for a case? Does he miss him when he’s away?
“You know I have a childhood bear too?” You said, your voice lazy as your cheek melted into the fabric of his shirt. “You’ll have to bring Carl over sometime, we can have a double date.”
Spencer’s shoulder shook beneath you as he laughed. “Yeah, I think he would love that. It’s about time.”
He turned his head to look down at you, and you tried your best to meet his eyes from your perch. His face looked so soft, relaxed in a way you rarely got to see. He was always at his most beautiful like this, completely unguarded, the mask that etched a crease between his brows and a frown on his lips comfortably lifted and leaving him looking impossibly young. You lifted your head, pressing a gentle kiss to his warm, flushed cheek.
“I can’t wait.” You smiled, rising to your feet and extending a hand to him. “Now come on. I am desperate to see your pyjamas.”
“I still don’t understand your infatuation with this.” He sighed, shaking his head fondly. But still he took your hand, letting you pull him up before following you as you skipped over to the drawers once more.
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summary: You and your fellow professor explain what a 'hear me out' is to Spencer Reid. When asked who would be on his list, he demonstrates a surprising understanding of the assignment.
contents: 2k words, FLUFF, prof!reader with glasses, no use of y/n, hear me out cake shennanigans, Carrie Myers diva, Spencer Reid and prof!reader monsterfuckers!?!, they're both fuckass nerds I love them so much
a/n: Not my best work I'm worried I've lost all my writing skills lol, and not part of the event, but my bookclub did this recently and I could not stop laughing at the idea of Spencer learning about this. Technically happens after Hard Launch.
You have recently come to discover that Spencer Reid has a tendency to show up to places unannounced. He shows up to the obvious places—your college library, waiting outside your lecture rooms—but even at the more unknown spots, like the benches by the faculty parking lot. He'd usually find you there, poised and reading a book, waiting for Carrie Myers to finish her smoke break two meters away.
It's like he's a video game character, and he's made you his personal spawning point. Anywhere you are, he'd somehow show up. Usually with coffee. Sometimes three, held precariously in his large hands, because he realized at some point that you spend a lot of time with Carrie, and Spencer is nothing if not infuriatingly thoughtful.
He shows up so much you've stopped being surprised.
So much that you start anticipating his presence.
So much that you feel a sense of relief when he walks into the faculty social space—administration's initiative from three years ago that was meant to address the burn out and stress by providing a vending machine and a ping pong table rather than doing something more palpable like raising wages—and finds you at one of the tables, sorting through small cardboard cutouts with Carrie.
"Your professor charming alert." Carrie sing-songs. She's been taking every single chance at playful teasing ever since you and Spencer 'officially' hard launched your 'relationship'. You can tell she's gloating; Carrie seemed to have the notion—a childish one, in your opinion—that your initial annoyance at Spencer was borne out of attraction.
Now she feels vindicated, and you can't set the record straight without ruining your arrangement with Spencer.
"Behave." you murmur, just as Spencer approaches. He's windswept and smiling, as if unburdened by his workload. You can only assume that teaching and academia is a welcome reprieve after his high-pressure job at the FBI. You welcome him with a smile, and it feels natural, "Hi Spencer."
"Afternoon, ladies." He pulls up a chair and sits next to you, knees brushing against yours under the table. His gaze sweeps over the spread of pictures on the table, and a crease forms between his brows in confusion. "What's all this?"
"A fun little activity for my graduate students." Carrie replies, "The hear me out cake. Well, no more cake and just hear me outs now."
"Oh, you mentioned this a few weeks ago!" Spencer looks pleased when it registers, beaming at Carrie, "You said it helps keep your students motivated after the midterms."
"Yep. Free cake, they get to gush about hot characters and engage with our readings in a low stakes, almost casual way. Win-win." Carrie says with flourish.
You lift a cutout of Mufasa from The Lion King. "Whoever put this on that cake is brave and deserves the highest marks."
Carrie laughs. "Oh, I love that student. She's so outspoken and funny."
Spencer's frown deepens at the picture. He reaches over, gently taking it from your hands. "I'm afraid I don't understand. I thought the purpose of this activity was to share which Shakespearean character you find attractive."
"The Lion King is a Hamlet adaptation." you say, ready to defend the student.
"Yes, but with lions." he deadpans.
"Arguably attractive ones."
Spencer blinks, and turns to Carrie for explanation.
"It's an ongoing trend online, it's meant to be for characters who are more… unconventional." Carrie explains, holding up a Simba picture this time, "Hence, prefacing the whole thing with hear me out."
Spencer looks equal parts intrigued and concerned.
"When it's more broadly applied, it isn't always animals," you add, giggling at the utter bewilderment at Spencer's face, "Sometimes it's characters people normally wouldn't find attractive… like Beetlejuice."
"Or horror figures, like Ghostface or Pennywise from IT."
Spencer's brows are furrowed differently now, less in confusion and more focused, the way they always get when he begins contemplating. He doesn't laugh or seem horrified, now that it's been more clearly explained.
"You're right, though," Carrie adds, "I did specify only Shakespearean characters for my class, only because I had to connect this activity to the course subject. But it's much more lenient when it's just being done between friends."
"Interesting. So it's almost a showcase of someone's deeper desires." he murmurs, eyes skating over the variety of Shakespearean characters on the table—some quite tame, like Timothée Chalamet as Henry V; others funnier, like Bill Murray as Polonius. "Participating in it means opening up about your attraction to what other people would consider taboo."
"Yeah. It's a great bonding activity." you nod, smiling at how earnestly he's taking the entire thing, processing it through a scholar's lens. Without mockery or judgment, simply with the desire to understand.
"I see." he nods, watching Carrie sort the characters together.
She's trying to see if there's a common character that everyone secretly pines over. Last year, there was an overwhelming amount of Falstaff entries; this year, it seems to be Simba/Hamlet. You're busy helping her, when suddenly:
"Who are yours?" Spencer asks, twisting in his seat so his body is angled towards you, open and curious.
Carrie bursts out laughing. "Oh god, she has some crazy ones."
"No, I don't." you grumble.
"Yeah, you do." Carrie turns to Spencer, lips stretched in a massive grin, "You're about to learn some very fascinating things about your girlfriend, professor."
Spencer returns her smile, and you're struck with the desire to conk their heads together. They'd deserve it, matching grins and all.
"No." you shake your head.
"Why not?"
"I don't want you to judge me."
"I won't!"
"Or psychoanalyze me."
"I…" he pauses, "I'll try not to."
Carrie laughs. You glare at both of them, betrayed.
"He'll find out sooner or later," Carrie says, shrugging innocently, as if that would absolve her of her betrayal, "Honestly, I'm surprised it hasn't come up yet, with the amount of time you guys seems to spend together."
The teasing implication is clear. You feel your face burn, annoyed that you can't even refute it. Fake relationship or not, you had been spending a lot of time with Spencer.
Beside you, he chuckles, looking sheepish and caught, ears turning rosy. "Guilty. And now that it's been thoroughly explained to me, I'm very curious."
You groan, burying your face in your hands. "I hate you both."
"Come on, I'll start." Carrie compromises with a giggle, "One of mine is Waluigi."
"From… from the Mario Brothers?" you can hear the amusement coloring Spencer's voice.
"Yep." Carrie says, proudly popping the 'p'. "Another one is Shrek. I love a grump. My husband's a grump. And quite rotund. He gives great hugs."
Spencer laughs, "Shrek is a very well developed character, I think I understand the appeal."
"Thank you!" Carrie's foot makes contact with yours under the table, a gentle prod. "See, he doesn't judge. Your turn."
You don't lift your head from your hands, muffling the sound of your voice when you answer. "Loki."
"The Norse trickster god?" Spencer clarifies.
"Sure, but specifically the Marvel version."
"Oh, you can do better than that, Tom Hiddleston is objectively very attractive. That defeats the purpose of a hear me out." Carrie protests, nudging your foot again, this time more insistently. This woman thrives when it's time to tease you, a fact that you normally enjoy and encourage—what's friendship without some healthy ribbing?—but right now it feels like a curse.
You groan, regretting ever divulging your list to her. There's no point in lying, when you've had this conversation a million times prior, and Carrie knows you have quite an… eclectic taste.
"Ugh, fine. The balrog."
Carrie snorts in satisfaction. Spencer shifts beside you, and you suddenly feel he's much too close for comfort. His thigh presses against yours, and you can feel his warmth despite the layers of clothing.
"From Lord of the Rings?" Spencer asks.
You lower your hands and slump in your seat, braving his reaction. Despite your indignation, your response comes out weak.
"Yes."
"The one that Gandalf fights in Moria?"
"Yes. Fiery demon with muscles and a whip, come on, I don't think I have to explain myself here." you huff, directing your sheepish gaze at the spread of pictures on the table. "And for the record, they end the fight in Zirakzigil, not Moria."
He chuckles, scratching his jaw as he considers. "But that's not even really a human."
"So? Carrie wants to fuck an ogre and her students want a lion."
Across the table, Carrie throws her head back and guffaws.
"So this goes beyond… physical compatibility."
"Yeah," Carrie manages through her laughter, "Sometimes, people want non sentient things too. Or full on monsters, like, I dunno, the Kraken."
"Or demons, like the balrog." Spencer turns to you.
Your fingers slide under your glasses and rub at your eyes. "You promised not to make fun."
"I'm not, I'm just realizing that I'm so far out of your type." Spencer says.
You stop what you're doing and risk a glance at him. A dimpled smile greets you, so impish and sweet you have no choice but to return it.
"You could get a whip." you mumble.
His smile turns devious. Devastating. Everything in your stomach turns molten, and, with nowhere to go, simply spreads inside out. You wouldn't be surprised if you've miraculously turned lobster red. You want the ground to swallow you whole.
You wish he'll keep looking at you like that, with that exact smile, welcome the utter void it creates in your normally overactive mind.
Thankfully, you're saved from responding when Carrie interrupts. She raps on the table, chuckling.
"Okay lovebirds, save the dirty talk for when I'm not here."
"I swear to god, Carrie." you kick her under the table, hard, which only elicits a laugh from her.
And, because her ability to tease apparently extends to your current 'boyfriend,' she turns to Spencer, shoulders still shaking. She manages to silence her laughter just enough to ask:
"Now that you know about it, Doctor Reid, who would be your hear me outs?"
You perk up, turning to him.
Who would be his hear me outs? What sort of character or creature would entice Spencer Reid that way? You try to predict one, but he seems like an anomaly. He's the kind of person whose choices could range from something relatively tame like Morticia Addams, to something utterly wild and out of left field.
Honestly, you half expect him to say Cthulhu.
"I don't think I can beat the balrog." he laughs, running a hand through his already messy curls.
"You don't have to beat it." you reassure him with a smile, though you do want to add you can try though.
"Yeah, sorry this is kind of on the spot. Just give us one off the top of your head." Carrie says. Both of you stare at him curiously, but he doesn't seem to mind the attention. He's deep in thought, fingers trailing over some of the cutouts on the table.
"I've always enjoyed reading about the Sphinx," he mutters finally, the crease between his brows deepening into a valley the more he concentrates, "Depending on which culture you read from, the symbolism will differ, but one thread seems to connect all of them—sphinxes are guardians. I think I quite like how it goes in Greek mythology, where she's ruthless and unbending. Takes a clever man to get through to her. Certain versions show her to give Oedipus the answer, hoping he'd fall in love with her, showing us that she yearns for something human too."
You blink, staring at him. At this point, it really shouldn't come as a surprise to you, how much thought he gives into everything. But it does. Especially when it's something as silly as this, an online trend that got explained to him five minutes ago, but he's answering with careful consideration.
It's touching. And, you have to admit, however begrudgingly, quite endearing.
"You both said the game encompasses anything, right?" he says, when he realizes the silence has stretched, glancing between you and Carrie. "Or did I do this wrong?"
"You did it perfectly." the words leave your lips too fast. You smile anyway, encouraging him.
Carrie nods, lips stretched in a smirk. "Yeah, I think that answer ties with the balrog, at the very least. God, you two are a match made in freak-heaven."
Spencer laughs, cheeks turning pink. "I think I'm just attracted to strong, feminine figures."
"Oh, sure. But that doesn't negate what I said." Carrie points out, winking at you.
This time, you don't bother kicking her under the table. Not when Spencer's smile is once again directed at you, victorious and sincere.
Thank you deeply for reading, please reblog if you enjoyed!
SUMMARY : two agents pull up to a stakeout; one won't stop talking, and the other isn't paying attention because she's too busy picturing them fucking. abstinence really must make people crazy, because spencer reid is the bottom of the barrel—at least you thought he was, six hours ago.
PAIRING : spencer reid x fem!reader | WORD COUNT : 2.8k
TAGS : MDNI, “enemies” but they’re just court jesters, no sex but reader's sure thinking about it, daydreaming & fantasising, body odour, big dick spencer reid, kissing, dry humping, torn clothing, interrupted sex, semi-public almost-sex, idiots in love, emphasis on idiots, silliest marcidstars fic to date, title from a blythe davis song, not proofread at all
NOTES : lowkey wrote this in one sitting. here she comes word, be nice to her <3
Spencer Reid sucks.
That's the conclusion you've arrived at following three grievous years in the BAU.
It started off with small things; disagreements that could have been ironed out if they hadn't piled up so quickly. He cut you off when you were delivering a profile, you accidentally drank from his special coffee mug, he tried to stand up as you walked by and rammed his desk chair into your hip—each misstep was followed by an apology, and each apology was met with forgiveness.
But the well of mercy isn't infinite, and a pattern is a pattern.
You pulled away first, started avoiding him hoping it would prevent further incidents and protect your precious peace of mind. It worked, for a time, until something else happened. Another slight. Another apology. Another pardon.
Spencer forgot to refill the coffee pot. An honest mistake, you're sure, but you were tired. It had been a long day, long week, long month with the amount of cases you were juggling; always running from scene to scene, or battling your fear of flying thirty thousand feet in the air, or listening to him talk when you had already told him you had a headache. All you wanted was a coffee.
It wouldn't have stuck with you, if it hadn't been him who was responsible. You wouldn't have even blinked if Emily or JJ—or anyone else—had put their hand up to take the blame for the sad, empty coffee pot. But of course it was him.
It was always him.
So you misplaced the file he was working on ("Sorry, Spence. I know I left it around here somewhere…"); and he let you borrow a pen that exploded all over your blouse ("Crap— I'm sorry! It must have gotten too warm in my car."); and your desk chair broke so you took his instead of one of the spares ("My bad…but are you sure you've always sat there? No, I'm certain you usually sit somewhere else. The same spot for seven years now? Are you gaslighting me, Reid?").
It wasn't until Spencer physically knocked the mug out of your hands, spilling your coffee all over the carpet, that the team noticed something was up. So much for those acclaimed profiling skills.
And the worst part? Spencer offered to clean that carpet. No, he insisted on it, and he apologised at every chance he got, all wide eyes and worry lines, really leaning into his kicked puppy appeal, and that was the moment your quiet battle turned into an all-out war.
Snide comments were ping ponged across the bullpen, the conference room, the jet—anywhere that put you and Reid within earshot of each other turned into your own hostile work environment playpen. He called you so many variations of the word "bitch" you were convinced he had shoved a thesaurus up his ass (all without actually calling you a bitch; that was too far), and you responded by slipping the word "virgin" into every sentence for two full shifts; he made a daring remark about the "borderline inappropriate" cut of your shirt, and you stole a sweater from his go-bag and wore it the rest of the day to "protect his eyes"; you got yourself a boyfriend, and he got…weird.
Reid's always weird, in a Reid way; awkward, rambling, would-be-a-good-court-jester kind of weird. But this was different. He was different.
He stopped fighting. Raised his pitiful little white flag and just stopped. No big argument, no letter from HR, nothing.
You just thought he'd gotten bored of the back-and-forth, or maybe his New Year's resolution was to stop being a total bitch (you can call him a bitch; that's fine) and become a total bore instead. It wasn't something you thought anything of— and you wouldn't even be thinking about it now if things weren't…like this.
Three months ago, you broke up with your boyfriend. (No big deal; people break up all the time.)
The last time you had sex was three months ago. (Again, nothing crazy; you've abstained for far longer than that in the past.)
You're stuck in a car for twelve hours… (Average stakeout; nothing to write home about.)
…with Spencer Reid… (You've done it before; you can do it again.)
…and you're pretty sure you're ovulating. (Literally happens every month; you'd be more concerned if you weren't ovulating.)
All of these factors are insignificant on their own. Mundane things that happen to everyone, anywhere, any time; mundane things that have all happened to you at one point or another, and it really, really shouldn't be a big deal.
So why does it feel like you're dying?
Spencer's talking to you, he has been for some time now, and you can barely hear him over…whatever this is. And you certainly can't look at him, because then you'll—
Christ, have his hands always looked like that? Were those veins there when you got in the car? The definition? Have they always been that big?
Okay, arms and legs crossed, eyes forward, breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth…
…is he sweating? Can you smell is sweat right now? Is that really what he smells like?
Correction: breathe in through your mouth, and out through your mouth.
You're sweating, that's for sure.
Fuck, it's hot in here.
"Are you listening to me?"
"Uh huh."
"You haven't been listening, have you?"
"Sure I have." You rub your eyes, trying to get to whatever thing has hijacked your mind. "You said this guy, uh…wasn't bitten by a spider? So how is he Spider-Man?"
"I…" His gaze burns a hole straight through your temple and into your brain, sears it from the inside out. "I said that ten minutes ago."
"Oh." Pull yourself together. "Run it back?"
"Run it back?"
"We have time, don't we?" You squint at the dashboard, carefully avoiding any hands or forearms or biceps or— "There's…six hours left of this…oh my God."
"Don't sound too thrilled," Spencer mutters. "Anyway, the reason he's Spider-Man is because he was trying to recreate the abilities of the original Spider-Man in other people—this is set in the future, remember? He actually wanted to discontinue his research after a human test subject died, but Tyler Stone—that's his boss—had other plans…"
Garcia once told you about this alternate universe trope in a lot of her "fandoms" where characters have this almost wolf-like biological hierarchy thing going on— or something like that, you weren't paying much attention. You remember her talking about how certain people experience "heats" like animals do, and you're sure this must be the real-life equivalent.
You've been sitting in a hot car for six hours, unable to sleep, with a coworker who is inexplicably getting more and more attractive with each torturous minute that passes, and he's talking about fucking Spider-Man. Not even regular Spider-Man, either; he's talking about Spider-Man from the fucking future.
And that's not to say that Reid was unattractive before this nightmare began, Morgan doesn't call him "pretty boy" for no reason, but you weren't attracted to him. Okay, maybe a little, or…more than a little—but not to the extent that you are now.
Right now, you feel positively in-fucking-sane.
"…and in order to get himself off of Rapture, he uses an older template of his unaltered genetic code to overwrite his current biology. However, his subordinate Delgato sabotages the machines and, instead of being restored to his old code, his genes are rewritten to contain fifty percent spider DNA—that's how he becomes Spider-Man."
A pause. Spencer doesn't pause unless he's awaiting a response.
"…uh huh."
The leather squeaks as Spencer leans over to scrutinise you. "What did I say?"
"That he, um—" You shrug as you clear your throat. "Someone fucked with the machine, and now his DNA is half spider."
Another pause. Longer.
What is he waiting for? You answered his question.
"Um. I just figured that all Spider-Men were bitten by—"
"Can you look at me?"
"Nope."
You weren't supposed to say that out loud.
"…nope? What— what do you mean nope?"
"We're supposed to keep an eye out for our unsub," you mutter.
"So you can't spare a glance?"
"Nope," you repeat, popping the "p" this time so it sounds more intentional.
Spencer sinks back into his seat, but his gaze doesn't leave you.
"Did I do something?"
You shake your head quickly. "No, you're…fine."
He's fine? Really?
"Look," he sighs, "I know we've never really…seen eye to eye. And I've been, um, distant—"
"Just keep talking about Spider-Man, Reid."
"—but I think, if there's ever going to be an opportunity to talk things out, then—"
"Please."
"—this is it."
He talks over you, unapologetic. Bulldozes your words with his own, and with a kind of resolution that leaves the air feeling even heavier. The heat inside of the car mixes with whatever poison gas he's just released, makes it impossible to breathe.
Does your sweat smell as strongly as his does? If so, you should invest in a better deodorant— and stop breathing through your nose.
"Can we open a window?" you ask stiffly.
"Nope."
"Reid, please—"
"Are you trying to say I smell bad?"
God, no.
"Yes," you snap, "and I'm sweating like a dog in…"
As your words trail off into obscurity, Spencer scoffs. "Fine, open your window. It isn't even that warm in here, I have the AC turned up all the way."
"AC my ass."
The air that hits you as you roll your window down feels like heaven. You lean back in your seat, finally able to breathe, but then you hear that damn squeak.
Spencer's leaning over to adjust the passenger side fan. His hair tickles your nose, and when you freeze up, he cranes his neck to look at you, and he smiles.
"Hello."
"What are you doing."
"I'm fixing your—"
"I just said you stink, Reid."
"Stop breathing through your nose, then."
There's brain matter leaking out from your ears. Eyes locked in this subdued, almost dead stare. Homed on his lips. You're roadkill, flattened under his tyre, using the last of your strength to blink and twitch. Slow and laboured. Helpless.
When the hell did he start looking like this?
"…thank you, Doctor."
Your efforts to keep your voice steady prove futile. You sound as weak as you feel, breathless and—Christ—like sex.
Close enough to kiss. You could lean in, that's all it would take. He'd taste like his coffee, strong and sweet, at first, with a bitterness that hits you just as you pull away, drags you back in for more. You hate his coffee, and yet…part of you…
"You're welcome, Agent."
Spencer pulls back, returning to his seat before you can do anything rash. The fan hits your face, but it does nothing to cool you down.
Despite your best efforts, your gaze follows him. Sticks to him like a magnet, dumb and dead and desperate. He doesn't seem to notice how he's killed you.
He reaches for the steering wheel, holds it like he's going somewhere. Fingers flex against the plastic, tendons working. Veins. Just…veins.
He probably has a big dick.
And you're looking out of the window, putting yourself in time-out, because what?
What is wrong with you? This is Spencer. Awkward, bumbling, pain-in-the-ass Spencer. You can't be thinking about him like this. It isn't right. It's…
That day, when you stole his sweater, he had only made that remark about your outfit because you had caught him staring first.
"There is actually, um, something I've been meaning to…talk to you about."
And you had only kept it on for as long as you did because it was comfortable. Because you liked how it smelled. How it reminded you of him.
…and he never even asked for it back. You could have kept it. He would have let you keep it.
Just how long as this been happening?
"I asked Hotch to pair us together on this."
His words hit like a bucket of ice, and you snap back to him, frowning. "What?"
"I wanted— I don't know," he sighs. "I needed a moment alone with you—"
"A moment?" you hiss, leaning forward. "We're here for twelve hours, Reid. We've— we've already been here for six, and you're only just saying this now? What took you so long to—"
He cuts you off, spitting out the name of your ex boyfriend like a curse—like it means anything.
You scoff, all irrational, hormonal thoughts forgotten. "What about him?"
"He's the reason I took so damn long, alright?" He's talking to the steering wheel; you're staring at him like he's lost his mind. "Because I…I had a plan, at the start of the year. I-I was going to ask you out, but—"
"Reid."
"You got this…stupid rock of a boyfriend, and— and I concluded that I was the idiot. I-I told myself that I had misread everything, and that you were never…interested in me, like that."
"Are you serious—"
"I'm not finished." Releasing the steering wheel, Spencer turns to you with this big, sarcastic smile. "The idiot here is you—"
You practically launch yourself across the seats, meeting his open, smug mouth with a kiss that leaves him floundering, grasping at the leather to keep himself steady so he doesn't fall and, more importantly, so he can kiss you back. He matches your hunger like it's second nature, like it's been simmering quietly within him for as long as it has been in you. Like he's spent months letting it eat him alive.
Everything is on fire. Your skin burns at the same temperature his does; tongues meet in a blaze amidst scorched lips and molten teeth.
He pulls you over the centre console. Your knee hits the gearstick, and he mumbles an apology into your mouth, adjusts himself so you can straddle him with relative ease.
Those large hands settle like anchors on your waist, pressing you down just enough for you to feel how his body responds to the kiss, to this position, to you. And it's enough to make you moan, because you were right: if the bulge in his slacks is anything to go by, Spencer Reid has a big dick. It's a wonder his ego isn't supersized, too.
It hardly registers that you're rocking your hips until he's whining on your tongue, trying to move in tandem in a way the car seat simply won't allow for. You reach around blindly, and the seat gives a rough, begrudging jerk before it reclines.
"Okay…" Your chest heaves against his as you pull back just enough to let yourself breathe. "I concede…I'm an idiot…"
Spencer exhales a shaky, smile-ridden sigh as his hand finds your cheek. The curl of his lips reads as nothing but affectionate; pure, unfiltered fondness offset only by his words.
"I forgive you."
You don't share in his smile. In fact, you swat his hand away like it's dirty.
"Bitch."
And then you're latching onto his neck, relishing the way he stutters on a gasp that, if you're hearing correctly, is laced with a curse. Faint, but discernible.
God, the things you'd do to hear that again.
When your teeth nip his sensitive skin, he whimpers, and you feel his cock twitch and strain against the fabric between you.
Corrupting the golden boy, getting him to say all kinds of nasty things for you, and in a government-issue vehicle, too…now that sounds like an exciting way to spend your night. Far better than this stupid stakeout— the stupid stakeout that he requested you accompany him on.
Buttons hit the window as you pull his shirt open without care. He sputters, stammers, but you're kissing along his collarbone before he can choke out a single word, dragging your nails down his chest, and by that point all he can do is throw his head back and make his pretty little noises; you can worry about his shirt later.
As if on cue, Spencer's phone starts to ring. The hot car turns to ice, and in that split-second before the panic really kicks in, and he's just staring at you with those startled brown eyes, you swear to God he's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.
He scrambles around for his phone, finds it in his pocket just under your thigh. He almost drops it as he brings it to his ear.
synopsis: after seven years of friendship, spencer finally introduces you to his team. unfortunately, they're all very good at their jobs.
word count: 4.5k
content: no use of y/n, friends to lovers, mutual pining, everyone knows but them, seven years of accidental courtship, the BAU drawing one very reasonable conclusion, alcohol consumption, fluff
Spencer changes his mind about bringing you somewhere between ringing the bell and Rossi opening the front door.
“We can still leave,” he says, leaning closer and lowering his voice as though someone might overhear him, despite the empty porch.
“You spent three weeks convincing me to come.”
“I know.” He glances towards the house, and you watch the implications of what he’s done catch up with him. “I may not have thought this through.”
You follow his gaze to the nearest window. The curtain falls back into place with such violent innocence that you can practically hear Penelope Garcia denying everything from the other side.
“She’s been waiting there?”
“Possibly.”
“How long?”
Spencer glances at his watch. “We’ve only been here for forty-three seconds.”
“And she’s already frightened you into retreat.”
“I’m not frightened.” His mouth pulls to one side, though his eyes stray to the curtain again. “I just want to make sure you’re comfortable.”
You look back at him. He’s dressed slightly better than the occasion requires, which is normal enough that you noticed only in passing when he arrived at your flat. His tie is patterned but subdued, and his hair keeps falling forwards no matter how often he pushes it away. His coat is still unbuttoned despite the January cold; he began telling you about Rossi’s cooking before you made it out of your building and apparently forgot there were buttons involved.
The knot of his tie has worked its way a little to the left. You reach up to straighten it. “I’m comfortable.”
His attention drops to your hands. “You’re cold.”
“I’m standing outside in January.”
“You loosened the scarf.”
“It made me look like I was being strangled by a blanket.”
“It’s cashmere.”
You glance down at the loosened scarf. “I know. That doesn’t mean it wasn’t aggressive.”
Spencer’s smile spreads slowly, warm and crooked and bright enough to make you forget the weather for a second. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“You understood me.”
“I usually do.”
The door opens before you can answer. Rossi takes in the two of you on his porch — your fingers still resting against Spencer’s tie, Spencer standing close enough that the sleeve of his coat brushes yours — and lets his eyes linger on your hand before returning to Reid.
“Reid.” He steps aside. “And you must be the woman who stole his seat.”
You turn on Spencer. “You told him that?”
“It’s how we met.”
“That’s not how we met.”
Rossi accepts your coat. You unwind the scarf and hold it out without looking; Spencer takes it automatically, hanging it beside your coat while he continues to regard you with the stubborn composure of someone who possesses an eidetic memory and has appointed himself sole custodian of the past.
“There was a programme on the chair,” he says.
“There was rubbish on the chair.”
“It was the programme for the lecture.”
“Which had already started.”
“That doesn’t make it rubbish.”
Rossi closes the door behind you. “You can argue the case over dinner. I’ve heard Reid’s testimony several times.”
You follow him into the hall, looking sideways at Spencer. “How many times have you told this story?”
“It comes up more often than you’d think.”
Before you can ask how a disagreement over auditorium seating could possibly come up at the Behavioral Analysis Unit, someone makes a small, delighted noise at the end of the hallway.
Garcia appears in a sweep of colour, bracelets and barely restrained curiosity. “You’re real.”
“Garcia,” Spencer warns.
“I never suggested she wasn’t.” She reaches you and takes both your hands, looking you over with such open pleasure that it’s impossible to feel inspected. “I’m Penelope. I have been waiting so patiently to meet you that I think I deserve official recognition from the Bureau.”
“You sent me four messages this afternoon,” Spencer says.
Garcia dismisses this with a flick of her bracelets. “And every one of them was supportive.”
“One of them was nine exclamation marks.”
She hugs you before you have decided whether handshakes are still an option. Over her shoulder, you find Spencer watching you, ready to intervene and relieved when he sees he doesn’t have to. He knows you have never enjoyed entering a room full of strangers. He also knows that Garcia has rendered strangers impossible within thirty seconds.
Morgan comes around the corner carrying two bottles of wine. “So this is who’s been taking up all your Thursdays.”
Spencer’s head turns. “She doesn’t take them up.”
“You make that sound worse,” you tell him.
“I mean, I choose to spend them with you.”
Morgan’s eyebrows rise. “And disappear before anyone can give you another file.”
Spencer has already turned back to you, taking the bag from your shoulder before you have to hitch it back into place.
“I leave work at a reasonable time on Thursdays,” he adds. “That isn’t disappearing.”
“You texted me from the lift last week saying, ‘I escaped.’”
“They’d already given me three,” he says, as though this settles the choice of verb.
Morgan studies the two of you for another second, then gives you a slow nod. “You’re going to fit in fine.”
The rest of the introductions happen in Rossi’s living room, where the fire is lit and every available surface has acquired either a glass or a plate. JJ greets you with an easy warmth that eases the last of your nerves. Hotch is more reserved, although the handshake he offers comes with a sincere, “It’s good to finally meet you.”
Between the BAU’s cases and your own habit of declining invitations to crowded gatherings, finally becomes the common thread of the evening. Oddly, the feeling is mutual. Spencer has been talking about his team for seven years, long enough that you sometimes forget you’ve never actually met any of them. Tara, seated on the arm of a chair, tells you that she has only known Spencer for a few months and has somehow still heard enough about you to recognise your name immediately.
You look at him. “What have you been telling these people?”
“Not much.”
Morgan sets the wine beside Rossi’s decanter. “He brings you up more than he thinks he does.”
“Only when something reminds me of her,” Spencer says.
“So whenever anyone sits in a chair,” you say.
“Only if they sit in my seat.”
“That wasn’t your seat.”
Tara looks between you. “I’m beginning to see how you two have kept an argument about a chair going for seven years.”
“Seven years, two months and six days,” Spencer corrects.
You’re accustomed to this. Spencer remembers the first time you met, the first film you watched together and the day you discovered the little bookshop that now holds a hard-won place in your Thursday routine. He remembers what you ordered the first time you dragged him to your favourite café and exactly which joke made you choke on it. None of it has ever seemed remarkable when it’s simply the way his mind works and the shape your life has taken around his. Across the room, JJ’s gaze rests on him for a moment before returning to you.
“That’s Spencer,” you say, because it is.
“It is,” JJ agrees, a small smile tucked into the words, and Rossi calls everyone to the table before you can work out what she finds funny.
He has prepared enough food for twice as many people and accepts praise as his due. The conversation moves easily around you, propelled by the overlapping stories of people who spend too much time together. Morgan disputes Rossi’s version of an arrest in Baltimore; JJ supplies the part both men have omitted. Tara waits until they have nearly finished before revealing that Garcia showed her the security footage and neither account is accurate.
At the head of the table, Hotch listens with the patience of a man who has long since accepted that authority has limits.
As everyone gathers around the table, Spencer rests a hand on the back of an empty chair. You slip into it without either of you acknowledging the gesture, and he takes the seat to your right, tucking your bag safely beside his feet.
The conversation follows everyone to the table, breaking and reforming as chairs are pulled in and Rossi begins sending dishes around. When the bread reaches Spencer, he selects the darker end piece before handing you the basket. He’s looking down at his plate, but you catch the twitch at the corner of his mouth.
You dig beneath the slices for the remaining end and set it on your plate.
“Did you just take that?”
He arranges his face into innocence. “Take what?”
“You know I like the end.”
“There are two ends.”
“You took the better one.”
“They’re structurally identical.”
“They absolutely are not.”
He lets you make your case, then exchanges his piece for the one on your plate with the ease of a ritual completed many times before. You tear the bread in half and put half back on his plate, which is when you notice Tara watching from across the table, amusement gathering at one corner of her mouth.
“What?” you ask.
“Nothing.” She reaches for her wine. “I’m learning.”
Spencer leans nearer to you. “About bread?”
You give him a look and take a bite. He glances across at Tara, clearly tempted to investigate.
“Don’t make the face,” you warn.
“What face?”
“The one you make before asking a question that adds twenty minutes to a conversation.”
Spencer turns to you, brow furrowed and mouth pulled into a small, dubious line. “I don’t have a face for that.”
“You do,” JJ says from his other side.
Morgan points his fork at her. “He definitely does.”
Spencer appeals to Hotch, who takes a measured drink of wine. “You do.”
The table breaks into laughter, Spencer along with it. His head tips back, his eyes close, and the smile opens across his face without the flicker of self-consciousness that sometimes follows when he realises a room is watching him. You know the quieter laugh he uses when he’s trying not to encourage you, the startled one that escapes when you catch him off guard, the breathless, helpless version that makes him fold forwards and hide his face. This one is easy and bright. He looks happy.
You are still watching when he turns back. The laughter remains in his eyes as his expression shifts into a question, and only then do you notice the small streak of sauce near the corner of his mouth.
“Hold still.” You wipe it away with your thumb before it occurs to you that a napkin would have done the job just as well.
His lips part at the touch. For a second, the noise of the table seems to move around the two of you, then you drop your hand and reach for your glass. By the time Spencer does the same, Morgan has turned the conversation towards Rossi’s wine.
Later, once the plates have been cleared and Rossi produces a tiramisu large enough to require architectural planning, Garcia asks how you and Spencer became friends after what she calls the Auditorium Incident.
“She followed me outside,” Spencer says.
“You followed me.” You turn towards him, eyebrows raised at the version of events he has chosen to present. “Apparently handing me a pen and saying ‘Here’ was supposed to communicate a short-term loan.”
“I thought it was obvious.”
Morgan rests an elbow on the table. “Was this at least a good pen?”
“No. It leaked all over my hand.”
“That’s what I was trying to tell her when she walked away.”
JJ glances between you. “So you followed a woman out of a lecture hall over a defective pen?”
“I didn’t follow her,” Spencer says, a little too quickly. “She was walking towards the Metro.”
“I was walking towards coffee. He spent three blocks correcting a route I wasn’t taking.”
Garcia presses both hands to her heart. “And he came with you.”
“It had started raining,” Spencer says.
JJ looks at him. “You hate coffee shops.”
“They’re usually loud.”
“That one was,” you say. “You stayed after the rain stopped anyway.”
He looks at you, momentarily caught without a correction. His knee has rested against yours beneath the table for most of the conversation, warm and solid through two layers of clothing. “You were interesting.”
The answer is simple, offered without embarrassment. Before you can decide what to do with it, Rossi cuts into the tiramisu. “And the rest is seven years, two months and six days of arguing.”
“We don’t always argue,” Spencer says.
“You called me at midnight last week because my bookshelf leans.”
“It leans towards your bed.”
“Protectively.”
He gives you a long, suffering look. “It’s going to fall on you.”
Hotch hides a smile behind his wine. “He may have a point.”
“Thank you,” Spencer says, vindicated, and you promise the table that when he appears at your flat with a spirit level, they are all invited to help him.
The evening loosens after dessert. Rossi opens another bottle of wine, Morgan finds music, and people drift between the living room and kitchen as the conversation divides into smaller pieces. You spend a while talking to JJ and Tara near the fire. Spencer is pulled into a discussion with Hotch on the other side of the room, but his attention returns to you often enough that you begin to anticipate it. You look up, and his eyes are already there.
He never stares. His gaze finds yours, checks, and returns to the conversation. When Garcia drops onto the sofa beside you with enough force to send your glass wobbling, his hand lifts from across the room before you catch it yourself.
You raise the rescued glass in his direction. He smiles, lets his hand fall and turns back to Hotch.
Between the fire and the overlapping voices, the room soon grows too warm. You finish what remains in your glass, leave it on the side table beside Garcia and slip through the doors onto the back terrace. At the stone railing, you draw one full breath of cold air before the door opens behind you.
“You’re going to say you told me so,” you say.
Spencer settles your coat over your shoulders. “I was going to ask why you came outside without this.” He draws the fabric closed at your throat, making sure your hair stays clear of the collar.
“Same sentiment.”
“Not exactly.”
You turn before he has taken his hands away, leaving the two of you close enough that his hands slide down to your elbows instead. Through the glass doors, Garcia is looking directly at you. Morgan comes up beside her, follows her gaze and says something you can’t hear.
“What are they doing?”
Spencer glances over his shoulder. Both of them disappear from the window.
“I don’t know.”
“They’re very strange.”
“They like you.”
His certainty draws your attention back to him. “They’ve known me for three hours.” You reconsider this, glancing towards the living room. “Then again, Garcia gave me copies of your childhood photographs.”
Spencer’s eyebrows lift. “She gave you copies?”
“And made me promise Morgan would never see them. You were very serious about that chess trophy.”
Spencer smiles, small and pleased. “That means she trusts you.”
You laugh, and his thumbs shift against the sleeves of your coat. The movement is small, nearly absent-minded. You have held his hand through turbulence, hooked an arm through his in crowded streets and fallen asleep against his shoulder during films neither of you remembers finishing. This belongs to the same familiar language, a touch whose meaning has never required either of you to stop and examine it.
You rest your hands against the front of his jacket. “I like them too.”
The line of his shoulders softens. “I knew you would.”
“Even Morgan.”
“That’s premature.”
The door opens, and Morgan sticks his head outside. “We can hear you, genius.”
Spencer looks back at him without removing his hands from your arms. “She said she likes you.”
“I heard the rest too.” Morgan gives you a wounded look before retreating inside.
Spencer’s grin is immediate and entirely unrepentant. It stays with him as you go back indoors together, his hand resting lightly between your shoulder blades. Once the doors close, he eases the coat from your shoulders before the heat can become uncomfortable and carries it back to the hall.
It’s close to midnight when people begin leaving. Hotch goes first, followed shortly by JJ. Morgan hugs you and tells you to come back even if Reid doesn’t, Garcia informs him that threatening a guest is poor etiquette and then hugs you twice as hard. By the time Tara finds her coat, Spencer is helping Rossi carry glasses into the kitchen, although the discussion drifting down the hallway suggests that helping involves an argument about the safest way to store crystal.
“It was lovely meeting you,” Tara says. She loops her scarf around her neck, then glances towards the kitchen with affectionate amusement. “I understand now why he keeps disappearing on Thursdays.”
“He’ll be pleased you believe it counts as disappearing.”
“I’m sure he’ll explain the distinction to me at length on Monday.” She reaches for the door, then pauses. “I’ll admit, I was confused at first. Reid talks about you all the time, but he never mentioned you were his girlfriend.”
The word is gentle, tossed into the conversation without any reason to be careful with it.
“His girlfriend?”
Tara looks back at you. The realisation reaches her a moment later. “Oh. I’m sorry. I thought the two of you were together.”
Behind her, Garcia stops rearranging the bracelets on her wrist.
“No.” The answer comes automatically. It is a simple fact. You and Spencer have never crossed that line or even discussed it. The rest ought to follow just as easily. Instead, we’re just friends catches somewhere behind your teeth, suddenly too small to account for seven years of Thursdays and everything the others have been watching all evening. The evening begins moving through your mind again, Rossi opening the door to find your hand on Spencer’s tie, Morgan’s eyebrows when he said Spencer chose to spend Thursdays with you, JJ’s quiet smile, Tara watching the bread pass between your plates, Garcia and Morgan vanishing from the terrace window. “It’s not like that. We’re not—”
“You ready?”
Spencer comes down the hallway with your bag in one hand. His attention passes from your face to Tara’s and then to Garcia, who has become far too interested in her bracelets.
“What happened?”
“Nothing,” Tara says, recovering first. “I was saying goodnight.”
You can’t find the end of the sentence you were saying. “Yeah. I’m ready.”
He holds your coat while you slip your arms into it and frees your hair from beneath the collar with practised fingers. The touch is the same one you have barely noticed a hundred times. Now the word girlfriend seems to catch against it.
Rossi appears at the end of the hallway. He surveys Tara, whose hand is still on the door, Garcia valiantly looking elsewhere and Spencer adjusting your scarf. “Goodnight,” he says, much too entertained for someone who can’t possibly know what has just happened.
By the time the two of you reach the Metro, Spencer has filled the walk with an account of Rossi insisting tiramisu can’t be made properly without alcohol. He talks while you wait on the platform and keeps going once you’re inside the carriage. The earliest known versions of the dessert lead to the disputed origins of ladyfingers, which somehow bring him back to the argument about stacking Rossi’s crystal.
Usually, you interrupt. You ask questions, argue over details or tug him back to the original point when one tangent begins producing another. Tonight, you watch his reflection in the darkened window while he talks. His curls have grown increasingly disordered over the course of the evening, and one falls across his forehead whenever he turns towards you. Interest animates his whole face — his eyes brighten, his hands move with the rhythm of his words, and every trace of fatigue leaves him for as long as the thought holds him.
You know all of this because you have always known him. What it does to you when he turns that attention on you is hardly new; the part you have never allowed yourself to question is what any of it means from his side. A room full of profilers watched the two of you for a few hours and assumed they already knew. Tara gave that assumption a name, and now every small, familiar thing seems to return carrying the possibility with it.
When the train lurches around a curve, Spencer’s hand closes lightly around your forearm. He releases you once you are steady, still talking. You feel the place his fingers were long after the warmth is gone.
Outside the station, the pavement is damp from an earlier rain, catching the streetlights in long, blurred reflections. Spencer slows his stride to yours without acknowledging the adjustment. He has glanced at you more than once since the train pulled away, waiting at the end of a sentence as though he expects you to tug the conversation elsewhere, and each time he has gone on when you don’t. You’re only a few blocks from home when his explanation of why Rossi’s crystal glasses should never be stacked trails off.
“Everything okay?” His words soften as he studies your face. “You’ve been unusually quiet.”
“Yeah. I’m good.”
He doesn’t look convinced, but he lets you have the answer. You make it another half-block before a disbelieving laugh slips out.
“What?”
You shake your head. “Did you know Tara thought we were dating?”
A smile begins at one corner of his mouth. “What?”
“Yeah.” Saying it aloud makes you unexpectedly shy. You push your hands deeper into your coat pockets. “Apparently everyone did.”
You expect him to laugh. You expect him to question the team’s observational abilities or reconstruct the evidence that led them there. Instead, the smile falters as something you cannot read moves through his expression, and for the first time all evening Spencer has nothing to say.
At the corner, he waits for the light with his hands in his coat pockets and his shoulders drawn in against the cold. The unfinished explanation about Rossi’s glasses hangs somewhere behind you.
“Spence?” You bump your arm against his. “Got really quiet there for a minute.”
He looks at you, then towards the signal as it changes. “Did you correct her?”
You start across the street beside him. “I tried. Then you came over.”
“What were you going to say?”
“That it wasn’t like that. That we weren’t…”
“Dating,” he supplies.
“Right.”
He nods, but the silence returns. You reach the other pavement and stop. Spencer takes one more step before noticing you are no longer beside him.
“What?” he asks.
“You’re being strange.”
“I’m not.”
“You abandoned a fact halfway through.”
“I can finish it.”
“I don’t want to hear about the glasses anymore.”
His eyebrows lift. “Then why did you bring them up?”
“Spencer.”
He goes still. For a moment he simply looks at you, his hair untidy from the wind, a nervous half-smile appearing and disappearing at the corner of his mouth. When he speaks, each word sounds measured.
“I didn’t realise it was that obvious.”
Your pulse stumbles. “What was?”
He doesn’t answer with words. His gaze holds yours, open enough that you can see the question he’s too careful to ask and the truth he has already let escape.
“Oh,” you say. Everything you have been turning over since Rossi’s house settles into place at once. Spencer is still watching you with nervous hope, and Tara’s mistake no longer feels entirely like one.
Spencer glances down at the wet pavement, then back at you, waiting.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I didn’t want to lose you,” he says quietly, holding your gaze this time.
For several seconds, all you can do is stare at him. “Spencer, I rearranged my entire week so I could keep Thursdays free for you.”
He blinks. “You said Thursday was convenient.”
“It’s convenient. I made it convenient.”
“For me?” he asks, still sounding uncertain enough to make you want to shake him.
You let out a breath and catch the lapels of his coat. “Yes. For you.”
Then you pull him down and kiss him.
The first touch of your mouth to his goes awry only because Spencer inhales at exactly the wrong moment. His body stills beneath your hands. You feel the startled warmth of his breath, the edge of his lower lip and the smallest movement as he begins to respond — just before nerves get the better of you and you draw back.
His eyes stay closed for another second. When they open, he stares at you, lips parted.
“Because I wanted Thursdays with you,” you say, still holding his coat. “And because I think I’ve wanted to do that for longer than I realised.”
His gaze searches your face. “You’ve wanted this too?”
“Yes, Spence.”
Relief breaks across his face as one of his hands finds your waist, tentative only until you lean into it.
“Then why did you stop?” he asks.
A nervous laugh slips out. “You went completely still.”
“I wasn’t expecting you to kiss me.” His fingers curl into your coat and bring you a little closer. “I am now.”
You kiss him again.
This time Spencer meets you halfway. One hand settles against the side of your neck, his thumb fitting beneath your jaw, while the other draws you in at the waist. He kisses you slowly at first, learning the angle, and then with an eagerness that makes you smile against his mouth. His answering laugh is breathless, one you have never heard before and already know you will want to hear again.
When the cold finally makes itself impossible to ignore, you part only far enough to breathe. Spencer’s forehead rests against yours, his breath still unsteady.
“Garcia is going to be unbearable,” you whisper.
“She’s going to say she knew.”
“She did know.”
Spencer closes his eyes. “Please don’t tell her that.”
You laugh and smooth the curl the wind has dropped between his eyebrows. He catches your hand as you lower it, keeping your fingers curled inside his.
“Are Thursdays still mine?” he asks.
“They’re still yours.”
He keeps hold of your hand as you begin walking again, his thumb moving over your knuckles while his shoulder keeps brushing yours. He makes it almost half a block before speaking.
“Friday,” he says.
“What about it?”
“Are you free?”
“No.”
His disappointment is immediate. “Oh.”
You let him endure it until you reach the next streetlight. “But I can move things.”
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we're just dogs
we play, and we paw
and we eat only raw
⊹ ࣪ ˖ᯓ IT'S DOG EAT DOG EAT DOG.
SUMMARY : spencer tends to his morning wood, serenaded by sultry praises and the spray of a hot shower. is it getting steamy in here?
PAIRING : sub!spencer reid x fem!dom!reader
GENRE : smut (MDNI) | WORD COUNT : 3.1k
TAGS : m masturbation, m orgasm, spencer "good boy" reid, showering together, hints of reader being insecure, lots and lots of body worship, spencer is literally obsessed with her, FINGER SUCKING, dog imagery/themes, one use of "puppy", title from a blythe davis song
NOTES : my puppy boy spencer agenda spilled into this fic a little. i'm not sorry.
"Anywhere but my face."
…is not something you thought you'd ever say at 7am on a Tuesday, adorned with a mighty bed head and a pair of crumpled pyjamas, but isn't the beauty of life in it's unending surprises?
You're eye-level with the tent in your boyfriends plaid pants, playing with the frayed drawstring like a cat with it's favourite toy and waiting, patiently, for him to make his move; to do anything, really, other than stand there gawking at you like you've just floated down from heaven. He looks positively dumbstruck, all flushed cheeks and big brown puppy eyes, mussed hair framing his face, so effortlessly gorgeous it's genuinely starting to irritate you.
You must look like a corpse, next to him; it's a wonder he doesn't shit the bed when he wakes up beside you each morning.
But Spencer Reid has looked at you the same way since the day you met; like he worships you.
It was disconcerting at first, but you grew used to it. In all fairness, it wasn't like you had much choice, not when he insisted on lingering at the peripheral of your life, buying your coffees and walking you to your office even though it was two floors up from the BAU and totally, definitely not stalking you. (You called him out on it once. He almost cried, but he backed off. Kept his distance until you realised you actually missed having him around, and the rest is history. You still debate what you'll tell your grandkids when they ask how you met; whether you'll stick with the facts or try to paint Grandpa Reid in a less…unconventional light, if such a thing is even possible.)
It still gets you, every now and then. Especially in the early mornings when you feel like you've been dragged backwards through a bush and he looks like sleeping fucking beauty, and he looks at you like he's ready to drop to his knees and kiss your feet. You aren't sure what you did to be loved so fervently; maybe you were a saint in a past life, or something.
"I-I'd rather not get it on your clothes, either," he says, smiling that stupid, sheepish little smile that always makes him look a little fearful, like you might jump up and bite him.
If he thinks he can fool you with his politeness, he's wrong.
"If you want me to take my shirt off, Spence, you need to ask."
His brows shoot up like you've just accused him of murder. This weak, almost painful sounding scoff forces its way out of him as heat rushes to his cheeks, and he looks around the room in disbelief, as though his neatly put away Doctor Who slippers may come alive and back him up. He seems offended when they don't.
"Spencer."
"Semen contains acids that can stain or discolour fabrics," he says quickly, "I'm just, um, looking out for your shirt. It's a nice shirt. I wouldn't want to ruin it."
You nod along with his explanation, lips pressed into a thin line. It's incredible, really, how he can turn a two minute sexual encounter into a ten minute debate.
"So, if you could please remove your shirt so we can keep it out of harm's way, then— what are you doing?"
"My knees hurt," you mutter.
Immediately, Spencer's helping you to your feet. "You should sit on the bed," he offers. "Or you could kneel on a pillow, if—"
"Yeah, I have a better idea."
You lead him into the bathroom by the drawstring of his pyjama pants, ignoring how he stammers as you drag him away. By the time you let go, the knot has unravelled, and his pants drop to his ankles in one smooth, almost comical motion. Spencer doesn't try to hold them up; he just stands there, half-naked, almost as bewildered as he is hard.
"…what are we doing?"
He sounds almost hesitant to ask, like your answer will yield something sinister; maybe you keep a butcher knife behind the mirror, or maybe you'll just give him a good old fashioned swirly.
"Take your shirt off," you instruct, leaning over to turn on the shower, "unless you want it to get wet."
Your non-answer does nothing to clear up his confusion, but Spencer removes his shirt anyway and places it, alongside his pants, in the laundry basket. Neatly folded, right on top of your crumpled clothes from yesterday.
Before he can pester you with any more questions, you take his wrists and guide his hesitant hands down, slowly, to the hem of your shirt. He holds your waist, studying your expression with wide eyes as he pushes the soft fabric up with his thumbs, just enough to expose a sliver of tummy.
"You want me to take it off?" he asks quietly. His words are tinged with disbelief, as though you're bestowing some lavish gift upon him—as though he hasn't seen you naked hundreds of times already.
"You just listed a million reasons why I should," you mutter. "But no, Spence, I just want you to touch it."
Disappointment flickers across his face before he realises you're being sarcastic, and then he huffs. "I listed one reason," he says, lifting your shirt a little further, up to your ribs, "and I was making a valid point. Semen stains are—"
"I've heard enough about semen stains, 'kay?" You pinch his side; he yelps like a kicked puppy. "Shirt. Now."
He doesn't try to bicker with you further, not when you're standing there telling him to undress you.
Carefully, he slips your shirt off over your head, exposing your skin—you—to the rapidly warming bathroom air.
His face is obscured by fabric for barely a second, but when you see him again his demeanour has transformed completely.
His throat bobs, and his tongue pokes out to wet his lips as he takes you in. He's staring, utterly transfixed, at your body. Chest, stomach, hips, all of it. Honestly, by the look on his dumb face you'd think he was seeing God (if God happened to give him a massive erection).
It makes your skin crawl a little, being stared at like this, and you have to fight the instinctual urge to cover yourself under the weight of his adoring gaze. He's studying you like you're a work of art, mouth agape like he's seeing you for the first time. It makes you want to slap him, just a bit.
"…wow."
You scoff and force yourself to look away before you burst into flames. Seriously, it's like he's trying to freak you out.
Spencer's standing with your shirt balled up in his hands, squeezing it like a stress ball, too hypnotised to notice the discomfort simmering deep in your bones. Or maybe he does notice, and that's why he does it; maybe this is some fucked up kind of exposure therapy for your ridiculous fear of being perceived.
"You're so—"
You put an end to his incessant gawking by pulling him into a kiss, and he turns to putty in your hands. He moans against your lips, letting your shirt fall to the floor so he can hold your face, pull you closer, and you let him. Keeping one hand anchored in his hair, you shimmy out of your panties, leaving them discarded on the bathroom floor as you step backwards, dragging him with you.
Without breaking the kiss, the two of you stumble into the shower. Your back meets the wall; the feel of the cold tile against your skin makes you gasp, and the warm intrusion of Spencer's tongue in your mouth makes you moan. How he can go from awkward and nervous to bold and hungry in a matter of seconds is beyond you, but you'll never complain—maybe it's all the steam.
"Mm…" You pull away, hold him by his jaw as he tries to chase your lips. "You were saying?"
His hair is already drenched. Some strands stick like glue to his forehead, others develop a slight curl, finding their freedom under the spray. He wipes the water from his face but doesn't move out from under the shower head, so he has to do it again; push the droplets from his cheeks like a weaker, wetter Sisyphus. They bead on his eyelashes. Glisten like fresh tears.
"Beautiful," he says, breathless. "You're so beautiful."
He repeats this notion, and variations of it ("Pretty. God, so pretty. My pretty girl. My girl. My—"), until the words slur into melody, too drunk on that steam-kindled reverence for the rules of language to apply. He gets his point across, anyway; both through his fervent praise, and through the firm press of his hips against your stomach.
That sweet voice muffles as he brings his lips to your neck, but his ramblings do not cease. Vibrations send a shiver down your spine, laced with need and half-facts about attraction and all the parts of the brain that contribute to it. You stop listening after "ventral tegmental area"; he stops trying to explain once he reaches "nucleus accumbens" and instead reverts to his mantra of compliments, which are quickly becoming as irritating as they are superficial.
He always does this; gets ahead of himself, allows that oh so brilliant brain of his to be reduced to mush. His cerebrum shuts down, his frontal lobe goes to sleep; he stops thinking, and starts feeling. And a Spencer Reid driven by nothing but instinct and carnal desire is hardly a Spencer Reid at all; he's a dog, untrained, experiencing his first rut. All slobber and whines, humping anything that moves like he'll die if he doesn't.
"Spence."
Your voice clashes with his songs of praise; threatens to disprove them all with a single, disgruntled utterance, filled with a sigh that speaks far more of boredom than it does of pleasure.
"Spencer."
Again. Firmer. Harsher. Accompanied by a rough tug on sodden chestnut strands and a yelp that reeks of helpless desire. His gaze locks onto yours through the steam as his still parted lips mouth a single, innocent word; "What?"
You feel like an ass. One "bah humbug" away from donning the nightcap and gown and taking up the mantle of the modern day Scrooge, world's worst girlfriend. Spencer's pretty girl is a buzzkill, too high strung to relinquish herself to feeling. Too self-conscious.
"Chill out," you mutter, deaf to the irony of your own words. "And stop— Spencer, stop grinding on me. You'll give me fucking carpet burn."
"But—"
"Please?"
Ice. Buckets of it. You'd think the shower had gone cold with how fast Spencer freezes up.
Bah fucking humbug.
"I'm sorry," he says. The apology practically leaps from his tongue. A knee-jerk reaction. A dog's guilty look. He doesn't even know he didn't do anything wrong.
I'm too much. You know what he's thinking without him needing to say it.
Slumping back against the wall, you expel your frustrations through a sigh as you cradle his face. A slight pinch, and his gaze finds yours once more, apologetic. You shake your head—a quick, subtle motion—and let him know, silently, that it isn't him you're frustrated with; it could never be him, not in a million years.
Your thumbs trace circles on his damp, heat-flushed skin, and you tilt your head to the side.
"You think I'm pretty?"
"Yes." He doesn't miss a beat. "Very pretty."
You nod along with his eager compliment, narrowing your eyes. "Is that all you can say?"
"…what do you mean—"
A hand slips down, grasps him by his jaw. Grip firm enough for the skin to blanch under your fingers. "I want you to be specific," you say, keeping your voice soft, barely audible over the sound of running water. "Showering me with basic compliments is sweet and all, but I know you can do better than that. You're supposed to be a smart guy, aren't you?"
"I—" Spencer clears his throat. "…I am a smart guy, yes."
You flash him a smile. Sickly sweet. Almost menacing. "Then act like it."
For a moment, he just stares at you, letting the water drip from his lashes as he studies you like you're some kind of puzzle. "You…you're asking me to—"
"Tell me what you like about me, and why you like it. In detail," you say, feeling your cheeks burn. "Can you do that?"
"Well, yes. But…"
"But?"
"I like everything about you."
You're going to kill him. Cuteness aggression will be a fair defence in court, right?
"Cute." You tighten your grip. His breath catches. "But I'm telling you to do something, Spence. Are you saying no to me?"
He shakes his head against your hand, frantic. "Nonono— I-I'm not saying no, I'd never say— I was just—"
You watch him, brows raised, as he stumbles over his words. His face grows redder, cheeks turning a painful looking shade of crimson, with each passing second until, like a car that can't quite get going, he gives up completely.
The silence stretches out for a moment, then two. His hands settle on your waist, thumbs pressing thoughtfully against the soft skin of your stomach.
"…I like your thighs," he eventually says.
You knew he'd start there.
"From a, um, biological standpoint…certain fat distribution patterns are subconsciously recognised as a sign of good health and fertility. Fuller thighs specifically are often indicative of a wider pelvic structure, which the human mind associates with, um, lower risks of complications during childbirth, but—"
He sighs, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips.
"Personally…I like how nice they, um, feel…" His hand slips down to the back of your thigh, and he lifts it, gently. "…under my palms, and— and how gor-gorgeous they look when you— when you wear shorts or skirts— especially when you wear skirts. There's this one miniskirt—the burgundy one—that you wear sometimes, and I just…"
Your grip on his jaw loosens, and he slips free to press his face to your neck as his words fade into nothing; heavy breaths and an earnest, desperate hunger that seeps into your skin, saturates your every inch with a deep, weighted kind of satisfaction. It collects in your core, so pungent it almost makes you sick.
"…keep talking."
Spencer whines into your skin, cock straining against your stomach. His hips shift, a single, helpless thrust, as he whispers a quiet "please".
You take his hand, guide it down between your slick bodies. With your other hand, you pull his hair, forcing him to look at you as you repeat, in a firmer tone:
"Keep talking."
He looks like he might drop to his knees; you can't say you'd have any complaints, if he did. A strangled, needy little whimper escapes him as he wraps his fingers around his cock, and you hold him steady—one hand in his hair, the other cupping his cheek.
"I-I also…um. I like your hips and— and your ass…" He leans into your touch, nuzzling the palm of your hand as he bites his lip to suppress a groan. "A-attraction to those areas are again…influenced by biology—hips, especially. But, God…perfect. You're— have I ever told you how perfect you are?"
The room is starting to tilt, earth shifting to accommodate the electricity between you. Ricocheting from him to you, you to him, voltage doubling with each exchange.
"You have," you say. You're trying to keep the admiration, the weakness, out of your voice, but you're sure it shines through on your face; you're looking at him like he hung the fucking stars. It would be gross, cringe, if it weren't so—
"Perfect." He repeats the word again, voice trembling. "You're so…perfect. I-I don't know what I did to— mhh…"
Moans vibrate around your fingers as you push them into his open mouth, cutting his fluffy ramblings off at the root. He accepts them without complaint, swirling his tongue around your digits as he tugs on his cock, and watching you so intensely you feel you could melt under the heat of his gaze.
It takes a concentrated effort not to moan yourself as he sucks on your fingers. You pull him closer, touching his forehead to yours as you carefully withdraw your hand, smearing saliva across his lips, his chin, dragging it down to his neck.
"You're so fucking pretty…"
You echo his basic compliments without thought, hypocrisy lost on you, but Spencer doesn't seem to mind.
"…y-yeah?"
The word "pretty" goes straight to his head; you can see it rewiring his brain, short-circuiting, which doesn't make much sense because you know he's called pretty on regular basis—you've heard it.
But it's different, when it comes from you.
Everyone else? What they think isn't important to him. But you?
He needs to hear you say it again.
"Yeah," you murmur, matching his breathy, needy tone—mocking it. "You're my pretty boy, aren't you Spence?"
"Mhm…" He nods feverishly, flicking water onto your face like a badly trained pup. "I'm— I'm your pr-pretty boy…"
"God, and you're so good for me, aren't you? Yeah? You gonna finish for me, puppy? You gonna make a mess?"
He loses his words then, devolves into whimpers that grow louder as he fucks into his fist, pushing himself closer and closer to that edge, spurred on by the mere sight of you, by the steam and the spray clinging to your skin, the heat that's steadily dissolving the both of you, merging you into one.
You shift your hand, applying the slightest amount of pressure around his throat—and that's all it takes for him to come apart completely. His pretty moans fill the shower as he finishes on your stomach, collapsing against you like his very soul has left his body.
There isn't much you can do to support a man gone limp, not when he's so tall and slippery, so you just wrap your arms around his waist and pray he doesn't pull you down with him. He braces a trembling arm against the tile wall, just about keeping himself upright as he comes floating down from his high. His lips meet your cheek, and he whispers a weak "thank you".
Thank you. You didn't even touch him.
Spencer catches you rolling your eyes at his gratitude, but he just smiles and plants another kiss on your jaw before leaning down to nuzzle your neck.
And what he doesn't see—what he'll wish he had seen—is the smile that attacks your face right after. The same as his; raw and gooey, full of so much love it's almost disgusting.
"Come on," you groan, giving the back of his head a light pat. "We've gotta get ready for work—cold shower?"
He nods. You can feel him smiling against your skin. "Cold shower. Please."
psst...if you're interested at all in supporting me further, i have a ko-fi <3
Amid lingering steam, unspoken feelings, and the impossible reality of sharing a home with your ex-husband again, two familiar faces arrive for dinner.
୨ৎ ──── second chance romance. 8,6k. ex wife & prosecutor!reader. mentions of mental illness. angst and yearning. english isn't my first language. next chapter. series mastelist. main masterlist.
It was ridiculous, really.
You had to remain beneath the shower long after there was any reason to. Long after the shampoo had disappeared down the drain and the soap had been washed from your skin. The water had long since turned cold, yet you never reached for the faucet. Instead, you stood there motionless beneath the relentless stream, arms wrapped tightly around yourself as icy water cascaded over your shoulders, your spine and your chest. You just welcomed the discomfort because it was easier to endure the ache of freezing water than the unbearable warmth that had settled beneath your ribs the instant your hands had touched Spencer again.
It had been so innocent.
He was injured, still izzy from the concussion and barely able to stand without swaying. You had simply done what anyone would have done, guided him carefully beneath the spray, steadied him when his knees threatened to buckle and helped him wash around the bandages the doctors had warned you to keep dry.
And yet your body had betrayed you with humiliating ease the moment your fingertips settled against the broad slope of his shoulder.
All because showers had never simply been showers with him.
They had been stolen mornings before work, when one of you inevitably wandered into the bathroom after the other with the flimsiest excuse imaginable. They had been quiet reunions after cases, when he returned home exhausted enough to barely keep his eyes open, yet somehow still found the strength to pull you beneath the water with him because seeing you was the only thing that truly convinced him he was safe. They had been conversations, laughter echoing off tiled walls, shampoo bottles exchanged absentmindedly between sleepy hands, arguments about whose turn it was to buy more soap dissolving into kisses.
Oh...the kisses.
You could remember every single one with a clarity so sharp it almost hurt.
Because Spencer had never kissed you carelessly. Every kiss carried the intensity of someone determined to commit a moment to memory before it disappeared forever. He always approached you slowly, giving you every opportunity to pull away, though neither of you ever did. His hands inevitably found your face first, cupping it with such impossible gentleness that it often left you wondering whether he truly understood how loved he made you feel with such simple gestures. His thumbs would brush absentmindedly over your cheeks while he looked at you for one lingering heartbeat too long, studying your expression as though there were something endlessly fascinating hidden inside it.
Then one hand would drift upward, disappearing into your damp hair while his fingers settled at the nape of your neck, slipping effortlessly between wet strands until his palm rested against your skin. He would tilt your head ever so slightly before his mouth found yours again, deepening the kiss. Outside the shower, the world continued to exist—cases, paperwork, deadlines, violence, grief—but inside those four tiled walls it all ceased to matter. There was only the rhythmic percussion of water striking porcelain, the damp curl of his hair brushing your forehead, and the slow rhythm of two hearts beating close enough that you sometimes couldn’t tell which belonged to whom.
Now, you could almost feel his hands finding your waist again. You could almost hear the quiet hum he always made whenever he was content, vibrating softly against your lips whenever he smiled into a kiss. It felt so vivid that your body leaned into the illusion before your mind could stop it.
Your eyes opened.
Oh.
The shower was empty.
There was no Spencer standing in front of you, no shy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, no hazel eyes looking at you as though you were still the safest place he had ever known. There was only cold porcelain beneath your feet, pale steam clinging stubbornly to the glass, and the deafening absence of the man your body still remembered with humiliating precision.
Your arms wrapped instinctively around yourself, holding your own elbows so tightly your fingertips blanched white. You weren’t entirely sure whether you were trying to warm your chilled skin or keep your heart from splintering all over again.
Then your phone began to vibrate.
The insistent buzz shattered the stillness with startling violence, echoing across the marble countertop and pulling you so abruptly out of the past that you physically flinched. Your pulse leapt into your throat as you blinked through the curtain of water still clinging to your eyelashes. Through the fogged bathroom, the screen glowed brightly against the counter.
Penelope.
Your hand reached the faucet before your brain fully caught up. The rushing water disappeared instantly, leaving behind a heavy silence interrupted only by the rhythmic drip…drip…drip from the showerhead. You snatched the nearest towel, wrapping it hurriedly around yourself before crossing the room in damp footsteps and grabbing your phone almost before it had finished vibrating.
“Penelope?”
“There you are!” Garcia’s voice burst through the speaker with its usual sunshine, though underneath it lingered the unmistakable exhaustion that had settled over everyone since Spencer had been shot. “I was beginning to think you’d fallen asleep.”
You frowned, absently rubbing the towel over your damp hair as cold droplets slid lazily down the back of your neck.
“…What?”
A brief pause followed.
“What do you mean what?” Penelope laughed, genuine amusement bubbling through the phone. “Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten.”
Your brow knitted together.
Forgotten…what?
Then, almost audibly, the pieces clicked together.
Dinner.
“Oh my God,” you breathed, squeezing your eyes shut in disbelief. “I did forget.”
“I knew it!” Penelope exclaimed triumphantly. “Morgan insisted you’d remember because you’re terrifyingly organized, but I told him trauma beats planners every single time.”
Despite yourself, a tired laugh escaped your lips. You pinched the bridge of your nose, still feeling the lingering ache behind your eyes.
“What time is it?”
“A little after six.
Six.
You had spent nearly forty minutes standing beneath freezing water trying to convince yourself your heart hadn’t just betrayed you.
“We’re only about ten minutes away,” Penelope continued brightly. “Morgan stopped to grab dinner because he refuses to believe either of you has actual food in that kitchen after…” She hesitated delicately before finishing more softly. “…everything.”
A helpless laugh escaped you.
“He’s probably right.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” she laughed. “He’s absolutely right.”
Your gaze shifted toward the bathroom door. Beyond it, the house had settled back into its quiet rhythm. Somewhere down the hallway Spencer was exactly where you had left him. Maybe asleep beneath the comforter. Maybe stubbornly reading every line of his discharge packet despite strict instructions to rest. You could practically picture him with his glasses perched low on his nose, mentally cataloguing recovery statistics instead of allowing himself to simply exist for five uninterrupted minutes.
“I’ll be ready,” you promised.
“You don’t have to impress us,” Penelope replied, her voice gentler now. “We’re coming to see Reid…and maybe confirm neither of you has accidentally burned the house down.”
A genuine laugh slipped free this time.
“I think we can manage that.”
“Mmm.” You could almost hear her grin through the phone. “I’ll reserve judgment until I see the kitchen.”
The call ended with another round of affectionate teasing.
You lowered the phone slowly, your hand lingering around it for a moment as silence reclaimed the bathroom. The mirror in front of you had fogged over completely now, softening your reflection into blurred outlines and muted colors. Even so, you could still make out the evidence the shower had failed to erase. Your cheeks remained flushed despite the freezing water, loose strands of damp hair clung stubbornly to your temples and neck...but no amount of cold water had managed to wash away the memories that lingered beneath your skin.
With a slow sigh, you tightened the towel around yourself before reaching automatically for clean clothes. Familiar motions steadied your hands where your thoughts could not: soft sweater, comfortable jeans and dry socks. The ordinary ritual of getting dressed became something to focus on, each small task another step away from the woman standing beneath the shower only moments ago, remembering kisses she had no business remembering.
Ten minutes.
You should probably warn Spencer.
The thought arrived with enough practicality to interrupt the dangerous direction your mind had been drifting: dinner, just Derek and Penelope, familiar faces and voices. Normality, however temporary, you welcomed the distraction. Taking one final breath, you smoothed invisible wrinkles from the front of your sweater, more out of habit than necessity, before quietly stepping into the hallway.
The bedroom door stood slightly ajar.
You paused outside, lifting your hand to knock softly against the wood despite knowing he would almost certainly tell you to come in anyway.
“Spencer?”
No answer.
“…I’m coming in.”
You pushed the door open carefully.
Spencer was standing beside the bed.
Or, more accurately, trying to.
One hand remained firmly planted against the mattress to steady himself while the other was hopelessly trapped somewhere inside the sleeve of a pale blue button-down that had twisted itself halfway up his injured arm. His hospital sweatpants rested low against his hips, the loose waistband sitting carefully above the thick bandage wrapped around his upper thigh, while the rest of the shirt hung completely open, exposing the pale expanse of his chest and abdomen. And fresh bruises painted themselves across his ribs in uneven shades of violet and yellow, and every few seconds he paused, blinking faintly as though his brain needed another moment to remember how sleeves were supposed to work.
It was strangely endearing.
He looked up the instant he heard the door.
“Oh.”
There wasn’t a trace of embarrassment on his face, only relief.
“I appear to have encountered…” His gaze dropped thoughtfully to the offending sleeve. “…a surprisingly complicated engineering problem.”
The corner of your mouth betrayed you before you could stop it.
“You got stuck putting on a shirt.”
“I did.”
His agreement was so completely sincere, that any teasing remark died before it reached your lips.
“The statistical probability of this occurring under normal neurological conditions,” he continued gravely, giving the twisted sleeve another experimental tug that accomplished absolutely nothing, “is relatively low.”
“But you’re not under normal neurological conditions.”
“No.”
He sighed softly.
“I’m also making a conscious effort not to elevate my right arm beyond approximately forty-five degrees because you specifically instructed me not to.”
Your smile threatened to become an actual laugh.
“I did, didn’t I?”
“You did.”
For a moment neither of you spoke.
The room settled into a gentle silence broken only by the quiet rustle of fabric and Spencer’s careful breathing. Without the distraction of conversation, your eyes finally lingered on him properly.
His curls were still damp from the shower, darker than usual where they curled untidily against his forehead and temples. Tiny droplets continued their slow journey down the graceful line of his neck, slipping across his collarbone before disappearing beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. You noticed the faint tension around his mouth every time he shifted his weight, the careful way he unconsciously favored one side.
He looked so tired that your chest tightened painfully.
“May I…” Spencer hesitated and his fingers loosening around the stubborn fabric before he lifted his eyes to yours. “…ask for assistance?”
You didn’t answer with words and simply crossed the room before he had the chance to regret asking.
“Turn around.”
He obeyed immediately.
The mattress shifted softly as he pivoted, careful of his balance, until his back was facing you. Standing this close to him again felt profoundly unfair, close enough to catch the clean scent of his shampoo mingling with the sterile trace of antiseptic ointment lingering around the bandage on his upper arm. If you leaned forward the smallest fraction, your forehead would rest naturally between his shoulder blades, exactly where it had countless times before.
You refused to let yourself think about that.
Instead, you focused on the shirt tangled stubbornly around his arm.
“Relax your shoulder,” you murmured, already gathering the twisted fabric between your fingers.
“I’m trying.”
Very carefully, you eased the sleeve down over the thick white bandage, lifting the fabric millimeter by millimeter so it wouldn’t catch against the gauze. Your fingertips barely grazed his skin, more conscious of where you weren’t touching than where you were. Every adjustment required you to stay close enough to feel the slow rise and fall of his breathing beneath your hands.
Spencer remained perfectly still, just as he always had.
It had always been like this with you. Whether you were standing in front of him before an FBI banquet, frowning in concentration as you straightened the knot of his tie because he insisted yours somehow always looked better, brushing away invisible flecks of lint from the shoulders of his jacket before a case, or sitting cross-legged on the living room floor with one of his favorite cardigans pooled across your lap while you patiently stitched together the sleeve he’d torn climbing a fence after a foot pursuit, Spencer had never once flinched beneath your hands.
Now, once his injured arm was finally eased through the sleeve, the rest came naturally. You guided his other hand into the fabric with care before lifting the shirt over his shoulders, settling it carefully against his back. The cotton fell into place with only a few stubborn wrinkles remaining, and almost without thinking, your palms smoothed over them in slow strokes, flattening the fabric the same way you had done hundreds of times before.
“There,” you murmured softly.
Spencer turned to face you, allowing you to finish what you had started. The shirt still hung open, revealing the pale skin beneath and the fresh bandage wrapped around his shoulder. Your fingers found the first button automatically. Then the second. Then the third. One by one, you worked your way upward with precision, each button sliding through its place beneath fingertips that remembered the task far better than your mind wanted to admit.
By the time you reached the last button, there was nothing left to fix.
The shirt sat perfectly against his chest. Every crease had been smoothed away. Every edge lay exactly where it belonged.
You should have stepped back.
Instead, your hands remained there.
Your fingertips rested lightly against the soft cotton over his heart, feeling the steady rhythm beneath it. Perhaps it was truly his heartbeat...or it was only your own pulse echoing loudly enough to convince you it belonged to him. You couldn’t tell anymore.
Only then did you realize how close you had drifted.
Close enough to count the impossibly long lashes resting against his cheeks. Close enough to notice the tiny scar tucked beneath his jaw, the one you’d kissed absentmindedly so many times throughout your marriage that you’d eventually stopped seeing it altogether. Close enough to catch the faint scent of cedar soap lingering in his damp curls, fresh from the shower.
A loose curl had fallen across his forehead and before you could think better of it, your hand lifted entirely on instinct.
You brushed it back with a tenderness so deeply ingrained it no longer felt like a conscious decision. Your fingers slipped gently through the still-damp curls before settling for the briefest moment against the side of his face, your thumb barely grazing his cheekbone and his eyes closed.
When Spencer finally opened his eyes again, they didn’t wander. They found yours immediately, searching your face with a softness that felt almost vulnerable, as though he were looking for evidence that this wasn’t another concussion-induced dream. Neither of you spoke. Neither of you seemed capable of it. So the silence stretched between you, delicate enough that even breathing felt like it might disturb it.
Then, so carefully it felt more like a question than a movement, Spencer lowered his forehead until it rested lightly against yours.
You didn’t pull away and your noses brushed, featherlight, and for one suspended moment the rest of the world simply ceased to exist. His breathing mingled with yours in slow rhythms, his eyelashes rested against his cheeks once more, eyes closed as though he couldn’t bear to look at you and risk discovering you’d disappeared and the distance between your mouths dwindled until there was almost nothing left of it, only the smallest sliver of trembling air separating two people who had once known each other so completely that kisses had never required thought.
“You…” Spencer whispered, your name caught somewhere behind the single broken word, his voice little more than a breath that ghosted across your lips.
One of his hands lifted hesitantly, slowly enough that you could see him thinking through every inch of the movement. It trembled hovering beside your waist without quite daring to touch you. His fingers curled faintly in empty air, stopping just short of your sweater, waiting for a permission neither of you knew how to ask for.
Oh.
And then the doorbell rang.
The sharp sound cracked through the silence with almost violent force, followed immediately by the unmistakable boom of Morgan’s voice from the front porch.
“Pretty boy! If you’re unconscious again, I’m kicking this door down!”
The moment shattered so completely it almost hurt.
You stepped back too quickly, your hand slipping from Spencer’s cheek as though waking from a dream. His own hand dropped immediately to his side before it had ever reached you, fingers curling into his palm instead. And for a heartbeat neither of you moved, you simply stared at one another, both trying to remember how to exist inside a room that suddenly felt ordinary again.
“I…” You cleared your throat, though it did nothing to steady your voice. “They’re here for dinner.”
Spencer blinked once, twice, as though the sentence had to travel a much greater distance than it should before making sense.
“…Right.”
Another impatient knock rattled the front door.
“Derek Morgan,” Penelope called over his shoulder, “stop traumatizing the recovering patient!”
A small breath escaped you, somewhere between relief and disappointment, because the interruption had arrived at exactly the wrong moment…or perhaps exactly the right one. You weren’t sure anymore.
“I’ll let them in.”
You had almost reached the doorway when Spencer spoke again.
“Thank you.”
You looked back.
He wasn’t talking about the shirt.
But you simply offered a small nod before leaving the room, carrying the weight of another unspoken conversation with you as Morgan knocked dramatically for what was undoubtedly the third time.
***
The front door had barely swung halfway open before Penelope swept inside in a whirl of bright colors and floral perfume, two grocery bags hanging from her wrists and somehow still managing to gesture animatedly while she talked. Behind her came Morgan, nudging the door shut with his foot as he balanced enough takeout containers to feed an entire squad rather than the handful of people expected for dinner.
“There they are!” Penelope announced triumphantly, already smiling before she’d properly crossed the threshold.
Then she stopped.
“…Huh.”
You frowned before you could stop yourself.
“What?”
Penelope didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she continued studying the two of you with the exaggerated seriousness of someone examining evidence at a crime scene.
“You both look…” She narrowed her eyes dramatically. “…different.”
Morgan finally looked up from the stack of containers he’d been carefully preventing from collapsing, following Penelope’s line of sight. His gaze landed on Spencer first, then shifted to you, lingering just long enough for a slow grin to begin spreading across his face.
“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I was just about to say the exact same thing.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you replied a little too quickly.
“Uh-huh,” Morgan drawled.
Penelope abandoned the grocery bags on the entry table and wandered closer, circling the two of you with the kind of open curiosity that only she could somehow make seem affectionate rather than invasive. She hummed softly to herself as though mentally cataloguing every tiny inconsistency.
“Okay…” she murmured. “Let’s see…Spencer’s wearing a clean shirt.” Her finger lifted thoughtfully. “Which is impressive considering a few days ago he could barely lift one arm.” Another finger. “And…”
Her smile widened.
“Your hair’s wet.”
You instinctively reached for it and your fingertips found damp strands immediately.
Morgan’s attention shifted to Spencer, whose curls were still dark with moisture despite his best efforts to towel them dry. A tiny bead of water escaped one stubborn curl near his temple, tracing a slow path down the side of his neck before disappearing beneath the neatly buttoned collar of his shirt.
Morgan watched it happen and his grin became positively dangerous.
“And his hair’s still dripping.”
Spencer, entirely unaware of the significance of the observation, reached up absently to smooth the offending curl back into place.
Morgan’s eyes flicked between the two of you again.
“Were you two showering?”
Your heartbeat climbed into your throat.
“No,” you answered instantly.
“Well…” Spencer began at exactly the same time.
Both of you stopped.
Morgan’s eyebrows climbed so high they practically disappeared beneath his curls, while Penelope clapped both hands over her mouth in delighted horror.
“Oh,” she breathed. “Oh, this just became significantly more interesting.”
“I helped him shower,” you corrected immediately, the words tumbling over one another with enough speed that even you knew it sounded suspicious. Folding your arms across your chest, you forced yourself to slow down. “His stitches weren’t supposed to get wet, and the doctor specifically said someone needed to supervise him because of the concussion—”
Morgan nodded solemnly through the entire explanation.
“Perfectly reasonable.”
Relief began settling into your chest.
Then—
“I just hope nothing happened that elevated his heart rate.”
Your head snapped toward him.
“Derek.”
“What?” he asked with flawless innocence, adjusting the stack of takeout containers in his arms. “I’m talking about the patient’s recovery.” He turned toward Spencer with exaggerated professionalism. “So…how was the assistance?”
Spencer blinked.
Then, with complete sincerity that only made everything worse, he answered, “It was very helpful.”
Morgan barked out a laugh.
Penelope made a sound somewhere between a squeal and a cackle before immediately rescuing you from the conversation, slipping her arm through yours and steering you toward the kitchen before you could formulate a rebuttal.
“Come on,” she declared, patting your arm with exaggerated sympathy. “Let’s leave the children unsupervised while we find plates.”
“I’m older than both of you,” Morgan called after her.
“Yes,” Penelope replied over her shoulder without missing a beat as she opened the first cabinet she came across. “And somehow you’ve made that everyone else’s problem.”
The two of you disappeared into the kitchen, cabinet doors opening and closing as Penelope accepted the stack of plates from your hands. The kitchen looked almost untouched by time, with the pale blue kettle still rested on the stove beneath the little shelf Spencer had insisted on building himself despite having absolutely no business handling power tools. Even the tiny chip in the corner of the butcher block remained exactly where it had always been after the two of you had accidentally dropped an entire cast-iron skillet during your first attempt at making homemade pasta. Most people would’ve looked at the room and simply seen a kitchen but Penelope saw six years of your life.
“It’s almost exactly the same,” she murmured, the observation slipping from her lips so quietly it barely sounded like a question.
You followed her gaze almost reluctantly. It wasn’t that you hadn’t noticed before. Time had moved forward everywhere else but inside these walls, it had simply…settled.
“I suppose it is.”
Penelope looked at you then, studying your face with the kind of gentle concern only someone who had known you for years could wear.
“I thought you would’ve sold it.”
A quiet laugh escaped through your nose, though there wasn’t much humor in it.
“So did everyone else.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
The answer came easily.
You reached into the drawer for the cutlery, carefully separating forks from knives more because your hands needed something to do than because the task required any concentration.
“I bought an apartment instead.”
Penelope blinked.
“I know that,” she said. “But why keep both?”
Your hands slowed.
“It’s closer to work,” you answered first, almost automatically. “The apartment makes more sense. It’s twenty minutes from the courthouse instead of almost an hour. I practically live there now. But this place…” You said and glanced around the room again. “I couldn’t sell it.”
Penelope waited.
“It wasn’t because of Spencer.” Your fingertips rested against the edge of the counter, tracing absent circles across the wood worn smooth by years of dinners, paperwork, birthday cakes, late-night coffee and ordinary conversations. “I mean, my life happened here, so much of who I became happened inside this house.”
Your eyes wandered toward the dining room.
“I passed the bar while living here, and I painted that wall three different colors before deciding I liked the first one after all.” You shook your head softly. “I planted those herbs because I thought keeping basil alive couldn’t possibly be that difficult.”
Penelope smiled.
“I loved my husband and being married.” You added and your fingers curled against the countertop. “I’m not going to erase six years of my life because they ended badly.”
Penelope reached out instinctively, but you shook your head before she could touch your hand.
“Honey...”
“No.” You stopped her and smiled sadly before she could say anything else. “I know where this conversation is going.”
“Do you?”
“You think this…” You gestured vaguely toward the living room where Spencer and Morgan’s voices drifted faintly through the wall. “…means something.”
“I think,” Penelope corrected softly, “that he still looks at you like you’re the first beautiful thing he’s ever seen.”
You looked away.
“That doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to him.”
“It didn’t matter enough.” You inhaled slowly. “He left.” Your voice remained calm, almost frighteningly so. “He looked me in the eye, signed divorce papers, and walked away.”
Your gaze settled on the wedding photograph that no longer sat on the sideboard because you’d packed it away months ago.
“I begged him to stay.”
Penelope closed her eyes briefly.
“I remember.”
“And he still left.”
You shook your head.
“So whatever he felt…” Your voice caught for the first time. “…it wasn’t enough.”
Penelope stepped closer. “He loves you.”
You laughed softly.
“If that’s what love looks like…” Your eyes stung. “I don’t think I want it anymore.”
The words hung between you, heavy and terrible.
After a long silence, you forced yourself to straighten the stack of plates, needing the distraction.
“I’m taking care of him because he’s hurt.”
Penelope didn’t answer.
“He’ll recover.” You picked up the serving bowl and started toward the dining room. “He’ll go home and I’ll go back to my apartment.”
Penelope watched you for a long moment before speaking, her voice so gentle it almost broke your heart.
“Oh, sweetheart…”
You stopped, but you didn’t turn around.
“That man doesn’t need a nurse. I think he just needs you.”
You closed your eyes.
“Let’s talk about something else,” you said suddenly, forcing another smile onto your face before she could answer. It settled on your lips too easily, practiced from years spent standing in courtrooms where feelings were liabilities instead of truths. “How’s your life going?”
Penelope looked at you for a long moment.
She knew that smile.
It was the one you wore whenever you had already made up your mind. The one that politely informed everyone around you that the discussion was over, whether they agreed or not. She had watched you use it on stubborn witnesses, difficult judges, reporters outside courthouses, and, years ago, on Spencer himself whenever you refused to let him know how frightened you really were.
So she let the subject die.
“Oh, don’t get me started,” she sighed dramatically, accepting your escape with theatrical reluctance as she reached for the serving bowl in your hands. “My dating life continues to resemble an FBI behavioral profile titled Serial Disappointments.”
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
“That bad?”
“Sweetie, at this point I’m considering marrying my computer. At least it already knows all my passwords.”
The laughter that followed was quieter than before, but genuine enough to drift through the open doorway separating the kitchen from the living room. It mingled with the clink of ceramic plates, the scrape of silverware against the countertop, cabinet doors closing softly, and the low whistle of the old kettle settling on the stove after being nudged aside. For a brief moment, the house sounded almost exactly as it used to.
Alive.
The sound carried farther than either of you realized.
Out in the living room, Morgan’s shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly as your laughter reached him through the hallway. He waited until your voices dissolved back into indistinct conversation before turning away from the kitchen and looking across the room at Spencer.
“So.”
Spencer looked up from where he’d been staring toward the hallway for the better part of five minutes.
“So.”
Morgan leaned back against the couch, crossing one ankle over the other as though the conversation were casual.
“How’s it going?”
Spencer instinctively reached toward the bandage on his arm before stopping himself.
“The headache’s improving. The dizziness is mostly positional now. My short-term recall appears unaffected despite the initial concussion symptoms, although I suspect the fatigue will—”
Morgan held up a hand.
“I’m not talking about that.”
“No?” Spencer frowned.
“No.”
Morgan gestured subtly toward the kitchen, where the muffled sound of you and Penelope debating where the serving bowls were kept floated through the house.
“I’m talking about…that.”
Understanding dawned slowly.
“…Oh.”
Morgan settled into the armchair opposite him.
“So?”
“I don’t know.” Spencer said and looked toward the kitchen doorway without really seeing it.
“You don’t know how it’s going?”
“I don’t know what it means.” His voice had quieted considerably. “She’s being kind.”
Morgan nodded.
“But she would’ve done this for anyone.” Spencer added.
“Doubt it.”
Spencer finally looked at him.
“She would’ve helped anyone. We know she’s that kind of person.” Morgan started and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “But she didn’t bring just anyone home, she brought you.”
Morgan didn’t answer immediately.
He simply sat there, elbows resting against his knees, listening as another burst of your laughter drifted from the kitchen. It was softer this time, almost muffled beneath the sound of cabinet doors opening and Penelope’s dramatically offended voice insisting that you had absolutely moved the serving bowls since the last time she’d been here. Spencer smiled before he realized he was doing it, the expression appearing so naturally that it seemed completely disconnected from conscious thought. It was small, but Morgan caught it anyway.
“You still look for her,” he said quietly.
Spencer didn’t answer.
His eyes remained fixed on the kitchen doorway, not really looking at it anymore but listening, waiting for the next sound of your voice the way someone waits for a familiar song to begin again.
“You hear her laugh,” Morgan continued after a moment, “and you stop listening to everything else in the room. You’ve been doing it all evening.”
Spencer lowered his gaze to his hands, fingers absently turning the edge of the blanket draped across his lap. For a long moment he seemed determined not to respond, as though silence alone might be enough to keep everything inside him contained. When he finally spoke, his voice had dropped so low Morgan almost had to lean forward to hear it.
“I never stopped loving her.”
There wasn’t any drama in the confession.
No tears or visible breaking apart.
And Morgan wasn’t surprised.
He’d known long before the divorce papers had ever been signed. He’d known because he’d watched Spencer stay at Quantico long after everyone else had gone home, volunteering for every case that crossed the bullpen whether the team needed him or not. He’d watched him bury himself beneath reports, research, lectures, consultations and anything that filled enough hours to postpone returning to an apartment that had become unbearably empty. He’d watched him show up to Rossi’s Sunday dinners with the same polite smile every week, only to spend the evening unconsciously staring at the chair where you used to sit before eventually inventing an excuse about paperwork or an early meeting and leaving before dessert was served. And Morgan had seen heartbreak before. Hell, he’d lived through his own.
But Spencer hadn’t healed from losing you.
He had simply become frighteningly efficient at functioning while carrying the wound.
“I kept waiting for it to get smaller,” Spencer admitted, still staring down at his hands. His thumb drifted unconsciously over the scar across the back of one of them. “People always say grief changes. That eventually it becomes…manageable.” A humorless laugh escaped him. “I thought I’d stop walking past bookstores and wondering whether she’d already bought whatever was in the front window before I had a chance to recommend it.” His voice caught almost imperceptibly. “I thought eventually I’d stop missing her every time the world reminded me she existed.”
Morgan let him speak.
He knew Spencer well enough to recognize how rare this was. Spencer didn’t confess things. He analyzed them, categorized them, buried them beneath statistics and probabilities until they became manageable enough to survive.
“I kept working,” Spencer continued quietly. “More cases. More lectures. More consultations. It made sense mathematically. The fewer hours I spent alone, the fewer opportunities I’d have to think about…” His voice faded. “…her.”
Morgan nodded slowly.
“I know.”
“No.” Spencer shook his head. “I don’t think anyone did.”
Morgan looked at him carefully.
“So why’d you leave?”
Spencer didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, his eyes settled on the scar crossing the back of his own hand, his thumb absently tracing it.
“My mother’s neurologist changed her medication.”
Morgan remembered.
He remembered every frantic phone call Spencer had excused with, “It’s nothing.” Every morning he’d arrived at Quantico looking like he hadn’t slept. Every case where his coffee had gone cold because he’d spent the night in a hospital chair instead of his own bed. He remembered watching Spencer lose weight without seeming to notice, watching exhaustion settle permanently beneath his eyes while he insisted everything was under control.
“It stopped working,” Spencer murmured, his attention never leaving the scar beneath his fingertips. “Around the same time… I started getting migraines.”
“You never told anybody.”
“I told myself they were stress.”
“Were they?”
A bitter smile crossed Spencer’s face.
“I still don’t know.”
Silence stretched between them.
“My memory is…” Spencer swallowed, searching for words he had probably never imagined saying out loud. “It’s the only thing I’ve ever trusted about myself. Intelligence changes. Knowledge expands. Skills deteriorate if you don’t practice them. But memory…” His eyes finally lifted, hollow with something Morgan had never seen in them before. “Memory has always been the constant. It’s who I am.”
Morgan didn’t interrupt.
“Then one morning I walked into Hotch’s office…” Spencer’s expression unfocused, replaying the memory with agonizing clarity. “I reached for the doorknob, walked inside…” His breathing caught almost imperceptibly. “…and I couldn’t remember why I’d gone there.”
He laughed once, but it sounded broken.
“It lasted three seconds.”
Morgan didn’t interrupt.
“Three seconds,” Spencer repeated, almost to himself. “Objectively insignificant. Most people would’ve forgotten it happened before lunch.”
“But you couldn’t.”
“Because I couldn’t afford to.”
His fingers tightened until the tendons in his hand stood out beneath his skin.
“After that…” He exhaled slowly. “I started watching myself.”
The confession sounded almost ashamed.
“Every headache became evidence. Every forgotten word. Every misplaced file. Every moment I lost my train of thought halfway through a sentence.” His jaw tightened. “Every time I walked into a room and needed a second to remember why.”
His breathing became slow, deliberate.
“I was profiling myself.”
Morgan felt something twist painfully in his chest.
“I made lists and I tracked sleep deprivation, migraine frequency, vocabulary retrieval, episodic recall, processing speed.” Spencer’s voice had become frighteningly clinical, as though retreating into science somehow made the memories less terrifying. “I compared my cognitive performance against my own baselines.”
“And what did you find?”
“I found exactly what fear wanted me to find.”
Another burst of laughter floated from the kitchen.
Without thinking, Spencer turned toward the sound.
“When she’d talk about our future…” His entire expression softened before grief quietly erased it again. “She’d already picked baby names.”
Morgan closed his eyes briefly.
“She wanted a little boy who looked like me.” A faint smile appeared despite everything. “She used to wonder whether he’d inherit my curls or her smile. Whether he’d spend afternoons buried in libraries because of me or come home covered in paint because of her.”
The smile vanished.
“And all I could think about…” His voice almost disappeared. “…was whether he’d inherit schizophrenia.”
A long pause.
“Or Alzheimer’s.”
The living room became impossibly still.
“I stopped imagining birthdays.”
His gaze drifted somewhere far beyond the room.
“I started imagining neurologists.”
Morgan said nothing.
“I couldn’t stop seeing her twenty years from now.”
“Forty.”
“It didn’t matter.” Spencer’s voice was barely audible now. “Every version ended the same way.”
His throat tightened.
“I kept seeing her sitting beside my hospital bed exactly the way I used to sit beside my mother’s.” His eyes closed. “Watching me disappear a little at a time. Correcting my memory. Introducing herself to me over and over until one day…” His voice broke for the first time. “…until one day I forgot she had ever been my wife.”
The silence that followed felt sacred.
“I loved her too much to ask her to survive that.”
“I know,” Morgan said softly.
Relief flickered across Spencer’s face, but it lasted less than a second.
“But that’s not what happened.”
Spencer frowned.
“You didn’t save her from watching you get sick.” Morgan leaned forward, his voice calm but unyielding. “You made her watch the man she loved walk away without giving her a reason.”
The words landed with visible force.
“You didn’t spare her grief, Reid.” Morgan shook his head slowly. “You just chose a different version of it.”
Spencer looked away.
“You know what she spent the last two years believing?”
Nothing.
“She believed she wasn’t enough.”
Spencer shut his eyes.
“She believed somewhere along the way you stopped choosing her. That every promise you made together meant less to you than it did to her.” Morgan’s own voice thickened despite himself. “She came to me, you know.”
Spencer looked up.
“She asked if I’d noticed when you started pulling away. Asked if maybe there’d been someone else.” He shook his head slowly. “She kept trying to find a reason because the truth made even less sense.”
Spencer’s face folded inward.
Morgan had seen Spencer cry but somehow this was worse because there weren’t any tears. Just the horrifying realization that every nightmare he’d imagined for you had been replaced by one he’d never considered.
“I thought…” He whispered.
“I know what you thought.”
Morgan’s eyes glistened.
“You thought if she hated you, it’d be easier for her to move on.”
Silence settled heavily over the room.
Morgan let it before he asked quietly,
“Did she?”
Spencer couldn’t answer.
Because less than thirty minutes earlier, you’d stood beneath the shower with sleeves rolled to your elbows, carefully washing his hair so he wouldn’t reopen his stitches. Because you’d buttoned his shirt with hands that still knew him by memory and when he nearly kissed you, you’d almost let him.
Morgan already knew the answer.
“You were wrong.”
Spencer inhaled shakily, his shoulders sagging beneath a weight that suddenly seemed too heavy to carry anymore.
“So…” he asked quietly. “…what am I supposed to do now?”
Morgan looked toward the kitchen where your laughter drifted through the house once again, familiar enough to make the years between then and now disappear for just a moment.
“For the first time in two years,” he said, “stop deciding what’s best for her and use this opportunity to fix it.”
He looked back at Spencer.
“She deserved the truth before you left.”
A pause settled between them before Morgan finished, his voice softer than it had been all evening.
“And if you still love her as much as I know you do…” he said, “…then stop protecting her from a future that doesn’t exist yet and let her decide whether it’s one she’s willing to face with you.”
Spencer stared at him for a long moment before quietly shaking his head.
“Telling her doesn’t change genetics.”
Morgan’s expression softened with something painfully close to pity, but before either of them could say another word, Penelope’s voice carried brightly through the house, cutting effortlessly through the heaviness that had settled over the living room.
“Dinner’s ready! And if you boys don’t get in here in the next thirty seconds, I’m declaring the garlic bread legally abandoned!”
Morgan exhaled through his nose, a sound that might have been a laugh under different circumstances, and pushed himself to his feet. As he passed, he rested a hand against Spencer’s uninjured shoulder, giving it one firm squeeze that lingered just long enough to say everything words no longer could.
“Think about what I said.”
Then he disappeared toward the kitchen, where the warmth of conversation swallowed him almost immediately.
Spencer stayed where he was, only for a few seconds.
Eventually, he stood, careful not to pull too hard against the stitches beneath the fresh bandage. His shoulder protested immediately, the sharp ache radiating down his arm as the lingering concussion left the room swaying almost imperceptibly around him. Under any other circumstances he would have catalogued the symptoms automatically because physical injuries had always obeyed rules, they announced themselves honestly and could be measured, monitored, predicted. Bones knitted. Skin scarred. Neurons recovered. Given enough time, the body almost always found a way to heal itself.
The human heart, he had learned too late, followed no such science.
By the time he reached the dining room, everyone had already slipped into the effortless rhythm they used to share every Sunday evening, as though years had collapsed into minutes while he had remained behind in another lifetime. Penelope was animatedly recounting how she had apparently searched five different cabinets for serving bowls that had been sitting directly in front of her the entire time, accusing the kitchen itself of malicious intent while Morgan laughed so hard he nearly dropped his fork trying to defend the cabinetry. You sat across from her shaking your head with that helpless, affectionate smile you had never quite managed to hide whenever Penelope committed herself wholeheartedly to complete nonsense.
Nobody realized Spencer had stopped in the doorway.
So, for a brief moment, he simply watched.
The dining room glowed beneath the warm light suspended above the table. Steam curled lazily upward from the food Morgan and Penelope had brought, carrying the scent of roasted garlic, rosemary, butter and fresh bread through the house. Someone reached across the table for the pepper. Glasses clinked gently together.
It was ordinary.
Ordinary in the quiet ways that had once made Spencer believe this life could never disappear. There had been a time when he assumed evenings like this would simply continue indefinitely, accumulating one after another until they became decades.
Oh.
Then you looked up.
The moment your eyes found him, you smiled automatically, the expression arriving before thought ever had the chance to intervene. Without interrupting your conversation with Penelope, your foot hooked gently around the empty chair beside you, pulling it away from the table just enough that he wouldn’t have to wrestle with it using one injured arm. It was an almost invisible movement, so absentminded that no one else even noticed it had happened.
Spencer did.
Because he remembered the first time you had done it when he had thanked you.
You had laughed and told him that married people eventually stopped thanking each other for things like that because love, after enough years, stopped announcing itself. It became instinct and lived in gestures so ordinary they disappeared almost as quickly as they happened. A mug of tea already waiting before the other person realized they wanted one. Picking up their favorite cereal during grocery shopping without checking the pantry first. Straightening a crooked tie in the middle of a conversation neither of you would remember the next day. Sliding out a chair because your body had memorized someone else’s comfort long before your mind thought about it.
Love had never lived inside declarations, it had always hidden itself inside habit.
His chest tightened so suddenly it became difficult to tell whether the ache came from grief or from the bruising beneath his ribs.
Because your body remembered him, even after everything.
You were still quietly dividing the food into portions before anyone asked. Still passing Morgan the pepper without him reaching for it because you knew he’d want it eventually. Still carefully avoiding the mushrooms on Penelope’s plate because she insisted she hated them unless they were chopped so finely she couldn’t identify them. Still noticing that Spencer’s glass was empty before he’d realized it himself, your hand already reaching for the pitcher without interrupting the conversation unfolding around you.
You had loved people for so long that kindness had become involuntary.
You had loved him for so long that caring for him still happened before you remembered you weren’t supposed to anymore.
Only then did Spencer move, lowering himself carefully into the chair beside you. The movement pulled uncomfortably against the stitches beneath the fresh bandage, but before he had even settled completely, you had already turned toward him.
“Does your arm hurt?”
The question was so simple that it almost undid him.
Not Why did you leave me? Not Why wasn’t I enough? Not Did you ever stop loving me? There was no accusation hidden beneath your voice, no bitterness sharpened into politeness, no attempt to collect the explanations you had deserved two years ago and never received. You looked at him with nothing more complicated than concern, as though the first thing that mattered after everything that had happened was whether he was in pain.
He wondered, with a guilt so profound it bordered on unbearable, how someone whose heart he had broken so completely still instinctively reached for his wounds before her own.
For as long as Spencer could remember, his life had been governed by a single certainty: every mystery surrendered eventually to knowledge. Every impossible equation possessed an answer whether humanity had discovered it yet or not. Every cipher could be broken, every pattern understood, every unanswered question yielded eventually to enough intelligence. It was the principle that had shaped him long before the FBI, long before profiling. When his mother became ill, he had met terror the only way he knew how. He had read every paper ever published on schizophrenia and Alzheimer’s, memorized neurological pathways until he could sketch them from memory, devoured clinical trials, inheritance models, molecular studies, experimental therapies. He had learned languages simply because another country’s research might contain a sentence no one had translated yet. Somewhere, he had believed it with the stubborn conviction only geniuses and desperate sons possessed, there had to be an answer hidden inside enough information.
There wasn’t.
For the first time in his life, Spencer Reid had found a problem intelligence could not solve. No theorem could rewrite a strand of DNA. No probability model could bargain with heredity. No amount of brilliance could negotiate with fear. And somewhere between trying to outrun a future that might never come, he had forgotten the one variable he had never had the right to remove from the equation.
You.
His eyes drifted almost involuntarily toward your left hand as you reached across the table for the bread basket, your fingers brushing absentmindedly against Morgan’s before apologizing with a smile that came as naturally to you as breathing.
The ring was gone.
He had been the one who slipped it from your finger in a lawyer’s office that smelled faintly of coffee and old paper, convincing himself that every signature he placed on those documents was another act of love. He remembered how cold your hands had been that day. He remembered noticing the pale indentation the band had left behind after years against your skin and wondering, absurdly, how long it would take for it to disappear.
He knew now.
Two years.
Long enough for the mark to fade, but not nearly long enough for the absence to stop hurting.
Yet memory betrayed reality with effortless precision. And for one impossible heartbeat he saw the gold band exactly where it had belonged, catching the warm dining room light as you laughed over something Penelope had said, your fingers colliding with his while both of you reached for the last piece of bread. He remembered saving part of every paycheck because nothing displayed beneath those jewelry store lights had ever seemed worthy enough of you. He remembered visiting three different shops before finding the one you had insisted was “far too expensive,” only for you to burst into tears when he opened the little velvet box because, in your own words, it looked like forever.
Forever.
Such a deceptively simple word.
Such an impossible promise.
For someone who had built his entire identity around certainty, forever should have been the easiest concept to reject. There was no mathematical proof for permanence. Entropy alone guaranteed that everything eventually unraveled. Stars exhausted themselves. Languages died. Civilizations disappeared beneath the earth. Every statistical model pointed toward impermanence.
And yet…he had believed in forever the moment you slid that ring onto your finger.
Not because the odds supported it.
Because you did.
The laughter around the table continued uninterrupted. Morgan was insisting he’d only taken one potato while Penelope accused him of crimes against carbohydrates with the theatrical indignation only she could manage. You quietly reached across the table to refill Spencer’s glass without asking if he wanted more water, your hand finding the pitcher almost before he’d realized it was empty. It was such an ordinary gesture that no one else noticed.
You had loved him for so long that your body still remembered him, even when your heart had every reason to forget. And that, more than anything Morgan had said, became the realization Spencer could not survive.
Because the future he had spent two years trying to protect you from had never arrived. Instead, he had created one infinitely crueler.
He had feared a disease that might one day make him forget the woman he loved, so he had left while he still remembered her perfectly.
As conversation carried on around him and warmth filled every corner of the room, Spencer found himself wondering whether every great tragedy began the same way: not with cruelty, nor hatred, nor even the absence of love, but with one terrified person convincing themselves that destroying something beautiful today was kinder than risking its loss tomorrow.
He had spent years believing the cruelest inheritance his family carried was written into its genes.
He knew better now.
Fear could be inherited too.
And unlike every illness he had ever devoted his life to understanding, this one had no treatment, no trial, no cure waiting somewhere inside another language, another country, another forgotten journal article.
Because this disease had never lived inside his blood, it had lived inside a single decision and he would carry its symptoms for the rest of his life.
every breath you take
and every move you make
every bond you break
every step you take
⊹ ࣪ ˖ᯓ I'LL BE WATCHING YOU.
[SERIES MASTERLIST] [MAIN MASTERLIST]
SUMMARY : spencer reid has a plan to make you his; a plan that involves copious amount of stalking, sneaky photographs, and money spent on subpar coffee. he'll win you over if it's the last thing he does, and there isn't anything he won't do to ensure his victory.
PAIRING : stalker!spencer x reader | WORD COUNT : 9k
WARNINGS : DDDNE MDNI, stalking, obsessive behaviour, filthy pervert spencer reid, nonconsensual photography, referenced m masturbation, meet cute lowkey, coffee date, spencer literally worships reader, alcohol consumption, mildly concerning drinking habits if you squint, panty stealing!!, and they're used!!, no sex but spencer is bricked up in literally every scene, this is him at his most normal btw
NOTES : hide your panties, guys...he's here.
"Latte with—"
"Two sugars. Two percent milk. Dusting of cocoa powder."
Lacquered nails drum against the countertop, beats spaced unevenly, but intentionally—her hand posture, and the unmistakable melody of Bach's Prelude and Fugue in C major, says she's a pianist when she isn't interrupting customers.
It would be easy to think she were judging you, but her smile reeks nothing of your typical mean girl archetype. It's genuine; bright and dimpled, like you could be her friend.
Your head falls to one side, lips pursed in a sheepish smile. "This feels like a sign to change my order."
"Please." The barista gives a stern shake of her head. Her dog-eared name tag reads MADEILYN in bold, handwritten letters (why her parents opted for that instead of the traditional Madeline is a mystery). "We love our regulars because of their signature drinks. You know Tony? Probably not; he's usually here at the crack of dawn. Anyway, the staff and I have started making his drink before he even gets to the register. Extra hot americano with a splash of heavy cream. We hand it to him without him needing to order, it's great."
"Until he decides he wants a different drink," you say.
Madeilyn shrugs. "Hasn't happened yet. Tony's an older guy, very stuck in his ways—and kinda cute. Anyway, that'll be four dollars and fifteen cents when you're ready. Cash or card?"
The cash is already in your hand; the exact amount. It has been since you were third in line. Your preparedness is as predictable as your coffee order—neurotic, almost. It's a ritual of sorts; a mechanism in place to appease a high-functioning anxious mind.
The money leaves your hand and lands seamlessly in Madeilyn's, and she slots it into the register without stopping to count, but she'll count the coins of the teenage girl behind you—not because she's ever underpaid, but because she's new, and trust is earned. Smiles are exchanged between the two of you, and you move aside to wait on your cocoa-dusted beverage.
The queue shuffles forward, and your drink is presented before that girl can stumble through her mouthful of an order, rattling off creams and syrups that are sure to mix atrociously together. Madeilyn's smile stiffens, and her brows raise barely a millimetre; customer service front crumbling by the nanosecond. The girl retracts one of her alterations, swaps it for something else, and poor Madeilyn's thoughts practically leak out into the air around her; I don't get paid enough for this. How unfortunate it must be to be stuck with a misspelled name and an unremarkable minimum wage job.
Their interaction drags on, much to the dismay of the accountant standing, arms crossed, behind the girl; she has places to be, even on a Saturday, and she is plain, laughably so, compared to you—everybody in this place is.
Spencer watches as you pick up your coffee, fingers cradling the mass-produced cup like it's something sacred. It feels as though the cartoon puppy printed on the sleeve is staring right at him, mocking him from under the palm of your delicate hand. If only there were some way to trade places; hell, he'd even become a coffee cup, discarded in the trash by the day's end, if it meant you'd hold him like that for just a moment.
His keen gaze tracks you to your seat; sofa chair, close enough to the window to watch the cars pass, and far enough away to avoid the glare of the sun on your laptop screen. You weave through the populated tables like water, cardigan shrugged from one shoulder, strap of your worn leather bag keeping the other side secured in place.
The woollen fabric slips down the length of your arm as soon as you remove your bag, and it catches on your bracelet as you try to readjust it.
One barely withheld sigh and an adorably frustrated nose scrunch later, you've freed yourself. Your cardigan is back in place, still intact after its tussle with the problem bracelet; all is right in the world, but you still glance around the room as you take your seat, like you're expecting to find people staring, or worse, laughing.
Casually, Spencer transitions his focus to his own bag to search for his wallet. He keeps his head bowed, face safely hidden from your pretty eyes, and you pass over him without second glance.
As far as you're concerned, he's no more than another face in the crowd; now second in line, and fast running out of time to prepare his coins before he's called up.
—
Saturdays are Spencer's favourite day. The weekend has never much appealed to him; too much empty space in his schedule opens doors for bad habits—oversleeping, skipping meals, thinking too much about everything under the sun until he feels that tightness in his chest; that deep, soul-aching sense of purposelessness. Even as a child, he favoured structure, routine, over free-falling through the days. They're less likely to blend together, that way.
To this day, weekends still don't do it for him, not like they do for his coworkers. Whilst Derek and Penelope are "getting their freak on" in clubs and bars across the city, Spencer is sitting at home with a stack of case files, waiting for Monday to roll back around and bless him with a job to do; unsubs to catch.
He always felt he had more in common with Gideon, who hangs around the office for hours after the day is done, pouring over paperwork and draining the coffee pot before disappearing to his cabin to "sleep off" everything he's seen that week—but his bag will be weighed down with files; consults that he technically isn't supposed to take home with him but always does.
But even Gideon has a life outside of work, primarily in his birdwatching hobby. Everyone has their thing. The glue that keeps them from falling apart under the weight of this job. For some, it's friends and family. Others, clubs and birds.
Spencer never felt he had a thing of his own; no hobby to keep him afloat outside of the office, no birds to watch. Not until he found you.
You were perfect. The first drops of rain after a twenty-four year dry spell, saturating him with a nectar so sweet it left him dumbfounded, slack-jawed in the line of a coffee shop he'd only entered because he felt dead on his feet, in dire need of a pick-me-up—and what he happened upon instead hit him harder than any amount of caffeine ever had.
Too busy exchanging smile-softened words with the barista, you had picked your coffee up by the plastic lid, failing to notice how it was sitting slightly askew. The cup came apart, hot coffee coating the front of your sweater, and landed back on the counter on its side, spilling its remaining contents out everywhere like the eviscerated corpse Spencer had studied the day before.
Apologies came next, from both you and the barista; two melodies clashing in competition to see who could pile on the most blame, all while coffee dripped steadily onto your shoes. You laughed it off, coughing up a self-deprecating comment with a scotch tape smile; forced, unsteady, yet still utterly captivating.
You couldn't have been more marvellous if you tried. Even as your hands trembled removing your sweater, Spencer thought you were fantastic. Elegant in such a true, unapologetically human fashion; something he could watch all day, like Gideon with his birds.
Your drink was remade. Your mess was cleaned up. You moved on, completely unaware of the life changing behind you, reshaping to accommodate— no, revolve around you.
Core collapse and rebirth. A supernova in his chest cavity; the neutron star heart left behind, bound by gravitational need to an oblivious sun. His sine qua non.
Spencer had to drag himself out of that coffee shop in a daze, caffeine craving forgotten; replaced by something softer, harsher. Turbulent and lithe all in one. A single butterfly in his stomach, tearing the lining with serrated wings. He felt sick. He felt high.
He felt you.
Your self-conscious laugh, your shaky hands, your ruined sweater; it was all a part of him, somehow. Ingrained into his biology as authentically as his own genetic code.
He had to see you again. Had to know you, intimately. Keep knowing you until the lines blurred and there was no telling where one ended and the other began. He needed a cosmic collision; to tear through outer layers and burrow himself in your chest and become the first proven, perfect Thorne-Żyktow object. A star within a star.
A fool would have thrown caution to the wind and marched back into that coffee shop. No plan, no thought, just the scattered, spiralling notions of a man who had just survived an explosion, now choking on the dust; the pieces of a cosmic devotion lodged in his throat. A fool would handle you indelicately, and he would scare you away in seconds.
But Spencer is no fool. As hard as it was, he pushed every screaming, irrational instinct down and walked away, each step a struggle against your commanding gravity.
He vowed to return, clear-headed, and approach the issue of you, of knowing you, as he would anything else; like a profiler's game of chess. In-depth study, fail-proof strategy, and, above all, patience.
He'd learn the language of you, and he'd speak it fluently before you even knew who he was. It would take time—weeks, maybe months—before he was ready for you to know him, and by then his success would be all but guaranteed; it was the logical approach, one that mitigated any risk, trampled any possibility of failure.
This was the one game he couldn't afford to lose. So he was going to do everything in his power to ensure he won; he'd find a way, no matter what.
—
"Black americano…with five packets of sugar—"
"On the side."
"On the side." Madeilyn looks up at him with a manufactured smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. It's perfectly cordial. Corporate. Lacking the sincerity she displays with other customers, and quietly simmering with something that seems to teeter close to discomfort.
Spencer would take offence, if she were the only person to treat him this way. But this kind of stiff awkwardness—uneasy smiles, stilted conversations—is something he's long since grown used to, especially with women. It doesn't bother him much anymore.
"Anything else?" she asks.
"Oh, um—" He glances back over his shoulder and quickly finds your face in the, line four bodies down. You're studying the pastry display, bottom lip caught between your teeth as you deliberate between the cinnamon bun and the pain au chocolat—you'll choose the latter. Clearing his throat, Spencer turns back to Madeilyn with a calm, steady smile. "The woman in the brown cardigan, I'd like to pay for her drink."
She stares at him, expression blank, like he's just veered wildly off script—and he supposes he has; never in the months he's been a patron here has he asked for anything beyond his regular coffee.
But then Madeilyn's face does something he doesn't expect: she grins.
Laughter taints the edges of her voice as she says your name, confirming she has the right girl. Spencer nods, certain. It's the first time he's heard your name spoken aloud; it's seraphic, almost song-like.
He sees it in flashes: him, calling you by your name in casual conversation; murmuring it in your ear, soft, as he presses a kiss to the shell of your ear; moaning it into your skin between thrusts as—
"Well," Madeilyn clicks her tongue, still grinning, "if my predictions are correct, that'll be four fifteen on top of your drink. Cash or card?"
Spencer blinks hard, nodding without thought as his mind fights to catch up to her question. "Cash. Um— here," he hands over the coins, for his drink, and then holds out a crisp ten dollar bill, for yours—and for the pain au chocolat. "I'll give you ten, just to be safe. You can keep the change."
"That's one way to do it." She takes takes the cash and sorts it into the register, smile still sticking to her face. "Thanks, uh…"
"Spencer," he says.
"Spencer, right. Your coffee will be with you in a sec."
"Thank you. Oh—" He turns back to her last minute, voice lowered to just above a whisper. "Can you not, um…tell her? You know, that I'm…doing this?"
Madeilyn narrows her eyes, and Spencer's heart drops.
"I-I just—" He stammers, already feeling heat rushing to his cheeks. "I, um—"
"Your secret's safe with me, don't worry," she says simply, offering one last reassuring smile before adding, "Now go, Spence— can I call you Spence? It has a nice ring to it. Real cute. Anyway, you're holding up the line. Get out of here."
By the time he's collected his coffee and found a seat, you're already standing at the register, exchanging pleasantries with Madeilyn. He steals an anxious glance as he retrieves his book from his satchel, but all he can see is the back of your head.
Today was supposed to be a regular day. No big moves, no changes in the routine, just regular: he stands behind you in the line, grabs a table a safe distance from yours, pretends to read whilst he watches you work, and you type away on your laptop, oblivious to it all. He thought if he felt particularly daring then he'd pull out his camera, steal a few photographs to add to his collection—but that was all.
He didn't plan for this to happen today, but you hadn't been there when he arrived. Your spot in the line had been filled by a person that Spencer did not recognise, and with every minute that passed he found himself growing increasingly agitated. Frustrated. With you; with himself; with this stupid, puppy-branded coffee shop that served, at best, subpar beverages that he only bought because of you, and now you weren't even there.
So when you walked through those doors a few minutes late, hair dampened with the beginnings of a rain shower, looking like poetry in its purest form, it felt like fate.
He understood, then, that today was not intended to be a regular day. The universe had created an opening, provided an opportunity, and he wasn't going to ignore it.
If only he had the confidence to reach for his camera, he'd be able to capture the look on your face as you turn around: brows pinched in a confused, slightly alarmed frown; lips parted, corners upturned to produce an uncertain smile which, on second glance, seems closer to a grimace.
Your eyes dart across the room in search for your mysterious benefactor, but you find nothing; no smug smiles, no knowing looks, just the usual crowd of caffeine addicts, likely too busy moaning about the price of their own drinks to even consider paying for yours.
Shaking your head, you turn back to Madeilyn, and Spencer watches, pleased, as you try to refuse his gift; the money's already in your hand, ready to be exchanged, but when you present it to her all your stubbornness earns is a shrug. She waves you away with a smirk, but not before muttering something that makes you scoff.
The next time he catches a glimpse of your face, your cheeks are flushed pink, and Spencer's game is officially in motion.
—
This becomes your new routine. Spencer pays for your coffee, Madeilyn upholds her promise of concealing his identity, and every Saturday you are left increasingly perplexed. Increasingly suspicious. It's addictive.
Each prepaid coffee brings with it an elevated risk of exposure, and Spencer is hooked on the thrill of not knowing when the ball will drop.
And when it does, when the pieces click into place and you see him, for the first time, he'll be ready. Armed with his wealth of knowledge and a smile that the staff at his mother's sanitarium say is charming, he'll leave a strong, terminally positive first impression. It's inevitable.
In the meantime, he continues to watch, taking note of whatever he can, over-analysing you to the atom and building his ever-growing portfolio of things to discuss with you; TV shows to reference, bands to mention in passing, books to sit and flick through now in the hopes that you might notice as you walk by, so when he brings them up in the future you'll know he's being genuine.
If he sits in the right spot, studies your hands for long enough, he can just about piece together what you're typing on your laptop every week. He initially assumed it would be work related. Emails, most likely; you work in administration for a local health clinic, and Spencer would be willing to bet your inbox is always full.
But upon further inspection, he found that your focus—the slight frown that boarded your face the moment you sat down and stayed, persistent, until you left—was not related to your work at all, but something far more interesting: a manuscript.
Your social media profiles never betrayed any desire to become an author. Your social media profiles never betrayed anything, period, aside from your job title and a few photographs from a vacation you took to Italy two years ago. As far as the internet was concerned, you hardly existed at all, and Spencer had to dig to find evidence of you on the accounts of friends and family, hidden among your mother's posts about her garden, and your friend Scarlet's third trip to the Canary Islands since winter struck DC.
You knew how to keep your private life out of the public eye. Smart girl; there's no knowing what kind of creeps would try to stalk you, if given the chance.
This, of course, made it all the more difficult for Spencer to learn about you, but he won't complain too much; really, he's just glad you're keeping yourself safe.
For one peaceful hour every Saturday, your writing consumes your entire world. Everything collapses down to you and your laptop, the clack of your keyboard, and Spencer often wonders what it would take to snap you out of your haze—a fight, maybe? Some days it seems a bomb could strike the street outside, and you wouldn't bat an eye.
So when Spencer reaches for his camera, he isn't worried that you'll catch him.
He's worried that someone else will.
He operates it with one hand, keeps it under the shadow of his table, angles it blind as his heart hammers against his ribs. Most of the photographs he takes of you (in the coffee shop, and elsewhere), are out of focus, so bad it looks purposeful. He's sure any professional photographer would laugh at his work; hell, even a beginner would.
But sometimes he does it. Captures the perfect image of you, chin resting on your hand as you review a passage, chewing thoughtfully on your lower lip with the sun painting half of your face in its light, looking so perfect it's almost offensive.
He cherishes these pictures of you, cosmic deity among common folk, like they're made of solid gold. Idols made to be revered, kept safe in the leather bindings of an old photo book for him to flip through at his leisure, and to worship on those cold nights when the ache he feels surmounts to agony, straining and pulsating with the need to be beside you.
This is the only thought on his mind as he leaves the coffee shop a few minutes after you do; printing today's pictures, selecting his favourite, christening it as he wonders what it would be like to touch you. Hold you. Love you—
You're standing right in front of him as he turns the corner. Wearing a frown that he can't even begin to interpret on account of the fact that you are standing right in front of him.
You're real, and you're looking right at him. Seeing him, at last.
"It's you, isn't it?" you ask, voice carefully calm. Perfect. "You've been buying my coffees."
A beat.
Another one; longer.
Fuck, Spencer. Speak.
"…huh?" Wrong; that's a noise.
"What?" Okay, we're getting somewhere.
"Huh?" Never mind.
Your brows raise with each sound he chokes out. He wasn't prepared for this. He thought he was, but he wasn't.
The camera, buried deep in the bottom of his bag, now feels impossibly heavy. Guilt stuffed into metal casing. You can smell it, he's sure.
He can smell you. Cardamom, cinnamon, sandalwood; all the warmth he's come to associate with you, only ever experienced from a distance, now flooding his nose, hijacking his brain. He feels nauseous. He feels—
"I'm not mad," you say, cautiously trying to ease his distress with a soft smile. Spencer adjusts his bag to cover his crotch. "Madeilyn and I…we had this agreement where if I guessed who was buying my drinks, she'd give me a free pin, and…"
You gesture to your chest (God help him), pointing at a small puppy dog brooch—the coffee shop's stupid mascot.
"…I got it right."
You look almost proud, self-consciously suppressing a smile that would be sure to make his head explode if you let it blossom. It's enough to make him forget Madeilyn's betrayal, forget everything, completely. If you were to ask his name right now, he's pretty sure he'd end up saying yours.
"I'm sorry," he manages, face ablaze with a suffocating heat despite the winter breeze. Under his tweed jacket, his shirt sticks to his back, soaked through with sweat.
Someone kill him.
"I was, um— I thought it would be…I don't know. It wasn't my intention to make you uncomfortable, or anything. It's just that you seemed…nice, and— and I wanted to, um, do something good? I-It's like what Anne Herbert wrote; 'practice random acts of kindness and senseless acts of beauty', and I personally really, um, identify with that philosophy, and…and I don't know. I'm sorry."
You stay quiet as he speaks, silently watching him spiral before saying, at last, "I was gonna thank you, but…okay."
"What?"
He's staring at you like you've just sprouted another head, caught somewhere between disbelief and amazement.
"I mean, with how expensive a coffee is these days…" You shrug. Casual, like you're not in the middle of delivering a divine blessing. "You've been saving me a decent chunk of cash."
You hold out your hand. He watches it, wide-eyed, like he's never seen a hand before in his life; like this is some kind of prank, and you might hurt him.
But then he gathers his courage. He wipes his sweaty palm on his pants, and he takes your hand, grip firm.
"Thank you, uh…Spencer, right?"
You know his name.
His pants are so tight he's beginning to fear he might pop a stitch.
"Yes," he breathes. "And— and it's no big deal, really. I'm happy to, uh…help."
Too happy to help; he's so hard it hurts, and the rush of blood to his crotch deprives the areas that need it most—his brain, for instance. He forgets to move his arm as you shake his hand, and he forgets to let go when you stop; he just stands there, dumbstruck, holding onto you like you're the only thing keeping him upright.
"Of course," you slide your hand out from his seamlessly, "I can't not pay you back. And I know that kind of defeats the point of a random act of kindless, but I'm sure Anne Herbert won't mind—"
This isn't happening. This isn't real; there's no way.
Your words glide through one ear and out the other. Focusing on what you're saying is an impossible task when you're here, be it real or imagined, and looking like that ("that" being utterly mundane; utterly beautiful). There isn't anything provocative about your outfit; there can't be, given the season. You're wearing loose-fitting slacks and a blouse under a cardigan and coat; you aren't showing anything, and you're leaving everything to the imagination.
And that's the problem, because Spencer Reid's imagination is a force to be reckoned with.
It's enough to bring him to his knees, almost; the thought of what you're hiding under your clothes. The thought of him peeling away the layers slowly, methodically, so he can study you. Every curve, mapped. Every freckle, memorised. He could study you for the rest of his life—he has been for months already, and you've been fully clothed, out of reach, the entire time.
"So, how about coffee? Next week, on me."
He tunes back in then, just in time to catch your offer, and he almost drops right there, in the street, to kiss the pointed toes of your pumps and thank you profusely for doing this for him, but he refrains.
Pursing his lips, he swallows any mortifying response bound to come spilling out if he tries to speak, and he settles instead on a nod. Quick and simple, and safe.
Coffee. Next week. On you.
—
He never should have said agreed to this.
Watching is easy. It's passive; there's no thought required when watching someone, no social game to play. You can't do something wrong if you're hardly doing anything to begin with.
But this? This is different. He isn't equipped to handle this. Couldn't be. No amount of watching, no amount of preparation, could prepare him for the hurricane that is you.
Sitting across from you in this coffee shop, Madeilyn's amused gaze burning into his side profile when she isn't speaking to customers, Spencer is convinced—wholly, utterly convinced—that he is dying. There is no other explanation for what is happening inside of him other than death, slow and painful, and ecstatic.
"So…" You shift in your seat, crossing your legs as you observe him with unconcealed curiosity. "What do you do for work to afford so much coffee?"
"I—" Spencer swallows hard—why is he hesitating? "I work in the FBI's, um, Behavioural Analysis Unit."
"The BAU?"
It isn't a question asked out of confusion. You aren't asking for clarification (which, admittedly, he was just about to give); you know what the BAU is, and you're impressed.
"Yes," he confirms.
Which is about as terrifying as it is giddying, because that means you know what he does. What he can do.
"So you're Agent Spencer, then?"
He expects you to ask about profiling; how much he can learn about someone just from watching them, for example. Or about serial killers, like most other people do. People's morbid curiosity tend to flare up when they're discussing his job, but you stick with surface-level questions.
"It's Doctor, actually," he says. "Doctor Spencer Reid."
You raise an eyebrow. "Doctor?"
"I have three PhDs." He feels like a child showing off his good grades. "Mathematics, Chemistry, and Engineering."
"You've been busy." You narrow your eyes, studying his features a little more closely. Immediately, he feels his cheeks flush. "And you are…"
"Twenty-four." He finds that if he speaks fast enough he's less likely to stutter. In exchange, though, he sounds absolutely terrified.
"So there's no Benjamin Button business going on?"
"No ma'am."
Maybe he should just stop talking entirely. You'll ask him yes or no questions, and he'll just shake his head up and down, and left to right; that seems to be the only way to save himself from complete humiliation.
Because "no ma'am"? You're younger than him, for Christ's sake. Even if you weren't, he has no business calling you "ma'am"; it's weird, if not downright inappropriate.
But it feels good, too good, to have those words flow from his lips—which is exactly why it's inappropriate. It's perverse; he just hopes you fail to take notice of the way he has to shift in his seat to counteract the growing tightness in his pants.
"You know," you reach for your coffee, but you don't take a sip. The warmth against your palms is a comfort measure, something to keep you grounded when your nerves pick up—when you first sat down, it took you seven minutes and forty-two seconds to relinquish that cup. "My friends actually tried to talk me out of this. Meeting with you."
Spencer frowns. That isn't what he wants to hear. "May I ask why?"
"They figured you were, um…I don't wanna say a creep, but…yeah. That's their word, though, not mine. Hell, they even tried to convince me to move to a different coffee shop when you started paying for my drinks, but that's—" You cut yourself off mid-sentence, and Spencer watches as you run calculations in your mind, deciding what you can and cannot say. In the end, you just smile. "They can be protective."
Why?
It's a question he doesn't ask, but one that sits too heavy on his tongue to just swallow. Sure, to you, it isn't any of his business, but it is to him; understanding your relationships and your past—both of which he has struggled to get a grasp on thus far—is important. If your friends are protective, if they have a reason to be, then he needs to know why.
But he can't push or pry, not now. So he just sits with it, and he takes a sip of his coffee before changing the subject.
"Did you know that some predators have been known to stalk their prey for days on end?" he asks. "Crocodilians, for example, can lie completely still at the water's edge, just…um— they blend in, opting to wait for their prey to come to them rather than engaging in an active pursuit."
You blink at him, confused, but also intrigued. "And this is relevant…how, exactly?"
He turns his coffee cup so the grating little dog is facing you. "This place uses a havanese in their marketing, likely because they're percieved as cute, or— or innocent. They're what's known as a, um, 'velcro dog', meaning they're prone to intense separation anxiety, and their size and shape, their fluffy coats…it all lends itself to an adorable, almost helpless look."
Your gaze flicks between Spencer and the dog as you cross your arms. You've no idea why he's saying any of this, that much is clear, but you're listening, trying to understand, and that's what's important to him; if this relationship is going to play out like it does in his fantasies, you ought to get used to listening to his various tangents.
"But dogs are, well…dogs," he continues, turning the cup back to himself. "Natural predators. They've been domesticated for centuries, but you'd be surprised to learn just how little it can take for primal instinct to override their designer genetics. Under the right circumstances…even a havanese can be a wolf."
He watches with keen eyes as you nod thoughtfully. You take a sip of your coffee and examine, briefly, the havanese printed on your own cup.
"So…what are you, then? A wolf, or a crocodile?"
Spencer almost chokes on his own saliva, blood running cold as your words reach his ears and scorch their way into his brain.
To you, it's an innocent question; to him, it's everything. Eros and a landmine.
You're quick. Perceptive. And that about terrifies him just as much as it turns him on.
He could tell you he's a crocodile; entertain your curiosity and watch the true meaning of his words skim over the top of your head.
"…I, uh— What? I-I wasn't, um—"
…but that would require a working brain, and a confidence that has just dropped, alongside his pounding heart, right out of his ass.
"…the weather's finally starting to clear up, have you noticed?"
—
The bar is loud. 2005's Greatest Hits interrupted by Christmas songs; Mariah Carey's voice blending into the chorus of people, all a little bit too drunk for a Wednesday night.
You're yelling at the bartender—not because you're upset, but because it's the only way he can hear you—with a face alight with an angel's smile, asking for a refill, and for another round of shots. The cash is already in your hand, and you drop a few coins as you make the exchange.
Spencer feels like a fish out of water.
This isn't the first time he's followed you here, this has been part of his routine for a good while now, but it's the first time he's had the courage to step inside; partly because he was afraid you may recognise him, mostly because he hates bars.
But tonight, he was willing to sacrifice his comfort for you. Loud environments aren't so bad if he has something to focus on, and you've checked that box a thousand times over.
Low rise jeans and a black camisole are all you're wearing, despite the chill outside, and as you lean over the bar to watch your drinks being made, Spencer feels himself growing lightheaded. The arch of your back, sculpted by the hands of a lustful God, is one thing, but the deep red lace peeking out from your jeans is something else entirely. If the world were to end tonight, he'd certainly die happy. And hard. Fatally hard. Words cannot describe how grateful he is for this place's dim lighting.
He came up with today's plan on the fly, which is something he rarely does, but the thought of you weighed so heavy on his mind, drowning out all other stimuli, that he simply had to act; else he'd turn up to work tomorrow with rocks for brains, as he had done every other day this week.
It isn't good. He can usually force himself to forget you when he's working, he'd get no work done otherwise, but ever since he met you (officially) he's found it impossible to do so.
You've breached containment, and the team have noticed.
They've noticed his lack of focus, his spacing out during meetings, the decline in his work speed. Soon enough, they'll start asking about it, and Spencer will have no choice but to confess that he's interested in someone—and he really doesn't want to do that; the team will never leave him alone again if he does that.
Seeing you again was the only way he could quell his restlessness, fill the you-shaped hole in his soul, that way he could make it through the rest of the week. Focus on cases. Save lives.
But merely seeing you isn't enough anymore, not after knowing the bliss of speaking to you.
So he makes his move.
He weaves through the crowd with about as much grace as a blind dog; stepping on toes, bumping shoulders, tripping over his own feet because he's too busy watching you. You're thanking the bartender, carefully picking up the tray of drinks, turning around, and—
"Woah—"
…almost walking straight into him.
Each shot glass loses about half of its contents. Liquid sloshes over the sides and pools on the tray. A few dribbles of your vodka cranberry (your third one of the night) land on your chest, trickles down between your breasts.
Oh, God help him.
"…Spencer?"
His gaze snaps back to your face. "I'm so sorry, I-I wasn't— are you okay?"
"I'm fine. It's fine." Your smile is lopsided. Relaxed. Almost fond. "I really need to start, um, watching where I'm going, don't I? Gosh, the girls are gonna be so mad I wasted half of their shots."
There's no concern in your voice, just amusement. Pure, almost childish amusement.
You're drunk.
"Here." Spencer eases the tray from your hands. "Where are you sitting?"
The far left corner, by—
"By the, uh…" You gesture vaguely to your left before reaching for the tray. "The pool table, that's it. But you don't have to—"
"I think you should just watch where you're going," he says.
You scoff and shake your head, but you're grinning. "And I think…" You let your arms fall to your sides. "That you're completely right. Come on."
Spencer trails behind as you lead the way, keeping a steady grip on your tray of drinks like he's carrying the crown jewels and staring, quite shamelessly, at your ass. The sway of your hips is almost hypnotic, and he has to tear his gaze away before your friends see him.
They're standing around a cocktail table, deep in a conversation that cuts off when they see you approaching. All three of them greet you with bright smiles that, like a flash of lightning, start to fade once they catch sight of Spencer behind you; not upset, but…apprehensive, and understandably so. He's a stranger.
"This is Spencer." You're still beaming; a star in the night sky. "The guy from the coffee shop."
Recognition washes over each of their faces, and they relax slightly—though they're still watching him closely, eyes narrowed like predators.
"Sorry, can I just…" Spencer squeezes past you to set the tray on the table, and he flashes them a painfully self-conscious smile. "Hi."
"And these are Cassandra, Scarlet, and Abby. My friends," you say, gesturing to each girl. "Friends, Spencer; Spencer, friends."
Three lionesses and their baby deer, that's what Spencer sees when he looks at the four of you.
Cassandra looks more like a Scarlet than the actual Scarlet does; her hair is dyed a dark shade of red, and she's making no attempt to appear warm or welcoming. She shifts closer to you, just slightly, like she's preparing to pull you away from him at a moment's notice.
The real Scarlet is flaunting her winter tan lines in a tube top. She's smiling at him, but her eyes are sharp. Hungry, almost.
Abby is the only one who doesn't look as though she's about to bite his head off.
"This is who's been funding your caffeine addiction?" she asks.
Nodding, you reach for a not-quite-full shot glass. "Yup," you say, popping the "p" before knocking your head back. The glass, now empty, gets set back on the table, and you reach for your vodka cranberry in its stead. "He's an FBI agent."
"He's cute." Scarlet leans over the table, eyeing him up like a piece of meat. And then, to his horror, her gaze drops to his hips. "Do you carry, agent?"
Please don't see his erection please don't see his erection please don't—
"Hey." You give her a playful shove before turning to Spencer with an apologetic smile. "Ignore her. She's drunk. We're all, um…drunk." Laughter rises in your throat, tainting your words as you shake your head. Your attention flicks back to Scarlet. "And it's Doctor."
"Doctor?" she and Abby echo in unison.
"Three PhDs in, uh…very impressive subjects that I am totally not forgetting…"
You nudge him with your elbow, and Spencer damn near jumps out of his skin.
"What? Oh. Um…Mathematics, Chemistry, and Engineering," he says with a smile, so stiff around the edges he thinks his skin might split open. He's never particularly enjoyed being the centre of attention, but this is so much worse than delivering a presentation, or a profile; you've thrown him into the lion's den, naked and afraid.
But you're cheering him on; talking him up to your friends like he's something important. Something to show off. Smiling and laughing and touching him, however briefly. Looking lighter than air, carefree and beautiful in all the ways he dreamed you'd be.
He tells himself it's the alcohol; the final wall of realism put up against a bewitched, senseless heart. You can't like him as much as you appear to, it doesn't make sense. You don't know him.
But you feel him, maybe as strongly as he does you. Maybe the gravity is mutual; cosmic collision already in motion.
What if this isn't a chase, but a dance? Souls entwined from first glance, no words needed. No touch.
Maybe you're already his.
Further interrogation yields surprisingly positive results; the lionesses are impressed by his job title and "heroic" lifestyle (Abby's words, not his), but what interests them even more is his extensive knowledge of different alcoholic beverages and the effects they have on the brain. He mentions the term "aphrodisiac" once when discussing red wine, and everybody, even Cassandra, leaned in to listen.
He wasn't expecting to make such a good first impression on your friends. Hell, he wasn't expecting to make an impression at all; his half-baked plan only involved saying hi, maybe buying you a drink, and then parting ways—a quick hit of you, your scent, your smile, was all he needed.
And now he's commanding a table of women he was so sure were going to maul him, handling the social pressures with ease even though he hasn't had a drop of alcohol; he doesn't need it, not when he has you.
He is, however, very thankful when Cassandra takes back the reins.
"I'm gonna go order another drink," she says, smiling at everyone but Spencer. He doesn't take it personally. "Who's coming?"
Abby and Scarlet are already moving, quietly scheming to split the cost of a bottle of red wine. You hold out your empty glass to Cassandra, grinning.
"Water?" she asks.
"Oh, boo." You pull the glass back as she tries to take it. "Come on, Cass. You can't cut me off; I'm having fun."
"And the last time you had fun, we had to carry you home because you were too sick to get in the cab, remember?"
"That was—"
"I'm getting you that water, 'kay?"
She walks away before you can protest further.
Reaching for your purse, you huff as you begin rummaging around for cash, but then you feel Spencer's gaze on you. You pause, fist full of coins, and sigh before setting everything back down.
Turning, you flash him a strained smile. It doesn't quite reach your eyes. "Like I said, protective," you sigh, leaning back against the table. You're quiet for a moment, but the silence proves too much to deal with so you jab your finger into his bicep. "Hey, well done though."
Spencer blinks at you. "…for what?"
"For disproving their whole ‘creep' theory," you say. "They're, um— they like to assume the worst, especially when it comes to…" You gesture vaguely to Spencer and shrug. "I keep telling them to lighten up, but I'm not really— …they just— they have their reasons, you know? Sorry, I should stop talking. I'm drunk, and I—"
"It's okay," he says quietly.
You look up at him then, all soft-eyed, like you're seeking reassurance. The world goes quiet as Spencer offers you an equally gentle smile.
You take it, hold it, and you move on.
"What's an FBI agent doing in a bar on a Wednesday night, anyway? Don't you have work tomorrow?"
Spencer's smile hardens like wax. Split-second panic attacks his neck, goes for the throat, but he fights it off in time to say, "Don't you have work tomorrow?"
"I work a desk job, I'll be fine," you say. "Not sure you can afford to be hungover whilst chasing serial killers, though."
"Oh, I'm not drinking."
It just kind of comes out.
In all fairness, it was either this—telling the truth—or making himself out to be an irresponsible agent.
"Then…" You frown. Uncertainty is starting to creep into your expression. Apprehension, the same kind he'd witnessed in your friends. "Why are you here?"
"I, um…"
Come on, Spencer. Use your brain.
"I take pictures." Oh, Jesus Christ. "I-I'm a photographer. Amateur."
Curiosity replaces suspicion, and you raise an eyebrow. "A photographer?"
"Yes," he says quickly. "Candids, mostly. I like, um, capturing people—their essence—in the moment. So I go to bars and…other places to take photographs. I-I might indulge myself in a drink or— or two, but only on weekends. I have my, um—" He gestures to his satchel. "I have my camera with me."
The moment he sees your face light up, the regret hits him like a fucking truck.
"Oh, cool! Can I see?"
No. No, you can't see. You absolutely, definitely cannot see.
"I-I actually don't— woah."
In his panic, he doesn't notice the way you're swaying until you're stumbling, heading straight for the floor. He moves quickly, grabbing you by your arms and holding you steady as you try to blink away the dizziness.
"Are you okay?"
"Mhm. Yeah, I just…" You rub your eyes. Spencer's still holding onto you. His grip loosens to something gentle, but he remains unwilling to let you go. "Fuck, I'm drunk."
You say it like it's a realisation; like you haven't been told it, and said it yourself, already.
"Oh, God," you groan, shaking your head. "This is so not cool. I'm sorry, I don't usually do this. I don't— I swear I…"
"Hey, it's okay." Spencer gives your arms a light squeeze, hoping to reassure you. "Do you want to get some air?"
You cough up a laugh so bitter he can almost taste it, laced with a regret that he can't place; an insecurity that runs impossibly deep. "Yeah," you mutter. "You know, I should probably just— I think I should go home. I have work tomorrow, like— like you said."
"Should I call a cab?"
"No, it's okay. I can walk."
Spencer frowns. "On your own? I'm not sure that's—"
"Everything okay?"
Cassandra has reappeared, bottle of water in hand. Her gaze flicks between you and Spencer, his hands on your arms, and she purses her lips.
"We're going home," you announce, easing yourself out of his grasp.
"We?"
Spencer and Cassandra's voices overlap, disbelief harmonising.
He's misinterpreted your words, surely, because there's no possible way you mean what he thinks you mean.
He stands as a statue of himself, frozen in wait for the pinch that'll wake him up. But it never comes.
"I'll call you when I'm home," you say, gathering your belongings, "and you have my location. It'll be fine. You guys should stay and enjoy yourselves."
Cassandra's jaw works as you speak, teeth grinding the same way Hotch's do when he doesn't like the sound of something, but there's a grim kind of acceptance about her expression, like she knows there's no point in arguing with you.
"Call me." Is all she says.
You flash her a small smile as you put on your coat. "I will."
Without waiting for Spencer, you turn towards the exit. He rushes to catch up to you, but Cassandra grasps him, gently, by his sleeve before he can get away.
He expects a lecture, a threat, a warning, but all she does is press the water bottle into his hand and mutter, "Keep an eye on her, will you?"
Spencer nods, a silent, earnest promise, and she lets him go.
—
The two of you walk in near silence, which should feel like a blessing after the oppressive noise of the bar, but it doesn't; it feels suffocating, overwhelmingly dense and yet exceedingly empty.
He hands you the water bottle. You don't notice how he turns every corner before you do. Don't question how or why he knows where he's going; you're too busy looking at the cloudless sky. At the stars that you can barely make out for the city's light pollution. One day, he'll take you to the observatory.
"Have you heard of a Thorne-Żyktow object?" he eventually asks.
You crane your neck to look up at him, and your unsteady feet lead you into him. Your shoulder bumps his arm; proof of the gravity thrumming between you. "A what-what object?"
"It's a conjectured type of hybrid star," he explains, keeping his words soft and slow—as slow as his overzealous mouth will allow. "Kip Thorne and Anna Żyktow hypothesised that it would be formed if a neutron star were to collide with another star. They spiral inward— it's almost like a dance. The forces between the neutron star and the core of its companion are so strong that, once they collide, there's no undoing, and eventually they merge. If their combined mass exceeds the Tolman-Oppenheimer-Volkoff limit, then the two will collapse into a black hole."
"And if it doesn't?"
"They coalesce into a single star," he says. "A red supergiant with a neutron star at it's core. Technically the entire star would be considered a neutron star but, observationally, it continues to resemble a red supergiant."
Your gaze drops from the stars to the sidewalk, and Spencer watches as you chew on your bottom lip.
"Sorry," he says.
"For what?"
"I have a habit of, um, rambling." He's sweating. It's below freezing out here, and he's sweating. "I-I just thought that talking, giving you something to focus on, might…help."
"Don't apologise," you say. "I think it's sweet."
Spencer has to watch his feet to make sure he doesn't start floating in the wake of your words.
"The star thing, I mean. Who doesn't want to merge with someone and spend the rest of time…floating through space together?"
Oh. Okay. That's okay; at least you're getting his point—
"You trying to cheer me up is sweet, too."
Oh.
Okay.
—
He has to help you up the stairs to your apartment.
Genuine tears formed in his eyes when you asked him to walk you up to that first floor, east-facing set of rooms he's spent the last few months dreaming about, walking past, mapping it out in his mind using your building's floor plan. He wasn't expecting to get past the door, but that was okay; simply seeing the door, and the glimpse into your living space it would provide, would have been enough.
But you let him in, and you give him a mission: pyjamas. Third drawer of the dresser in your bedroom—could he grab a pair for you whilst you use the bathroom? Anything will do.
Spencer can't breathe in here. He thought the living room was bad enough, but the bedroom? The place where you sleep? Relax? Do all the beautiful things he can't let himself picture because it will have damning consequences for him and his pants? It's too much.
Everything smells like you. Your scent sticks to his skin like a divine perfume, seeps into his bloodstream like a narcotic. He tries to narrow his world down to that dresser, to that drawer, and stop himself from letting his gaze, his mind, his hands, wander anywhere they aren't supposed to go.
But it's a losing battle, and there's a laundry basket in the corner of your room. Wicker. Stuffed full of you; practically begging to be opened.
He tends to the pyjama problem first; grabs a pink pair that look like they'll keep you warm through the night, tucks them under his arm, and moves on to his true target.
It's half-full. An abyss of clothes; some that he recognises, some that he doesn't.
He picks a pair of panties from the second layer—pale blue cotton with scalloped hems and a pretty little bow—and stuffs them into his pocket just as he hears the click of the bathroom door unlocking.
After steadying his racing heart, Spencer meets you in the living room and presents your pyjamas with a humble smile. You seem steadier now, more like yourself; the fresh air did you some good.
But you're still drunk, more so than he thinks you want to let on. Your cheeks are flushed and, no matter how hard you try, or how purposefully you move, you can't shake that looseness. Every movement is fluid, mesmerising, even the way you hug your pyjamas to your chest as you look up at him.
"Thank you," you say. The ghost of that happy, drunken grin haunts your face, threatens to resurrect.
Spencer shrugs. It's the best he can do to appear casual, like his heart isn't a ticking time bomb in his chest. "Don't worry about it. Just…remember to drink plenty of fluids, okay?"
You tilt your head. "Doctor's orders?"
"I—" Oh God. "Yes— yes, Doctor's orders."
There it is. That smile. It moves quick, conquering every feature until you're glowing. Radiance exuding from every line, every dimple. You're a cosmic anomaly; perfection incarnate. Spencer couldn't tear himself away from such a sight even if he wanted to.
Your gaze wavers. Falls to his lips. Reverts to his eyes. Wanders down again.
Please.
It wouldn't take much to bridge the gap; you know that. One small step. The tilt of a head.
Pleasepleaseplease.
You jerk back, lowering your head in one quick, abrupt motion. Severing the tie. Resisting the pull. It hurts; a bruise stamped behind his ribs, pulsating to the beat of what could have been. You feel it, too. You must.
"I should, um—" You clear your throat. You're still smiling, but it has melted. Reshaped into something bashful. "I should go to bed, I think."
Spencer forces himself to nod. He even manages to flash a smile. "You need to be well rested for work."
"Yeah…" You mime his actions, unable to hold his gaze for more than a few seconds at a time. "You too. I'm sorry for keeping you—"
"It's okay," he says.
"…okay." A sigh escapes your lips, soft and breathy—wistful, almost. "Thank you, again, for walking me home. Now get out of here."
"Yes, ma'am."
He doesn't curse himself for saying it, this time. The shame is long gone, replaced by something light; the butterfly in his stomach, wings newly softened; the delicate blue fabric in his pocket.
As he steps out of the warmth of your apartment, you call out to him.
"I'll see you on Saturday?"
Spencer nods, smiling. "You'll see me on Saturday."
But he'll be seeing you a lot sooner than that.
psst...if you're interested at all in supporting me further, i have a ko-fi <3
every breath you take
and every move you make
every bond you break
every step you take
⊹ ࣪ ˖ᯓ I'LL BE WATCHING YOU.
[SERIES MASTERLIST] [MAIN MASTERLIST]
SUMMARY : spencer reid has a plan to make you his; a plan that involves copious amount of stalking, sneaky photographs, and money spent on subpar coffee. he'll win you over if it's the last thing he does, and there isn't anything he won't do to ensure his victory.
PAIRING : stalker!spencer x reader | WORD COUNT : 9k
WARNINGS : DDDNE MDNI, stalking, obsessive behaviour, filthy pervert spencer reid, nonconsensual photography, referenced m masturbation, meet cute lowkey, coffee date, spencer literally worships reader, alcohol consumption, mildly concerning drinking habits if you squint, panty stealing!!, and they're used!!, no sex but spencer is bricked up in literally every scene, this is him at his most normal btw
NOTES : hide your panties, guys...he's here.
"Latte with—"
"Two sugars. Two percent milk. Dusting of cocoa powder."
Lacquered nails drum against the countertop, beats spaced unevenly, but intentionally—her hand posture, and the unmistakable melody of Bach's Prelude and Fugue in C major, says she's a pianist when she isn't interrupting customers.
It would be easy to think she were judging you, but her smile reeks nothing of your typical mean girl archetype. It's genuine; bright and dimpled, like you could be her friend.
Your head falls to one side, lips pursed in a sheepish smile. "This feels like a sign to change my order."
"Please." The barista gives a stern shake of her head. Her dog-eared name tag reads MADEILYN in bold, handwritten letters (why her parents opted for that instead of the traditional Madeline is a mystery). "We love our regulars because of their signature drinks. You know Tony? Probably not; he's usually here at the crack of dawn. Anyway, the staff and I have started making his drink before he even gets to the register. Extra hot americano with a splash of heavy cream. We hand it to him without him needing to order, it's great."
"Until he decides he wants a different drink," you say.
Madeilyn shrugs. "Hasn't happened yet. Tony's an older guy, very stuck in his ways—and kinda cute. Anyway, that'll be four dollars and fifteen cents when you're ready. Cash or card?"
The cash is already in your hand; the exact amount. It has been since you were third in line. Your preparedness is as predictable as your coffee order—neurotic, almost. It's a ritual of sorts; a mechanism in place to appease a high-functioning anxious mind.
The money leaves your hand and lands seamlessly in Madeilyn's, and she slots it into the register without stopping to count, but she'll count the coins of the teenage girl behind you—not because she's ever underpaid, but because she's new, and trust is earned. Smiles are exchanged between the two of you, and you move aside to wait on your cocoa-dusted beverage.
The queue shuffles forward, and your drink is presented before that girl can stumble through her mouthful of an order, rattling off creams and syrups that are sure to mix atrociously together. Madeilyn's smile stiffens, and her brows raise barely a millimetre; customer service front crumbling by the nanosecond. The girl retracts one of her alterations, swaps it for something else, and poor Madeilyn's thoughts practically leak out into the air around her; I don't get paid enough for this. How unfortunate it must be to be stuck with a misspelled name and an unremarkable minimum wage job.
Their interaction drags on, much to the dismay of the accountant standing, arms crossed, behind the girl; she has places to be, even on a Saturday, and she is plain, laughably so, compared to you—everybody in this place is.
Spencer watches as you pick up your coffee, fingers cradling the mass-produced cup like it's something sacred. It feels as though the cartoon puppy printed on the sleeve is staring right at him, mocking him from under the palm of your delicate hand. If only there were some way to trade places; hell, he'd even become a coffee cup, discarded in the trash by the day's end, if it meant you'd hold him like that for just a moment.
His keen gaze tracks you to your seat; sofa chair, close enough to the window to watch the cars pass, and far enough away to avoid the glare of the sun on your laptop screen. You weave through the populated tables like water, cardigan shrugged from one shoulder, strap of your worn leather bag keeping the other side secured in place.
The woollen fabric slips down the length of your arm as soon as you remove your bag, and it catches on your bracelet as you try to readjust it.
One barely withheld sigh and an adorably frustrated nose scrunch later, you've freed yourself. Your cardigan is back in place, still intact after its tussle with the problem bracelet; all is right in the world, but you still glance around the room as you take your seat, like you're expecting to find people staring, or worse, laughing.
Casually, Spencer transitions his focus to his own bag to search for his wallet. He keeps his head bowed, face safely hidden from your pretty eyes, and you pass over him without second glance.
As far as you're concerned, he's no more than another face in the crowd; now second in line, and fast running out of time to prepare his coins before he's called up.
—
Saturdays are Spencer's favourite day. The weekend has never much appealed to him; too much empty space in his schedule opens doors for bad habits—oversleeping, skipping meals, thinking too much about everything under the sun until he feels that tightness in his chest; that deep, soul-aching sense of purposelessness. Even as a child, he favoured structure, routine, over free-falling through the days. They're less likely to blend together, that way.
To this day, weekends still don't do it for him, not like they do for his coworkers. Whilst Derek and Penelope are "getting their freak on" in clubs and bars across the city, Spencer is sitting at home with a stack of case files, waiting for Monday to roll back around and bless him with a job to do; unsubs to catch.
He always felt he had more in common with Gideon, who hangs around the office for hours after the day is done, pouring over paperwork and draining the coffee pot before disappearing to his cabin to "sleep off" everything he's seen that week—but his bag will be weighed down with files; consults that he technically isn't supposed to take home with him but always does.
But even Gideon has a life outside of work, primarily in his birdwatching hobby. Everyone has their thing. The glue that keeps them from falling apart under the weight of this job. For some, it's friends and family. Others, clubs and birds.
Spencer never felt he had a thing of his own; no hobby to keep him afloat outside of the office, no birds to watch. Not until he found you.
You were perfect. The first drops of rain after a twenty-four year dry spell, saturating him with a nectar so sweet it left him dumbfounded, slack-jawed in the line of a coffee shop he'd only entered because he felt dead on his feet, in dire need of a pick-me-up—and what he happened upon instead hit him harder than any amount of caffeine ever had.
Too busy exchanging smile-softened words with the barista, you had picked your coffee up by the plastic lid, failing to notice how it was sitting slightly askew. The cup came apart, hot coffee coating the front of your sweater, and landed back on the counter on its side, spilling its remaining contents out everywhere like the eviscerated corpse Spencer had studied the day before.
Apologies came next, from both you and the barista; two melodies clashing in competition to see who could pile on the most blame, all while coffee dripped steadily onto your shoes. You laughed it off, coughing up a self-deprecating comment with a scotch tape smile; forced, unsteady, yet still utterly captivating.
You couldn't have been more marvellous if you tried. Even as your hands trembled removing your sweater, Spencer thought you were fantastic. Elegant in such a true, unapologetically human fashion; something he could watch all day, like Gideon with his birds.
Your drink was remade. Your mess was cleaned up. You moved on, completely unaware of the life changing behind you, reshaping to accommodate— no, revolve around you.
Core collapse and rebirth. A supernova in his chest cavity; the neutron star heart left behind, bound by gravitational need to an oblivious sun. His sine qua non.
Spencer had to drag himself out of that coffee shop in a daze, caffeine craving forgotten; replaced by something softer, harsher. Turbulent and lithe all in one. A single butterfly in his stomach, tearing the lining with serrated wings. He felt sick. He felt high.
He felt you.
Your self-conscious laugh, your shaky hands, your ruined sweater; it was all a part of him, somehow. Ingrained into his biology as authentically as his own genetic code.
He had to see you again. Had to know you, intimately. Keep knowing you until the lines blurred and there was no telling where one ended and the other began. He needed a cosmic collision; to tear through outer layers and burrow himself in your chest and become the first proven, perfect Thorne-Żyktow object. A star within a star.
A fool would have thrown caution to the wind and marched back into that coffee shop. No plan, no thought, just the scattered, spiralling notions of a man who had just survived an explosion, now choking on the dust; the pieces of a cosmic devotion lodged in his throat. A fool would handle you indelicately, and he would scare you away in seconds.
But Spencer is no fool. As hard as it was, he pushed every screaming, irrational instinct down and walked away, each step a struggle against your commanding gravity.
He vowed to return, clear-headed, and approach the issue of you, of knowing you, as he would anything else; like a profiler's game of chess. In-depth study, fail-proof strategy, and, above all, patience.
He'd learn the language of you, and he'd speak it fluently before you even knew who he was. It would take time—weeks, maybe months—before he was ready for you to know him, and by then his success would be all but guaranteed; it was the logical approach, one that mitigated any risk, trampled any possibility of failure.
This was the one game he couldn't afford to lose. So he was going to do everything in his power to ensure he won; he'd find a way, no matter what.
—
"Black americano…with five packets of sugar—"
"On the side."
"On the side." Madeilyn looks up at him with a manufactured smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. It's perfectly cordial. Corporate. Lacking the sincerity she displays with other customers, and quietly simmering with something that seems to teeter close to discomfort.
Spencer would take offence, if she were the only person to treat him this way. But this kind of stiff awkwardness—uneasy smiles, stilted conversations—is something he's long since grown used to, especially with women. It doesn't bother him much anymore.
"Anything else?" she asks.
"Oh, um—" He glances back over his shoulder and quickly finds your face in the, line four bodies down. You're studying the pastry display, bottom lip caught between your teeth as you deliberate between the cinnamon bun and the pain au chocolat—you'll choose the latter. Clearing his throat, Spencer turns back to Madeilyn with a calm, steady smile. "The woman in the brown cardigan, I'd like to pay for her drink."
She stares at him, expression blank, like he's just veered wildly off script—and he supposes he has; never in the months he's been a patron here has he asked for anything beyond his regular coffee.
But then Madeilyn's face does something he doesn't expect: she grins.
Laughter taints the edges of her voice as she says your name, confirming she has the right girl. Spencer nods, certain. It's the first time he's heard your name spoken aloud; it's seraphic, almost song-like.
He sees it in flashes: him, calling you by your name in casual conversation; murmuring it in your ear, soft, as he presses a kiss to the shell of your ear; moaning it into your skin between thrusts as—
"Well," Madeilyn clicks her tongue, still grinning, "if my predictions are correct, that'll be four fifteen on top of your drink. Cash or card?"
Spencer blinks hard, nodding without thought as his mind fights to catch up to her question. "Cash. Um— here," he hands over the coins, for his drink, and then holds out a crisp ten dollar bill, for yours—and for the pain au chocolat. "I'll give you ten, just to be safe. You can keep the change."
"That's one way to do it." She takes takes the cash and sorts it into the register, smile still sticking to her face. "Thanks, uh…"
"Spencer," he says.
"Spencer, right. Your coffee will be with you in a sec."
"Thank you. Oh—" He turns back to her last minute, voice lowered to just above a whisper. "Can you not, um…tell her? You know, that I'm…doing this?"
Madeilyn narrows her eyes, and Spencer's heart drops.
"I-I just—" He stammers, already feeling heat rushing to his cheeks. "I, um—"
"Your secret's safe with me, don't worry," she says simply, offering one last reassuring smile before adding, "Now go, Spence— can I call you Spence? It has a nice ring to it. Real cute. Anyway, you're holding up the line. Get out of here."
By the time he's collected his coffee and found a seat, you're already standing at the register, exchanging pleasantries with Madeilyn. He steals an anxious glance as he retrieves his book from his satchel, but all he can see is the back of your head.
Today was supposed to be a regular day. No big moves, no changes in the routine, just regular: he stands behind you in the line, grabs a table a safe distance from yours, pretends to read whilst he watches you work, and you type away on your laptop, oblivious to it all. He thought if he felt particularly daring then he'd pull out his camera, steal a few photographs to add to his collection—but that was all.
He didn't plan for this to happen today, but you hadn't been there when he arrived. Your spot in the line had been filled by a person that Spencer did not recognise, and with every minute that passed he found himself growing increasingly agitated. Frustrated. With you; with himself; with this stupid, puppy-branded coffee shop that served, at best, subpar beverages that he only bought because of you, and now you weren't even there.
So when you walked through those doors a few minutes late, hair dampened with the beginnings of a rain shower, looking like poetry in its purest form, it felt like fate.
He understood, then, that today was not intended to be a regular day. The universe had created an opening, provided an opportunity, and he wasn't going to ignore it.
If only he had the confidence to reach for his camera, he'd be able to capture the look on your face as you turn around: brows pinched in a confused, slightly alarmed frown; lips parted, corners upturned to produce an uncertain smile which, on second glance, seems closer to a grimace.
Your eyes dart across the room in search for your mysterious benefactor, but you find nothing; no smug smiles, no knowing looks, just the usual crowd of caffeine addicts, likely too busy moaning about the price of their own drinks to even consider paying for yours.
Shaking your head, you turn back to Madeilyn, and Spencer watches, pleased, as you try to refuse his gift; the money's already in your hand, ready to be exchanged, but when you present it to her all your stubbornness earns is a shrug. She waves you away with a smirk, but not before muttering something that makes you scoff.
The next time he catches a glimpse of your face, your cheeks are flushed pink, and Spencer's game is officially in motion.
—
This becomes your new routine. Spencer pays for your coffee, Madeilyn upholds her promise of concealing his identity, and every Saturday you are left increasingly perplexed. Increasingly suspicious. It's addictive.
Each prepaid coffee brings with it an elevated risk of exposure, and Spencer is hooked on the thrill of not knowing when the ball will drop.
And when it does, when the pieces click into place and you see him, for the first time, he'll be ready. Armed with his wealth of knowledge and a smile that the staff at his mother's sanitarium say is charming, he'll leave a strong, terminally positive first impression. It's inevitable.
In the meantime, he continues to watch, taking note of whatever he can, over-analysing you to the atom and building his ever-growing portfolio of things to discuss with you; TV shows to reference, bands to mention in passing, books to sit and flick through now in the hopes that you might notice as you walk by, so when he brings them up in the future you'll know he's being genuine.
If he sits in the right spot, studies your hands for long enough, he can just about piece together what you're typing on your laptop every week. He initially assumed it would be work related. Emails, most likely; you work in administration for a local health clinic, and Spencer would be willing to bet your inbox is always full.
But upon further inspection, he found that your focus—the slight frown that boarded your face the moment you sat down and stayed, persistent, until you left—was not related to your work at all, but something far more interesting: a manuscript.
Your social media profiles never betrayed any desire to become an author. Your social media profiles never betrayed anything, period, aside from your job title and a few photographs from a vacation you took to Italy two years ago. As far as the internet was concerned, you hardly existed at all, and Spencer had to dig to find evidence of you on the accounts of friends and family, hidden among your mother's posts about her garden, and your friend Scarlet's third trip to the Canary Islands since winter struck DC.
You knew how to keep your private life out of the public eye. Smart girl; there's no knowing what kind of creeps would try to stalk you, if given the chance.
This, of course, made it all the more difficult for Spencer to learn about you, but he won't complain too much; really, he's just glad you're keeping yourself safe.
For one peaceful hour every Saturday, your writing consumes your entire world. Everything collapses down to you and your laptop, the clack of your keyboard, and Spencer often wonders what it would take to snap you out of your haze—a fight, maybe? Some days it seems a bomb could strike the street outside, and you wouldn't bat an eye.
So when Spencer reaches for his camera, he isn't worried that you'll catch him.
He's worried that someone else will.
He operates it with one hand, keeps it under the shadow of his table, angles it blind as his heart hammers against his ribs. Most of the photographs he takes of you (in the coffee shop, and elsewhere), are out of focus, so bad it looks purposeful. He's sure any professional photographer would laugh at his work; hell, even a beginner would.
But sometimes he does it. Captures the perfect image of you, chin resting on your hand as you review a passage, chewing thoughtfully on your lower lip with the sun painting half of your face in its light, looking so perfect it's almost offensive.
He cherishes these pictures of you, cosmic deity among common folk, like they're made of solid gold. Idols made to be revered, kept safe in the leather bindings of an old photo book for him to flip through at his leisure, and to worship on those cold nights when the ache he feels surmounts to agony, straining and pulsating with the need to be beside you.
This is the only thought on his mind as he leaves the coffee shop a few minutes after you do; printing today's pictures, selecting his favourite, christening it as he wonders what it would be like to touch you. Hold you. Love you—
You're standing right in front of him as he turns the corner. Wearing a frown that he can't even begin to interpret on account of the fact that you are standing right in front of him.
You're real, and you're looking right at him. Seeing him, at last.
"It's you, isn't it?" you ask, voice carefully calm. Perfect. "You've been buying my coffees."
A beat.
Another one; longer.
Fuck, Spencer. Speak.
"…huh?" Wrong; that's a noise.
"What?" Okay, we're getting somewhere.
"Huh?" Never mind.
Your brows raise with each sound he chokes out. He wasn't prepared for this. He thought he was, but he wasn't.
The camera, buried deep in the bottom of his bag, now feels impossibly heavy. Guilt stuffed into metal casing. You can smell it, he's sure.
He can smell you. Cardamom, cinnamon, sandalwood; all the warmth he's come to associate with you, only ever experienced from a distance, now flooding his nose, hijacking his brain. He feels nauseous. He feels—
"I'm not mad," you say, cautiously trying to ease his distress with a soft smile. Spencer adjusts his bag to cover his crotch. "Madeilyn and I…we had this agreement where if I guessed who was buying my drinks, she'd give me a free pin, and…"
You gesture to your chest (God help him), pointing at a small puppy dog brooch—the coffee shop's stupid mascot.
"…I got it right."
You look almost proud, self-consciously suppressing a smile that would be sure to make his head explode if you let it blossom. It's enough to make him forget Madeilyn's betrayal, forget everything, completely. If you were to ask his name right now, he's pretty sure he'd end up saying yours.
"I'm sorry," he manages, face ablaze with a suffocating heat despite the winter breeze. Under his tweed jacket, his shirt sticks to his back, soaked through with sweat.
Someone kill him.
"I was, um— I thought it would be…I don't know. It wasn't my intention to make you uncomfortable, or anything. It's just that you seemed…nice, and— and I wanted to, um, do something good? I-It's like what Anne Herbert wrote; 'practice random acts of kindness and senseless acts of beauty', and I personally really, um, identify with that philosophy, and…and I don't know. I'm sorry."
You stay quiet as he speaks, silently watching him spiral before saying, at last, "I was gonna thank you, but…okay."
"What?"
He's staring at you like you've just sprouted another head, caught somewhere between disbelief and amazement.
"I mean, with how expensive a coffee is these days…" You shrug. Casual, like you're not in the middle of delivering a divine blessing. "You've been saving me a decent chunk of cash."
You hold out your hand. He watches it, wide-eyed, like he's never seen a hand before in his life; like this is some kind of prank, and you might hurt him.
But then he gathers his courage. He wipes his sweaty palm on his pants, and he takes your hand, grip firm.
"Thank you, uh…Spencer, right?"
You know his name.
His pants are so tight he's beginning to fear he might pop a stitch.
"Yes," he breathes. "And— and it's no big deal, really. I'm happy to, uh…help."
Too happy to help; he's so hard it hurts, and the rush of blood to his crotch deprives the areas that need it most—his brain, for instance. He forgets to move his arm as you shake his hand, and he forgets to let go when you stop; he just stands there, dumbstruck, holding onto you like you're the only thing keeping him upright.
"Of course," you slide your hand out from his seamlessly, "I can't not pay you back. And I know that kind of defeats the point of a random act of kindless, but I'm sure Anne Herbert won't mind—"
This isn't happening. This isn't real; there's no way.
Your words glide through one ear and out the other. Focusing on what you're saying is an impossible task when you're here, be it real or imagined, and looking like that ("that" being utterly mundane; utterly beautiful). There isn't anything provocative about your outfit; there can't be, given the season. You're wearing loose-fitting slacks and a blouse under a cardigan and coat; you aren't showing anything, and you're leaving everything to the imagination.
And that's the problem, because Spencer Reid's imagination is a force to be reckoned with.
It's enough to bring him to his knees, almost; the thought of what you're hiding under your clothes. The thought of him peeling away the layers slowly, methodically, so he can study you. Every curve, mapped. Every freckle, memorised. He could study you for the rest of his life—he has been for months already, and you've been fully clothed, out of reach, the entire time.
"So, how about coffee? Next week, on me."
He tunes back in then, just in time to catch your offer, and he almost drops right there, in the street, to kiss the pointed toes of your pumps and thank you profusely for doing this for him, but he refrains.
Pursing his lips, he swallows any mortifying response bound to come spilling out if he tries to speak, and he settles instead on a nod. Quick and simple, and safe.
Coffee. Next week. On you.
—
He never should have said agreed to this.
Watching is easy. It's passive; there's no thought required when watching someone, no social game to play. You can't do something wrong if you're hardly doing anything to begin with.
But this? This is different. He isn't equipped to handle this. Couldn't be. No amount of watching, no amount of preparation, could prepare him for the hurricane that is you.
Sitting across from you in this coffee shop, Madeilyn's amused gaze burning into his side profile when she isn't speaking to customers, Spencer is convinced—wholly, utterly convinced—that he is dying. There is no other explanation for what is happening inside of him other than death, slow and painful, and ecstatic.
"So…" You shift in your seat, crossing your legs as you observe him with unconcealed curiosity. "What do you do for work to afford so much coffee?"
"I—" Spencer swallows hard—why is he hesitating? "I work in the FBI's, um, Behavioural Analysis Unit."
"The BAU?"
It isn't a question asked out of confusion. You aren't asking for clarification (which, admittedly, he was just about to give); you know what the BAU is, and you're impressed.
"Yes," he confirms.
Which is about as terrifying as it is giddying, because that means you know what he does. What he can do.
"So you're Agent Spencer, then?"
He expects you to ask about profiling; how much he can learn about someone just from watching them, for example. Or about serial killers, like most other people do. People's morbid curiosity tend to flare up when they're discussing his job, but you stick with surface-level questions.
"It's Doctor, actually," he says. "Doctor Spencer Reid."
You raise an eyebrow. "Doctor?"
"I have three PhDs." He feels like a child showing off his good grades. "Mathematics, Chemistry, and Engineering."
"You've been busy." You narrow your eyes, studying his features a little more closely. Immediately, he feels his cheeks flush. "And you are…"
"Twenty-four." He finds that if he speaks fast enough he's less likely to stutter. In exchange, though, he sounds absolutely terrified.
"So there's no Benjamin Button business going on?"
"No ma'am."
Maybe he should just stop talking entirely. You'll ask him yes or no questions, and he'll just shake his head up and down, and left to right; that seems to be the only way to save himself from complete humiliation.
Because "no ma'am"? You're younger than him, for Christ's sake. Even if you weren't, he has no business calling you "ma'am"; it's weird, if not downright inappropriate.
But it feels good, too good, to have those words flow from his lips—which is exactly why it's inappropriate. It's perverse; he just hopes you fail to take notice of the way he has to shift in his seat to counteract the growing tightness in his pants.
"You know," you reach for your coffee, but you don't take a sip. The warmth against your palms is a comfort measure, something to keep you grounded when your nerves pick up—when you first sat down, it took you seven minutes and forty-two seconds to relinquish that cup. "My friends actually tried to talk me out of this. Meeting with you."
Spencer frowns. That isn't what he wants to hear. "May I ask why?"
"They figured you were, um…I don't wanna say a creep, but…yeah. That's their word, though, not mine. Hell, they even tried to convince me to move to a different coffee shop when you started paying for my drinks, but that's—" You cut yourself off mid-sentence, and Spencer watches as you run calculations in your mind, deciding what you can and cannot say. In the end, you just smile. "They can be protective."
Why?
It's a question he doesn't ask, but one that sits too heavy on his tongue to just swallow. Sure, to you, it isn't any of his business, but it is to him; understanding your relationships and your past—both of which he has struggled to get a grasp on thus far—is important. If your friends are protective, if they have a reason to be, then he needs to know why.
But he can't push or pry, not now. So he just sits with it, and he takes a sip of his coffee before changing the subject.
"Did you know that some predators have been known to stalk their prey for days on end?" he asks. "Crocodilians, for example, can lie completely still at the water's edge, just…um— they blend in, opting to wait for their prey to come to them rather than engaging in an active pursuit."
You blink at him, confused, but also intrigued. "And this is relevant…how, exactly?"
He turns his coffee cup so the grating little dog is facing you. "This place uses a havanese in their marketing, likely because they're percieved as cute, or— or innocent. They're what's known as a, um, 'velcro dog', meaning they're prone to intense separation anxiety, and their size and shape, their fluffy coats…it all lends itself to an adorable, almost helpless look."
Your gaze flicks between Spencer and the dog as you cross your arms. You've no idea why he's saying any of this, that much is clear, but you're listening, trying to understand, and that's what's important to him; if this relationship is going to play out like it does in his fantasies, you ought to get used to listening to his various tangents.
"But dogs are, well…dogs," he continues, turning the cup back to himself. "Natural predators. They've been domesticated for centuries, but you'd be surprised to learn just how little it can take for primal instinct to override their designer genetics. Under the right circumstances…even a havanese can be a wolf."
He watches with keen eyes as you nod thoughtfully. You take a sip of your coffee and examine, briefly, the havanese printed on your own cup.
"So…what are you, then? A wolf, or a crocodile?"
Spencer almost chokes on his own saliva, blood running cold as your words reach his ears and scorch their way into his brain.
To you, it's an innocent question; to him, it's everything. Eros and a landmine.
You're quick. Perceptive. And that about terrifies him just as much as it turns him on.
He could tell you he's a crocodile; entertain your curiosity and watch the true meaning of his words skim over the top of your head.
"…I, uh— What? I-I wasn't, um—"
…but that would require a working brain, and a confidence that has just dropped, alongside his pounding heart, right out of his ass.
"…the weather's finally starting to clear up, have you noticed?"
—
The bar is loud. 2005's Greatest Hits interrupted by Christmas songs; Mariah Carey's voice blending into the chorus of people, all a little bit too drunk for a Wednesday night.
You're yelling at the bartender—not because you're upset, but because it's the only way he can hear you—with a face alight with an angel's smile, asking for a refill, and for another round of shots. The cash is already in your hand, and you drop a few coins as you make the exchange.
Spencer feels like a fish out of water.
This isn't the first time he's followed you here, this has been part of his routine for a good while now, but it's the first time he's had the courage to step inside; partly because he was afraid you may recognise him, mostly because he hates bars.
But tonight, he was willing to sacrifice his comfort for you. Loud environments aren't so bad if he has something to focus on, and you've checked that box a thousand times over.
Low rise jeans and a black camisole are all you're wearing, despite the chill outside, and as you lean over the bar to watch your drinks being made, Spencer feels himself growing lightheaded. The arch of your back, sculpted by the hands of a lustful God, is one thing, but the deep red lace peeking out from your jeans is something else entirely. If the world were to end tonight, he'd certainly die happy. And hard. Fatally hard. Words cannot describe how grateful he is for this place's dim lighting.
He came up with today's plan on the fly, which is something he rarely does, but the thought of you weighed so heavy on his mind, drowning out all other stimuli, that he simply had to act; else he'd turn up to work tomorrow with rocks for brains, as he had done every other day this week.
It isn't good. He can usually force himself to forget you when he's working, he'd get no work done otherwise, but ever since he met you (officially) he's found it impossible to do so.
You've breached containment, and the team have noticed.
They've noticed his lack of focus, his spacing out during meetings, the decline in his work speed. Soon enough, they'll start asking about it, and Spencer will have no choice but to confess that he's interested in someone—and he really doesn't want to do that; the team will never leave him alone again if he does that.
Seeing you again was the only way he could quell his restlessness, fill the you-shaped hole in his soul, that way he could make it through the rest of the week. Focus on cases. Save lives.
But merely seeing you isn't enough anymore, not after knowing the bliss of speaking to you.
So he makes his move.
He weaves through the crowd with about as much grace as a blind dog; stepping on toes, bumping shoulders, tripping over his own feet because he's too busy watching you. You're thanking the bartender, carefully picking up the tray of drinks, turning around, and—
"Woah—"
…almost walking straight into him.
Each shot glass loses about half of its contents. Liquid sloshes over the sides and pools on the tray. A few dribbles of your vodka cranberry (your third one of the night) land on your chest, trickles down between your breasts.
Oh, God help him.
"…Spencer?"
His gaze snaps back to your face. "I'm so sorry, I-I wasn't— are you okay?"
"I'm fine. It's fine." Your smile is lopsided. Relaxed. Almost fond. "I really need to start, um, watching where I'm going, don't I? Gosh, the girls are gonna be so mad I wasted half of their shots."
There's no concern in your voice, just amusement. Pure, almost childish amusement.
You're drunk.
"Here." Spencer eases the tray from your hands. "Where are you sitting?"
The far left corner, by—
"By the, uh…" You gesture vaguely to your left before reaching for the tray. "The pool table, that's it. But you don't have to—"
"I think you should just watch where you're going," he says.
You scoff and shake your head, but you're grinning. "And I think…" You let your arms fall to your sides. "That you're completely right. Come on."
Spencer trails behind as you lead the way, keeping a steady grip on your tray of drinks like he's carrying the crown jewels and staring, quite shamelessly, at your ass. The sway of your hips is almost hypnotic, and he has to tear his gaze away before your friends see him.
They're standing around a cocktail table, deep in a conversation that cuts off when they see you approaching. All three of them greet you with bright smiles that, like a flash of lightning, start to fade once they catch sight of Spencer behind you; not upset, but…apprehensive, and understandably so. He's a stranger.
"This is Spencer." You're still beaming; a star in the night sky. "The guy from the coffee shop."
Recognition washes over each of their faces, and they relax slightly—though they're still watching him closely, eyes narrowed like predators.
"Sorry, can I just…" Spencer squeezes past you to set the tray on the table, and he flashes them a painfully self-conscious smile. "Hi."
"And these are Cassandra, Scarlet, and Abby. My friends," you say, gesturing to each girl. "Friends, Spencer; Spencer, friends."
Three lionesses and their baby deer, that's what Spencer sees when he looks at the four of you.
Cassandra looks more like a Scarlet than the actual Scarlet does; her hair is dyed a dark shade of red, and she's making no attempt to appear warm or welcoming. She shifts closer to you, just slightly, like she's preparing to pull you away from him at a moment's notice.
The real Scarlet is flaunting her winter tan lines in a tube top. She's smiling at him, but her eyes are sharp. Hungry, almost.
Abby is the only one who doesn't look as though she's about to bite his head off.
"This is who's been funding your caffeine addiction?" she asks.
Nodding, you reach for a not-quite-full shot glass. "Yup," you say, popping the "p" before knocking your head back. The glass, now empty, gets set back on the table, and you reach for your vodka cranberry in its stead. "He's an FBI agent."
"He's cute." Scarlet leans over the table, eyeing him up like a piece of meat. And then, to his horror, her gaze drops to his hips. "Do you carry, agent?"
Please don't see his erection please don't see his erection please don't—
"Hey." You give her a playful shove before turning to Spencer with an apologetic smile. "Ignore her. She's drunk. We're all, um…drunk." Laughter rises in your throat, tainting your words as you shake your head. Your attention flicks back to Scarlet. "And it's Doctor."
"Doctor?" she and Abby echo in unison.
"Three PhDs in, uh…very impressive subjects that I am totally not forgetting…"
You nudge him with your elbow, and Spencer damn near jumps out of his skin.
"What? Oh. Um…Mathematics, Chemistry, and Engineering," he says with a smile, so stiff around the edges he thinks his skin might split open. He's never particularly enjoyed being the centre of attention, but this is so much worse than delivering a presentation, or a profile; you've thrown him into the lion's den, naked and afraid.
But you're cheering him on; talking him up to your friends like he's something important. Something to show off. Smiling and laughing and touching him, however briefly. Looking lighter than air, carefree and beautiful in all the ways he dreamed you'd be.
He tells himself it's the alcohol; the final wall of realism put up against a bewitched, senseless heart. You can't like him as much as you appear to, it doesn't make sense. You don't know him.
But you feel him, maybe as strongly as he does you. Maybe the gravity is mutual; cosmic collision already in motion.
What if this isn't a chase, but a dance? Souls entwined from first glance, no words needed. No touch.
Maybe you're already his.
Further interrogation yields surprisingly positive results; the lionesses are impressed by his job title and "heroic" lifestyle (Abby's words, not his), but what interests them even more is his extensive knowledge of different alcoholic beverages and the effects they have on the brain. He mentions the term "aphrodisiac" once when discussing red wine, and everybody, even Cassandra, leaned in to listen.
He wasn't expecting to make such a good first impression on your friends. Hell, he wasn't expecting to make an impression at all; his half-baked plan only involved saying hi, maybe buying you a drink, and then parting ways—a quick hit of you, your scent, your smile, was all he needed.
And now he's commanding a table of women he was so sure were going to maul him, handling the social pressures with ease even though he hasn't had a drop of alcohol; he doesn't need it, not when he has you.
He is, however, very thankful when Cassandra takes back the reins.
"I'm gonna go order another drink," she says, smiling at everyone but Spencer. He doesn't take it personally. "Who's coming?"
Abby and Scarlet are already moving, quietly scheming to split the cost of a bottle of red wine. You hold out your empty glass to Cassandra, grinning.
"Water?" she asks.
"Oh, boo." You pull the glass back as she tries to take it. "Come on, Cass. You can't cut me off; I'm having fun."
"And the last time you had fun, we had to carry you home because you were too sick to get in the cab, remember?"
"That was—"
"I'm getting you that water, 'kay?"
She walks away before you can protest further.
Reaching for your purse, you huff as you begin rummaging around for cash, but then you feel Spencer's gaze on you. You pause, fist full of coins, and sigh before setting everything back down.
Turning, you flash him a strained smile. It doesn't quite reach your eyes. "Like I said, protective," you sigh, leaning back against the table. You're quiet for a moment, but the silence proves too much to deal with so you jab your finger into his bicep. "Hey, well done though."
Spencer blinks at you. "…for what?"
"For disproving their whole ‘creep' theory," you say. "They're, um— they like to assume the worst, especially when it comes to…" You gesture vaguely to Spencer and shrug. "I keep telling them to lighten up, but I'm not really— …they just— they have their reasons, you know? Sorry, I should stop talking. I'm drunk, and I—"
"It's okay," he says quietly.
You look up at him then, all soft-eyed, like you're seeking reassurance. The world goes quiet as Spencer offers you an equally gentle smile.
You take it, hold it, and you move on.
"What's an FBI agent doing in a bar on a Wednesday night, anyway? Don't you have work tomorrow?"
Spencer's smile hardens like wax. Split-second panic attacks his neck, goes for the throat, but he fights it off in time to say, "Don't you have work tomorrow?"
"I work a desk job, I'll be fine," you say. "Not sure you can afford to be hungover whilst chasing serial killers, though."
"Oh, I'm not drinking."
It just kind of comes out.
In all fairness, it was either this—telling the truth—or making himself out to be an irresponsible agent.
"Then…" You frown. Uncertainty is starting to creep into your expression. Apprehension, the same kind he'd witnessed in your friends. "Why are you here?"
"I, um…"
Come on, Spencer. Use your brain.
"I take pictures." Oh, Jesus Christ. "I-I'm a photographer. Amateur."
Curiosity replaces suspicion, and you raise an eyebrow. "A photographer?"
"Yes," he says quickly. "Candids, mostly. I like, um, capturing people—their essence—in the moment. So I go to bars and…other places to take photographs. I-I might indulge myself in a drink or— or two, but only on weekends. I have my, um—" He gestures to his satchel. "I have my camera with me."
The moment he sees your face light up, the regret hits him like a fucking truck.
"Oh, cool! Can I see?"
No. No, you can't see. You absolutely, definitely cannot see.
"I-I actually don't— woah."
In his panic, he doesn't notice the way you're swaying until you're stumbling, heading straight for the floor. He moves quickly, grabbing you by your arms and holding you steady as you try to blink away the dizziness.
"Are you okay?"
"Mhm. Yeah, I just…" You rub your eyes. Spencer's still holding onto you. His grip loosens to something gentle, but he remains unwilling to let you go. "Fuck, I'm drunk."
You say it like it's a realisation; like you haven't been told it, and said it yourself, already.
"Oh, God," you groan, shaking your head. "This is so not cool. I'm sorry, I don't usually do this. I don't— I swear I…"
"Hey, it's okay." Spencer gives your arms a light squeeze, hoping to reassure you. "Do you want to get some air?"
You cough up a laugh so bitter he can almost taste it, laced with a regret that he can't place; an insecurity that runs impossibly deep. "Yeah," you mutter. "You know, I should probably just— I think I should go home. I have work tomorrow, like— like you said."
"Should I call a cab?"
"No, it's okay. I can walk."
Spencer frowns. "On your own? I'm not sure that's—"
"Everything okay?"
Cassandra has reappeared, bottle of water in hand. Her gaze flicks between you and Spencer, his hands on your arms, and she purses her lips.
"We're going home," you announce, easing yourself out of his grasp.
"We?"
Spencer and Cassandra's voices overlap, disbelief harmonising.
He's misinterpreted your words, surely, because there's no possible way you mean what he thinks you mean.
He stands as a statue of himself, frozen in wait for the pinch that'll wake him up. But it never comes.
"I'll call you when I'm home," you say, gathering your belongings, "and you have my location. It'll be fine. You guys should stay and enjoy yourselves."
Cassandra's jaw works as you speak, teeth grinding the same way Hotch's do when he doesn't like the sound of something, but there's a grim kind of acceptance about her expression, like she knows there's no point in arguing with you.
"Call me." Is all she says.
You flash her a small smile as you put on your coat. "I will."
Without waiting for Spencer, you turn towards the exit. He rushes to catch up to you, but Cassandra grasps him, gently, by his sleeve before he can get away.
He expects a lecture, a threat, a warning, but all she does is press the water bottle into his hand and mutter, "Keep an eye on her, will you?"
Spencer nods, a silent, earnest promise, and she lets him go.
—
The two of you walk in near silence, which should feel like a blessing after the oppressive noise of the bar, but it doesn't; it feels suffocating, overwhelmingly dense and yet exceedingly empty.
He hands you the water bottle. You don't notice how he turns every corner before you do. Don't question how or why he knows where he's going; you're too busy looking at the cloudless sky. At the stars that you can barely make out for the city's light pollution. One day, he'll take you to the observatory.
"Have you heard of a Thorne-Żyktow object?" he eventually asks.
You crane your neck to look up at him, and your unsteady feet lead you into him. Your shoulder bumps his arm; proof of the gravity thrumming between you. "A what-what object?"
"It's a conjectured type of hybrid star," he explains, keeping his words soft and slow—as slow as his overzealous mouth will allow. "Kip Thorne and Anna Żyktow hypothesised that it would be formed if a neutron star were to collide with another star. They spiral inward— it's almost like a dance. The forces between the neutron star and the core of its companion are so strong that, once they collide, there's no undoing, and eventually they merge. If their combined mass exceeds the Tolman-Oppenheimer-Volkoff limit, then the two will collapse into a black hole."
"And if it doesn't?"
"They coalesce into a single star," he says. "A red supergiant with a neutron star at it's core. Technically the entire star would be considered a neutron star but, observationally, it continues to resemble a red supergiant."
Your gaze drops from the stars to the sidewalk, and Spencer watches as you chew on your bottom lip.
"Sorry," he says.
"For what?"
"I have a habit of, um, rambling." He's sweating. It's below freezing out here, and he's sweating. "I-I just thought that talking, giving you something to focus on, might…help."
"Don't apologise," you say. "I think it's sweet."
Spencer has to watch his feet to make sure he doesn't start floating in the wake of your words.
"The star thing, I mean. Who doesn't want to merge with someone and spend the rest of time…floating through space together?"
Oh. Okay. That's okay; at least you're getting his point—
"You trying to cheer me up is sweet, too."
Oh.
Okay.
—
He has to help you up the stairs to your apartment.
Genuine tears formed in his eyes when you asked him to walk you up to that first floor, east-facing set of rooms he's spent the last few months dreaming about, walking past, mapping it out in his mind using your building's floor plan. He wasn't expecting to get past the door, but that was okay; simply seeing the door, and the glimpse into your living space it would provide, would have been enough.
But you let him in, and you give him a mission: pyjamas. Third drawer of the dresser in your bedroom—could he grab a pair for you whilst you use the bathroom? Anything will do.
Spencer can't breathe in here. He thought the living room was bad enough, but the bedroom? The place where you sleep? Relax? Do all the beautiful things he can't let himself picture because it will have damning consequences for him and his pants? It's too much.
Everything smells like you. Your scent sticks to his skin like a divine perfume, seeps into his bloodstream like a narcotic. He tries to narrow his world down to that dresser, to that drawer, and stop himself from letting his gaze, his mind, his hands, wander anywhere they aren't supposed to go.
But it's a losing battle, and there's a laundry basket in the corner of your room. Wicker. Stuffed full of you; practically begging to be opened.
He tends to the pyjama problem first; grabs a pink pair that look like they'll keep you warm through the night, tucks them under his arm, and moves on to his true target.
It's half-full. An abyss of clothes; some that he recognises, some that he doesn't.
He picks a pair of panties from the second layer—pale blue cotton with scalloped hems and a pretty little bow—and stuffs them into his pocket just as he hears the click of the bathroom door unlocking.
After steadying his racing heart, Spencer meets you in the living room and presents your pyjamas with a humble smile. You seem steadier now, more like yourself; the fresh air did you some good.
But you're still drunk, more so than he thinks you want to let on. Your cheeks are flushed and, no matter how hard you try, or how purposefully you move, you can't shake that looseness. Every movement is fluid, mesmerising, even the way you hug your pyjamas to your chest as you look up at him.
"Thank you," you say. The ghost of that happy, drunken grin haunts your face, threatens to resurrect.
Spencer shrugs. It's the best he can do to appear casual, like his heart isn't a ticking time bomb in his chest. "Don't worry about it. Just…remember to drink plenty of fluids, okay?"
You tilt your head. "Doctor's orders?"
"I—" Oh God. "Yes— yes, Doctor's orders."
There it is. That smile. It moves quick, conquering every feature until you're glowing. Radiance exuding from every line, every dimple. You're a cosmic anomaly; perfection incarnate. Spencer couldn't tear himself away from such a sight even if he wanted to.
Your gaze wavers. Falls to his lips. Reverts to his eyes. Wanders down again.
Please.
It wouldn't take much to bridge the gap; you know that. One small step. The tilt of a head.
Pleasepleaseplease.
You jerk back, lowering your head in one quick, abrupt motion. Severing the tie. Resisting the pull. It hurts; a bruise stamped behind his ribs, pulsating to the beat of what could have been. You feel it, too. You must.
"I should, um—" You clear your throat. You're still smiling, but it has melted. Reshaped into something bashful. "I should go to bed, I think."
Spencer forces himself to nod. He even manages to flash a smile. "You need to be well rested for work."
"Yeah…" You mime his actions, unable to hold his gaze for more than a few seconds at a time. "You too. I'm sorry for keeping you—"
"It's okay," he says.
"…okay." A sigh escapes your lips, soft and breathy—wistful, almost. "Thank you, again, for walking me home. Now get out of here."
"Yes, ma'am."
He doesn't curse himself for saying it, this time. The shame is long gone, replaced by something light; the butterfly in his stomach, wings newly softened; the delicate blue fabric in his pocket.
As he steps out of the warmth of your apartment, you call out to him.
"I'll see you on Saturday?"
Spencer nods, smiling. "You'll see me on Saturday."
But he'll be seeing you a lot sooner than that.
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