#criminal

MAGA keeps writing the ads for the Democrats.

"Come in, Nobby," said Vimes, wearily.

Warnings: case violence themes (non-graphic), emotional tension, slow burn, kissing.

Word count: 1.1k

When you walked into the BAU for the first time, Spencer Reid didn’t look up.

He was mid-sentence.

“…statistically speaking, geographical profiling in densely populated urban areas has a twenty-three percent margin of error if the offender is operating outside established comfort zones—”

Hotch cut in calmly. “Reid.”

Spencer blinked like he’d just returned from another dimension.

“Oh.”

That’s when he noticed you.

And then he kept noticing you.

Which was the problem.

Because Spencer Reid was good at noticing things.

He just wasn’t good at knowing what to do with them.

⸻

You had been transferred in as a junior profiler, fresh from behavioral sciences and field training. Morgan had already decided you were “cool,” which meant teasing you immediately.

“So you survived Quantico and still look calm?” Morgan said, leaning on your desk. “Impressive.”

You smiled slightly. “I compartmentalize.”

Reid’s head snapped up at that.

“You compartmentalize?” he echoed.

You looked over at him.

“Yes.”

“How?”

You tilted your head. “By compartmentalizing.”

Morgan snorted.

Spencer stared at you like you’d just handed him a math problem with no solution.

He didn’t like unsolved things.

And suddenly, you were one.

⸻

It wasn’t that Spencer didn’t talk to you.

He did.

He just… malfunctioned a little.

The first time you rode together to a case, he info-dumped for fifteen straight minutes about the statistical likelihood of recidivism in arsonists.

You listened.

Really listened.

And when he paused for breath, you asked a question.

Not a polite one.

A real one.

His eyes lit up.

“Exactly,” he said, leaning forward. “Because if the stressor is recent trauma rather than chronic behavior, then the escalation curve would be steeper, but shorter—”

You nodded slowly. “So we’re not looking for a lifelong offender. We’re looking for someone who snapped.”

Spencer stared at you.

Then blinked.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “Yes, exactly.”

Morgan looked between you both in the rearview mirror.

“Oh,” he muttered under his breath.

⸻

Spencer didn’t realize when it happened.

The shift.

The way he started sitting next to you at briefings instead of across the table.

The way he’d glance at you first after delivering a theory.

The way he’d hesitate slightly before speaking, like he was gauging your reaction.

He trusted you faster than he trusted most people.

And that scared him.

⸻

The first time he got protective, it wasn’t dramatic.

It was subtle.

You were interviewing a suspect alone.

A volatile one.

Spencer was behind the glass, arms crossed too tightly.

The man inside the room leaned forward aggressively at one point, raising his voice.

You didn’t flinch.

You held eye contact.

Controlled.

Steady.

But Spencer’s pulse spiked anyway.

The moment the interview ended, he was at your side.

“You shouldn’t have stayed in there that long,” he said, too fast.

“I was fine.”

“He was escalating.”

“I noticed.”

“You could have signaled.”

You looked at him carefully.

“Spencer.”

He stilled at the tone of his name.

“I can handle myself.”

“I know,” he said quickly. “I just— statistically speaking, proximity increases risk, and you were within arm’s reach and—”

You softened slightly.

“Were you worried about the statistics,” you asked gently, “or about me?”

That shut him up instantly.

His ears turned pink.

“I— well— the data suggests—”

You smiled faintly.

He swallowed.

“Both,” he admitted quietly.

And something warm unfolded in your chest.

⸻

The tension grew in the quiet spaces.

Late nights on the jet.

Your shoulder brushing his accidentally.

The way he’d fall asleep mid-sentence sometimes, head tipping toward you.

The way you’d gently nudge him awake before landing.

“You drool when you sleep,” you teased once.

His eyes widened in horror. “I do not.”

“You absolutely do.”

“That’s biologically unlikely unless—”

You laughed.

He froze.

Because that sound did something to him.

Something dangerous.

⸻

Spencer had never been good with feelings.

He understood trauma responses. Attachment theory. Neurological pathways of love.

But actually feeling it?

That was different.

He started noticing details.

The way you tapped your pen when you were thinking.

The way your voice lowered when you were analyzing something serious.

The way you never interrupted him when he rambled.

The way you defended him once when a local detective dismissed his age.

“He has three PhDs,” you said evenly. “How many do you have?”

Spencer had blinked at you then.

Because no one had ever done that so calmly.

So naturally.

Like it wasn’t even a question.

⸻

The breaking point came during a hostage situation.

You were inside.

He was outside.

And Spencer hated not being able to calculate your safety.

Every variable felt wrong.

Every second stretched too long.

“Reid,” Morgan said quietly. “She’s good.”

“I know,” Spencer replied instantly.

But his hands were shaking.

When you finally walked out unharmed, Spencer didn’t move at first.

He just stared at you.

Making sure.

Confirming.

Alive.

Whole.

Then he crossed the distance between you faster than usual.

“You’re okay,” he said, voice barely controlled.

“I told you I could handle myself.”

“Yes, but statistically—”

You stepped closer.

“Spencer.”

He stopped.

“I’m okay.”

His jaw tightened.

“You could have been hurt.”

“You could have been hurt,” you countered.

Silence.

His breath was uneven.

“I don’t like not being able to protect you,” he admitted quietly.

Your heart skipped.

“I don’t need protecting.”

“I know.”

“But?”

He hesitated.

Then softer, more vulnerable than you’d ever heard him:

“I want to.”

The world felt very small suddenly.

Very quiet.

You stepped closer.

“Why?”

He swallowed.

“Because you matter to me.”

There it was.

Not polished.

Not rehearsed.

Just honest.

You searched his face.

“Spencer…”

“I don’t expect you to— I mean, I understand if— emotionally complex situations can compromise team dynamics and I would never want to—”

You kissed him.

Just to make him stop spiraling.

Soft.

Gentle.

Certain.

He froze.

For half a second.

Then his hands lifted hesitantly, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch you.

You leaned into him slightly.

That was all the permission he needed.

He kissed you back carefully.

Like you were something precious.

When you pulled back, his brain clearly short-circuited.

“You— I— that was—”

“You talk too much,” you whispered.

He blinked.

Then gave a small, stunned smile.

“I’ve been told that.”

You rested your forehead against his.

“You don’t have to protect me all the time.”

He nodded.

“But I can stand beside you?”

You smiled.

“Yes.”

His shoulders relaxed fully for the first time all day.

“I’ve never been very good at this,” he admitted quietly.

“At what?”

“Letting someone close.”

You reached for his hand.

“You’re doing fine.”

He squeezed your fingers gently.

“Good,” he said softly. “Because I don’t intend to let you go.”

And for once, Spencer Reid didn’t analyze the feeling.

He just let himself have it.

Hope you enjoyed!

ANYWAYS