hi :) i'm spencereidluver. i write fanfics for the one and only spencer walter reid. my fics are all spencer reid x reader and bau!reader, and are chronological in one big masterlist!
i do not write for non canonical ships for the simple fact i like to write fics that could easily fit right in with the show itself.
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a-z masterlist my spencer reid a-z fics linked in chronological order with a timeline!
one shots a masterlist of my one shots, or anything i write outside of my a-z series
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warnings: fem!reader, rossi!reader (reader is rossi’s niece), made up backstory for reader, mostly just spencer fluff, written with a small age gap (≈ 5 years) in mind (i'm imagining 25 year old (s3) spencer and a 18/19 year old reader) but nothing too crazy and it's not a kink thing i promise
The walk from the driveway to the front door feels significantly longer than normal. Not because it’s actually longer, but because you’re both overthinking every single movement.
Don’t hold hands.
Don’t walk too close.
Don’t smile too much.
Don’t do anything that would make David Rossi look at either of you and immediately figure it out.
But you guys are so caught up in trying to act normal that you’ve come full circle and have started acting weird.
You reach the front door first. Barely. Spencer reaches it half a step after you. You both reach for the handle at the same time. Then both stop. Then both apologize. Then both try again. Then stop and apologize again.
“Oh my god,” you say, “we’re already being weird.”
“We’re not,” Spencer says, trying to reassure you. You glare at him. “...okay maybe a little.”
You push the door open and step inside.
“Hey, Uncle Dave,” you say with a voice loud enough to be heard from the whole house.
“Kitchen!” He calls out.
Of course he’s in the kitchen. You kick off your shoes and head there. Spencer follows behind you. Your uncle is standing at the stove stirring a pot of something.
“Hey, kids,” he says, looking over his shoulder. “How was Georgetown?”
“Good,” you say a little too quickly.
“Good?” he repeats, raising an eyebrow. You hate that.
“It was really fun,” you say.
“So Spencer,” Rossi says, making your heart immediately drop. “What are you going to do with a planner?”
Phew.
“I um… I really admire the organization of them and I-I’ve never really had one so I thought I’d try it out. And Y/N of course is an expert s-so I thought that she could help me.” Spencer speaks so fast.
Rossi smiles. Which is good. Because smiling Rossi is much better than observant Rossi.
“Ah, so I see she’s corrupting you,” Rossi says.
“I am not! He asked me first,” you argue.
Rossi glances at Spencer.
“I did ask her, but only because she’s already corrupted me,” Spencer says.
“Hey!” you say, offended. “You’re supposed to be on my side!”
Spencer just grins. Rossi chuckles.
“So what’s your guys’ plan?” he asks.
“I’m giving him some of my old planner supplies and helping him set his up,” you say.
“Makes sense,” your uncle says. “Where?”
You must look confused, because he continues speaking.
“Where are you doing this? I don’t want thousands of little paper scraps all over my furniture again.”
“...can we go to my room?” you ask. Maybe you should’ve talked to Spencer about that before you asked, but you couldn’t really do that without looking extremely suspicious, now could you.
Rossi looks between you and Spencer. Then back to you. Then back to Spencer. Then back to you again. He leans against the kitchen island, facing the two of you on the other side.
“You know, when I was your age–” he starts. You already know he’s about to be weird.
“NO!” you interrupt. He ignores it.
“I definitely never asked to bring FBI agents into my bedroom.”
“Stop talking,” you say.
“I’m making conversation.”
“You’re being weird!”
Spencer’s ears are starting to turn red. You don’t think it's as cute this time. And unfortunately for Spencer, Rossi notices too.
“Reid,” Rossi says.
“Yes, sir?” he says, straightening to attention.
“Should I be worried?”
Spencer makes a sound similar to a choke and a cough at the same time.
“What?” Spencer chokes out.
“You know,” Rossi says.
“No, I really don’t know what you’re asking me.”
“Interesting answer,” Rossi nods.
You and Spencer look at each other. Neither of you know how to survive this conversation.
“The door stays open,” Rossi says.
“That’s fine,” you say, trying your best to get a move on with this conversation.
“I mean open. I want to be able to hear.”
“Okay,” you say, starting to sound annoyed.
“I don’t trust either of you and I will be listening.”
“WE ARE ORGANIZING A PLANNER!”
“That’s exactly what people who aren’t organizing a planner would say.”
“It’s not…”
“No candles,”
“What?”
“No romantic music,”
“Dave.”
“No locking doors.”
“THERE'S NOT EVEN A LOCK!”
“Good,” Rossi points at Spencer. “And Reid,”
“Sir?” Spencer says, his face completely red at this point.
“If I come upstairs and see you in any horizontal position or with my niece on top of you–
“I WOULD NEVER–”
“Good answer. Now go before I have time to think of more rules.”
You and Spencer flee toward the stairs.
“Oh, and Y/N,” your uncle calls when you’re halfway up the steps.
“What now?” you yell back.
“Pants stay on.” He shouts.
“OH MY GOD!”
“And at least six inches of daylight through that door!”
“THERE IS NO REASON TO MEASURE THE DOOR!”
“Good,” Rossi calls back. “Because that’s the only thing I'd better go upstairs and see that’s six inches.”
You and Spencer are silent. Both of you are absolutely horrified.
“DAVE,” you finally shout. “WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?”
“I’m kidding,” he laughs.
“Oh my god,” you say a little quieter, but still loud enough he can hear.
You grab Spencer’s sleeve and physically drag him up the rest of the stairs before your uncle can embarrass both of you more.
The second you’re into your room, door open of course, Spencer leans toward you.
“For the record,” he says quietly.
“Don’t.” you warn, concerned of what he could even possibly say right now.
“I wasn’t going to say anything inappropriate.”
“Spencer.”
“Okay, sorry. Your uncle is terrifying.”
“Can we please just do the planner and forget this happened?”
Spencer nods his head so quick you’re almost a little worried about whiplash.
Spencer follows you farther into your room. Your bed is already half-covered in planner supplies before you even sit down. Spencer stares.
“...wow,” he says. “That’s…a lot.”
“This is only like half of my stuff,” you say, sitting on your bed and patting a spot across from you. “Sit.”
The way Spencer climbs onto your bed makes you giggle.
“What?” he asks.
“You look so uncomfortable.”
“I don’t know the rules for sitting on someone else’s bed!”
“You’ve sat on my bed before.”
“Yeah, but now–” he stops himself. Both of you know exactly what he was going to say.
Now things are different.
“Just sit down,” you smile.
He folds himself cross legged across from you. He still looks a little awkward, but honestly that might just be because he has long legs and you’ve never really seen someone as tall as him sit criss-crossed.
The planner and stationary supplies spread between the two of you like a sort of arts and crafts intervention. You show him the monthly spread, the appointments and travel schedules, and how he could modify it to fit his lifestyle. He listens to you like you’re teaching him something important.
“Can you help me pick colors?” he asks you.
“You want to color code?”
“You have one,” he smiles.
“Okay,” you say, picking up a highlighter. “I’d do blue for work.”
“Why blue?”
“Because that’s what I use.”
“That’s not really a reason.”
“Yes it is.”
Spencer looks unconvinced.
“Blue,” you say, throwing the highlighter at him.
“Fine.”
“Red is important things, like deadlines or appointments.”
“Why?”
“Are you going to argue with every color?”
“Great,” you say, picking up a purple highlighter.
“What does purple mean?” he asks with a grin.
Because he knows what your purple means.
Coffee with Spencer. Bookstore with Spencer. Call Spencer.
“Non-work things,” you say, clearing your throat.
“Right, sure.” he says, taking the highlighter.
You continue sorting supplies into categories. Spencer takes the process incredibly seriously. He spends at least five full minutes comparing tabs and page flags.
“They all do the same thing,” you finally tell him.
“Yeah, but these have arrows,” he holds up one pack. “And these are just squares.” He holds up another pack in his other hand.
You laugh at him. He’s right, but it’s funny coming from him. You help him write in his important dates in the monthly section. Things like BAU meetings, birthdays, visits to his mom, things that he knew would come.
You continue to work in silence side by side. Spencer is filling out more of his planner, while you organize stickers. After twenty or so minutes, Spencer looks up at you.
“Hey, Y/N,” he says softly.
“Yeah?” you say, still looking at your stickers.
“Thank you.”
You glance up at him.
“For what?” you ask.
“This,” he gestures at the planner.
“It’s just a planner,” you smile.
“No,” he says. “I like learning things that matter to you.”
“Oh, well–”
Before you can continue your uncle is shouting from downstairs.
“IS THE PLANNER DONE YET?”
You drop your head into your hands. Spencer starts laughing.
“I’M SERIOUS,” Rossi yells. “HOW LONG DOES IT TAKE?”
“WE’RE WORKING ON IT!” you yell back.
“BETTER BE!”
Spencer laughs a little harder.
“Don’t encourage him,” you say to Spencer.
“I’m not, it’s just funny.”
“It’s embarrassing.”
“It’s okay.”
You try very hard to stay annoyed. You fail completely. Because Spencer is smiling. And Spencer’s smile makes you smile.
“DINNER!” Rossi shouts.
“COMING!” You yell back.
“YOU BETTER MEAN COMING DOWNSTAIRS!”
“Oh my god,” you hide your face.
Spencer just laughs, as you both climb off your bed and go downstairs for dinner. By the time you reach the kitchen, your uncle already has plates on the island.
“About time,” he says as you and Spencer walk into the dining room.
“We were busy,” you say, sitting down in your chair.
“With the planner?” Rossi says, looking at Spencer.
“Yes, sir,” Spencer says, nodding immediately.
Your uncle studies him for a little too long. “Good,” he finally says.
After that, the questions stop. Which somehow makes you more nervous. Because when Rossi was being weird, at least you know what he's thinking, but when he’s acting normal? Then it’s terrifying.
The conversations at dinner go normal. But it doesn’t quite feel normal. Because every once in a while, you’ll glance at Spencer, and Rossi is already looking at you. The first time you think it’s an accident. The second time? A coincidence. But by the third time it’s obvious he’s watching something.
There's no more weird comments or warnings or threats about keeping doors open, nothing. By the time the plates are empty, you feel like you’re waiting for something. It never comes. And eventually, it’s time for Spencer to leave. And nothing has been said.
“I should probably get going soon,” Spencer says after watching two whole episodes of some Pawn Stars style car show with Rossi.
“Big plans tomorrow?” Rossi asks.
“Actually, yeah,” Spencer glances at you, making your stomach flip. “Finishing the planner.”
“Right,” Rossi says.
“Oh, Y/N, you left a book in my car,” Spencer says, standing.
“I did?” you say, confused. You don’t remember leaving a book in his car. But Spencer notices things, so he’s probably right.
“Yeah, do you want to come grab it?”
“Sure,” you stand up and look to your uncle. “I’ll be right back”
“Take you time,” he says, still entranced by the T.V. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Reid.”
“Yes, sir.”
It’s dark outside now as you walk toward Spencer’s car. It’s quiet outside, both in nature and between you and Spencer.
“What book did I even have in your car?” you ask him as you approach the passenger side of the car.
He turns around to face you and looks guilty.
“You didn’t leave a book in my car.” He admits.
“I knew it!”
“No you didn’t.”
“I did!
“You followed me out here”
“Because I trusted you.”
Spencer smiles and steps a little closer. Not much, but a little.
“I just wanted to say bye,” he says, still smiling. “Thanks for coming out here.”
“Well I thought you had my book,” you giggle.
He doesn’t answer. He just stares down at you.
“Can I kiss you?” he finally asks.
The question catches you off guard. Not because you don’t want him to kiss you, you do, but because he’s asking. LIke he wants to know it’s still okay and wasn’t just a one time thing.
“Yes, just make sure Uncle Dave isn’t out here.”
Spencer looks around over your shoulders to be sure you’re alone. Once he’s sure, he grabs your waist and pulls your body into his. He presses his lips to yours softer than yesterday. It’s less desperate. More certain that it’s okay.
For a moment the world feels narrowed to porch lights, and cool February air, and Spencer Reid.
He pulls his mouth away, but your bodies stay close and his hands remain on your waist.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, his smile wide.
“You better,” you smile back.
He leans down and kisses you one more time before letting you go.
“Goodnight, Y/N,” he says.
“Goodnight, Spencer.”
_____
Read Part 19 Here! 🕰️ (coming soon)
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BUY ME A COFFEE
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a/n: i made the mistake of trying to write this while watching live the 1975 concerts for a class and this part took me four days to write bc i kept getting distracted.
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summary: you and spencer actually make it to the new bookstore in Georgetown today after your major detour yesterday.
word count: 3.2k
warnings: fem!reader, rossi!reader (reader is rossi’s niece), made up backstory for reader, mostly just spencer fluff, written with a small age gap (≈ 5 years) in mind (i'm imagining 25 year old (s3) spencer and a 18/19 year old reader) but nothing too crazy and it's not a kink thing i promise
Walking into a bookstore holding Spencer Reid’s hand felt surreal. The little bell above the door chimed softly as you stepped inside together, him only slightly ahead of you to stagger your bodies to fit through the doorway. You wondered if it was obvious that this was a new thing, or if it seemed natural.
The bookstore smelled like old paper and coffee. Sort of like Spencer smells. Warm lighting glows over crowded shelves, and you can hear as people chat and turn pages. It was exactly the kind of place the both of you would go to on your own, so it naturally made being here together feel more intimate.
Spencer looked happier the moment he walked in the door. His shoulders relaxed more and his eyes and entire face lit up. His grip on your hand tightened unconsciously before he caught himself and loosened it again.
“You’re like a little kid at Disney World,” you tease.
Spencer looks down at you. “This is better than Disney World,” he grins.
“You’re such a nerd,” you giggle.
“Is that a bad thing?”
The sound of you laughing made him smile wider. Which you found adorable.
You wander slowly through the aisles of the bookstore. Spencer keeps pulling books off of shelves to show you paragraphs and quotes you’d like in them. You make the mistake of letting him see the philosophy section.
He walks over and grabs three books at once.
“Of course,” you giggle.
“What?” he asks, looking up from the books in his hands.
“You saw the philosophy section and immediately forgot about everything else.”
“That’s not true!”
“Spencer, you walked away from me in the middle of your sentence.”
“Oh…okay maybe a little.”
He gives a weak smile. You smile at him and lean against the shelf.
“You’re adorable,” you say, shaking your head.
Spencer’s ears immediately turn pink. Which only makes him more adorable.
“I’m choosing to interpret that as non-derogatory,” he says, looking down at the books to regain his composure. Which is also adorable.
He looks at the philosophy books for a while, sharing fun facts about theories and philosophers with you as he pulls books off the shelves. Eventually, he gets bored, or maybe can tell that you’re bored, and decides it’s time to move on.
“What do you want to look at?” He asks you, accepting that it was your turn to find something to spend 30 minutes looking at.
“The only place I can enjoy that you don’t really understand,” you say mischeviously.
“Planners?”
“You really are a great profiler, Dr. Reid,” you joke. His ears go red again. You can’t decide if it’s because of the compliment or because of the title. Either way, it’s still adorable, and the second you figure out what is causing it you’re never going to stop doing it.
You find heaven in the planner section. There are dozens of planners arranged by size, layout, and style. There are solid colors, floral colors, cartoon covers, miscellaneous designs, leather covers, a few knitted covers, if there was something specific you were looking for, you could probably find it here.
You pull out one with a clean and simple monthly layout and show it to Spencer.
“These are dangerous,” you say.
He tilts his head at you. “Dangerous?
“Yes, because they trick people into thinking they’ll become organized overnight.” You flip to another spread. “Then they don’t use it for two days and completely abandon it because it’s too much to catch up with.”
“That sounds like you’re speaking from experience.”
“I’ve been ‘the planner girl’ since third grade, people trust me to help them. I’ve seen things.”
Spencer smiles and picks up a different kind of planner. “So what’s the correct one then?”
“That depends on the person,” you say, taking the planner from him and flip through it. “This is a daily planner. These are great if your everydays are completely different and you want detailed breakdowns.”
“That sounds useful for me.”
“Actually, probably not,” you say, putting the planner back.
“Why not?” he asks, genuine curiosity in his voice.
“Because your weeks are unpredictable, but your individual days are mostly all the same. You’ll spend more time setting it up than actually using it.”
“Are you…profiling what kind of planner I would need?”
“Am I correct?”
“Yes. That’s why I’m asking.
“I know you.”
The words slip out naturally. His expression softens. You look away before your brain can overanalyze it. You pick up another planner and hand it to him.
“This one is probably better for you. It has a monthly overview at the beginning and then weekly spreads with lots of room for notes and appointments and things like that.”
“I never really knew that planners were this serious,” he says, flipping through the planner you handed him.
“Oh, they’re very serious,” you say.
“I’ve always wanted to try a planner,” he says casually.
You look up. “Really?”
He shrugs. “Yeah, I mean I don’t really need one, but I do think that it would be a nice thing to have, you know…”
Of course Spencer Reid didn’t need a planner. He had an eidetic memory, he couldn’t forget something if he tried. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was using this as an excuse to spend time with you. Which would’ve been understandable a few weeks ago, but now that he’s literally been on top of you swapping spit it seemed a little redundant.
You don’t mention that though.
“...I just never really knew where to start.”
You smile. “I can help you.”
“Really?” he asks.
“Of course. I have tons of extra supplies at home that I don’t really use anymore. Just get a planner and I’ll help you set it up sometime.”
“What about right now?” he asks. He suddenly looks uncertain. “Unless you don’t want to.”
“No, I do,” you smile. “I should probably just call Uncle Dave and make sure he’s okay with you coming over today instead of tomorrow.”
“That’s fair,” he nods.
“Give me just a second,” you say, pulling out your phone. “You keep looking for a planner you like.”
You step away and dial your uncle. He answers on the third ring.
“What did Reid break,” he asks when answering the phone.
“Why is that your first assumption?” you ask him.
“Experience.”
You roll your eyes despite the fact that he can’t see them. “We’re in Georgetown. Spencer wants help setting up a planner. Is it okay if he comes over today instead of tomorrow?”
“He can come over both days.”
“Oh…okay. If that’s an option then I’ll ask him.”
“It’s an option.”
You smile. “Okay, we will probably be back in an hour. Give or take.”
“Be smart, I’ll see you soon. I’ll find something to cook tonight as well”
“Thank’s Uncle Dave,” you say and hang up the phone.
You look towards Spencer who is completely entranced by the planners. You walk over to him and place a gentle hand on his lower back, which makes him jump a little bit.
“Uncle Dave says you can come over,” you smile. He looks pleased. “And apparently you’re still invited tomorrow as well.”
“Oh…” Spencer says, trying to hold back his smile. “That’s really nice.”
The two of you spend another twenty minutes debating planners like it’s a life altering decision. Which it is. Spencer has absolutely no idea what he’s getting himself into. He originally chooses a massive leather-bound portfolio style organizer. You immediately take it away from him, explaining that he needs something more manageable. And that doesn’t look like it belongs in a law firm.
Eventually, after way too much discussion, Spencer chooses a medium-sized weekly planner with a simple brown cover with monthly overviews and enough room for notes without becoming overwhelming. You approve of it immediately.
“This was the best choice you could’ve made,” you say smiling.
“I feel like I’m being graded,” he says.
“You are.”
“Did I pass?”
“Yeah, after some tutoring.”
Spencer smiles and starts walking to the checkout counter, surprisingly with only the planner in hand. He buys the planner and you walk outside. The early afternoon air smells of coffee and rain.
You notice a little coffee shop across the street with a cute little awning above the doors. Spencer follows your gaze.
“Do you want to go?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you smile.
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
Inside of the coffee shop is small. It’s the kind of place that stays open because people keep recommending it to their friends. So the best kind. The smell hits you before you open the door. Coffee. Fresh Pastries. Something with cinnamon.
You order an ice vanilla latte while Spencer gets plain black coffee, because apparently he’s eighty years old.
“You don’t put anything in it?” you ask.
He shakes his head. “Just sugar.”
“That’s crazy,” you say.
“It tastes like coffee,” he defends.
The barista is smiling at you and him. It makes you feel good, the fact that he’s still himself in public with you. You approach the counter to pay and reach for your wallet.
“Absolutely not,” Spencer says as he pulls his out.
You look up at him. “What?
“I’m paying,” he says, handing his card to the person at the checkout before you can argue. You argue anyways.
“You don’t have to,” you say.
“I know,” he says. “I want to.”
The answer isn’t awkward or hesitant. It’s natural. Simple. Like it isn’t even a question. Something warm settles in your chest and you don’t argue after that. Mostly because you secretly like it.
You each take your drink and head back outside. Spencer manages to carry his coffee and the planner in one hand. Which leaves his other hand free.
You notice it at the same time. There isn’t a conversation, or anything weird or hesitant behind it. His fingers just find yours. Naturally. And this time neither of you freezes. There’s no panic or overthinking. Just Spencer’s hand sliding into yours as if it was breathing. The thought makes you smile.
The walk back to the parking garage is slower than before. Neither of you seem particularly interested in rushing. By the time you reach his car, Spencer is halfway through explaining something about…something.
You aren’t really listening. Not because you don’t care, but because you’re watching him. Again. You should probably stop doing that. You don’t.
“...which is unusual because most independent bookstores operate on lower margins than chain retailers like Barnes and Noble.”
He opens your door while talking. Without even thinking. A month ago you wouldn’t have thought twice about it. Now you notice the way he waits for you to get fully seated and start to pull the seatbelt across your body before he closes the door. You notice the small smile he gives you before walking around the front of the car.
You take a sip of your coffee and stare at the windshield trying very hard not to think about the fact that you’re officially in whatever stage comes after “I like you too.”
The driver’s side door opens and Spencer slides into the seat. He puts his coffee in the cupholder and looks over at you. You expect just a little smile or something, but he keeps looking. For what feels like forever.
“What? you ask, shifting awkwardly in your seat.
He doesn’t say anything. He just keeps looking.
“Spencer,” you call.
“Hmm?” he says, snapping to attention.
“Why are you looking at me?”
He blinks like he forgot you were waiting for an answer.
“You’re really pretty,” he says earnestly.
The words catch you off guard. Not because you don’t know he likes you. You do. He literally hid a note in a book. You kissed on his couch. You know. But this felt different. Because Spencer had never said anything like that before. Your face immediately goes hot, and you know you’re blushing.
You’re not that embarrassed that you’re blushing at his compliment, because he’s blushing at his own sentence. His ears are doing the thing you love.
“I just…” he starts. Then stops.
Then starts again. “I was looking at you and then I thought it and then I said it.”
His explanation somehow makes it worse.
Or better.
Definitely worse.
But possibly better.
You look down at your coffee because making eye contact suddenly feels impossible.
“Thank you,” you mumble.
“You’re welcome,” Spencer smiles.
You take a sip of coffee solely because it gives you something to do with your hands. Unfortunately, it doesn’t help. Because now every time you look at Spencer all you can hear is: “You’re really pretty.”
The drive back to your house is easy. Much easier than the drive back from The Smithsonian. That was bad. You talk about books, Spencer brings up some random fact about octopuses that somehow becomes a fifteen minute debate over the correct plural of the word. Which of course, Spencer was right about.
Eventually, you shift the topic. You’ve been avoiding it, but it had to be done.
“We should probably act normal around Dave…” you say quietly, but loud enough Spencer can hear you.
He glances over. “Normal?” he says like it’s his first day on Earth.
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah.”
“I just don’t want to tell him yet,” you say staring out the window.
Spencer nods. He doesn’t look disappointed, just thoughtful.
“I understand,” he says.
You relax a little bit and smile, ready to end the conversation. You thought that was that, until Spencer spoke again.
“Do you think we’ll tell him eventually?” He asks.
You look over. Spencer is watching the road. His hands are steady on the wheel.
“I think we’d have to eventually,” you say. “I’m just not ready yet.”
“Okay,” Spencer nods.
“Okay?” you repeat, a little confused about his response.
“It’s your decision.”
His answer surprises you. Maybe because you expected him to argue or push, or at the very least look upset.
“Whenever you’re ready we can tell him,” he says.
‘We’ll.’
We. Will.
The words make you a little nervous because of how naturally he says them. Like whatever you and him are belongs to both of you. LIke you telling Rossi on your own was never an option.
“Besides,” he continues, “I’m ready whenever you are.”
Your brain short circuits.
Ready.
Ready for what? Ready to tell Rossi? Ready to be official? Ready to put a label on whatever you were? Ready to be your boyfriend?
You don’t ask. Mostly because you’re pretty sure if you do your brain will stop functioning and make it impossible to act normal around your uncle tonight.
So instead you stare out the window and pretend your heart isn’t acting like you ran a marathon.
“Are you okay?” Spencer asks, glancing over at you.
“Yep.” you answer shorter than you mean to.
“You sound stressed.”
“I’m fine.”
“Hm.” You hate how unconvinced he sounds. And you hate even more that he’s right to doubt. “What’s wrong?
“It’s nothing,” you sigh.
“It isn’t.”
“How do you know?” you say, looking over at him.
“Because when you’re actually fine you say you’re fine and then change the subject. This time you said you’re fine and then went quiet.
You stare out the window for another few seconds, realizing that you’re never going to be able to hide your emotions from a profiler. You stare out the window for a few more seconds before finally giving in.
“I’m just really scared to tell Uncle Dave,” you admit.
“Oh,” Spencer says, his expression softening immediately. He looks sympathetic.
You pick at the cardboard sleeve around your coffee cup.
“I promised him that we’d just be friends.” You scoff. The words feel ridiculous now. “I told him I had absolutely no intention of doing…this.”
Spencer is quiet for a second.
“If it makes you feel any better,” he finally says. “I also promised him that I only thought of you as a friend.”
You glare at him. His eyes are still on the road so he doesn’t notice.
“Oh my God,” you say, hiding your face in your hands. “He’s gonna hate us both now.”
Spencer laughs. You’re not joking.
“I’m serious, Spencer.”
“I know.”
“No you don’t.”
“He’s not going to hate us.”
“You don’t know that!”
“I know Rossi.”
“Yeah. You know AGENT Rossi.”
Spencer glances over. The look on his face tells you that he understands what you’re trying to say. You stare down at your coffee, unable to look at him.
“If he gets mad,” you say quietly. “I don’t really know what happens.”
Spencer waits for you to continue.
“I kind of don’t have anybody else…” you admit. Spencer looks at you sadly. “I mean, I have Logan, but he lives in Washington and I don’t want to move across the country again.”
“You have more than Rossi and Logan.”
You ignore him because that’s not really the point.
“I live with him,” you say, your voice barely above a mumble now. “I mooch off him.”
“You don’t mooch off Rossi.”
“I do. I don’t pay rent, I don’t pay for college, he pays for my gas, I don’t do anything to help, and I know he’s rich and stuff but if I don’t have him…I don’t really know what I’d do.”
It’s silent. Spencer reaches over and finds your hand. He brushes his thumb gently over the top of your hand.
“You’d still have me,” he says. His voice is calm and steady.
Your heart twists, not from butterflies this time, but from something that hurts a little bit. Because he means it. Completely. You smile.
“Yeah,” you say, squeezing his hand. “That’s very sweet.”
“It was supposed to be practical reassurance.”
“Well you were being sweet in the process. And I love that, but I still don’t want my uncle to hate me.”
“I know.” His hand tightens around yours. “I understand.”
You look over at him. Suddenly you remember that Spencer knows what it’s like to lose people. And to be afraid of losing them. He’s told you about his dad. And you know about how much Jason Gideon meant to him, and of course, you know about Gideon leaving the BAU. That’s why your uncle went back afterall. Come to think of it, Gideon is kind of the whole reason you know Spencer.
But all that feels like more of a loss than this. This is just you being dramatic and overthinking. Because while he won’t be happy, deep down you know that your uncle wouldn’t disown you.
At least you’re pretty certain.
Spencer glances over and catches you staring at him.
“We will tell him when you’re ready, okay?” he says.
“Thank you, Spencer,” you smile.
“You don’t have to thank me.”
Maybe you do, maybe you don’t. Either way, you don’t say anything else.
The rest of the drive passes easily. Before long, familiar streets fill the windows. Followed by your neighborhood, then your driveway, then the outside of your house. Neither of you move for a moment after he parks, the both of you mentally prepping to act as normal as possible around Rossi.
“Ready?” Spencer finally says after what may have been five full minutes.
“Yeah.” you say, and get out of the car.
_____
Read Part 18 Here!
_____
BUY ME A COFFEE
_____
a/n: i know i left this on a major cliff hanger, but don't get mad pls the next part is already released (i posted them at the same time) i've just found that 6k word fics don't do as well as 3k ones so i split it up.
anyways click here to see spencer get really really embarrassed by rossi bc i was feeling really evil whole writing part 2
_____
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summary: after your plans to go to a new bookstore in Georgetown get rained out, you’re stuck in Spencer’s apartment. Alone. Just you, him, and the constant reminder of the note that he left you that you just can't find a good time to bring up…
word count: 3.1k
warnings: fem!reader, rossi!reader (reader is rossi’s niece), made up backstory for reader, mostly just spencer fluff, written with a small age gap (≈ 5 years) in mind (i'm imagining 25 year old (s3) spencer and a 18/19 year old reader) but nothing too crazy and it's not a kink thing i promise.
also reader does wear spencer’s clothes in this and it is sort of a major plot point that they’re too big on her. there’s not really any body descriptions, just that fact. it had to be done for the plot okay :( pls dont be mad at me
You’ve spent four days imprisoned in your own mind by the contents of that note Spencer put in the book he gave you.
I like you, Y/N. :) – Spencer
Everything about it felt so… him.
The grammatically correct punctuation, the smiley face, the fact that it was in a book? it was all so very Spencer.
And it made everything make sense too. The phone calls, the dinners, the impromptu bookstore trips, the museum.
The hand holding.
You think about the way he looked at you on the sidewalk. The way he stopped himself from letting go. The way he looked almost relieved when you held on.
It all made sense.
Part of you wanted to call him immediately. But more of you felt like that was the wrong move. It felt like there should be a correct time to tell him you found the note. And you’d been waiting for that time to come.
It just hadn’t yet.
It’s Friday morning now. You’re meeting Spencer at his apartment so you can go to a bookstore in Georgetown together. You’re sitting in your car waiting for him to come outside.
The rain is loud and heavy. You can see the water pooling in the road. And the lighting is definitely something that should be worried about.
Your phone rings. It’s Spencer.
“Hey,” he says, not even giving you enough time to respond before he keeps talking. “I don’t think the bookstore is a great idea.”
“Yeah, you don’t say.”
“Are you driving right now or are you in a safe place?”
“It depends.”
“What does that mean?”
“How safe is sitting inside of my car in the parking lot of your apartment complex?”
“Moderately safe.”
“Yeah, it’s raining pretty bad out here.”
“You definitely shouldn’t drive all the way back home.”
“I know.”
“Do you maybe want to come inside?”
The way he asks was almost like he was planning to invite you inside all along, which makes you smile.
“Sure, fair warning though, there is absolutely no way I am getting inside without getting soaked. ven with my umbrella.”
“That’s okay,” he giggles, “I have towels.”
“Okay, I’ll be inside in a second.”
“Okay, go up the stairs and its the second apartment on the left. Number 23.”
“Okay, see ya in a sec,” you say before you hang up and prepare for your next thirty steps to feel like war.
You grab your umbrella from the passenger side floorboard and prepare yourself. Within three seconds of opening your door your jeans are soaked from the knees down. Your umbrella was basically useless. By the time you reach the front door of the complex, you are pretty much completely soaked.
The door opens before you can pull it yourself. A completely dry Spencer is standing there holding the door and a towel. Both of you stop and stare at each other for a moment, saying nothing.
Because for you, this is the first time since you got the note.
And for him, well, this is the first time he’s seen you soaking wet in the freezing rain.
“You weren’t exaggerating,” he says.
“No,” you say, “I wasn’t.”
“You look like you walked through a car wash.”
“I feel like I did.”
His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but enough to show that nothing has changed.
“Come inside before you get pneumonia,” he says, stepping away from the opening of the door to let you inside.
“I don’t think that’s how pneumonia works,” you say, but step inside anyways.
“Actually–”
“No.”
“What?”
“No ‘actuallys’ while I’m soaking wet.”
“I wasn’t going to,” he says and hands you the towel. “I was just going to explain how pneumonia develops.”
“Exactly,” you say, wiping your skin with the towel.
“You know me too well,” he says.
And you know way more than he thinks you do.
You follow him upstairs and inside his apartment, clothes still dripping with rainwater.
Inside his apartment is exactly what you expected. Books everywhere. Stacked on shelves, stacked beside shelves, stacked on tables, books everywhere.
“You have a problem,” you say smiling.
“No I don’t!” he argues, knowing that you’re referring to his hundreds, maybe thousands, of books.
“There’s books in your kitchen!”
“I’m in the market for another shelf,” he says while handing you a dry towel. His eyes drift toward your jeans. “Those are not going to dry anytime soon.”
“I know, I’ll deal with it though.”
“You’re shivering.”
“I’ll be okay.”
“No, you’re going to get sick, I probably have some–”
“Spencer,” you interrupt. “I’m not putting on your pants.
His ears and cheeks turn a little red. “I wasn’t suggesting that…I was suggesting sweatpants.”
You stare at him.
“They’re clean,” he says. He disappears down the hallway while you do your best to wring your soaked hair out with the towel. He returns carrying a pair of grey sweatpants and a bright orange Cal-Tech hoodie that you could not picture him wearing no matter how hard you tried.
“They have a drawstring,” he says, holding the clothes out to you. “The bathroom is right over there.” He points.
You take the clothes and follow his point to the bathroom, latching the door behind you. For a second, you just stand there, staring at the borrowed clothes that are folded up on the counter.
You pull your soaking wet shirt over your head, then your jeans go down. You have to consciously stop yourself from thinking about the fact that you’re standing in Spencer Reid’s bathroom changing into his clothes.
You pick up the hoodie first. It’s enormous. It looks too big even for him. The sleeves go a good six inches past your fingertips. You roll them up to expose your hands enough to put on the sweatpants, which are somehow worse.
Because Spencer was tall, and as a tall man, his pants were going to be long. But these pants were long. You have to roll up the waist band four times to even get the baggyness to start at your calves rather than your knees or thighs.
You hardly recognize yourself when you look in the mirror. Not because of the clothes, but because of the smile. You hadn’t even realized you were smiling until you saw yourself.
You leave the bathroom feeling ridiculous. You’re comfortable, but you look ridiculous. Spencer looks over at you, then immediately looks away again, suddenly becoming very interested in a spot on the wall.
“Spencer,” you say.
“What?” he doesn’t look at you.
“You looked.”
“I did not.”
“You definitely did,” you smile.
“I was assessing whether the clothing fit.
“Okayyy,” you giggle. His ears are red. You notice, but pretend not to.
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
“A little.”
“I have grapes…rice crispy treats…and…juice.”
You laugh, “Grapes are fine.”
Spencer goes to the living room and turns Doctor Who on the T.V. He sits down next to you on the couch with a bag of grapes to share in his lap. And somehow it’s the most normal you’ve felt with him in weeks.
The rain hits the windows hard. It sounds like they might break, but you know they won’t. The bookstore trip has long been forgotten. And you’ve managed to push the note into the back of your mind.
You and Spencer fall into the same rhythm you’ve always had. You talk through parts of the Doctor Who episode, neither of you caring when the other talked with a grape in their mouth. You argue over details, and make fun of the cheesy parts.
You laugh with him, not nervously or awkwardly, genuinely laughing. And it feels nice. Because this is why you became friends in the first place. It wasn’t the butterflies, or the hand holding, or the note, it was this. It was being able to spend hours together and never running out of things to say. For the first time since the Ocean’s 11 night you stop feeling nervous. Because whatever this is, whatever the two of you are, it started with a friendship, and that’s still here.
You and Spencer have eaten the whole bag of grapes by the time the episode is over. Spencer reaches for the remote. You know this is the moment, it has to be. Because if it’s not, you might never do it.
“Spencer,” you say, your voice soft.
He looks over at you. “Yeah?”
“I finished Brave New World.”
His face goes white. He’s not blushing because he’s nervous or embarrassed this time, he’s white because he is terrified. Because he knows. He knows that you know.
He looks at the coffee table. Then the T.V. Then the wall. Anywhere except at you.
“W-what did y-you think of it?” his voice is nervous and cracky.
“It was good,” you say, doing your best to keep your voice soft and steady.
“Good?”
“Yeah.”
He’s silent. You can tell he wants to crawl into a hole and never ever come out.
“Spencer,” you say again, in the same tone as the first time.
His eyes close briefly, like he’s bracing himself. He forces himself to look at you. The expression on his face makes your heart ache. Because he is terrified. Absolutely terrified. He’s terrified that he got it wrong. That he made a mistake and misunderstood everything.
“Yeah?” he finally says quietly.
You smile. Because the answer is simple. It’s always been simple. You’ve just been overcomplicating it.
“I like you too.”
Spencer stares at you. It felt like everything, both inside and outside, had stopped. For the first time since you met him, Spencer Reid is completely speechless.
His eyes drop down to your – his – hoodie. Then the pants. Then back up to your face. He opens his mouth like he’s trying to speak, but he closes it again. You give him a small smile. He opens his mouth again.
You wait.
And wait
And wait.
And then something inside of him finally gives up on restraint entirely.
He leans forward on the couch, reaching for you. He isn’t hesitant or unsure in the slightest. It’s immediate, like the last few months of everything that had gone unsaid or redirected or avoided for far too long just fell into place.
One hand comes up to your face. It’s warm and a little shaky, like he still can’t quite believe you’re real. His thumb brushes your cheek once. You barely have enough time to inhale before he crashes his lips onto yours.
It’s not soft in the way you expected it to be. It’s not tentative or questioning at all.
It’s hard and passionate, like months of restraint breaking all at once.
Your brain doesn’t catch up immediately. For a split second, everything is just sensation.
His hand on your cheek, steadying you like he’s afraid you might run away or disappear. The way he leans in slightly more after the first contact. The warmth of him. Everywhere.
Your body finally catches up and you kiss him back. He reacts instantly, like he’s been waiting for permission that he didn’t really think he’d ever get. The hand on your face tightens slightly, not forceful, just… anchoring.
His lips move against your like he’s memorizing you. Not rushed in the frantic sense, but desperate in the way of someone who has been holding something in their hands for too long and is finally allowed to stop pretending they don’t want it.
He tastes sweet but slightly tart. It’s the grapes. It’s absurdly ordinary, but it reminds you that this is real. That the world didn’t pause, and that he’s on top of you in his living room with the t.v. still on and you’re still wearing his clothes.
Spencer shifts slightly closer as if the small distance between you had become unbearable. His other hand comes up to the other side of your cheek to hold you, like he’s been trying not to do this exact thing for so long.
Your thoughts scatter completely, but there’s no overthinking this time. Just him. On top of you. His mouth is sloppy and wet on yours. His hands warm and protective against your face.
And the strangest part is how gentle he still is. He kisses you like he’s afraid of breaking something fragile, only being rough where it’s supposed to be.
When he finally pulls back, it’s only a small amount. Not enough to leave, just enough to breathe. His forehead is close enough to brush against yours, one hand still on your cheek like he hasn’t decided it was time to stop touching you yet. His other arm is beside your face, holding him up. His eyes open like he’s coming back from somewhere else entirely. And he looks at you like he still can’t quite believe you're real.
“You–” he starts, but immediately stops, like the words are too loud,
You let out a breath that feels halfway between a laugh and utter disbelief. “Yeah?”
He swallows. His thumb moves against your cheek almost absentmindedly. His expression looks…exhausted? Like he’s been holding his breath.
“I’ve been trying not to think of you like this,” he admits quietly.
“Why?” you ask.
His eyes close for a second, like the answer is obvious but unbearable at the same time.
“Because I didn’t know if I was allowed to,” he says finally.
Your hand comes up without you really thinking, gently grabbing his wrist that was connected to the hand cupping your cheek. You don’t pull him closer or away. You keep him right where he is.
“You are,” you say simply.
His eyes open wide, something shifts visibly. Not confidence exactly, but more like a decision finally clicking into place after being over processed for months.
“Okay,” he says, exhaling like he’s accepting a fact that he refuses to believe.
There’s a pause. Only this one doesn’t feel awkward. It feels heavy, the arbitrary space between you has changed and now you have to figure out the shape. He looks at your mouth for a second, then immediately flashes his view back to your eyes.
“Can I…” he starts softly. He stops and shakes his head, like he’s frustrated. You rub small, comforting circles on his wrist that you’re holding.
“You don’t have to ask like that,” you say gently.
He creases his brows, confused. “Like what?”
“Like you’re afraid of me.”
“Okay,” he says again, quiet, before he leans into you.
The second kiss is different.
It’s not a sharp, stunned collision like the first. It’s slower, still intense, but more like he’s trying to make a moment instead of catching up with one. There’s a pause where he pulls back to check you again. When you don’t pull away, he settles more comfortably.
The kiss deepens slightly, not rushed or overwhelmed, just closer and more deliberate. You feel his warmth everywhere. His hand on your cheek, the way he shifts closer without hesitation, a quiet confidence within him that you’d never seen, or expected, in him.
He pulls back slowly, holding his head above yours to look into your eyes. His are softer now than they’ve been in a long time. He looks…
Calm.
Not calm as in nothing has changed, but calm because he finally stopped pretending it didn’t.
For a while neither of you moves. Spencer is still hovered over you on the couch. The second episode of Doctor Who is well over halfway through, but neither of you pay it any attention. You can’t stop smiling. Neither can he.
“You kissed me,” you finally say, still smiling.
“I’m sorry,” he says, immediately covering his face with one hand.
“No, no, I wasn’t complaining,” you laugh.
He peeks out from between his fingers. “It sounded like an observation.”
“It was.”
He groans, which makes you laugh harder. For somebody with criminal interrogation training, Spencer Reid is sure easy to make flustered.
“You kissed me,” you repeat, both to yourself, and to give him a chance for a more put together response.
“You didn’t even ask,” you say, now debriefing with your own mind.
His eyes widened. “I asked the second time.”
“That doesn’t count.”
You stare at each other for a second. Then both of you start laughing. Spencer sets up and settles back against the couch. You sit up beside him. Neither of you move very far away.
“So,” you say, breaking the comfortable silence.
“So,” he responds.
You turn to look at him. “How long?”
He immediately knows what you’re asking. His ears turn red and he stares at the coffee table. You wait.
“A while…” he finally says.
“That’s not a length of time,” you giggle.
“Technically it is.”
“Spencer…”
He sighs. You feel oddly victorious in the way that you can fluster him so easily right now.
“A while,” is all he can come up with. You stare at him, obviously waiting on a better answer. He doesn’t give you one. “Your turn.”
“My turn? You didn’t even answer!”
“How long have you liked me?”
“A while,” you smile, deciding to be annoying.
“You made fun of me for that answer!”
“I know.”
“You’re a hypocrite!"
“I know.”
Spencer smiles. You both stare at each other, smiling. He eventually glances towards the window. The rain has started to slow. The realization sets in that you’re eventually going to have to leave. He’s staring out the window, quiet. For once not because he’s thinking about history or physics or something nerdy. He’s thinking about you.
“What time is it?” he asks after a while.
You look at your phone. “Almost nine…” you say, disappointed.
“Oh.” he sounds disappointed too.
The room falls quiet again, still a comfortable silence. You reach over and take his hand. Just because you can. Spencer looks down at your hands and then back up at you and smiles.
“What are you doing tomorrow?” he asks.
“Tomorrow?” you blink.
“Yeah.”
“You already want plans for tomorrow?”
His ears turn red again, which you can now safely admit is one of your favorite things.
“Maybe…” he says sheepishly.
You laugh.
“So are you free tomorrow?”
The hopeful look on his face tells you that you shouldn’t tease him further.
“Yeah, I am.” you say softly.
“What do you want to do?” he says smiling.
“I don’t care,” you say. “What do you want to do?”
“I don’t care,” he repeats.
“You have to care to do something,” you say smiling.
“I care about spending time with you,” he says.
You smile. And you realize that you can’t wait to see him tomorrow.
_____
Read Part 17 Here!
_____
BUY ME A COFFEE
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a/n: hi thank you for the applauses i’ll be here all night. (literally, i'm posting the next TWO PARTS later today bc i literally am so tired of waiting and i know most of you guys are too so ur welcome hehe)
i debated on not having them kiss yet and just ending the part after the confession, but then i thought about it and i kinda realized that two people who like each other + alone in an apartment during a rainstorm, they HAVE to.
also, before writing this part when i would think about the first kiss i always thought i would write it to be like soft and sweet and stuff. but then i thought about literally any kiss scene spencer has in the show and that man can make the fuck out, even in season one he was open mouth kissing. so i will not tolerate any ‘early seasons spencer would never’ YES HE WOULD HE WAS A FREAK !!
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summary: after a very eventful smithsonian date-that-was-never-agreed-upon-to-be-a-date and a very awkward dinner, you finally have time to just sit down and relax with a book.
word count: 1.3k
warnings: fem!reader, rossi!reader (reader is rossi’s niece), made up backstory for reader, mostly just spencer fluff, written with a small age gap (≈ 5 years) in mind (i'm imagining 25 year old (s3) spencer and a 18/19 year old reader) but nothing too crazy and it's not a kink thing i promise
You spend most of Sunday morning trying not to think about the fact that Spencer is picking you up. He’s not meeting you somewhere, he’s picking you up from your house. Like a date.
Which is not what it was. Probably. Hopefully. Maybe. You have no idea.
Spencer pulls into the driveway at 9:03. You grab your coat and head downstairs. Spencer is waiting beside the car when you step outside, which somehow makes this seem more like an unagreed upon date. Especially because he looks nervous too. The kind of nervous where he keeps adjusting the strap of his satchel and avoiding eye contact.
The drive to D.C. was surprisingly easy. Not because the awkwardness disappeared, but because eventually you both forget that you’re supposed to be being awkward.
The Smithsonian has that effect on Spencer. The second he gets excited about something, the rest of the world stops existing.
And you find that adorable.
And once Spencer starts talking about something he loves, stopping him becomes impossible.
Not that you’d ever want to.
The Smithsonian opens at 10:00. You and Spencer arrived at 9:56.
The Smithsonian closes at 5:00. You and Spencer leave at 4:54.
One exhibit became two.
Two became five.
Five became ten.
Somewhere around noon, you completely lose track. You walk through galleries, historical exhibits, scientific displays, planetariums, entire sections devoted to things you didn’t even know existed. Somehow Spencer knows something about all of them.
He tells you about aviation history for twenty minutes. You absorb about half of what he says. Not because you weren’t listening, well, you weren’t listening. But you weren’t not listening because you found him annoying, you weren’t listening because you were too busy watching him.
The way he talks, the way he moves his hands, the way his eyes light up whenever something catches his attention, the way his teeth show more in his smile when he’s excited, everything.
And Spencer Reid rarely notices when people watch him. He gets so focused on whatever he’s explaining that he forgets anyone could possibly be looking. Which means he misses the fact that you haven’t really heard anything he’s said in the past ten minutes.
“...and that’s actually why the original preservation methods were considered controversial.”
You blink. “...right,” you say.
“It’s really interesting,” he says.
“It is,” you smile.
____
By the time you leave the museum your feet hurt. Spencer Reid walks really fast when he wants to see the entirety of the Smithsonian in one day. He talks the whole way back toward the parking garage.
You’re walking through downtown D.C. at 5:00pm. There is traffic everywhere. The sidewalks are so crowded your forced to walk in a line with Spencer, following behind him,
You’re stopped at a crosswalk while Spencer is explaining something involving exhibit funding and government allocations. The walk signal changes and without even looking at you, Spencer reaches back.
He takes your hand, and keeps walking. Like he’s done it a thousand times. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You follow automatically. Spencer keeps talking.
“...and federal appropriations are actually far more complicated than most people realize…”
You smile. He doesn’t notice. The two of you reach the sidewalk on the other side and continue walking forward. Spencer is still talking.
“...and that’s only one part of the budget because private donations are–”
You look down and realize that he’s still holding your hand. You don’t say anything, and you’re careful not to move a muscle in your left arm. You just keep walking behind him. Holding his hand. Like it’s completely natural.
Then he notices too. He stops walking and his sentence cuts off. His eyes drop to your joined hands.
“Oh…” is all he says.
You bite back a nervous laugh and repeat his “Oh,” back to him.
“I wasn’t aware I was doing that…”
You’ve never heard someone sound so genuinely confused about something their own body was doing.
“You’ve been holding my hand for half a block.”
Spencer looks mortified and starts loosening his grip, preparing to let go. And for the first time, probably a lot later than you should have, you take initiative.
You tighten your fingers around his. Not too tight, just tight enough to stop him. His eyes meet yours, and neither of you say anything.
People continue to walk around you. Cars still drive by a little too fast. The city continues to exist. Yet, somehow, you and Spencer are standing in the middle of a busy sidewalk in Washington D.C. staring at each other like you’ve both forgotten how conversations work.
You smile at each other, then continue walking. Your hand in his. His hand in yours. All the way back to his car. He doesn’t speak on the walk back. He couldn’t if he tried. Because he’s painfully aware of what is happening. As are you.
The drive home is a disaster. It’s somehow more awkward than the phone call. It’s quiet. The kind of quiet that only exists because you are thinking the exact same thing as each other. And the kind of quiet that only exists because you are both actively avoiding talking about it.
Spencer tries to break the silence by talking about museum attendance statistics.
Then the silence comes back.
You try to talk about a painting there that you liked.
Then silence.
The weather is brought up.
Silence.
The two of you can’t even hold a conversation about books.
It feels like trying to walk normally after realizing everyone is watching you. Every conversation requires effort when it normally comes so easy. Every sentence and glance feels dangerous.
After the longest forty five minutes of your life Spencer pulls into your driveway. The house looks the same as it always does, which seems wrong. Because everything feels different.
“Oh,” Spencer says before you get out of his car. “I almost forgot.”
He reaches into his satchel and pulls out the paperback of Brave New World. The same copy he had mentioned earlier this week. You smile and take it from him.
“Oh yeah, thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he smiles back.
When you go inside your uncle is already waiting with the table set. Dinner tonight is awful. Not because of the food, it is incredible as always. But because every single time you look up, Spencer is already looking at you. Then both of you look away immediately.
You know your uncle notices something is off. Anyone could. But you’re eternally grateful that he doesn’t address it at dinner, or even after Spencer leaves. Because honestly, if he were to mention it to you, you think that you might explode.
As Spencer is leaving, Rossi invites him to dinner next week, which of course he agrees to. Spencer looks at you as if he doesn’t know whether to hug you tonight or not. But you reach for him, because you know if you don’t hug, that would make everything that your uncle saw at dinner seem far more suspicious. And you really could not deal with explaining anything to him.
Not tonight at least.
_____
Later that night, you’re lying in your bed, of course, overthinking everything from the last week. You reach for the book he gave you today to hopefully distract yourself from your head.
You cozy up in bed and open the cover. When you do, a folded piece of white paper falls into your lap.
You look down, confused. You assume it’s likely just a receipt or a piece of scrap paper Spencer had used as a bookmark.
But you unfold it, and freeze.
Because written in familiar handwriting are six words.
I like you, Y/N. :)
– Spencer
_____
Read Part 16 Here!
_____
BUY ME A COFFEE
_____
a/n: so um... don't get mad guys... but this is exactly how my ex boyfriend told me he liked me... same book and everything... don't get mad...
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summary: After an unexpectedly complicated Sunday night, you have to try very hard to convince yourself that everything is normal. Unfortunately, normal becomes much harder to define after a morning phone call and an extremely persistent older brother.
word count: 2.2k
warnings: fem!reader, rossi!reader (reader is rossi’s niece), made up backstory for reader, mostly just spencer fluff, written with a small age gap (≈ 5 years) in mind (i'm imagining 25 year old (s3) spencer and a 18/19 year old reader) but nothing too crazy and it's not a kink thing i promise
The next morning you wake up before your alarm. You’re already wide awake the second you open your eyes, which is annoying. Your body clearly missed the memo that sleep is supposed to be restorative. For a few seconds, you just lie on your back staring at the ceiling. For a moment, you’re at peace.
And then it hits you.
You held Spencer Reid’s hand yesterday.
And now your mind has immediately become just as complicated as it was last night. Your first instinct is simple: you are not going to think about it. And you wish following this instinct was as simple as it sounded in your head.
It was just hand holding. That’s all. People hold hands all the time. Friends hold hands. Family members hold hands. Family-adjacent people probably hold hands in some cultures or situations or whatever logical explanation exists.
You bury your head into your pillow trying your best to force the thought out. Unfortunately, that is impossible. So you get up.
You go to the bathroom to brush your teeth. You lean over the sink, staring at your reflection in the mirror and actively refuse to engage with your own brain. It doesn’t matter that your thoughts keep circling back to it like a dog that found something. You are in control. You are normal. You are…
In love with Spencer Reid?
No. You immediately skip over that thought.
You squeeze the toothpaste onto the brush a little too aggressively.
The thing is, it wasn’t even a big deal. There wasn’t a confession or some moment where it felt like any feelings were being traded. Just your hand in his. Like it was almost natural.You rinse your mouth and go downstairs where coffee becomes your next project.
You feel like you’re just going through the motions as you make coffee. You’re definitely pouring water and pressing the buttons, but your mind refuses to stay present. Every second is filled with the same replay of his hand in yours.
You stare at the coffee pot, ignoring the fact that it’s ready and going back upstairs.
By the time you get dressed, you’ve already had enough of yourself. You pick clothes without really seeing them, pulling them on while your thoughts keep slipping sideways into the same moment over and over again.
You find it rather annoying too. Perhaps if something major had happened this would feel warranted, but this was literally just hand holding. Even middle school couples hold hands without making a big deal about things.
You lay down on your bed and open a sketchbook, telling yourself that the day will proceed normally if you simply refuse to participate in whatever your brain is trying to get you to do.
At 7:42 your phone rings.
Spencer.
You’ve talked to him hundreds of times. Hundreds of different conversations, easy ones, long ones, quiet ones. Answering the phone was nothing new. Except for the fact that you now know what his hands feel like.
Answering the phone should feel normal.
It doesn’t feel normal.
“Goodmorning,” you say when you answer the phone.
“Hi,” he says back.
And there it is. His voice. Exactly as you know it. It’s familiar in a way that should be comforting, but instead it has edges that you hadn’t noticed before. You can picture him without trying, one hand on the wheel, eyes on the road, hair slightly damp from the shower.
You hate that you can picture him so easily. But you hold on to it, because if not that then your brain slips to other things. Things you didn’t ask to remember. Like your hand in his. And the fact that neither of you moved it away.
You sit on the edge of your bed, forcing your posture to stay casual, as if somehow that could influence your brain.
“So,” he says after a moment.
You didn’t realize that you hadn’t said anything after goodmorning.
“I finished a book I think you’d like,” he says.
“What book?” you ask quickly.
“Brave New World.”
“Oooh, yeah. You should let me borrow it.”
“Okay.”
You can hear it in his voice that he’s smiling.
He pauses, not for long, but enough for it to be noticed that neither of you knew what to say.
You didn’t know it, but in his car, Spencer was gripping the wheel a little harder than normal. He keeps replaying yesterday in fragments he didn’t ask for either.
Your hand.
How soft it was.
How it felt small inside of his.
Your fingers.
And how they fit perfectly between his.
He hates it. He hates it more than he could properly explain. It’s not like anything changed. But that’s what’s upsetting him. Because nothing has changed, but it feels like everything did.
He clears his throat. “So, uh…”
You freeze, body telling you he’s going to mention it. And while part of you thinks that addressing it could ease the situation, another part, the bigger part, tells you that addressing it will only make things worse.
“I was thinking,” he continues. “If you want to of course…we could go to the Smithsonian this weekend? There’s a new exhibit I’ve been wanting to check out.”
“Yeah, yeah we should,” you say, the relief obvious in your voice.
“Okay,” he says, “Want to go Sunday before dinner? I can pick you up in the morning.”
You smile, because he already assumed he was getting invited for dinner this Sunday. He assumed right though.
“Okay, that works,” you smile.
“Cool,” he says, like he’s relieved to have successfully navigated something far more complicated than it should be. “I’ll bring the book too.”
There’s another pause. Longer this time. Worse.
“Alright,” Spencer finally says. “I’ll talk to you later, Y/N.”
“Bye.”
The call ends. You just sit there for a moment staring at nothing. Something has shifted, and neither of you have a language for it. The only reason you stop staring is because there’s a knock at your bedroom door and your brother sticks his head inside.
“You alive?” he asks.
“Barely,” you say.
“Better than not at all. He walks into your room and immediately sits at your desk chair, spinning it around and sitting backwards in it.
“What?” you ask.
“Was that him?”
“Who?”
“Oh come on, was that Spencer?”
“Yeah.”
“Why do you guys call so early?”
“He calls me on his way to work.”
“Oh,” he pauses. “Where does he work?”
“With Uncle Dave.”
Logan straightens his back. “Is he like…an intern?”
“No…”
“He’s an actual agent?”
You nod.
“He looks…like twelve,” Logan says.
“He does not,” you giggle.
“He definitely does.”
“No he doesn’t,” you’re smiling.
“He looks like somebody dropped off a gifted high school student into a government building.”
Well, he’s not all that incorrect.
“He’s twenty six,” you say, knowing he was about to ask.
Logan raises his eyebrows in shock. “You’re kidding.”
“No, he is.”
“There’s no way,” he stares at you. “He’s older than me?”
You nod. “He’ll be twenty seven in October.”
Logan’s mouth falls open. “Absolutely not!”
His voice isn’t stern like he’s upset, he’s more surprised than anything else, which makes you feel a little better.
“That’s insane,” Logan says. “He looks nineteen.”
“He gets that a lot,” you say.
“I bet he does.”
You smile. “Uncle Dave made a huge deal about it,” you say while looking down, toying with the fabric of your blanket.
“Oh I bet he did.”
Your smile fades as you remember that conversation. The arguments, the concern, and the weeks of hiding. Logan notices immediately.
“Does it bother you?” he asks.
You hesitate. You never really stopped to think about if you felt weird about it.
“A little…” you say.
“The age thing?” Logan clarifies.
“Sometimes,” you nod. You look up at him. “Do you think it’s weird?”
He shrugs. “It’s not my favorite thing in the world.”
You wince. “Thanks.”
“I’m being honest.”
“I know,” you sigh.
“But it’s not necessarily bad.”
You tilt your head.
“You’re both adults,” he continues. “I think that it’s enough of a difference that I’d probably ask questions, but from meeting him once, he seems like a good guy.”
You relax your shoulders and smile. “He is.”
“I can tell.”
You look down at your hands. Logan notices.
“You really like him,” he says. It’s not a question.
You stare at your hands for a moment.
“Yeah,” you finally say.
The admission leaves your mouth quietly, but it feels huge. Like there’s been a boulder on your shoulders for months and it’s finally been lifted.
Logan smiles a genuine smile at you.
“I hate you,” you say, throwing a pillow at him.
“No you don’t,” he says, catching it.
You don’t. He knows it. Logan stares at you for a long second. Then he narrows his eyebrows at you, which is terrifying.
“What?” you say cautiously.
“Well you finally admitted it, so now I gotta ask questions.”
You groan, knowing he’s not going to leave until he knows everything.
“How long have you liked him?” he asks.
You bury your face in your hands. “Logan,” you say embarrassed.
“How long?” he repeats.
“I don’t know.” You’re honest.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer I have.”
“That means it’s been a while.”
“Maybe.”
“How long is maybe?”
“I don’t know.”
“A month?”
You don’t answer.
“Two months?”
“Logan, I don’t know.”
“Three?” he pushes.
You throw another pillow. This time it hits him.
Good.
“So what happened?” He asks.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, something had to happen.”
“Nothing happened.”
He gives you a look. “He calls you every day.”
“Not every day.”
Logan leans forward. “Something happened.”
You stare at him. Then at the wall. Then back at him. He waits. Patiently. The thing that the Rossi’s were best at.
“We held hands…” you finally say, so so quietly. Logan is silent. You start to think he didn’t even hear you.
“What?” he finally says.
“Nothing,” you say, hoping he didn’t hear you and the ‘what’ was a ‘what did you say’ kind of what.
“No, no go back.”
“We held hands…”
“When?”
You stare at him. His eyes widen.
“WHEN!?” he repeats.
As flustered as you are by this whole situation, you have to admit that you enjoy your brother being so invested.
“Yesterday…” you say.
“YESTERDAY!?” he echoes.
You shush him.
“Like yesterday yesterday?”
“Yes, Logan.”
“Like yesterday when I was here?”
You nod. “While we were watching Ocean’s 11.:
“You held hands while Uncle Dave and I were in the room?”
“It wasn’t weird like that!”
“Neither of us noticed?”
“Apparently not.”
“And you think he doesn’t like you back?”
“I just don’t know why he would.”
“Y/N, guys who don’t like don’t hold hands during movies.”
“It wasn’t intentional!”
“Did he pull away?”
“No…”
“Did he start it?”
“I don’t know.”
“How do you not know?” he laughs.
“It just kind of happened, I don’t know who started it.”
Logan keeps laughing. He’s finding this way too amusing.
“Stop laughing,” you say.
He takes a deep breath, trying his hardest to stop.
“So,” he says after finally calming down. “What happened after that?”
You hate this conversation.
“You were literally there,” you say. “Nothing happened.”
“He didn’t say anything at all?”
“No,”
“What happened this morning then?”
You pause. “Nothing.”
He looks at you. “Something had to happen between last night and now for you to admit that you like him.”
You hate that he has a point.
“He called.”
“That’s normal.”
“It just felt weird. It was…awkward.”
“Continue,” Logan nods. You hate that he’s invested now.
“He asked if I wanted to go to the Smithsonian this weekend.”
Your brother’s entire face lights up. “So a date.”
“It’s not a date.”
“Mhmm.”
“He asked if I wanted to go see a new exhibit.”
“Alone?”
You pause.
“...yes.”
Logan grins and shakes his head. “Oh, that’s rough.”
“Why?”
“Because neither of you know if it’s a date.”
“It isn’t!”
“Do you want it to be a date?”
Your stomach twists. That’s a hard question.
“I don’t know,” you say. “I hate this.”
“No you don’t.”
You kind of do. But you also kind of don’t. For the first time since all of this started, you’ve actually admitted that you like Spencer. Logan just stares at you as a million thoughts go through your head. Then he laughs.
“I’ve reached a conclusion,” he says.
“What?”
“Good or bad news first?”
“...bad.”
“The bad news is that you’re both idiots.” You stare at him. “The good news, you’re both idiots.”
“I hate you,” you say.
“Hey,” his voice is sincere now. “For what it’s worth, I really do think he’s a good guy.”
The words catch you off guard. Because underneath all the teasing, that’s what you’ve been the most worried about. It wasn’t whether Logan would make fun of you, or if he’d understand. You were worried that Logan wouldn’t like him.
“Yeah, he’s great,” you smile.
“But,” your heart drops. “If he breaks your heart I’m killing him and making Uncle Dave help me hide the body.”
_____
Read Part 15 Here!
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BUY ME A COFFEE
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a/n: i hate sending Logan back to Washington but I think I might have to :( he'll come back though I promise.
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summary: Spencer starts coming over for dinner on Sundays. One Sunday, your brother shows up and finally makes you confront the thing you’ve been ignoring most.
word count: 3.3k
warnings: fem!reader, rossi!reader (reader is rossi’s niece), made up backstory for reader, mostly just spencer fluff, written with a small age gap (≈ 5 years) in mind (i'm imagining 25 year old (s3) spencer and a 18/19 year old reader) but nothing too crazy and it's not a kink thing i promise
The first time Spencer came over by himself felt weird. Not bad weird, just… weird.
For months Spencer had existed in very specific places. Places like coffee shops, and restaurants, and bookstores, and within phone calls. He existed at a constant in places that belonged equally to both of you.
Your house was not one of those places.
Then one Sunday afternoon, when you were sitting on the couch reading a book, your uncle looked up at you from his chair.
“Reid is coming over for dinner tonight,” he said calmly. Like it was a normal occurrence.
“What?” you say, fully believing that he is joking.
“Reid.”
“I know who Reid is.”
“Good.”
You stare at him. “You’re inviting Spencer?”
“I’m making dinner.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I’m aware.”
“Why are you inviting Spencer?”
“He likes my cooking.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
You narrow your eyes at him but he ignores you.
“This is weird,” you say.
“Why’s that?”
“You’re inviting my friend over.”
“Your friend?”
“Yes. My friend.”
“He was my coworker first.”
Are you and your uncle really about to argue over whether Spencer Reid was your friend or his coworker?
No.
You ignore him long enough that he gets up to make dinner and you’re able to get back into reading your book.
The doorbell rings within ten minutes of you finishing your book.
“Will you get that, Y/N,” your uncle shouts from the kitchen.
You go open the door. And there was Spencer. Standing on the porch. Your porch. Holding a book. Of course he was holding the book.
“Hi,” he says, grinning from ear to ear.
“Hi,” you give a shy smile.
Neither of you moved.
“I brought this,” Spencer says, lifting the book.
“You brought reading material to dinner?”
“Yes,” he giggles.
And suddenly it hit you. This wasn’t coffee, or lunch. This wasn’t meeting somewhere halfway between your lives. Spencer was standing on your front porch coming over for dinner like it was normal. Like it was something he’d done a hundred times before.
The start of dinner was as normal as it could be when Spencer Reid is sitting at your dining room table. For the first ten minutes, your uncle is in the kitchen finishing cooking, while simultaneously holding three separate conversations: one with you, one with Spencer, and one with himself.
Spencer, somehow, is able to keep up. Which should not surprise you anymore, but it still does.
During dinner, Spencer and Rossi argue over something neither of them actually disagreed about.
“I never said the movie was bad,” Spencer says.
“No, but you were implying it,” your uncle argues.
“No I didn’t, I said the adaptation failed to properly capture the author’s intended themes.”
“Which is just genius for saying it was bad.”
You laugh. Both of them stop talking.
“What?” Spencer asks, looking at you.
“Nothing,” you smile.
“You’re laughing.” Good observation, Spencer.
“Yeah,” you continue laughing, “because you two sound exactly the same.”
Your uncle looks amused, but Spencer looks horrified.
“I do NOT sound like Rossi!” he says, but sadly, the emphasis of his words makes him sound exactly like Rossi.
“You so do,” you say, before taking a bite.
Your uncle doesn’t say he agrees, but he also doesn’t disagree before he changes the topic of conversation.
And somehow, three hours pass and you start to realize that your uncle likes Spencer. Because for months you’d been so focused on hiding from him because you thought that the issue was Spencer. You’d never really considered the possibility that the issue all along was never Spencer. And now that you know the real reason, you see it.
You watch your uncle laugh at something Spencer says, and ask him questions that only he would know the answer to. He’s not being polite and forcing himself to put up with Spencer because he’s your friend.
David Rossi likes Spencer Reid.
And while you realize that for the first time, your uncle is having a realization of his own. He doesn’t acknowledge it, he wouldn’t even if someone paid him. But as he listens to Spencer explain some overly complicated theory like it was simple addition, he finds himself smiling.
Because Spencer Reid was a good kid. A strange kid, a socially awkward nerdy kid, but a good one. And one that he wouldn’t mind having around for a while.
The evening ends a little after nine.
“Thank you for dinner,” Spencer says as he gathers his things. He grabs his coat from the rack in the hallway and puts it on. You and your uncle stand in the hall waiting to tell him goodbye.
Rossi extends his arm to shake Spencer’s hand. “How about same time next week?” he asks.
“I’ll be here,” Spencer smiles and shakes your uncle’s hand before turning toward you. Without giving it a second thought, he steps forward and pulls you into a hug.
Dave clears his throat. “Drive safe, Reid.”
Spencer steps back from the hug. “I will.”
You watch him go. Later that night, you’re laying in your bed trying to fall asleep. You can’t stop thinking about how Spencer Reid came over for dinner. And somehow, it felt completely normal. Which may have been the weirdest thing about it.
_____
The next Sunday Spencer comes over again.
The Sunday after that both he and Rossi miss because the BAU is on a case.
Then he comes the week after.
Then he misses another.
Then he comes back.
Eventually nobody really talks about it anymore. Spencer had just sort of become a part of Sunday dinner. Not every Sunday, but most of them.
Enough Sundays that your uncle starts asking if he’s available before deciding what to cook.
Enough Sundays that there are books permanently stacked on the end of the table for the week.
Enough Sundays that seeing his car in the driveway stops feeling unusual.
And one Sunday afternoon while he was preparing dinner, your uncle reaches into the cabinet and pulls out three plates. He sets the first one down, then the second, then the third. Then his hand pauses.
Because Spencer had never said he was coming. He just expected him to.
_____
By February, Spencer not showing up for Sunday dinner was more unusual than him coming.
You and Spencer were sitting at the kitchen table talking about books, of course, and your uncle was finishing cooking in the kitchen when the doorbell rings.
“I’ll get it,” you say, standing from the table.
“Tell whoever it is we’re not joining their church. But if it’s girl scout cookies tell her I’ll be there in a second,” your uncle calls from the kitchen.
“Okay Uncle Dave,” you say.
You pull open the front door. Your brain completely stops functioning
“LOGAN!?” you shout.
“Surprise!” Your brother grinned.
You launched yourself at him, wrapping your arms around him.
“Oh my god!” you shout.
“Hi to you too,” he laughs.
“What are you doing here?”
“I was rolling through the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by for a few days.”
“Oh my god!”
Your brother looks exactly the same. He’d gotten a haircut since the last time you saw him, but other than that he was exactly the same.
“Get inside,” you say, giving him a shove.
“Bossy,” he says, but steps inside. When he enters he notices two things. First, David Rossi, which made sense. The second was Spencer Reid, who was a new face.
Your uncle comes into the entry way to greet Logan.
“You picked the perfect time to show up,” Dave says.
“I was hoping you’d be cooking,” Logan smiles and gives your uncle a hug.
You lead Logan into the dining room and motion toward your guest. And for reasons that you couldn’t explain, your smile got bigger. And Logan noticed that too.
“This is Spencer,” you say. “He’s my friend.”
Spencer stood and offered his hand. Logan takes it.
“Hi, Spencer Reid.”
“Logan Rossi.”
That was it.
Dinner was normal. Logan caught you and your uncle up on his life, and sat quietly and watched as you and Spencer bantered.
“That’s not what happened,” you argued about something trivial.
“It is though,” Spencer responded.
“It isn’t.
“It is.”
Logan looks between the two of you. “Do you guys always do this?” He asks.
“Do what?” you ask.
“Whatever that was.” Logan says.
You and Spencer look at each other and then shrug. At the same time.
“Yes, Logan,” your uncle says in place of you or Spencer, “they always do that.”
Logan smiles a knowing smile. The longer dinner went the more things he noticed. You knew exactly what Spencer was about to say over half the time. Spencer knew what foods you wouldn’t eat. There were inside jokes and references that no one else understood.
It was the amount of familiarity people only get after spending a lot of time together.
Halfway though dessert you go to the kitchen to grab napkins because Dave had dropped his pie on his pants. He went to his bedroom to change while you cleaned up.
The second you left the room Logan immediately looked at Spencer. Spencer immediately noticed, and immediately looked nervous.
“So,” Logan starts. Spencer swallows. “How’d you meet my sister?”
“We met at a dinner party Rossi hosted a few months ago.”
“And you guys just became friends immediately?”
“Pretty much. We started talking about books, she reads a lot.”
“Oh, trust me I know. She’s a major nerd.”
Spencer smiles. “Yeah, she is. She remembers everything because she has this planner that she writes everything in.”
“A planner?”
“Yeah, it’s color coded and everything. It’s amazing.”
“Oh really?”
Spencer kept going. He told Logan about books you like, and going for coffee, and paintings you’ve talked about. He tells him that you highlight quotes in books in different colors depending on how they make you feel. He talks for almost five minutes.
You hear bits and pieces of the conversation as you move in and out of the dining room cleaning up the pie your uncle had dropped.
After Spencer is done talking Logan just stares at him. Spencer stares back, completely oblivious of how much understanding he just gave your brother, who now wasn’t sure Spencer even knew what planet he was on.
Rossi came back downstairs wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt that looked older than you were.
“Problem solved,” he announced as he enters the dining room.
“You changed your entire outfit?” you ask him.
“There was pie involved,” Rossi says.
“Fair,” Logan says.
“Do any of you guys want to watch a movie?” Rossi asks.
“Yes,” you answer immediately,
“Depends,” Logan says. “What movie?”
“The good kind,” your uncle says.
The four of you go to the living room. Rossi immediately claims his armchair, nobody was getting him out of that thing. Logan sat on the couch cushion closest to Rossi’s chair, and you sat in the middle seat between him and Spencer.
Your uncle sets the T.V. and VCR up to watch Ocean’s 11, the Rat Pack version from 1960, not the 2001 Steven Soderbergh version. Because apparently when given complete television control, David Rossi became incapable of choosing anything made after 1995.
Not that anyone complained. Especially not Spencer. You were beginning to suspect he’d watch paint dry if someone explained enough statistics and facts about paint beforehand.
The room gradually got quieter as the movie began. About twenty minutes in, Logan started complaining.
“I’m cold,” he wined.
“You live in Washington,” you said.
“Exactly, I know cold well enough to know that I’m feeling it.”
“There’s blankets on the back of the couch,” your uncle says without taking his eyes from the T.V.
Logan reached behind and grabbed a blanket. Then another. And about five minutes later he somehow ended up with a third.
“Why do you have so many blankets?” you ask him.
“Because I am cold. Duh.”
He wrapped himself in a blanket burrito.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you scoff at him.
“What?” Logan asks innocently.
“You have three blankets.”
“I’m cold.”
You reached for the remaining blanket on the back of the couch. Unfortunately, so did Spencer. You immediately let go. So did he.
“You can have it,” he whispers quietly, like he only wants you to hear.
“No,” you whisper back, “you can.”
“You saw it first,” he says.
“That’s not how blankets work.”
The two of you stared at each other.
“We can share,” you suggest.
“Okay,” Spencer says.
You grabbed the blanket and spread it over both of your laps. Completely innocent and normal. It was just a blanket. Friends share blankets all the time. There was absolutely nothing weird about that.
You turned your focus back to the movie, well, tried to. Because suddenly you were hyperaware of everything. The warmth of the blanket, the fact that Spencer was sitting maybe six inches away from you, and that you can feel any movement he makes, and that you could smell him.
He smelled like a vanilla candle. And old books. And fall. You hated that you noticed.
You shift under the blanket, accidentally brushing your hand against his. Just barely, but enough that both of you pulled back quickly. Neither of you said anything, let alone looked at each other. The movie continued, but your head couldn’t pay it any attention.
A few minutes passed. Maybe ten. Maybe less. You weren’t really keeping track anymore.
Then it happened again.
This time your fingers touched for half a second longer. Not long enough to mean anything, or enough to matter. Still. Neither of you immediately moved this time, as if you both were waiting for the other to move.
You stared very intensely at the T.V.
Ocean’s 11 has never been so intriguing.
Spencer shifted slightly. You assume he’s moving away. He doesn’t.
He moves just enough that the back of his hand is resting against yours. And you were suddenly very aware of your heartbeat. Which you found annoying. It was just a hand. People have hands. Nothing was happening. At all.
Then a finger moved. You didn’t even know whose it was. A thumb brushed against the side of your hand. You’re not sure if it was his thumb moving to your hand, or you’re hand moving against his thumb. But you do know that no one moved away.
The movie continued. Both your uncle and brother were extremely invested. Which was making this worse for you because there was nothing to distract you from the fact that Spencer Reid’s hand was touching yours underneath a blanket.
You didn’t look at him. Not once. You were pretty sure if you did your brain would completely stop functioning. So instead you stared straight ahead watching the movie.
Sort of.
You probably heard the dialogue. You assumed things were happening. The actors were certainly moving around. But beyond that, there was nothing. Your entire awareness had been stripped to one single point of contact.
Then somehow, slowly, without either of you consciously deciding to do it, your fingers intertwined. It wasn’t sudden, it was gradual. Like it happened one tiny movement at a time.
Just one finger. Then another, and another. Until eventually your hand was resting in his.
You swallowed. He didn’t move a muscle. Neither did you. The movie kept playing, the glow of the T.V. the only thing bringing light to the room. Logan laughed at something, Rossi made a comment on the accuracy of something in the movie. Life continued exactly as it had before.
Except now you were holding Spencer’s hand.
The funniest part was that neither of you could possibly tell anyone what happened in the movie afterwards. You couldn’t remember a single scene, or a line. Nothing. Two adults with entirely functioning brains, completely defeated by hand holding.
Eventually the credits rolled and the lights came on, and somehow the moment seemed to disappear as quietly as it had started. The blanket got folded, people stood up, and conversation resumed. Nobody mentioned anything.
Not Uncle Dave. Not Logan. Not Spencer. And not you.
It was like it had never happened. And you probably could’ve convinced yourself of that had your heart not been beating far too fast for it not having just run a mile.
Spencer put his coat on at the door. Logan shakes his hand again.
“It was nice meeting you, Dude,” Logan says.
“Yeah, yeah you too,” Spencer smiles, shaking your brother’s hand. Your brother who was oblivious to the fact that the hand he was shaking was just intertwined with yours for almost an hour.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Kid,” Rossi says, giving Spencer a salute.
“Thanks for dinner again, Rossi,” Spencer says before turning to you and smiling. The same exact smile he always gave you. Nothing different enough to make your stomach flip the way it did.
He hugs you goodbye. Brief, warm, and comfortable. Just like always.
And then the steps outside, pulling the front door closed on his way out.
You stood there for a second longer than necessary. Then your brother appeared beside you laughing.
“Oh you are so gone,” he says to you.
You narrow your eyes at him. “I didn’t even say anything,” you argue, slightly annoyed at him.
“I’m getting old,” your uncle announced as he starts going upstairs.
“You’ve been saying that since you were forty,” Logan says,
“And I’ve been right every year. Don’t stay up all night kids,” Dave says.
“No promises,” Logan smiles.
“Goodnight, Uncle Dave,” you say.
Then David Rossi disappears into his room, and you and Logan are left downstairs alone. You go to the kitchen and steal a piece of leftover pie. Logan follows, watching you. You notice immediately.
“No,” you say, your mouth full of pie.
“I didn’t even say anything,” Logan grins.
You give him a death stare.
“He comes to dinner every Sunday?” Logan asks.
“Sometimes,” you say, already done with the conversation that hadn’t even started.
Logan gives you a look. “Right.”
“Don’t do that,” you say, pointing your fork at him.
He gives you a mischievous smile. “Do what?”
“That… thing.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you pretend you’re not judging me.”
“I’m not judging you.” He’s being honest. “I’m studying you.” Also honest.
“That’s worse.”
He leans back in a barstool. You hate how amused he looks.
“So you like him,” he says. It’s not a question.
“No.” You quickly say.
“Okay.”
“Okay?” you blink.
“Sure.”
Sure? That’s not how these conversations are supposed to work. He’s supposed to argue. Or tease you. Or push for an explanation. And instead he just shrugs.
“I don’t,” you say.
“Okay,” he answers.
“Logan.”
“What?”
“You don’t believe me.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
He laughs. “You know what I noticed?”
“I don’t care.”
“I’m gonna tell you anyway.”
Of course he is.
“You two know a weird amount about each other,” he starts.
“We’re friends.”
“You really don’t see it, do you?”
“See what?”
A grin takes over his entire face.
“He likes you too.”
You laugh. Not a nervous laugh, or an embarrassed laugh. A real laugh. Because of how ridiculous that sounded coming from your brother’s mouth.
"Oh my God,” you say.
"What?"
"Spencer does not like me."
"Why not?"
"Because."
"Compelling argument."
"You don't even know him."
"I know enough."
"No you don't."
Logan laughs. "I listened to him talk about you for ten straight minutes."
"Because you asked."
"I asked how he met you."
You open your mouth. Then pause. Because. Well. Okay. He was right. Still.
"No,” is all you can say.
Logan shakes his head. "Okay."
"Stop saying okay like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're humoring me."
"I am humoring you."
You groan. The kitchen clock ticks quietly somewhere behind you. Logan watches you for another few seconds. Then he smiles. Not teasing this time. Just amused.
"You know what the funniest part is?" He asks genuinely.
You already know you're going to regret asking.
"What?" you ask.
"I don't think either of you know."
_____
Read Part 14 Here!
_____
BUY ME A COFFEE
_____
a/n: i'm sorry i made you guys wait 13 chapters for an ounce of romance but you're welcome for finally giving it to you :) also idk why but the whole time i'm picturing logan i'm picturing axl heck so do with that what you will i guess lmfao
_____
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summary: The weird thing about finally getting permission to do something you had been sneaking was realizing how much less energy it took now. For almost two months every interaction with Spencer had required planning, and now suddenly you could do just about anything you wanted to.
word count: 1.3k
warnings: fem!reader, rossi!reader (reader is rossi’s niece), made up backstory for reader, mostly just spencer fluff, written with a small age gap (≈ 5 years) in mind (i'm imagining 25 year old (s3) spencer and a 18/19 year old reader) but nothing too crazy and it's not a kink thing i promise
The weird thing about finally getting permission to do something you had been sneaking was realizing how much less energy it took now. For almost two months every interaction with Spencer had required planning, and now suddenly you could do just about anything you wanted to.
Which should have made things easier.
Instead it made things weird. Because now there was nothing stopping you from seeing Spencer whenever you wanted. And it made you confront just how often you wanted to see him.
You were sitting at your desk on a Tuesday afternoon when he crossed your mind. Before you could overthink it, you grabbed your phone.
Want lunch tomorrow?
You stared at the screen, then immediately threw your phone onto your bed. Because apparently sending a text message to your friend who you were allowed to be friends with now made you nervous.
Less than a minute later your phone buzzes. You lunge for it.
Yes.
One word, that was it. No scheduling conflicts, or complicated explanation, or planning around him leaving work without your uncle noticing, and you planning on how to get back before he noticed.
Just yes.
_____
The next day you walk into the restaurant and immediately spot Spencer. Of course you did. You were beginning to suspect that punctuality was some kind of medical condition with him.
“You’re early,” you say. You feel like you’re always saying that with him.
“I’ve only been here three minutes,” he says. “Also, you’re early. We agreed on 12:15, it’s 12:06.”
“That’s different,” you say.
“No it’s not.”
You slide into the booth across from him. “No, see, when I do it it’s charming.”
“No, I don’t think that’s how it works.”
The following week became more of the same. Lunches, coffee, phone calls, texts, like it had been. Except this time nothing was hidden.
On Saturday afternoon you and Spencer were sitting side by side in a coffee shop, each with a different book open in front of you. Neither of you had spoken for almost 30 minutes, you guys were just so encapsulated in your books. And it wasn’t awkward at all. It was comfortable.
“You know,” Spencer finally says after he gets through yet another chapter of his book. “This is easier.”
You look at him. “What is?”
He seems like he’s surprised he’d spoken out loud.
“Not hiding,” he says, giving a half smile.
“Yeah,” you give a smile back.
He smiles a full smile, then puts his attention back to his book. You try to do the same, but you can’t stop thinking about what he said.
A few days later Spencer hands you a book at lunch. Not literally handed, more like presented to you.
“What’s this for?” you ask, there was no conversation about him bringing you a book today.
“It’s my favorite book,” he says.
You stare. “You’re favorite favorite?”
“Yeah.”
You look down at the book, the cover suddenly seeming significantly more intimidating.
“You’re letting me borrow it?”
He frowns slightly.
“Unless you don’t want to.”
“No! No I do want to, I just…” you look at the book. It looks brand new. But you know Spencer, and you know he’s probably had this book for over 10 years.
“I trust you,” he smiles.
“But… what if something happens?”
“Oh, I’d just never speak to you again of course,” he jokes.
You smile. “I’ll bring it back next week.”
_____
Three days later the book disappeared. Completely. It was gone. You searched your entire room. Nothing. You searched your backpack. Nothing. You searched your desk, and your uncle’s room and his office and the kitchen and the living room and the dining room. Nothing. It was gone.
You searched for hours.
HOURS.
Your uncle found you about three hours in. You were sitting in the middle of your bedroom floor with nearly half of your room under total reconstruction.
“What happened in here?” he asked you, completely unaware of the three hours of intense manual labor you had done moving your entire bed, dresser, and desk out of your room and back in.
“I lost Spencer’s book.” you say, voice distressed.
He looked around, then back at you. “The kid has like a thousand of them, he’ll be fine.”
“It was his favorite book.”
“So find it.”
“I’M TRYING!”
He slowly backed out of your room. Probably the correct decision.
The next morning your phone rang.
“Good morning,” Spencer says from the other end.
“HiSpencerGoodMorning,” you rush your words.
“You sound stressed.”
“I am stressed.”
“What’s wrong?” He sounds concerned.
“Because I lost your favorite book.”
“Oh,” he says casually. Too casually.
“OH?” you repeat.
“Yeah, oh.”
“SPENCER!”
“What?” he giggles. “I have another copy.”
“I STILL LOST YOUR BOOK!”
“I actually have three copies. Four if you count the annotated edition.”
“SPENCER REID.” You groan.
“What?”
He sounded genuinely confused, almost like he couldn’t understand why you were panicking.
“I lost something important to you.” you say, your throat starts to tighten.
“You didn’t do it on purpose.”
“That’s not–,” your voice cracks. You’re trying to hold back tears. You’re not really sure why they’re there but you wish they would go away before Spencer notices.
“Y/N…”
You stop talking. His voice is soft. He knows.
“It’s okay,” he says so sweetly. You hated how quickly that made you feel better. ‘Where was the last place you remember having it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You have to know something.”
“I don’!” you groan, flopping backwards onto your bed. “I was reading it in my room and then I think I might’ve taken it downstairs and then maybe I put it in my backpack but maybe I didn’t and now it’s gone.”
“That wasn’t very helpful,” Spencer hums.
“I’m having a crisis.”
“You are not.”
“I moved my dresser.”
He pauses. “You what?”
“And my bed and my desk.”
“By yourself?”
“Yes.”
He pauses again. “Why?”
“Because your book is missing.”
The silence this time is longer. When he finally speaks again. his voice is soft.
“You moved furniture because you lost my book?”
You immediately feel stupid.
“I wanted to make sure I didn’t just misplace it.”
“Y/N…”
“What?”
“You know I would’ve believed you if you’d just told me it was lost.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?”
You pause. You don’t really know how to explain it. The point wasn’t really the book, more so that he had handed it to you like it mattered, and emphasized that it was his favorite.
“You trusted me with it,” you finally say quietly.
“I still do.”
Your throat tightens. You stare at the ceiling.
“You’re not mad?” you ask.
“I’m not mad.”
“Not even a little?”
“No.”
“Not even disappointed?”
“No.”
“Not even–”
“Y/N,” he interrupts. “I promise.”
You let out a slow breath. “Okay.”
The conversation drifts to other things after that. Normal things. Comfortable things. And by the end of the call you feel almost okay.
Almost.
_____
You find the book the next evening.
You probably searched for it for a total of eight hours. It’s sitting underneath a blanket in the living room. A blanket you swore you’d picked up three separate times.
“You have got to be kidding me,” you said out loud when you found it.
Your uncle looks up from his chair. “What?”
You hold up the book.
“Oh, good thing.”
_____
The next day you meet Spencer for lunch.
The second you sit down in the booth you slide the book across the table.
“There,” you say. “Take it before it goes missing and I bulldoze my uncle’s house.”
“You found it,” Spencer smiles at you.
“It was under a blanket.”
Spencer’s smile twitches. He’s holding back a laugh.
“You think this is funny!” You’re a little offended.
“Mildly.”
“Spencer!”
He laughs again as he puts the book into his satchel.
And just like that the crisis is over. Except it isn’t. Because as you watch him carefully tuck the book away you realize that the worst part wasn’t losing the book, it was thinking that you’d let him down.
And for some reason, some completely ridiculous reason, that had mattered much more to you.
_____
Read Part 13 Here!
_____
BUY ME A COFFEE
_____
a/n: i’m sorry for such a short part, i’m not gonna lie this chapter is kind of just filler… the next part has a lot to unpack so be ready for that :) also be ready to meet Logan (the brother :3)
_____
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summary: David Rossi has to face the fact that his little girl isn’t really a little girl anymore. And part of him knows that she’s not really his anymore either.
word count: 2.2k
warnings: fe!reader, rossi!reader (reader is rossi’s niece), made up backstory for reader, mostly just spencer fluff, written with a small age gap (≈ 5 years) in mind (i'm imagining 25 year old (s3) spencer and a 18/19 year old reader) but nothing too crazy and it's not a kink thing i promise
Rossi’s POV
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
For most of my life, Christmas had ended quietly.
That wasn't necessarily a bad thing. I’d never been one of those people who needed a house full of noise 24 hours a day. Most years there were dinners, gifts, phone calls from family, maybe an ex-wife or two, depending on the decade. And then eventually everyone goes home.
And it was back to just me. And I was fine with that. I was good at being alone. You don’t spend thirty years chasing serial killers without learning how to enjoy your own company along the way.
The Christmas tree was still standing in the living room. The colorful lights were still plugged in. I used to not even have a Christmas tree. I used to not really care that much. But five years ago something changed. That something was my niece.
Five years ago there hadn’t been music coming from upstairs. There weren't paint supplies permanently scattered across half the house. There were no mugs disappearing, or cereal boxes emptying themselves overnight, and there was no one yelling from another room because they couldn’t find something that was exactly where it had always been.
Five years ago there hadn’t been somebody waiting for me when I got home.
Then my niece showed up carrying three duffel bags and an attitude big enough even for me. And somewhere along the way she became more than a guest in my house.
She became home.
I spent the last five years watching her grow up. And growing up has a nasty habit of ending with people leaving.
“You look grumpy.”
I look up.
There she was, standing in the kitchen archway wearing socks that didn’t match.
“You always look grumpy.”
“I do not,” I say.
She crossed the kitchen and sat down next to me at the island. I watched her steal one of my cookies without asking. She just took it like she owned the place, and honestly, she kind of does.
“What?” she asked.
“What?”
“You’re staring.”
“No I’m not.”
“You are.”
I take a sip of my coffee. It had gone cold.
“You know,” she said, “normal people usually tell somebody when something’s bothering them.”
“Nothing is bothering me.”
She rolled her eyes.
“You’re doing that thing.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you stare at walls and pretend you’re not thinking.”
Unfortunately, she was right. Sometime in the last five years she had gotten old enough to read me. And I didn’t like it.
“You’ve been weird all morning,” she tells me.
I sigh. I look at her. I really look at her. She wasn’t a little girl anymore. Nothing about her was a little girl. I always felt weird thinking of her as my little girl, simply because she wasn’t. She was my niece. But when you raise someone for five of the most formative years of their life, they sort of become your little girl.
“You’re growing up,” I tell her.
“Yeah, that’s kind of how time works.”
“Sadly.”
She looks at me weird.
“You make no sense. I’m going to shower.”
She takes another cookie on her way.
She was right. I don’t make sense.
Because between Christmas dinner and watching Spencer Reid, a man I had worked with for over a year now and who I knew was one of the kindest people I know, even if he can be brutally honest, hug my niece goodbye I had realized something.
It wasn’t him that I was worried about.
It was time.
_____
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Thursday morning started with us being sent off on a case as soon as we all got into the office. I spent most of the day convincing myself I was being ridiculous. Which wasn’t too difficult, I’ve spent enough years around profilers to recognize when I’m inventing problems that don’t exist.
This case was difficult. And the weather was awful. Morgan complained about both, which caused Emily to complain about him. Hotch sort of ignored everyone. Reid read over the case file again and again. Nothing unusual or concerning. Nothing that suggested I should be worried about him.
Which is probably why it took me until lunch to notice anything.
We were sitting around a conference table at the Police Station eating sandwiches that had definitely been made the day before. Emily mentioned a book she had been thinking about reading.
Reid looked up from his file at her. “I read that last week, Y/N had a copy.”
Then he went right back to reading. No hesitation, no awkwardness, no realization that he had said anything strange. It was just a statement. The kind of statement people make when they’re discussing the weather.
I noticed it, but chose to immediately ignore it. At the time it didn’t seem important.
Friday, December 28, 2007
The thing about spending multiple days in a row twenty times a year with the same people is that eventually you start noticing patterns.
Morgan always steals food, Emily can catch a lie from a mile away, Hotch’s mood is always the same no matter what, and apparently Spencer Reid is more fond of my niece than I realized.
We were in a car on the way back to the station from a crime scene. Spencer was in the back looking out the window, presumably thinking about some new information that we got. Morgan was complaining about some movie remake.
Spencer’s attention snapped to Morgan in the driver’s seat. “Y/N had the same argument.”
He said it so casually, then reverted back to staring out the window.
Morgan looked over at me with a raised eyebrow. I could only shake my head.
I started paying attention after that.
Saturday, December 29, 2007
I had stopped pretending I wasn’t counting. Eight times. Maybe nine. A book, a movie, coffee, a restaurant, an article, a painting, a philosopher, nothing important. But that’s what bothered me. Because Spencer knew such little things about my niece. Some things that I didn’t even know. Her favorite philosopher? How many people know that about someone?
If every conversation somehow became about her it would’ve been much more obvious. But this wasn’t obvious. It was ordinary. The kind of ordinary that sneaks up on you when somebody becomes part of your life. The kind that after a while made me start brewing two servings of coffee in the morning, and buying cereal that she liked.
Routine. That was all it was. Routine.
And I realize that I wasn’t watching Spencer anymore. I was watching what happens when somebody becomes important to someone else.
The case wrapped Saturday night. Most of the team slept on the flight home.
I couldn’t. Reid sat across from me reading. Or pretending to. It’s hard to tell with him sometimes. I watched him turn a page. Then another. Then another. The cover of the book looked a little too familiar. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was my niece's book. But I did know better. Yet I still knew it was my niece's book.
“You talk about her a lot,” I say.
The page stopped moving. He slowly looked up at me. “What?”
“My niece.”
He seems caught off guard. Not defensive or guilty, just surprised.
“I don’t–” he stopped. He looks like he’s thinking. “Do I?”
I almost laughed. Because that wasn’t the response of somebody trying to hide something. It was the response of somebody hearing a fact about themselves for the first time.
“I definitely have heard her name like twenty times the amount I normally do on a case…”
“That seems unlikely.”
“And yet…”
He is silent. He looks down at his book, then out the window. Then back at me. I could pretty much see the calculations happening.
“Huh,” he says, in an ‘I guess I do’ way.
Then he looked back at his book. Five minutes later he was still staring at the same page. And for the rest of the flight I caught him thinking about it. Not about her, but about the observation. And the possibility that I had been right.
And as I looked out the window, I realized I wasn’t thinking about Spencer Reid anymore. I was thinking about a girl who showed up at my house with three duffle bags. And a young man who couldn’t go four hours without talking about her. And I start to think that this is something I am going to have to deal with for a long time.
Sunday, December 30, 2007
The next evening I find myself standing outside her bedroom door wondering how exactly parents manage to have serious conversations without feeling ridiculous. Then again, most parents probably start before their kid is eighteen.
I knock twice at her door. “Come in.”
She’s sitting cross-legged on her bed with a sketchbook balanced on her knees.
“Can we talk?” I ask her. She immediately looks suspicious, which is understandable.
“Oh no,” she says, closing her sketchbook.
“It’s not an oh no,” I say.
She doesn’t believe me. Which once again, is understandable. I sit in her desk chair and turn to face her. I sigh.
“How do you genuinely feel about Spencer?”
Her expression changes from worried to what I could only describe as annoyance.
“We’re really doing this again?”
“Just answer.”
She shrugs. “He’s my friend.”
I wait. She waits. Neither of us say anything for a long moment.
“What?” she finally says.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
I study her face. She’s telling the truth. That’s the problem. She genuinely believes it.
Meanwhile I’ve spent the last week watching Spencer Reid accidentally bring her up every fifteen minutes. And in the five years I’ve lived with her I’ve never seen her light up when talking to someone. I don’t share any of these thoughts with her, mostly because comparing them to an old married couple would probably cause me to have a heart attack.
“So, you’re friends?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Why do you keep asking?”
Because Spencer talks about you the way people talk about home.
“You’re growing up.”
She looks at me confused. “What does that have to do with me and Spencer being friends?”
Unfortunately, she understands what I’m getting at as soon as she says that.
“You’re not worried about me and Spencer being friends at all.”
I look through her.
“You’re worried that I’m going to leave.”
I take a moment to respond. She called my bluff.
“No,” I lie.
“Uncle Dave…”
I look away from her. She waits. She’s always been good at waiting people out. She learned that from me, unfortunately.
“Yes.” I finally say.
She stares at me for what feels like hours. It’s no more than a minute.
“It was never about Spencer, was it?”
“Not really,” I admit.
She looks at me understandingly. I hate that she feels sorry for me.
“Why?” she asks. She’s calm about it, not realizing she just asked me the question I’ve been purposely avoiding in my own mind for months, even before Spencer came into her life.
“The house is already too quiet when you’re gone.”
Her face softens somehow further.
“One day you’re going to move out, you’re going to have your own place, your room is going to be empty, I won’t have anyone to cook for, or to steal my coffee mugs,” that last part makes her smile slightly. I don’t though. Because I mean it. I’ve thought it for a long time, and now suddenly I’m saying all of it.
The ordinary things. The stupid things. The things parents miss.
“You’ll have your own life,” I say quieter. “and once you find someone…”
I don’t finish. I don’t need to. I know she understands. She just sits there for a long moment.
“Dave, if I ever get married someday,”
I hate that sentence.
“I’m still coming over every Sunday. I won’t disappear.”
I smile.
“You’re stuck with me.”
Something inside my chest loosens. Because that’s exactly what I needed to hear. Not that she’d stay forever, or that she’d never move out or fall in love, but that she’d come back. That she wouldn’t forget me.
I get up to leave the room. When I’m almost out the door I turn again to look at her.
“By the way, you can stop sneaking around.”
She freezes, her eyes wide. So I was right about that. She looks horrified.
“You’re adults… Friends?” I put a very deliberate emphasis on that word.
She stares at me
“You’re allowed to spend time with him.” She looks relived. “As friends.”
“Friends,” she repeats.
“Don’t disappear.”
“I won’t.”
“Answer your phone.”
“I do that already.”
I look at her. Really look at her. She’s smiling wide. The little girl with three duffle bags is gone, and she has been for quite a while, I just never had to accept it until now. She’s a young woman now. An adult. And whether I like it or not, it’s time I started treating her like one.
“Okay” I say quietly, turning to leave the room.
She smiles behind me, and for the first time in a long time, I think maybe things aren’t so bad.
_____
Read Part 12 Here!
_____
BUY ME A COFFEE
_____
a/n: lowkey, i thought i was going to hate writing from rossi’s pov but i actually really locked in on it. also pls don’t be mad at me but the next part is kind of a filler chapter…i promise i’ll make it up to you with part 13 though :)
_____
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summary: Your uncle is hosting a Christmas party for the team. And to your surprise, you're invited.
word count: 2.8k
warnings: fem!reader, rossi!reader (reader is rossi’s niece), made up backstory for reader, mostly just spencer fluff, written with a small age gap (≈ 5 years) in mind (i'm imagining 25 year old (s3) spencer and a 18/19 year old reader) but nothing too crazy and it's not a kink thing i promise. also this part includes a celebration of christmas (clearly), however it can be either secular or non secular, there’s no mention of a religious connotation with it.
You learn very quickly that secrets become significantly less exciting when they turn into routines. At first, sneaking around with Spencer felt dramatic. Phone calls before sunrise, coffee before he had to go to work, lunches strategically planned, and sometimes, when he was gone on a case and couldn’t call, you’d get a random text from him as a proof of life.
But eventually it stopped feeling dramatic. It just felt normal, which was probably worse, because it solidified that Spencer Reid was part of your everyday life for good.
You expected his calls, his random facts, his opinions on whatever book you wanted to read next, you expected him. And the more normal he became, the easier it was to forget that you technically weren’t supposed to be doing any of it.
Not that you forgot often though. Your uncle had a way of making sure that didn’t happen.
You were currently sitting at the kitchen island trying to read a book while your uncle sat next to you doing paperwork. The television was on in the living room, but it was so quiet you could really only hear when something peaked the speakers. Christmas music played quietly through the house.
Because if there was one thing about David Rossi that you wouldn’t know unless you lived in a house with him for almost 5 years, it was that he loved Christmas music.
Outside, snow was threatening to fall, but it hadn’t quite committed. Inside, everything was peaceful.
Which should’ve been your first warning sign, nothing good ever happened when David Rossi looked peaceful.
You highlight a quote in your book. Rossi turns a page of his file. YOu highlight something else. Rossi looks up. You immediately look down.
“So,” your uncle says, startling you. You knew that tone. It was the same tone people used before saying things that would permanently alter your day.
“What?” you say, slowly lowering your highlighter.
“Don’t sound so nervous.”
“I wasn’t nervous until you told me not to be.” You narrow your eyes at him. He was definitely up to something. The question was whether it was a good something or a bad something.
But historically speaking, your odds with him weren’t great.
“What?” you repeated.
Your uncle set his paperwork down. Which immediately increased your anxiety by approximately 400%. David Rossi never stopped working unless something was important.
“I’m doing another Christmas dinner with the team this year,” he says carefully.
“...Okay?”
“Last year I know you went to Logan’s, and I know you’re aware he’s in Alaska this year and won’t be back until January.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“The team will be here Sunday.”
“Okay? Do you want me to leave?”
“I’m getting there.”
You hoped he was going to tell you that you could stay. You liked the team. You especially liked–
No.
You weren’t going to think about that in front of your uncle. Not if you wanted to survive.
Rossi looked at you for a long moment. Too long. Long enough that you started getting suspicious. Then he sighed. And you realized this conversation isn’t really going to be about the Christmas Party.
You sit up straighter. Your uncle immediately looks uncomfortable. Which is fascinating. He could interview a serial killer without blinking. But apparently discussing his feelings was where he drew the line.
“You can talk to him,” he finally says.
The words hit you so fast that for a second you thought you;d imagined them.
“What?”
“You can come to the Christmas party and you can talk to Reid.”
Your heart practically launched into orbit. You can tell that he notices.
“I’m not going to spend the entire evening monitoring your conversations.”
You stare at him. You genuinely couldn’t believe it.
“Really?” you ask, because it’s all you can manage to say.
Rossi starts to regret saying anything. You could tell. The excitement on your face hit him like a truck.
“Just,” he looks a little bit defeated. “don’t make a big deal out of it.”
“This is a big deal,” you say.
“It’s not.”
“You literally banned me from speaking to him.”
He gives you a look. You give him the same look right back. Because he did in fact ban you from speaking to him. And this was in fact a big deal.
“Fine,” he finally says, and opens his paperwork back up.
You go back to your book, but feel like you should say something else, you just don’t know what.
“Uncle Dave,” you say to get his attention back. He looks at you. “Thank you.”
He smiles very small. You could tell he wasn’t used to conversations like this. Which could be quite a large contender in why he’s been divorced so many times, but you’re sure he knows that.
“Just…” he searches your face, you’re not sure for what. “Be smart.”
You knew what he meant. Stay where people can see you, don’t disappear. Don’t make him regret this. And honestly, you could do that. Because after weeks of hiding, the idea of being allowed to sit beside Spencer without sneaking around felt like the greatest Christmas present you could ever receive.
Even if your uncle had no idea how unnecessary his permission was.
_____
The funny thing about being allowed to talk to Spencer Reid is that apparently neither of you knows how to act about it. Not because you’re being weird. But because for weeks every conversation for weeks had required planning. Now suddenly you can just walk up to him.
Everyone had only arrived 45 minutes ago before someone says something about it. And of course, that person is Penelope Garcia.
You’re sitting at the table, somehow in the exact same spot as last time. Everyone has reverted to their original places from the first time you met them. You’re once again across from Penelope and Spencer is to your right. An empty seat is to your left where your uncle will sit when food is ready. Everyone is right where you were the night you came in wearing flannel pajama pants and a paint-stained Doctor Who hoodie.
“You two have not separated once,” Penelope observes.
You and Spencer glance at each other, then both of you look at her.
“We have too,” you say.
Penelope points to the kitchen. “You followed him in there.”
“I wanted a drink,” Spencer says.
“He wanted a drink,” you say. It was probably redundant for you to say that. Whoops.
Spencer seems deeply invested in his cup of cider.
“You’ve been taking turns leading each other around like you’re children on a field trip,” she says.
“We are not children,” Spencer argues.
Penelope turns toward him. “You collect books and carry around a satchel with socks inside.”
He has socks in his satchel?
“They’re my emergency socks!” he defends.
“Why do you have emergency socks?” you ask him.
“In case my socks get wet…”
You know what, he’s prepared.
Throughout dinner you talk to everyone. But somehow every conversation eventually circles back toward him.
You talk to Penelope about books. Then somehow you’re talking to Spencer.
Emily asks you about school. Then somehow you’re talking to Spencer.
You talk to JJ about Christmas decorations. Then somehow you’re talking to Spencer.
It’s getting a little bit ridiculous.
After dinner people scatter throughout the house. The whole night you make sure you stay where your uncle can see you. If he’s giving you an each, you’re not stupid enough to take a mile. So you stay visible. You stay downstairs. For a long time you stay at the table.
JJ and Hotch talk about soccer. You learn that JJ played soccer in college, which makes a lot of sense.
Rossi is in the kitchen doing some clean up.
Garcia disappears and reappears three separate times carrying different desserts.
And somehow Spencer remains beside you through all of it.
Until Morgan finally ruins everything.
He appears out of basically nowhere.
“Reid,” he says. Spencer looks up. Morgan jerks his head toward the living room. “C’mon.”
Spencer looks suspicious. “Why?” he asks.
“Because I said so.”
“That’s not a reason.”
“It is when I’m bigger than you.”
Emily appears from behind Morgan laughing. Spencer looks at you, almost as if he’s asking permission.
“Go,” you tell him.
“I’ll be back,” he says. The words leave his mouth so naturally that neither of you realize how strange they sound.
But Emily notices.
The second Spencer disappears into the living room she sits down in the chair he just left. And smiles.
Uh oh.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey?” you reply, not in a rude way, just in a curious way.
She takes a sip of wine. You immediately know she’s up to something. The problem is you don’t know what.
“So,” she says.
“So,” you repeat in the same tone.
She smiles wider. “What’s going on with Reid?”
You nearly choke on nothing.
“What!?” you ask.
“What?”
“Nothing is going on!”
Emily narrows her eyes at you. She looks entirely unconvinced.
“We’re friends.” you say.
“I didn’t say you weren’t.”
You suddenly feel like you’ve walked into a trap.
“Then why are you asking?”
Emily shrugs. “Just wondering.”
She’s lying. Not completely, but definitely a little.
“How often do you guys talk?” She asks
The question seems harmless enough.
“Most days,” you answer.
She raises an eyebrow. “Like… once a week most days?”
“No.”
She nods slowly, “How often then?”
You think about it. Then immediately regret thinking about it.
“Everyday…” you say, a little bit embarrassed.
She takes another sip of wine. “Every day?” she repeats.
“Pretty much, yeah.”
“That’s normal for you?”
You start to say yes, but stop yourself. Because now that she says it… maybe it isn’t. Emily watches as the realization spreads across your face. She smiles, which feels a little bit cruel.
“How long are these conversations?” She asks, watching as you squirm.
Unfortunately your silence is enough of an answer for her.
“Oh wow,” she says, raising her eyebrows.
“They’re not weird,” you try to clear up.
“I didn’t say they were.”
You sink into the chair. Because the worst part is that she hasn’t accused you of anything. Not at all. Not once. She’s just asking questions. And every answer is digging you deeper into a hole.
Luckily Spencer and Morgan come back before she can ask anything deeper. Emily moves so Spencer can have his seat back, but they join you at the table as well.
You have never been happier to see other human beings in your life.
Spencer looks between you and Emily, who is watching you like a hawk.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing,” you answer immediately.
Emily laughs into her wine.
“What?” he asks again.
“Absolutely nothing,” Emily says. The profiler look she gives you says the exact opposite.
Spencer looks suspicious. You refuse to make eye contact with either of them.
Pretty soon everyone has made their way back to the table and there have been three or four decks of cards combined to make what might be the largest game of poker that David Rossi’s dinner table has ever seen.
And Spencer keeps winning.
Over and over again.
The first few hands you pass off as luck. But by the sixth consecutive win, you don’t really believe that anymore.
“This feels illegal,” Morgan complains, after going completely broke.
Spencer doesn’t even so much as look up from his cards.
“It’s not,” he smiles.
______
By ten o’clock people start leaving.
You hate that. Not because you want everyone to stay forever, you just wish everyone could stay for longer. Your uncle's coworkers are fun. The night ending is saddening.
Garcia steals a container of cheesecake from the kitchen on her way out. You stand near the entry way as she walks over, pulling you into a big, Penelope Garcia style hug.
“Merry Christmas, Sweetie,” she says.
“Merry Christmas, Penelope.
“Text me sometime,” she says as she pulls away. “I miss you.”
“Will do,” you laugh as she’s out the door.
JJ gives you a quick hug on her way out too.
“Thanks for letting us crash your house,” she jokes.
“Anytime,” you smile. “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas,” she says back.
Emily comes up close behind. You already know she’s about to be annoying. The look on her face says it all.
She hugs you briefly before stepping back. “Remember what I said.”
“No,” you smile.
She grins back. “Try not to overthink everything.”
“That’s impossible!”
“Work on it,” she yells on her way out the door.
Morgan and Hotch head out at the same time.
Morgan pulls you into a bro-like hug. His arms feel as muscular as they look. You realize you’ve never hugged someone as big as him.
“Merry Christmas, Kiddo,” he says.
“Merry Christmas, Dude,” you say back.
Hotch follows with a handshake instead of a hug, which feels far more appropriate from him.
“Have a good Christmas, Y/N,” he says, his voice as serious as ever, but he flashes a small smile.
“You too, Hotch.”
Spencer is right behind Hotch ready to say goodbye.
You look at him standing there in his coat, with his satchel across his body. He’s not wearing his glasses today. He mentioned he often doesn’t wear them in the winter because the temperature makes the frames cold against his face and he doesn’t like it. You think that’s cute.
You know you shouldn’t think like that though. And you’re already overthinking things again, to Emily’s dismay.
Spencer looks at you. You look at him. For a second neither of you says anything. He starts lifting his hand for a handshake. Obviously. That’s normal. Reasonable. Appropriate. You lift your hand to accept his handshake.
Then he hesitates. His hand pauses halfway up. Because suddenly a handshake feels strange. It feels too formal. Too distant. Like it's not enough after all the phone calls and the coffee and the lunches. It’s not enough for friends.
The realization seems to surprise him as much as you. Before he can think too hard about it, and honestly, if he thought about it he probably would’ve just stuck with the handshake, he steps forward.
And hugs you.
Spencer Reid is hugging you.
It’s awkward at first, almost hesitant. Like he’s making it up as he goes. Which honestly, he probably is. He’s so close, and so warm, and so… real. You can feel the sleeves of his sweater beneath your hands. It’s soft, but slightly worn. Like he’s had it for a while. His arms take a moment to settle around you, like he’s worried about doing it wrong.
He finds a comfortable spot and holds you a little tighter.
Oh.
Spencer is warm. Ridiculously warm. You don’t know why that surprises you, but it does. Maybe because most of your interactions happen over the phone. You’ve spent so long thinking about his voice and his laugh and the way his brain works that you never really acknowledged the fact that he’s an actual living breathing person. And a living breathing person that gives very good hugs at that.
Your heart is pounding so hard that you’re positive he can hear it. You’re positive because you can hear his.
You catch a faint scent of coffee lingering on him. And something vanilla-y. And beneath that is laundry detergent.
Spencer leans his head in slightly closer. He makes his voice low enough that only you can hear it.
“I hope I get to see you again without hiding it.”
The words immediately make your throat tight. Because it all makes sense now. Hiding it has been the worst part. Not the sneaking around, or the lying, it’s the hiding. And pretending your friendship is something it shouldn’t be. And pretending it matters less than it does, but simultaneously pretending it matters more than it should.
You push your face into his chest. “Me too.” you whisper.
He squeezes you a little bit tighter before pulling back and looking down at you. His face is slightly red, but yours is definitely worse.
“Goodnight, Y/N,” he says sincerely.
“Goodnight, Spencer,” you smile.
You watch him leave. You watch him as he steps down off the porch. And watch him cross the driveway until he disappears into the dark. And then you keep staring. Only for another second. Or maybe two. Not long at all. But long enough for your uncle to notice.
When you finally look away, your uncle is standing near the entry table watching you. He’s not angry, nor suspicious looking. He’s just watching. Which makes you nervous.
Because for the first time since the original dinner party, he doesn’t look like he’s seeing a problem. He looks like he’s seeing a friendship. A real one. And that’s complicated.
Because David Rossi likes Spencer.
And he loves you.
And that’s what makes everything hard for him.
_____
Read Part 11 Here!
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BUY ME A COFFEE
_____
a/n: i think that i cannot stop writing this series it’s so so bad, it was supposed to just be a one shot lmaooo
also guys the next chapter is going to be sort of experimental. it's going to be entirely from Rossi's point of view. i know that might not be everyone's cup of tea, however it's sort of central to the story and i want to do my best to keep the chapters from sounding repetitive.
also i’ve been getting a lot of messages in my inbox from people complimenting the way that i write early seasons spencer and i would first like to say thank you, and that that is one of the greatest compliments i could receive as a spencer writer.
second, i can’t help but think i write spencer well because honestly, i am sort of similar to him. obviously he’s sort of a caricature, but i for real get compared to him at least three times a year. shout out autism. also my boyfriend has been compared to spencer a few times, so honestly i think that i write spencer well because i’ve been surrounded by people with his qualities my whole life lol
_____
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Not a chapter pf anything but im adding my tag list and tags bc i want it to reach ppl sorry for spamming ur feed pls don't hate me
For anyone that reads my onging spencer fic with the rossi's niece trope (masterlist here if ur curious) i am requesting your help with something.
i am asking this in ADVANCE so do not expect this to happen in the next part, i don't want to post this and then spoil it for you!
but i'd like to know your guys' opinions on the reader and spencer kissing. ie: would and should they kiss before dating? should i do an accidental kiss and make things awkward? should they kiss and then immediately confess feelings? should they confess feelings then kiss?
please help. feel free to comment your ideas or you can send them to my inbox here (anon is on for that so if you want to put in your opinion but remain anonymous you can:)
summary: You and Spencer settle into a new normal: 5:30am phone calls, coffee before work, and spending far more time together than either of you planned. Then the BAU gets called away for a week, and you're forced to confront the uncomfortable truth that you miss him. A lot. Meanwhile, Spencer discovers that borrowing a book from you is easy. Convincing his coworkers it was "just lunch" is significantly harder.
word count: 3.2k
warnings: fem!reader, rossi!reader (reader is rossi’s niece), made up backstory for reader, mostly just spencer fluff, written with a small age gap (≈ 5 years) in mind (i'm imagining 25 year old (s3) spencer and a 18 year old reader) but nothing too crazy and it's not a kink thing i promise
The morning calls become routine far faster than you, and likely Spencer, intended. The first one happens the day after the park. You wake up at 5:22. Not because you have to. Not because you set an alarm. You just do.
For several seconds you stare at your ceiling try to remember why you’re awake. Then you phone rings. At 5:30am. You smile before you answer it.
“Good morning,” you say quietly.
“How did you know it was me?” His voice is thick and deeper than normal. He clearly just woke up.
“Because nobody else would call me at 5:30 in the morning.”
“That’s fair.”
And somehow that became a thing. Every morning.
Some days Spencer would call at exactly 5:30. Sometimes 5:28. Once at 5:45 because he got stuck helping Morgan fill out paperwork before leaving work the night before.
You pretended to be annoyed. And he never was late to a call since.
You knew your uncle slept like a rock. And was never ever awake before 7:00 if he didn’t have to be, so long as you were quiet in your room, and maybe avoiding calling Spencer by name, you were okay.
And it was even more ideal for you to go downstairs. Which is why you started making coffee while he called. You start organizing your morning around Spencer Reid.
Every morning you talk about your classes, and he’ll tell you about cases. Well, the parts he can legally tell you. He tells you weird facts. You tell him the drama you hear in class. He tells you Morgan accidentally stapled two reports together. You tell him that your professor forgot to wear shoes to class one morning. Which makes him laugh.
You start looking forward to making him laugh. Which could get dangerous quickly if you’re not careful.
After a few days, the phone calls turn into coffee. The first time is spontaneous. Or at least that’s what you tell yourselves.
The call starts only a little earlier than normal. 5:22. That’s okay though, you usually wake up at 5:15 and stand watch anyways.
By 5:38 you’re sitting at the kitchen island in pajama pants with coffee that is definitely expired. Spencer is driving already. He’s somewhere between his apartment and Quantico.
“You sound tired,” he says.
“I do not.”
“You’ve yawned four times.”
“You counted?”
“I always count. Remember?”
You remember.
You start talking about coffee. And how badly yours tastes. Because it’s black. But Spencer thinks black coffee is superior.
“It tastes fine,” he argues.”
“It tastes like old man!”
“You’re only saying that because you live with one!”
“You did not just call David Rossi old.”
“What are you gonna do? Tell on me?”
No. You weren’t. Because if you did you’d surely never see the light of day again. You think about how grateful you are for the mornings when you talk to Spencer. And you realize that you miss him. A lot. The actual him. Him as a physical being, not just a voice over the phone.
And maybe it’s the disgusting black coffee and the wish for something more flavorful, but you’re feeling bold.
You look at the time. 5:42.
“Where are you?” you ask Spencer.
“Driving.”
“To work?”
“Yes.”
“Have you gotten coffee yet?”
“No.”
“That’s tragic.”
“It isn’t tragic.”
“Oh, it’s tragic.”
Spencer sighs. You can practically hear him rolling his eyes.
“Fine,” he says, “it’s mildly inconvenient.”
“I have to turn in my textbooks for the end of the semester today.”
“Finals are next week, aren’t they?”
“Yep, but the books are due early because…well I don’t know. I guess they want us to rely on our notes or something.”
“That makes sense. If you need any help studying you know who to call.”
“There’s a coffee shop five minutes from campus.
Spencer pauses.
“Okay?” he says, confused.
“Okay.” you repeat, almost wishing you didn’t hint at what you were hinting at.
But Spencer picks up on it. Somehow.
“Technically,” he starts, “if I took Route 123 instead of interstate 95, it would only add about seven minutes to my commute.”
“Technically,” you say, “I told my uncle I was leaving here at 7:00 to drop my books off at 8:00. He wouldn’t know if I left a little early…”
“I could probably spare fifteen minutes.”
“Or an hour… what are you doing leaving for work at 5:30 anyways?”
“Well I was going to get a headstart on end of year paperwork, but I guess someone had other plans for me.”
_____
The second coffee meetup is not so accidental. Actually, it wasn’t an accident at all. You agree to meet on Tuesdays and Thursdays before he goes to work. The first time, the spontaneous time, you met at 6:45. Spencer did the math and had to leave the coffee shop by 7:20 in order to get to work by 8:00.
But the second time you guys meet at 6:00. Over an hour to talk before he had to leave.
And the third time? Well, you guys beat the opening barista’s to the coffee shop and had to hang out in the parking lot for 30 minutes until they opened at 5:00.
Then the BAU gets called away on a case. And what became your new normal was gone. The first morning isn’t bad. You still wake up at 5:15. You still make coffee. You still reach for your phone. But then you remember he’s somewhere in Missouri. Or Colorado. Or Wyoming. Honestly, you’re not really sure where he is. And suddenly 5:00am feels much earlier than it did last week.
The second morning is worse. The third is honestly a little embarrassing. By the fourth morning you’ve finally realized what is happening. Spencer Reid has somehow become part of your routine.
You hate it because routines can be dangerous. Because routines become habits. And habits become things you miss. And apparently you miss Spencer. A lot. Not romantically.
Obviously.
You just miss talking to him. You miss hearing whatever new random fact he had learned. You miss him correcting your grammar. You just miss him. The realization makes you a little uncomfortable. So naturally you spend the rest of your week alone thinking about it. Which honestly only makes it worse.
By the time the week is over you’re annoyed with yourself. And slightly with him. And with the entire state of Missouri. Or Colorado. Or Wyoming. Wherever he is.
Your phone rings on Thursday at 8:00pm.
SPENCER REID
You answer before the first ring finishes.
“Hi,” you say, trying your best to not sound excited.
“Hi.”
You immediately relax, and every negative feeling you had towards yourself, and him, and whatever state he was in passes in an instant.
“You’re home!”
“Yeah.”
Neither of you acknowledge how quickly you answered. Because if you did, Spencer would have to admit he noticed. And if he admitted he noticed, then you would have to admit you were waiting. And neither of those conversations sound particularly appealing.
“When did you get back?” you ask, both out of curiosity and to try to gauge when your uncle would return.
“Like… five minutes ago.”
“Seriously? Have you even changed yet?”
“I’m changING now.”
He was changing while on the phone with you? He couldn’t just wait five more minutes? You don’t know for sure how you feel about that, but you know you don’t feel upset by it.
And the fact that you’re okay with it sort of upsets you.
You change the subject so you don’t have to think about it. Because honestly, you don’t know what would happen to you, both physically and in your brain, if you continued to think about it.
You mention the new book you got last week that’s sitting on your nightstand. The one you’d been wanting to read for months. You tell Spencer you finished it.
“You read it in a week?”
“Three days actually. You’re not the only one who enjoys books, Dr. Reid.”
Spencer would never ever ever admit to anyone what you calling him that nickname did to him. Or how many times he replayed it in his head.
“Was it good?” he asks you, voice a little bit hoarse.
“It was amazing.”
“I’ve been thinking about reading it too.”
“You want to borrow it?”
“You’d let me borrow it?”
“It’s a book.”
“Some people get weird about books, and based on your personal check out log in your planner, I think you might be one of those people.”
“I trust you.”
The words leave your mouth before you think about them. The line goes quiet. Not awkward, just quiet.
“Thank you,” Spencer finally says softly.
“So when do you want it?” you ask him.
“Can you maybe meet me for lunch in Quantico tomorrow?”
“You want to do lunch?”
“Well, I plan on sleeping in until 7:00 tomorrow, so unless you’d rather wait until Monday I’d like to do lunch.”
You smile. “We can do lunch.”
_____
The next day somehow comes slower than the entire week Spencer was gone. Which makes you mad. You’d survived seven days without him. You’d survived the awful realization that he’s now part of your routine, and there’s really nothing you can do about it, and you’d survived missing him.
You could surely survive lunch.
The book sits in your passenger seat the entire 45 minute drive to Quantico. You keep glancing at it. Not because you think it’s going to jump out of the car, but because you’re worried that Spencer will somehow be disappointed by it.
Which is ridiculous, you know. He literally told you he wanted to read it. And yet your brain insists on making you unnecessarily nervous.
You immediately spot Spencer’s car upon pulling into the parking lot. Of course he’s already here. You sit in your car for a second. Then another. Then another. Then you grab the book before you can talk yourself out of going inside.
The restaurant is busy enough to make you feel anonymous, which is nice. You spot Spencer sitting in a booth near the back. Reading. Because of course he is. The book in front of him is so thick it could probably stop a bullet.
You stare at him. His satchel sits beside him. His glasses are sliding slightly down his nose. He has a few strands of hair falling in front of his face. You notice his hands moving across the page.
You smile before you can stop yourself.
Spencer looks up. The second he notices you he closes the book. Not because he’s finished, but because you’re here. And you hate that it gives you butterflies. But it does.
“Hi,” you say, walking toward him.
“Hi.” His smile appears instantly. The same one that you’ve become embarrassingly familiar with.
“You beat me here.”
Spencer tilts his head. “I’ve only been here nine minutes.”
“Is that not beating me here?”
“Not by enough.”
His smile gets bigger. You slide into the booth across from him. The book immediately gets his attention.
“Is that it?” he asks.
You hold it out to him. “The one and only,” you say dramatically.
He accepts it with the same amount of care someone would give a newborn baby. You watch him turn it over, check the cover, read the back, check the publication page, the copyright information, the publisher, everything. You wait. Patiently wait. For approximately fifteen seconds.
“Are you profiling the book?” you ask.
Spencer glances up. “No?”
“Why are you doing that?”
“I’m looking at it.”
“Like you’re profiling it.”
He smiles wide. “I don’t think you know what profiling means.”
Your waiter arrives and takes your orders. Your food arrives. You and Spencer talk while you eat. Somewhere in the middle of talking about a terrible group project experience, you realize something.
Neither of you seem nervous anymore. At all. In fact, you feel comfortable. And you feel as if Spencer feels similar as well, because he starts to open up more.
Once you're finished eating the waiter brings the check to the table. Spencer takes it.
“I’ve got it,” he says, pulling out his wallet.
You smile, maybe blush. You can’t really tell. But your face feels a little warm.
“Are you sure?” you ask.
He nods, handing the waiter the check and his card. The waiter walks away to process the payment.
“I would’ve paid but I don’t have Uncle Dave’s card today,” you say, mostly joking.
“Yeah, well even if you did I wouldn’t have let you pay.” he says.
You must look confused. Because Spencer stutters, trying to defend his previous statement.
“I-it just f-feels weird for me to let him p-pay when he doesn’t even k-know were hanging o-out.”
You smile. The waiter comes back with Spencer’s card and a receipt. Neither of you move at first, each waiting on the other to leave first.
Finally, Spencer gathers his things. You get up out of the booth too and walk out of the restaurant together. You stop beside your car. Spencer adjusts the strap of his satchel. the book you let him borrow sticks out a little bit from the top.
“I’ll make sure the book comes back in one piece,” he says.
“I know.” you answer without hesitation. Because it’s true. You trust him with it. You trust him with a lot of things. Probably more than you should.
Spencer looks oddly pleased by your response.
“I should really go,” he says, reluctantly.
“I know,” you say. Neither of you seem particularly happy to go.
“I’ll call you tomorrow morning,” he says as he begins walking to his car.
The statement comes naturally. Not a question, not even a plan. Just a fact.
“I’ll answer,” you smile.
_____
SPENCER’S POV
Friday
1:00 PM
I get back to Quantico in time. I’m sitting at my desk inside the BAU at 1:00pm. Which means I am not late. That is an important distinction that apparently nobody else in the bullpen cares about.
The second I walk in the glass doors I can feel two sets of eyes on me. I know who it is; the only two people on the team with a staring problem. Not that I think people shouldn’t look at me, that’s insane to think. But they’re not subtle about it at all.
I set my satchel down on my desk. They keep staring. I open a file. They’re staring. I start working on my paperwork, hoping they’ll stop. It’s been two minutes and they both still have their eyes on me.
“What?” I finally ask.
Morgan leans back in his chair. “Where were you at, pretty boy?”
“I went out to lunch.”
The other eyes laugh. “You never go out to lunch,” Emily says.
I look between the two of them. “I did today.”
“Without us?” Morgan asks.
“Yes.”
“That’s suspicious,” Emily teases.
“It is not suspicious.”
“It is when it’s you,” Morgan says.
If Derek Morgan wasn’t my friend I would take that as him being mean. Even though he is my friend I still think it’s a little bit mean. But believe it or not, I’m self aware. And I know what he means by it. And I know he’s right.
I pull the book Y/N gave me out of my satchel and set it carefully on my desk.
Emily looks at it. Then at me. Then at Derek, who then does the reverse. Neither of them elaborate. Which is really annoying me.
“What?” I ask again, trying to stay patient.
“Nothing,” Emily says.
“Why do you guys keep watching me?”
“Where exactly did you go?” Morgan asks me.
“A restaurant.” I open the book, trying to ignore them.
“Who’d you go with?” Morgan asks. Emily smiles.
“I went by myself.”
That technically isn’t a lie. I did drive alone, and I got there first.
Emily raises her eyebrows. “Really?” Her voice is suspicious.
“Yes.”
“You stayed there by yourself?” She asks.
I hesitate for a second. A very unfortunate second.
“Ooooh,” Morgan teases.
“I was thinking!” I try to defend.
“About who you had lunch with twenty minutes ago?”
I decide paperwork is more appealing than this conversation. I ignore his question and open my file again. Unfortunately, neither Emily or Morgan seem interested in allowing that.
“So,” Emily says casually, “was it a date?”
“No.” I answer quickly. Maybe too quickly.
Morgan starts smiling. I hate when Morgan starts smiling. It never ends well for me. But before he can say anything, salvation arrives in the form of Penelope Garcia.
“Hello my beautiful crime fighting children," she says as she walks in the aisle between mine and Morgan’s desks. Her eyes find the book on my desk pretty easily. “Is Pride and Prejudice?” she asks when she sees it.
“Yeah, it’s a first edition copy, they’re extremely rare, only 1500 copies were printed.”
“Yeah, cool, it’s a rare book, but what are you, Dr. Reid, resident genius reading Pride and Prejudice for?”
I smile and answer before thinking.
“I’ve surprisingly never read it. Y/N let me borrow her copy.”
Oops.
Silence. Complete silence. Morgan slowly stands, and I’m not sure if I’ve just blocked out all sounds, or if that was complete silence as well. He walks the few steps to my desk and leans over it, holding himself up with his arms.
“So that’s why Pretty Boy was missing for so long,” he says, ruffling my hair.
“It was just lunch,” I argue.
“It’s always just lunch,” Emily says.
“Was it a romantic lunch?” Garcia asks.
I really don’t like everyone in my business like this.
“No.” I say.
Morgan and Emily exchange a look. I don’t like that look.
Morgan lowers his voice low. “Does Rossi know you’re still hanging out with her?”
I stare down the book. The cover suddenly feels very interesting.
“Reid…” Emily says, her voice sounds more accusatory than I’d like for it to.
I really don’t like everyone in my business like this. And I don’t like the way that they’re looking at me like I’m doing something wrong. And I don’t like that they won’t just drop it.
And I really do not like everybody I work with being in my personal business with the only person I talk to outside of work that isn’t my schizophrenic mother.
“No. He doesn’t.” I say. The words come out sharper than I mean for them to. Everyone's eyes widen slightly and they look a bit taken aback. “And I’d really appreciate it if we could stop talking about this.”
Nobody says anything. And now they’re all staring again. Everyone in the bullpen, even those who weren’t involved. I hate being stared at. I look down at the paperwork.
Morgan looks guilty returning to his desk. Emily looks guilty pulling out a file. Even Penelope looks a little bit guilty as she walks back to her office. I feel a little bad, but maybe now they’ll finally leave me alone.
Which is what I would like. Because I have a book to read.
_____
Read Part 10 Here!
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BUY ME A COFFEE
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a/n: i left my hair dye on my head for over an hour to finish writing this part. if anything is weird about this then its because the dye fumes have penetrated my skull.
also guys be prepared for a rossi return next chapter eheheheh
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hi guys i’m impulsively dying my hair tonight is this a safe space to post casually? do you want to see or do u guys just follow for my ask g writing skills and autistic tendencies (actually autistic btw i can say that)
summary: You and Spencer finally hang out just the two of you. On purpose. You meet at a park after a test, and you remember to bring your planner.
word count: 3.6k
warnings: fem!reader, rossi!reader (reader is rossi’s niece), made up backstory for reader, mostly just spencer fluff, written with a small age gap (≈ 5 years) in mind (i'm imagining 25 year old (s3) spencer and a 18/19 year old reader) but nothing too crazy and it's not a kink thing i promise
Your test ends at 10:17. Not 10:15. Not 10:20. 10:17.
You know because your proctor says time is up. You check the clock. Then your phone. Then the clock again.
Because apparently you’re incapable of acting normal anymore.
You hand in your exam, gather your things, and practically speed walk toward the parking lot. The entire time your brain is running in two completely opposite directions.
On one hand, you’re relieved the test is over and you can enjoy your weekend. On the other hand…
Spencer.
You’d seen him yesterday. At the coffee shop. You’d talked to him yesterday. For four hours. On the phone after he got off of work. But today feels different. Maybe because Garcia won’t be there. Maybe because this wasn’t some accidental dinner invitation or spur of the moment bookstore trip.
But because this is the first time the two of you have actually made friends. Just the two of you. On purpose.
You unlock your car and toss your backpack into the passenger seat. The zipper falls open slightly, exposing the corner of your planner. You smile. The planner.
You actually remembered.
After weeks of Spencer asking questions about it and insisting on seeing it, you finally found a chance to bring it. And even if today is the most awkward experience of both of your guys’ lives combined, he’d at least be excited about that.
Which is a sentence you never expected to think about another human being.
You flop into the driver's seat and pull your phone out. The call only lasts two minutes. Just long enough to confirm the location. And for Spencer to somehow already know the estimated drive times from both of your locations.
You start the car.
The park is roughly halfway between Fairfax, where you go to college, and Quantico, where Spencer is taking an early, and a late, lunch. Neither of you have ever been to this park before, which feels appropriate.
Outside has started its transition from fall to winter. The leaves are still orange, but beneath each tree is a pile of dying brown ones. The sky is still bright without it being hot. It’s the kind of day people write poetry about and get made fun of for.
Today though? Today you kind of get it.
You stop at a red light and glance at the passenger seat. You eye your planner, then your phone sitting beside it, then at the clock.
You still have about 15 minutes before you’re supposed to meet him. Which means there’s a high chance that Spencer Reid is already there.
You pull into the parking lot of the park fourteen minutes later. Spencer Reid is already there. Of course he is.
He steps out of his car as soon as he sees you round the corner. He stands near the entrance of one of the walking trails, hands occupied by two coffee cups and a paper bag tucked underneath his arm.
For a second you just sit in your car. Because suddenly, seeing him standing there, specifically waiting for you, it makes you far more nervous than you had been the times before.
You do your best to ignore it and climb out of the car. Spencer notices you immediately. His face brightens and he lifts one hand in a small wave, trying not to spill either coffee.
You wave back, approaching him.
“You brought coffee,” you observe.
“I did.” he smiles.
You stop in front of him. One cup is a pumpkin spice latte, because apparently Dr. Spencer Reid enjoys the most aggressively autumn beverage imaginable.
And the other cup…
“You got the same thing yesterday and seemed to enjoy it,” he says, holding out the cup.
A vanilla latte.
Your heart leaps out of your chest. Because not only did he remember, but he cared.
You accept the coffee. It’s still warm. Which means he couldn’t have bought it very long ago.
You look up at him, giving a suspicious grin. “You left early, didn’t you.”
“Only a little,” he smiles.
“Spencer…”
“Only like ten minutes.”
“Why?” you laugh.
“I estimated the average traffic flow between Quantico and Fairfax.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted to know how long it would take.”
“We already decided that on the phone.”
“Yeah, but I wanted to know how long it would take if I stopped and got us coffee.”
You laugh loudly, causing a few people to turn. His ears turn slightly pink. Not because he’s embarrassed, but because he’s pleased with himself for making you laugh. Which is a dangerous realization.
You take a sip of your coffee. It’s perfect. Exactly how you ordered it yesterday.
The two of you start down the walking trails. The park is nicer than either of you expected. The path winds through clusters of orange and yellow trees. Fallen leaves crunch beneath your shoes. Both of you are wearing black converse, which is cute.
COOL.
It’s cool that the both of you are wearing the same shoes.
Somewhere off in the distance you can hear kids yelling on a playground. And for a while, you just walk. And talk.
The conversation flows the same way it always does with Spencer.
“So what exactly do profilers do all day?” you ask.
Spencer looks at you. “That depends.”
“On?”
“If we have a case.”
“Please tell me it’s mostly catching serial killers.”
“It’s mostly paperwork.”
You groan. “That’s the least interesting thing you’ve ever told me.”
He smiles. “I know.”
“But what’s it like when you’re not doing paperwork?”
You see something in his eyes switch. Like you awakened something. Then he’s off.
Talking about behavioral analysis, and interview techniques, and body language, and crime scene reconstruction. And you listen the entire time. Partially because it’s fascinating, but mostly because the way Spencer explains things is mesmerizing.
Spencer shifts the conversation towards college and degrees. And says something so casually that ruins your entire sense of academic achievement.
“When I was working on my third PhD–”
You nearly trip over a tree root.
“You’re WHAT?”
“My third PhD?”
You stop walking. Spencer takes three more steps before realizing you’ve stopped. He turns around.
“What?” he says casually.
“THREE?”
“Yes?”
“You have THREE PhDs?”
He looks confused. “Is that unusual?”
You stare at him. “You cannot be serious. In what?”
“Mathematics, Chemistry, and Engineering.”
“Oh so all the hardest ones, got it.”
“I have bachelor’s in psychology and sociology, and have been thinking about looking into getting one in philosophy.”
You continue staring. Because there are moments in life when a person should be humbled. This is one of them.
“I spent six hours studying for my exam today.”
“That’s normal.”
“You have three PhDs.”
Spencer shrugs. You point a finger at him, accusingly.
“Stop doing that!” you command.
“What?”
“Acting like that’s a normal thing.”
“I don’t think it’s necessary weird.”
“It’s definitely not normal.”
“Statistically,”
“No.”
He laughs, the sound makes you smile.
“I actually considered journalism for a little while.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“I liked the research aspect. You know, investigating things, finding information, writing research papers.”
“So why didn’t you?”
He looks down at the trail. “I didn’t think I’d be very good at it.”
You stare at him. Spencer Reid? Not good at something?
“Why’s that?” you ask.
“Journalism is known as one of the most competitive fields, and honestly, I don’t think I’m competitive enough.”
“Spencer, you have three PhDs, I think that’s regarded as pretty competitive.”
He shrugs again like that somehow answers the question. It doesn’t.
“Speaking of journalism, how’d your test go?”
You shrug. “I think I did okay.”
“Just okay?” he asks.
“I mean, it’s not exactly the kind of class where you walk out knowing if you got a 98 or a 72.”
Spencer nods. “Fair.”
“There were a few questions I wasn’t sure about.”
“What were they?”
You glance at him. “Are you asking because you’re curious or because you want to tell me the answers?”
“A little bit of both.”
You laugh. “But honestly, it wasn’t that bad.”
“No?”
“The guy who sits next to me seemed like he was struggling way more than I was so maybe that’s a good sign for me.”
Spencer looks over at you with one eyebrow raised. You only know because you can see it over his glasses. Actually, come to think of it, that was the first time you’d ever seen one of his eyebrows.
“What guy?” Spencer asks.
You don’t think anything of the question.
“Ian,” you say, naturally. Calmly.
“Who’s Ian?”
“Just some guy in my class.”
“What class?”
“Media Ethics, the one I have tests for.”
Spencer nods slowly. “How old is he?”
“What?”
He looks straight ahead. That’s suspicious. “I’m just curious.”
“He’s nineteen.”
Spencer nods again. “Nineteen” he repeats.
“That’s normal college age, Mr. 3 PhDs.”
He gives a small smile. “I know.”
The trail curves around a small pond with fallen leaves scattered across the edge of the water. You can see a few ducks floating near the opposite bank.
For a minute you think you dodged whatever interrogation was about to happen.
For a minute.
Spencer kicks a rock across the path. “What’s his major?” he asks.
“Why do you care?” You laugh, fully believing that he’s joking.
“I don’t.” He responds quickly. Defensively. Which makes you start to think he’s not joking after all.
“You literally just asked.”
Spencer opens his mouth to speak. But he closes it before any words come out.
Weird.
“I was making conversation.” He finally says.
You narrow your eyes at him. “Journalism.”
“Oh.”
“What are his hobbies?”
You give him a weird look. “I don’t know? What kind of question is that?”
Spencer shrugs. “Most people have hobbies.”
“You don’t even know him!”
“Exactly.”
“What?”
You stare at him. Something weird is happening, you’re just not sure what exactly it is.
“I think he plays soccer.”
“You think?”
“We sit next to each other during exams, Spencer. We aren’t roommates.”
Your voice comes out a little more annoyed than you mean for it to.
Spencer’s jaw tenses a little bit. You feel a little bad, but he’s being weird. You walk in complete silence for what is definitely over a minute.
“Do you study together?” Spencer blurts.
What?
“Why are you asking so many questions?” you ask him.
His eyebrows lift over his glasses. Both of them this time.
“I’m not.” he defends.
“You are.”
“Am not!”
“You asked his name, age, major, and hobbies, and you asked if we study together.”
“Well when you say it like that it sounds like a lot.”
“Because it IS a lot.”
He looks surprised by the revelation. Like he hadn’t realized that he’d been conducting a background investigation on a guy he’s never met. And a guy you barely know either.
You stare at him. He stares back.
“Sorry,” he says quietly, before shifting the conversation elsewhere.
You tell him something your professor told you about left handed people, he tells a story about Morgan getting his tie stuck in a filing cabinet drawer 2 years ago and tells you he hasn’t worn a tie to work since. Normal things. Friend things.
Until Spencer gets weird again.
“Is he single?”
Oh.
Oh.
You look at him. He’s looking straight ahead, completely casual. Too casual. The kind of casual that only happens when you’re trying to be casual.
You squint your eyes at him. He notices.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing,” you say.
Nothing at all.
Except suddenly every previous question is starting to make sense to you. His name, his age, his hobbies…asking if you study with him to find out if you spend time together outside of class…and now THIS?
You have to consciously tell yourself not to smile. Because if you smile he’ll know you know.
Know what?
You don’t know.
Something.
“Why do you want to know if he’s single?” you say.
Spencer shrugs. Again. He does that a lot. Or at least a lot during this conversation.
“I was curious,” he says.
“There it is again!”
“What?”
“Curious?”
“I am curious.”
You stare at him for another second. And decide not to torture him. Mostly because the tips of his ears are red. And that’s adorab–
Interesting.
That’s interesting.
You don’t know the actual answer to the question. But you decide lying is better than making him suffer.
“He has a girlfriend.” you finally say.
Spencer’s entire body untenses after hearing that, which is funny.
“That’s nice,” he says.
You hum in response.
Spencer takes a sip of his coffee.
Neither of you say anything. Spencer looks at you.
“Why are you smiling?” he asks.
You didn’t even know you were smiling.
“What?” you say, shocked.
“You’re smiling,” he points out.
You immediately stop smiling.
“I was not!” you say.
“You were.”
“No!” you argue.
He laughs. “You definitely were.”
“I definitely wasn’t.”
Spencer shakes his head.
And despite how much you’re denying it, you were smiling.
Because even if it's just a little bit, Spencer Reid is jealous. And for some reason that you’re not yet ready to unpack, that thought makes your heart beat just a little bit faster.
By the time the conversation finally moves on from Ian and Spencer is back to normal you’ve somehow made it back to the parking lot. The walk back felt way shorter than the walk there, which was unfair.
You spot your car and immediately feel disappointed. Not enough to ruin your day, but just enough to wish it wasn’t ending yet.
Spencer glances at his watch. You pretend not to notice. Because if you acknowledge that he has to go back to work, then this becomes goodbye. And you’re not ready for that. Not yet anyways.
Spencer walks you to your car. You’re slightly ahead of him, but before you can grab the handle Spencer steps around you and pulls the driver’s side door open.
You thank him. You lean in the car and sit your coffee cup in the cupholder. Spencer takes a step back. The awkward goodbye begins forming.
Then you remember.
“Do you need to leave now?” you ask him.
“The latest I can leave is 15 minutes from now, why?”
“Perfect,” you grin.
“Why are you smiling like that?” he asks.
“I have a surprise for you.”
“A surprise?”
“It’s something you’ve been asking about for like a month.”
He stares at you for a moment, thinking. His whole face lights up when he realizes.
“The planner?”
You smile and nod your head really fast.
“You remembered!?”
“You mentioned it six times last night.”
You lean back over the seat and pull the planner out of your backpack. The second Spencer sees it his eyes immediately drop to the color-coded tabs sticking out from the top and the sides.
“Oh, wow.” he says.
“You haven’t even seen it yet!” you laugh.
“There are tabs.”
“There are.”
“Thats amazing.”
“It’s literally just a planner,” you say, shaking your head at him.
“It’s amazing,” he repeats, staring.
You laugh again. “Do you want to see it or not?”
“I obviously do.”
You slide into the driver’s seat of your car without thinking. You freeze. Because Spencer is still standing there. Waiting.
You look at him. He looks at you. Your brain immediately forgets how to function. Because the only logical place for him to sit is the passenger seat. Which shouldn’t feel weird. At all. Friends sit in each other’s cars literally every day.
Friends.
Friend.
Friend. Friend. Friend.
The word feels increasingly unconvincing.
“Do you wanna get in?” you ask, deciding not to let your mind stop you from doing something normal.
“Oh, yeah.” Spencer walks around the car and climbs into the passenger seat.
Your car immediately feels smaller. Much smaller. Which is ridiculous. Because it’s the same size it’s been all year. But, this is by far the closest you’ve been to Spencer.
You’d think you would’ve been closer on the trail. Maybe you were, but now that you were in the closed off space of your car sitting this close you could smell him. And he smelled really good. Like, really good.
No.
You have to force yourself to focus on the planner.
You place it across your lap. Spencer leans closer. Close enough you can feel the faintest amount of his breath on your shoulder.
Not weirdly.
Not romantically.
Definitely not romantically.
“First,” you say, opening to the monthly spread, “This is my master calendar.”
His eyes immediately start scanning the page. “It’s color coded.”
“Obviously,” you say.
“Obviously, he repeats, smiling.
You point at the page.
“Blue is classes.”
He nods.
“Green is my personal stuff, like appointments.”
Another nod.
“Red is deadlines.”
“Smart.”
“Yellow is family stuff.”
“Makes sense.”
You flip a few pages. “And these are my assignment trackers.”
Spencer takes the planner from your hands. Not rudely, just because he’s invested. You watch him study the page.”
“You track completion percentages?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“So I know how much work I have left.”
“Do you estimate the percentages manually?”
“...yes?”
“I would incorporate weighted grading values.”
“That’s insane, I don’t need to go that far.”
“You’re already tracking percentages of your assignments, you’re too far gone already.”
You smile and keep flipping pages.You show him reading logs and budget sheets, future planning pages and goal trackers. Lists of books you want to buy. Lists of books you already own. Lists of books you’ve loaned out.
“You have a list of books you’ve let people borrow?”
“People forget, it’s just easier.”
“That’s a really good idea.”
“You sound impressed.”
“I am impressed.”
He’s honest. No teasing, no sarcasm, just honesty.
“Really?” you ask.
“Yeah,” he says earnestly.
You look down at the planner, then back up at him.
“Most people think it’s weird.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, I guess it could be seen as being over prepared.”
“Well, I think it’s amazing."
The way he says it makes your chest feel warm. Because Spencer doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to just hand out compliments to be nice. He’s very honest and straight. If he says something he means it. And that’s why it matters so much.
You clear your throat and flip to another page.
You continue showing him appointment trackers, little notes you write yourself. Sticky notes, bookmarks, everything.
And the entire time Spencer asks questions. Not because he’s making fun of it. Not because he’s humoring you. But because he genuinely wants to know.
You realize no one has ever cared this much about your planner before. And it’s possible no one, other than your family, has cared this much about you before.
You flip to the weekly layouts section without thinking.
Because there was one highlighter color that you hadn’t told him about.
“Wait,” he says. He noticed it. “What’s purple?”
“Nothing!”
You immediately close the planner so hard the sound echoes through the car.
Spencer starts laughing.
“No,” you say.
“What is it?” Spencer says, still laughing.
“Nothing.”
“Y/N…”
“No.”
“You have a secret category.”
“I do not.”
“You do.”
You point at him, “Profiler!”
He laughs harder. “It’s not profiling if I saw it!”
You groan.
This is a nightmare. The more interested he gets, the worse this becomes.
“What is it?” he asks again.
“Nothing.”
“It’s clearly something.”
“Spencer.”
“You color coded an entire category.”
“Spencer.”
“And now you’re hiding it.”
“Spencer.”
His smile widens. He’s enjoying this.
Eventually you sigh. Because he is never going to let this go.
“Fine,” you say, and open the planner back up.
He immediately leans forward again. You hate how excited he looks. You hate it because it’s so adorable.
And because you’re about to embarrass yourself.
He scans the page. And then again.
“Oh,” is all he says.
You’re pretty sure the feeling you feel is your soul leaving your body. Because he figured it out. Of course he did. He’s Spencer Reid.
Purple appears beside phone calls. And coffee. And bookstore. And park. The occasional reminder to call Spencer. Any and All events involving Spencer.
“Oh,” he says again.
And somehow the second one is worse.
Your entire face burns.
“It made organization easier.”
The excuse sounds stupid the second it leaves your mouth. Spencer glances down at the page again. You’re scared for his reaction. But he doesn’t react. He just smiles and looks back at you. Not teasing, not smug, just… happy.
“I like it,” he says smiling.
His teeth are really white.
You blink. “What?”
“I like it.”
“You don’t think it's weird?”
“Why would I think it’s weird?”
Because people don’t just give other people their own category in their planner without them being incredibly important to them.
That’s why.
But saying that out loud feels impossible. So instead you stare at the steering wheel.
Spencer looks back at the planner.
“Purple is my favorite color,” he says. So calmly. His voice so so soft.
You look away. Because you know if you look at him right now you’re going to cry. From a mix of almost every emotion possible all at once.
Spencer checks his watch again and sighs.
“I should really get back.”
You nod, still unable to speak. You knew it was coming. You just wish it wasn’t.
“I had a lot of fun today,” Spencer says, for some reason catching you off guard.
“Me too,” you finally speak.
“I’ll call you after work tonight,” he says, starting to get out of your car.
“Okay,” you say, smiling. “And I’ll do my best to dodge my uncle.
He laughs. “I think that’s probably a good idea. He starts to walk away.
“Hey, Spencer,” you call.
“Yeah?” he says turning around.
“We should hang out again sometime.”
He smiles. “Just make sure you highlight it in purple.”
_____
Read Part 9 Here!
_____
BUY ME A COFFEE
_____
a/n: i lied when i said i couldn’t start writing this part until i got off work today…i woke up at 7am to write for an hour before i had to leave….
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