#genius!reader

It wasn’t that it was a secret. Honestly it really couldn’t be, being a Mensa member is public record. But you also didn’t broadcast it anymore.

You were smart, incredibly so and you had been your entire life. It was your preschool teacher who suggested the test to your parents. She thought you’d benefit from skipping a few grades but your parents need to test you first. Your entire family had been thrilled at the idea of a little genius being amongst them and when the results came back, the excitement intensified.

Your intelligence suddenly became an unexpected party trick. Parents, Grandparents, Uncles, Aunts, Cousins and even friends began showing off your skills to other people.

At age six when most kids are stumbling their way through first grade, learning how to read and write proper sentences. You were not only learning but mastering algebra and reading entire novels in a week.

At age seven your teachers began complaining. Believing that elementary school wasn’t the place for you, so your parents pulled you out of school all together. Signing you up with all kinds of tutors and private teachers. Then in hopes of keeping you somewhat social your parents began signing you up for community clubs and local sports teams. Pushing you to interact with child your own age. It didn’t work out very well. Every playdate, game, or event was met with resistance and tantrums from you. So they stopped trying.

At age eight money got tight. The any savings your parents had was going towards furthering your education. It was tense, and you started spending a lot of time at your grandparents while your parents fought. Your grandmother who had previously been a librarian, gifted you your first ever library card. Books became your best friends, relying on them to keep you company rather than people. People were confusing, unpredictable, unnerving. Books were easy. Each one had a beginning, a middle, and an end. A protagonist and an antagonist. You knew what to expect from them.

By age nine you were a high school graduate. That same year also came with an official diagnosis. You were autistic, suddenly every ‘quirk’ or ‘weird thing’ you did made sense to your family. But the world made even less sense to you. Then that ‘party trick’ of yours grew stale. Family members who used to look at you with pride when you would recite your favorite monologues from memory now looked at you with pity. As if they thought you were sick. As if they thought you were suffering.

With that diagnosis came your family’s favorite cop out. One you absolutely hated. Where you were incredibly book smart, you were terrible with people. Social situations made your skin crawl. Suddenly it felt like every day was a walking performance from the moment you woke up until you went to bed at night.

At age ten your grandfather introduced you to plays. Told you about actors and actresses who got to pretend to be someone else for just a little while. And to you it sounded like a dream come true. So you became invested, spending every waking moment you had researching, reading, watching plays. Dissecting movies and tv shows. Continuity became a passion project. Any moment you had to focus on anything else felt like a personal attack on the psyche.

Between the ages of eleven and sixteen your grandparents began taking you to free acting seminars. Comedy shows, improv classes, creative writing lectures. Some for kids some of them open to all ages. Script writing became an outlet for you and as it would turn out, people actually found you to be incredibly hilarious.

Over the next several years you would go to college to get multiple degrees and certificates in:

•Play & Screen writing

•Technical Design & Production

•Directing

•Flim Studies

•Cinematography

And of course to make your mother happy, you also got degrees in Business, Social Sciences, and Psychology. A fall back plan she called it, in case my “play write fixation” didn’t amount to anything.

Eventually you stumbled upon StarKid Productions, where you work from 2018-2023. During that time you were completely behind the scenes. You barely spoke a word to anyone unless you had to. To nervous about saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. It was at StarKid that you met your best friend.

You and Angela quickly became inseparable. She never minded that you didn’t always make eye contact or that sometimes talking was hard for you. One days when you wanted to just listen she’d talk to you for hours, on days when the world got to be to much. She’d sit quietly on the other end of the couch and just exist with you.

When Angela started working at Smosh, you saw her less. But then in 2023, they had an opening for a new writer. So you joined her at Smosh. The atmosphere of the office was nothing like you had ever experienced before.

Suddenly you were in this space that felt comfortable. It didn’t feel like you were taped on top of an already perfect picture, it didn’t feel forced, or scary. It felt like home in a way that finally made you realize what home meant.

In that space, you met Damien. Quickly connecting with him on a different level to your connection with Angela. You fell for Damien so fast that you didn’t even realize he’d fallen for you too. It took you both months to realize the attraction was mutual and when you did, you went on a date.

Damien took you to the zoo where you guys spent the whole time rattling off animal facts. After the zoo you went to the planetarium, queue even more info dumping. The date was finished and a quiet little hole-in-the-wall cat book cafe, where you had the best sandwich of your life. You became official pretty soon after that.

Around the end of 2024 was the first time you showed up in a Smosh video. It was a livestream sketch event where fans instantly seemed to latch onto you. They loved your personality, your jokes, and your relationship with the cast. You weren’t on camera much after that, appearing mainly on Smosh Mouth or Reddit Stories. But fans absolutely adored you.

All of that lead to today. You didn’t have much to do today so you were sort of hanging out around the office. Helping with costumes, helping cast members write TNTL bits, going over camera angles, busy work.

That was until about an hour ago. Spencer had to go home because he wasn’t feeling well and they needed someone to fill in on an Beopardy video. You were hesitant at first, given that up until now this was the only Smosh show you hadn’t done yet. But you knew fans had been requesting it and it would be with Damien and Angela. So you said yes.

“You’re gonna do great.” Damien smiled bumping his shoulder against yours reassuringly and you nodded. You sat in between your boyfriend and best friend at the black table with a red buzzer in front of you.

And now remember how you said your IQ wasn’t a secret? It isn’t! Honest, but you also hadn’t broached the topic with anyone in years. People you met just thought you were smart and people who knew about your degrees just thought you were motivated.

“Yeah, just have fun.” Angela added before Courtney who was directing the video announced that filming would begin soon.

“Hello and welcome to another episode of Beopardy!” Shayne announced causing everyone in the room to cheer. He gave it a moment before he introduced us.

“The theme of today’s episode is…Are you smarter than the internet. Where our contestants with answers trivia questions about random categories picked my our editors. Today we have Damien!”

“Hey, I’m Damien and I’m pretty good with facts.” He shrugged earning scattered applause and laughter from the audience of our co-workers behind the camera.

“The ever mysterious but always wonderful, Y/n!” Shayne announced and you waved at the camera letting out a shy hello.

“And finally, you know her, you love her! Angela Giarratana!”

“I am so excited to be here! Hi!” Angela practically yelled as she wrapped her arm around your shoulders. You leaned into her touch pressing your head against hers with a smile.

“Today our categories are: Pop Culture, Sports, Smosh Lore, Decades, and Nerd Out Trivia.” Shayne explained before quickly going over the rules and the game began.

Half way through you were currently in second place. Damien had 1000 points, you had 950 and Angela had 800.

“Uh, can I do Smosh Lore for 300?” You asked and Shayne quickly pulled the card off the board.

“Which cast member currently holds the record for most Beopardy wins?” Shayne read out and Damien quickly hit his button.

“Damien?” Shayne asked and your boyfriend tilted his head in thought before hesitantly guessing a name.

“Is it Courtney?” Shayne shook his head and Angela pressed her buzzer

“It’s Chanse!” She exclaimed immediately

“Y/n?” Shayne said signal that it was your turn to guess.

“Is it Angela?” You thought out loud, the girl beside you immediately looking at you with wide eyes.

“No way!” She denied only for Shayne to laugh and her head immediately snapped towards his direction.

“It’s not me!” She yelled so Shayne turned the card around to reveal her name printed on it.

“OH MY GOD! This is so crazy!” She shrieked completely surprised by this.

“Um I’ll do Nerd Out of 200.” Angela laughed nervously. You watched as Shane reached for the card, reading it in his head before he read it out loud.

“Which country has the most islands in the world. Bonus points if you can give me a number.”

“What?!” Angela exclaimed slapping her hands on the table in shock. The question wasn’t one any of us would realistically know. But oddly enough, you knew it.

Hesitantly you pressed your buzzer with a shy smile.

“Y/n?” Shayne announced causing Angela and Damien to look at you.

“Sweden. And it’s like 220,000 I think.” Shayne’s eyes widened at your words and he nodded his head.

“That’s correct!”

“How did you know that?!” Angela exclaimed while Damien smiled proudly in your direction. You only shrugged not having a real answer. You’d read it in a book once and just never really forgot about it.

“Pop Culture for 100?” You asked

“What is the best-selling book series of the 21st century?” Shayne read and all three of you were quick to press your buzzers.

“Who was first?” Damien asked as you all looked over to the camera.

“It was Angela.” Courtney replied after going back to check the footage so everyone then turned their attention to her.

“Um, I want to say like twilight or something but I feel like that’s wrong so I’m gonna say….Harry Potter?” She nervously suggested

“It is Harry Potter.” Shayne agreed

“Last question, Smosh Lore for 500.” Shayne announced grabbing the card and reading it over.

“Okay so this is absolutely insane! Not even I knew this fact.” He laughed causing the three of you at the table to lean forward in anticipation.

“Which members of Smosh became one of the youngest members of Mensa International at just 3 and a half years old?” Shayne read out and you felt your entire body freeze. It wasn’t a secret, you weren’t hiding it. But suddenly the idea of everyone knowing felt light a giant weight on your chest.

“We have a Mensa member at Smosh?!” Damien gasped excitedly.

“Wait what’s Mensa?” Angela asked confused as she looked around for clarification.

“It’s a nonprofit organization for people in the 98th percentile of IQ. They are as close to genius as you can get. Gosh I wonder what their IQ is. Man that’s so cool.” Damien rambled his hands moving to cover the wide and incredibly excited smile on his face. You noticed Shayne studying you and you hesitated. You knew that he knew it was you, your name was printed on the card in his hands. Of course he knew it was you. You could practically hear your heart beat in your ears as you began tuning out Damien’s excited rambling and Angela jokes about it secretly being her.

Your hands clenched then unclenched repeatedly as you took a deep breath before pressing your buzzer.

“It’s me.” You announced and suddenly the room went quiet.

“It’s you?!” Damien practically squealed, you nodded your head as Shayne turned the card around so everyone including the camera could see it.

“Yeah, I uh, my IQ is 146 so like 16 points higher than the minimum Mensa requirement.” You explained. Nervous about the response you’d receive. Sometimes it’s positive other times not so much.

“So you’re like a Stuff Expert?” Shayne joked, laughter filled the room and suddenly all the tension left your body.

After the video was posted and word traveled through the office, Shayne’s joke actually became a running bit.

‘The Stuff Expert’ became a character you would play on Bit City and several other Smosh segments. A quirky scientist who loved talking about random facts whenever possible. You also became a regular of Beopardy, sometimes it would be you verses the rest of the cast or crew in special episodes called ‘Are We Smarter Than A Genius’. For episodes you weren’t in a new rule had been implemented where they could phone an expert one time per episode.

Funny enough, they didn’t even phone you every time. Sometimes they’d call Damien, or Spencer, or even Ian. Now instead of being a ‘Party Trick’ it was just you having fun with your friends again.

This thing that you had formerly been ashamed of was suddenly a super power again. You were a whole person at Smosh and not just a brain.

It was nice, it was comforting.

Sooo I kinda forgot my idea for this like halfway through, that’s why the ending kinda sucks.

I was in a writing flow state and then I got interrupted, then suddenly the idea was gone. 😅

Request Are Open

Main Masterlist

Smosh Masterlist

It was 12:05 am when the city lights of Los Angeles finally came into view. You had fallen asleep a few hours ago. He could still hear your voice, the syllables of your words nestled deep inside his mind. If he tried, he could still picture the crooked smirk on your face when you spoke. “You know,” you had said. “I used to drive out here with my friends to drink. I mean, they legally could, they were twenty two. I, on the other hand, was fifteen.”

“Really?” he’d asked.

“Yes!” You’d thrown your hands up in mock defeat, which had, admittedly, startled him for a moment. “Everyone thinks that I’m, like, incapable of having fun. Geniuses can break laws too.”

“Of course, maybe just.. don’t mention all the crimes you’ve committed in front of an FBI agent?”

“What, you gonna report me, Dr. Reid?” 

“What for? Conveniently, I didn’t hear what you just said. Care to repeat yourself?”

That had drawn a snort out of you, which, in turn, made Spencer smile. A real smile, one he hadn’t seen on himself in a very long time. How did you do this to him? It made him feel scared, if he was being honest. Stupid if he wasn’t. He knew, logically, what love was. He could break it down, make it clinical- remove his actual emotions from the situation if he wanted. If it was Emily, or JJ, or even Morgan who came to him with this story, he wouldn’t believe it. “Though there are accounts of love at first sight,” he would say, “it has yet to be proven as an actual condition. Just- coincidences triggered by different circumstances.” Yet, here he was, living it. Trying his best not to screw it up. Love is the release of dopamine, oxytocin, and vasopressin in the brain. When these chemicals are all activated at once, or, more commonly said, if someone is has fallen in love, they may feel infatuated or obesessed with another individual. Symptoms may include: constant thoughts of a specific person, intense anxiety surrounding scenarios with the aforementioned individual, and shortness of breath when interacting with the person.

If these symptoms persist, please contact a doctor. Though he doubted that even the most experienced surgeon could fix the way his brain was wired to want you. 

—

By 2:24 am, Spencer was questioning his life choices. You were still asleep, snoring softly in a way that felt extremely domestic, and did absolutely nothing to ease his predicament. He refused to let his brain wander to other circumstances that could lead to a scene like this. Maybe if you were- no. Absolutely not. He wasn’t going to think about it. He refused to even picture you at all. 3.141592653897-

You stirred in your sleep. How wonderful. And there went all of his restraint. Right out the window. Maybe, if he looked hard enough, he could find it flitting through the air outside the car. 

Of all the people in the world, he’d never imagined finding himself admiring someone he had just met. Then again, maybe it wasn’t a coincidence. Maybe you’d fallen in love in your past lives, or something. God, he really had to stop listening to Penelope. 

Maybe it wasn’t love at first sight. Just- interest. That’s what he could call it. You piqued his interest, that was all. A budding friendship with a side of fries and flirting. Because friends definitely dream about kissing each other. Friends keep score of how often they can fill the other with butterflies? Friends write that number on a piece of paper, and share it like it’s sacred? Friends go home, only to think about each other all night? Right? It didn’t matter, it shouldn’t matter, you’d made it clear that you wanted to.. Involve yourself with him, whether that be physically, emotionally, or..

Romantically. 

Spencer wasn’t one to curse, no, he was professional. He found that he had to often make up for his younger age by over utilizing formalities. But god, there was no other way to describe this situation.

Spencer Reid was totally, completely, and entirely fucked. There was nothing professional about it.

—

Spencer really should have asked you for your address before you fell into a makeshift coma. Clearly, all the rain and sexual tension had exhausted you thoroughly. No matter how many times he tried to wake you, you gave him nothing but a noncommittal hum, or another sweet exhale. “Hey,” he whispered. “Wake up. We’re almost back.”

“Really?” You yawned. It was supposed to be impossible for someone’s heart to skip a beat. The sensation could be explained as a premature beat followed by a pause, followed by a more intense beat, all which came together to form the phrase that was constantly used throughout the romance genre as a whole. But god, did it feel real right there. Like his heart was performing the physically impossible, just to throw him off. 

Your voice was soft in a way he’d never heard from you before. “M good. J’st go to your motel.” 

“What? Where will you sleep, I-”

“At your place. Mine’s lonely. ‘nd cold. The heater broke.”

As if he wasn’t already defying the status quo, he felt the sensation repeat itself after you finished talking. Soft beat. Pause. Hard beat. Soft beat. Pause. Hart beat. Again and again, over and over, so many times in a row that, for a second, he thought he might be having a heart attack. You were lonely and you wanted to stay with him. Jesus fucking christ, this was it. Game over. ‘Here lies Spencer Reid’, his tombstone would read. ‘Killed by a girl asking to stay the night with him.’ 

He’d have to add this to your score. It definitely counted. 

Spencer- 2

You- 2

Even at last.

—

The air was warm inside the motel. No, it wasn’t- the thermostat read 68 degrees. He’d have to change that, you’d mentioned your apartment being cold. The real cause of the burning sensation in his face was not a fever, or an actinic erythema. The immediate cause was the fact that you were next to him, radiating warmth like a furnace. Or maybe you weren’t, maybe he was just interpreting  his attraction for you as you being, for lack of a better word, hot. In both senses of the word, but he wasn’t ready to admit that yet. He seemed to notice the weight of your presence more than usual, because he was struggling to hold both you and himself upright. Symptoms include: feeling weak in the knees. Heat and redness of cheeks. If he were that kind of doctor, he would diagnose himself with incurable desire. Patient Spencer, of course, would refuse the medication offered to him by Doctor Spencer. ‘Stay away three times a day until the feeling is gone.’ But how could he, when indulgence in you was absolutely exquisite? Torture and reward, all at the same time. Too much feeling, too little time. Tick tock. 

“Let’s get you into bed, yeah?” He asked. You mumbled something that he didn’t quite catch, something he assumed to be a yes. A small smile pulled at the corners of his lips. Soft beat. Pause. Hard beat.

He thought you would’ve let him go, but no, you dragged him into bed with you.

Soft beat. Pause. Hard beat.

You curled up next to him and placed your head on his chest.

Soft beat. Pause. Hard beat.

You muttered his name- his name- in your sleep.

Soft beat. Pause. Hard beat.

Now he was sure that he was dreaming, because he swore he could feel the same abnormality against the palm of his hand, which was pressed against your back.

Soft beat. Pause. Hard beat.

—

You’d only ever seen snow once, during a trip to Canada to see your cousins for Christmas. Yet, you were seeing it now. Soft and fluffy, tumbling down from the sky. Like a snowglobe. Like magic. Or, rather, synthetic mica, the snow inside of snowglobes.

It was frozen water, not magic, but for some reason, your brain refused to let you acknowledge that.

You were sitting on your front porch, dressed in a coat you’d never own, when It happened. A small child, one who looked suspiciously like Spencer, came barrelling towards you. You were greeted with a high pitched squeal, and a ‘Mommy!’ that made your heart skip a beat. You found yourself stewing in adoration for this child whom you’d never seen before. And then, like it was fate, you felt yourself skip another beat when you saw who stepped out of the car after her, armed with grocery bags and a smile so adorable that it could be considered assault with a deadly weapon.

Spencer. But your brain didn’t stop there. My Spencer.

If dreams truly were a glimpse into another universe, then you didn’t want to wake up. In fact, you wanted to trade lives with this version of you, the one who actually got to live out her future with Spencer. The one who got everything she wanted, you thought, glancing down at your hands. Only, your ring finger wasn’t bare. Two twin rings. One with a diamond, and one with a simple engraving. 

To my love, who stuck by me always. Even when we were out of time.

The child who, you realized (10) was your daughter, tugged on your sleeve. “I wanna have hot chocolate!” She declared. “Daddy said I could, ‘cause it's made with milk, so it has cal-ci-um.” She seemed to be very proud of herself for being able to pronounce calcium. 

A voice came from behind you. “And? What else, honey?”

“Oh yeah! Mommy, there’s more!” She paused for a moment, a confused look spreading over her face. “Calcium does..?” she trailed off, glancing at her father for rescue. He gave a little chuckle, and pointed to his teeth. Her eyes absolutely lit up, and she continued, just as animated as before. “Calcium makes your teeth strong! And your bones!” Quickly, she zoomed over to Spencer. “And I gotta have a lot of calcium, ‘cause my bones are super strong. See, Mommy?” You watched in great delight as she ‘held’ one of the grocery bags on Spencer’s arm. 

“I do see, you’re very strong.” You laughed, giving her a warm smile. “Now, can you put all your toys in the living room away?”

“No thank you, mommy. I wanna have hot chocolate. Then I’ll put my toys away.”

You rested your hands on your hips, shooting Spencer an incredulous glance. ‘She’s your daughter, through and through.’ Your eyes said. He only gave you a sheepish nod in return.

You sighed. Oh, the joys of parenting. 

“What if,” you said, kneeling down to be on her level. “I told you a secret.”

“I like secrets.” She said thoughtfully. “Depends on what it is, though. ‘Cause last time you said you had a secret, you just said that you love me. And mommy,” she put her hand on your shoulder, as though she needed to brace you for what she was about to say. “That’s not a secret.” 

“I promise it’s a good secret, sweetheart.” You whispered.

“Pinky promise?” She asked, the skeptical look in her eyes almost making you blow the whole operation.  

“I swear on all the stars in the sky.” You said. 

“Nuh uh! You gotta pick something else. Stars ‘re just gas, mommy. Daddy told me.” 

“Oh, did he now?” You shot Spencer another look. ‘Sorry,’ he mouthed. ‘I read that it’s beneficial to tell children the truth from early on.’

“Okay, then. Miss Star. Care to tell me what I should swear on?”

She thought for a moment. “..dirt.” She finally said. “Dirt’s always there.” 

Okay, then. Dirt it is.

“Alright,” you said, intertwining her outstretched pinky with yours. “I, Mrs. Reid, solemnly swear on the dirt that I will tell you a good secret.”

“Okay.” She said seriously. “I,-” she paused, glancing at her father. “Do I say Mrs Reid too, daddy?” She asked. 

“No, bug. Say your name.” He chuckled. She nodded, her face still serious. “I, Penelope Reid, swear on the dirt that I will clean up my toys if you tell me a good secret.” She narrowed her eyes at you. “It better be a good secret.” She said.

“Now, are you sure that you’re ready for my secret?” You asked. “Because it’s a good one.”

Penny was practically jumping up and down now. “Yes! I am! Please?”

“Okay. Well. The elf on the shelf tells Santa to give you one extra toy if you clean up after yourself all year long.” You said.

She gasped. “Really! Really really? Daddy, is that true?” 

“Sure is, bug. Now go pick up your toys. Then we’ll have hot chocolate.”

“Okay!” You weren’t sure you could make this up. Quite literally, she skipped her way into the living room. Once you were sure that the coast was clear, you began to speak. “You know, she’s got your eyes. And your curiosity.” You stood next to your husband, allowing your head to drop down onto his shoulder. “No,” He replied, his hand entangling itself with yours, “I think she got that from the both of us.”

You stayed like that for a while. No words, nothing special, no extravagant surprises. Just you and the man you’d loved since the day you met him, watching your daughter pick up her toys.

Somehow, nothing had ever felt more right.

—

“Hey, you gotta wake up. We’re already late,”

You felt a surge of sadness rush through you as the dream dissipated, slipping through your fingers and plunging into the pit of lost memories. If only you could hold onto that moment for a minute longer. She wasn’t even real. You were sad over a child who only existed in the depths of REM sleep.

“Shit. What tim- what the fuck. This isn’t my room.” You were in a bed you didn’t recognize, between sheets that were definitely not yours, and on top of a man you definitely shouldn’t be on top of.

‘What happened to being subtle, Mrs Reid?’ You asked yourself. 

“Did- did you kidnap me, or something?” You yelled, finally starting to realize (11- or 10? Do dream realizations count?) what had happened. 

“What- no! I’m literally an FBI agent!” He raised his hands in the air, like that was somehow supposed to clear his name. “I did not kidnap you. I promise.”

“Pinky square?” You said, feeling the want to go back to dreamland hit you at full force.

“I- sure?” Spencer was confused. Fair enough. You’d be confused too, if you were him. You’d be running all the possible outcomes of the situation if the girl you were maybe-kinda-into accused you of kidnapping with all the authority she could muster. 

It wasn’t until you felt the weight of his hand in yours that you finally calmed down. 

“Last night-” he paused, almost as though he was making sure he wasn’t dreaming. “You fell asleep in the car after the movie.” He swallowed nervously. “Do you remember that?”

“Yeah,” you said. “Continue.”

—

“I asked you for your address, but you were too out of it to tell me. You insisted that we go back to my motel instead.” He said, his tone soft and slow to ensure that you didn’t snap at him again.

“So, I obliged. It doesn’t have to be anything more than it was unless you want it to be. Just two friends, sharing a bed. Nothing happened.” ‘Other than my heart skipping beats like they were stones,’ his mind said. ‘Other than me realizing that I do want you, even if we’re 2,633 miles apart. Even if it goes against every dream I’ve ever had about love.

In a perfect world, he would’ve confessed his feelings right then and there. Wind in your hair, a mildly dopamine-inducing melody playing in the background. But his world wasn’t perfect.

Too many words, too little time. Tick tock. 

You seemed to accept his answer, unaware of what had really happened. He pretended that it was fine. He couldn’t afford to care, not when time was running out.

Tick. Tock.

—

“Shit.” You muttered, glancing down at your watch. You wondered how you’d gotten yourself in this situation. Wearing the same clothes as you had been last night, in someone else’s bed, hair greasy because it had gotten wet and then dried again without a proper wash. 

“Spencer,” you waved your hands in front of his face. “I- did you leave your car at the station?”

He gave you a look that reminded you of a deer in headlights. Then, he dropped his face into his hands, muttering something you didn’t hear. You thought you caught the word love, but that would have been absurd. Absolutely absurd.

Right?

“I did,” he admitted. “I didn’t expect us to be gone for the night.” “Neither did I,” you said. “Okay. It’s fine. We’ll just take mine.” but it wasn’t that simple, no, nothing ever was. 

“I’m still wearing my clothes from yesterday, we’re both late, and sharing a ride. You know exactly what everyone’s going to think. Oh, god. Lucy’s going to ask me how the sex was, and I’m not going to have an answer.” You groaned, this time it being your turn to hold your head in your hands.

He raised an eyebrow at you. “You could always lie,” he suggested. ‘Or find out and tell your friend the truth,” His eyes said. You must have been imagining it. There was no way he would be looking at you like that right now. When all you had presented to him as of late were problems to be solved. First, the car. Now this. 

“I don’t like lying.” You whined. “There has to be something we can do. Like- you could call a taxi?” That wasn’t an option. It was rush hour in LA. A taxi was out of the question. You cringed at the thought of the implication, the unprofessionalism- all of it.

“I need to go change.” He said suddenly. Naturally, this drew your attention to his clothes- and to your surprise, you recognized them. Same teal sweater, dress pants, and a purple tie. Which meant that he hadn’t changed either before getting into bed. Now, there were two logical explanations for this. One, he had merely forgotten to change, which, given the quality of his memory, was unlikely. Two- well. You’d gotten into his bed and he’d crawled in beside you, simple as that. 

In an act of what you could only describe as pure cowardice- you elected to go with the first option.

To protect your already aching heart.

You needed the one thing that life never gave for free- time.

Tick.

Tock.

You.

His brilliant, enigmatic partner. His equal in intellect, if not surpassing him, yet you—like him—had a particular kind of brilliance that didn't quite align with the norm. You weren’t merely driven by the thirst for knowledge; you sought something else entirely. Something that, to him, was still a mystery. It had all started when you, a certified genius in science, chose a path that left many baffled.

Where others expected you to continue a career in research, becoming a figure of recognition in your field, you chose instead to embark on a journey of physicality, something you’d never excelled at. He remembered the day you told him about your decision. It had been a casual conversation over coffee, but the conviction in your voice had caught him off guard.

“I’m tired of the easy path,” you had said, your voice as soft as it was resolute. “I want to experience what it’s like to fail, to struggle. To work hard for something, rather than having everything handed to me on a silver platter.”

He had been unable to hide his confusion. “But... why?”

You had smiled, a strange gleam in your eyes. “Because... I find joy in things that don’t come easily. I’m no masochist, Ratio, but I believe there’s something valuable in pushing past the limits of one’s comfort. In fact, I’m quite looking forward to it.”

And so, you had chosen to pursue a career as a professional dancer, a path that required discipline, coordination, and physical grace—everything you had not been born with. He had watched, sometimes in awe, as you tackled each practice with a mixture of determination and, what he could only describe as, delight. He knew the truth: you thrived in adversity. It was almost as if failure was your driving force.

As always, Ratio had been caught in your orbit. Despite the frustrations he experienced seeing you struggle in your pursuit, there was an undeniable admiration he held for your tenacity. You were no longer the perfect student or the prodigy who walked through every challenge with ease. No, you were something more: a mystery, a riddle he couldn’t quite solve.

On one occasion, you had returned to the apartment after an especially grueling rehearsal. You were drenched in sweat, but there was that same spark in your eyes—burning brightly, full of satisfaction, even in the face of exhaustion.

“That was awful,” you had said, falling onto the couch beside him. “I felt like I was going to collapse halfway through. But... I think I might have learned something new today. Something that will help me improve tomorrow.”

Ratio raised an eyebrow, unable to stop himself from chuckling lightly. “You’re... something else, you know that?” He reached for his cup of tea, his eyes studying you with a mixture of concern and admiration. “You work so hard, and yet you constantly talk about the satisfaction of failing. I have to admit, I don’t fully understand it.”

You smiled, stretching your arms as you reclined back. “Maybe you don’t need to. You know how much I love to learn, Ratio. But what good is learning if you only do what’s easy? It’s the struggle, the moments when you feel like giving up, that shape us into something better.”

He leaned back in his chair, his mind racing. He had always been so focused on mastery and achievement, on knowledge and efficiency. But you... you were driven by something different, something intangible. It was as if your brilliance only found true purpose when it was matched with your determination to grow in areas you were weakest.

He couldn’t help but admire your dedication, even as he feared that you were pushing yourself too hard.

“That’s your way of thinking,” he murmured, glancing at you with a thoughtful expression. “But let me ask you this—are you really enjoying it? Or are you just addicted to the feeling of pushing yourself beyond your limits?”

You shrugged, still lying on the couch. “Maybe it’s both. I guess I won’t know for sure until I’ve reached the end. But that’s part of the fun, isn’t it? Not knowing where the struggle will take me.”

He couldn’t argue with that. There was a certain allure to your mindset, a magnetic pull that kept him coming back for more. Despite his own cold, calculated nature, you had managed to draw him into a world where failure was celebrated, where the beauty of growth existed in the very act of trying and falling short.

It was a world that, despite its challenges, seemed to hold its own kind of wisdom.

“I can’t say I fully understand you,” Ratio admitted, standing up and walking over to you. “But I do admire you, even if it means I have to watch you fail... again and again.”

You sat up, a mischievous grin playing on your lips. “It’s not failure if you’re learning from it, Ratio. It’s just... progress in disguise.”

He leaned down to kiss your forehead, his expression softening. “I suppose I’ll have to learn to accept that.”

And as the two of you sat together, surrounded by books and scattered notes, the dance of knowledge and struggle continued—a dance where two brilliant minds, though different in their pursuits, found their way through the complexities of life, side by side.

One thing you’d learned about Spencer was that he took his coffee sweet. So sweet, in fact, that you were surprised when it didn’t turn to mush after he dumped all the sugar in. After watching his process a few times, you’d finally gotten the courage to ask him why. He’d rattled off statistics about higher productivity, sugar consumption leading to a higher life span, ect. Ect. You’d watch his mouth move as he spoke, wondering how that coffee would taste on his lips. Wondering if you’d ever get to find out. 

You did, in fact, find out, albeit not through the means you wanted. 

—

It was a cool morning, one where you felt particularly confident. The winter breeze had played with your hair as you’d walked from your car to the parking lot, wearing your new clothes. You’d gone shopping on the weekend with Lucy, and you’d picked out a brand new outfit. Black, wide-leg dress pants, and a red shirt that actually looked good on you. You looked great. You felt great. For once, none of it came crashing down when you walked through the door, and into the LAPD. 

Spencer was hunched over some papers, probably new evidence, or something. You didn’t care. His scrunched up face was absolutely adorable. His hair was carefully tucked behind his ears, just asking to be ruffled. A lone coffee mug sat beside him, one that had probably long since gone cold.

You allowed yourself to stare, for just one more moment. Imagine what it would feel like if all that attention was fixated on you. 

“This is weird,” he said, probably not realizing he was speaking out loud. You gave a little chuckle.

“No, seriously,” he continued. “You need to check this out.” For a second, you were floored. He’d actually noticed you were there? There was no hello, no good morning, just him, fitting you into his life, his work- like you’d always been there. Like you were the one thing that had been missing, and he was adapting to put you right where you belonged. And somehow, that place was somewhere near him, if not beside him. (You didn’t dare think that outright, though.)

Then you thought about how stupid that sounded. Why would he want you to be that piece? What did you have to offer? How were you the best option?

“You noticed I came in?” You asked softly. 

He lifted his head to look at you, his face full of confusion. “Of course I did,” he said. “How could I not?”

‘How could I not?’ You’d know since you were young that you were nothing extraordinary. You wondered why he seemed to think that you were. 

People didn’t notice you. Not really. They took one look at your intelligence, decided that you must be too much, too cocky, too strange, too different. But it wasn’t like that with Spencer. He slid you into his life like he’d known you since forever. You were used to being noticed in a way that equated to being discarded. 

This wasn’t like that.

He didn’t stop looking at you.

“You got a new shirt.” He said. How did he know? Why did he know?

“How did you-”

“Well, you seem happier than usual, which could be associated with having new things, and I’ve never seen you wear a shirt like that. Or that colour. It’s not your usual.” He stated it like it was nothing, like the fact that he noticed- and remembered- your usual style- was nothing at all. Was to be expected, in fact.

You were afraid that, if you didn’t date him, you’d end up alone forever. Unfortunately, this very moment altered your standards forever. 

“I recognize patterns. In the few weeks I’ve known you, you’ve never worn red. Not a single time. So, I figured you got something new.”

You just stared. 

“It looks great on you, by the way. Red really goes with your eyes.”

You were going to kiss him. That was it, all it would take. A few compliments, and you were the sugary mush at the bottom of a coffee cup.

“Now, you should see this.” He said, so simply, so innocently, like he was unaware of  what he had just done to you.

Yeah, right.

—

You weren’t sure if that counted as a point or not. To be fair, neither you nor Spencer had exactly defined what made an interaction a point. There had to be some sort of criteria. Maybe, that had been a half point? Did the two of you even want to add half points? This was entirely much too nonchalant for you. You considered yourself to be incapable of scenario appropriate reactions when in the midst of an obsession. And right now, your obsession was him. In an entirely professional manner, of course. Totally workplace appropriate.

You twirled the slip of paper you’d been given yesterday in your hands. It was a few days old, that much was clear from the wear and tear it had clearly suffered. Perhaps he had it in his pocket? For that long? You imagined him, sitting at his shitty motel desk, scrawling down what the score would be if he managed to render you speechless during your next interaction. Practising what he’d say, what he’d do, how he’d do it. As you imagined where his hands would go, you wondered if he always knew what to do with them. He seemed like he did. So confident.

Spencer- 3 You- 1

—

You remembered that you had a job to do. You have a job to do. You can’t afford to both look at Spencer and drive the car, you’ll crash. Though it might be worth it if it meant you got to look at him right before you died. 

You were driving to the house of the woman who found the first body. She moved to a smaller town about a week after she finished with all the police interviews. ‘Fair enough,’ You thought. If you hadn’t already seen many, many dead people, you supposed you might move away too.

Suddenly, your four hour drive felt like nothing. As long as he would talk to you the entire time, you’d be fine. More than fine, actually. Wonderful.

Something small, something deep down inside you was screaming at you, screaming ‘this is where you’re supposed to be. You belong here.’

‘Savour it.’

—

Much to your dismay, the woman who had discovered the first victim’s body had nothing to say. Through tears, she’d explained how she’d come in for her morning shift at the conjoined coffee shop, only to discover a dead man. She’d seen absolutely nothing but a beaten body. 

You were far from the police station, too far to walk. You and Spencer had taken your car, which you knew to be.. Finicky. It had a mind of its own, you supposed. And right then, it was surely telling you to fuck off. 

You tried for the third time to get the engine started, but to the surprise of no one, it failed yet again. You sighed softly, turning to look at Spencer.

“It won’t start,” you said. “I’ve tried everything. Honestly, I’m not surprised,” you said as you shut the door, “this happens all the time.” 

“It’s alright, we can just-”

You wondered if the universe hated you. Genuinely, did life itself have it out for you, if not, then who (or what) did, because what the fuck was this.

The light January snow (not snow, really, just.. very cold rain) that had been slowly but surely melting into a heavy rainfall, had now begun to pour. It was almost as though the heavens had just given up on holding back. Rain splattered all around you, quickly turning what had been a dirt path into a road of mud. 

Like a sliver of sunlight peeking through the dark clouds, Spencer’s eyes landed on you. Maybe it wasn’t so bad. After all, he did look extremely cute with his hair plastered to his face. 

Then, the wind blew those clouds right back to cover the sun- in the form of a particularly loud boom of thunder. From the sound of it, it wasn’t anywhere near far enough away. So, there you were. Soaking wet (and not in a fun way), shoes covered in mud, standing in the rain like an idiot. 

It was Spencer who broke the awkward silence between you two. 

“The storm’s not even a mile away.” He said. He paused for a moment, not quite looking you in the eyes, but not looking away from your face either.  “We have a 0.16 percent chance of getting struck by lightning.”

“Okay,” you said. “So we need shelter. It’s too cold to stay here, and my car’s fucked.”

Once you two had made your way off of the small dirt path, the first building you saw was a run-down theatre. It looked like it had been operating since the 1800s, if not longer. Quickly, you both ducked inside. 

You noticed the poster on the wall. The movie was to start at 4:15- it was now 4:05. Great. Enough time to get snacks, and watch the movie. ‘Just to wait out the storm,’ you told yourself. ‘Nothing more.’ You wished it could be more. Logically, you knew that he was into you, lots of the people you dated had been. That was in the beginning, before they actually got to know you. When they did, they left, and you didn’t exactly blame them. You were annoying, clingy, all the things they didn’t want. Too much, not enough, too boring, too energetic, pulling back and forth, mutilating your personality, just because you wanted to fit. Like a square block in a triangle hole. No matter how hard you tried, you just couldn’t make yourself slip in. So, you cut off pieces of you. Finally, you fell through. But when hands tried to pick you up, they got splinters from your un-sanded, rough, unclean edges. Still not enough. Never enough.

“Two tickets for the Sound of Music, please.” You said. Your voice was firm, confident. Outside you knew what she was doing. Inside you was a disaster.

“Would you like the couples discount, dear?” The little old lady behind the counter asked.

“Oh, no- we’re not a-” you both stammered, and you quickly dropped Spencer’s hand. In your hurry to get to shelter, you hadn’t even noticed that you’d grabbed it. You felt him tense up beside you, almost like he didn’t want you to let go. Like he was about to reach for you and take your hand back.  Almost. 

“We’re not a couple, ma’am. Just- uh. Coworkers. Kind of.” He said. Quickly, you nodded in agreement. 

“Ah.” she winked at you. Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful. She didn’t believe you. You probably weren’t nearly as discreet as you thought you were with your affections for Spencer. “Sure you aren’t, dearie.”

You noticed that she gave you 20% off your tickets. The couples discount. Well, it was cheaper, you weren’t about to argue with spending less money. You glanced towards Spencer. Surely, he’d noticed it. Surely, he was opening his mouth- to remind her that you were not a couple. 

Instead, he intertwined his fingers with yours again, and walked with you to pay for the tickets.

—

The Sound of Music had been your favourite movie since you were five years old, just beginning to learn how to sing. Technically, it was a musical, but you counted it anyway. You got to your seats just as the familiar tune that came with the opening credits began to ring out into the otherwise empty theatre. 

As Maria began to sing, you felt Spencer whisper something to you. You barely were able to catch it, but you were glad that you did. 

“Did you know that this scene had to be redone multiple times? Julie Andrews kept getting knocked down by the helicopter that they used to film the overhead shots.” You did, in fact, know that. It was nice that somebody else did too. 

You returned his fact with your own question-but-not-because-I-know-you-know. “Did you know that there were ten Von Trapp children, not seven, and that the real Maria was hired to be a tutor for one of the children? She wasn’t actually a governess.”

“And,” you added, “Maria and Georg were actually married eleven years before their escape from Austria.” 

The slightly crooked smile on his face told you everything about what the next one hundred eighty four minutes- adding ten, of course, for the intermission, would look like. 

“The Sound of Music is actually one of the most famous movies with an intermission,” Spencer said. “It was quite common in the sixties to add intermissions to any movie that was over two and a half hours.”

It seemed like he had read your mind. 

“Of course. Other examples include: Lawrence of Arabia, Funny Girl, and Cleopatra.” You replied.

 It only took fifteen minutes and twenty two seconds before Spencer continued talking. 

“The real Captain Von Trapp was twenty five years older than Maria,” he whispered. 

“There wasn’t a real Liesl Von Trapp, though,” you said, a bit louder than you meant to. You would have cringed if it weren’t for the fact that the theatre was empty. 

“She was based on the oldest daughter, Agathe Von Trapp. Their personalities were quite different too. Agathe was shy and quiet, whereas Liesl is portrayed as outgoing, and, if I may, boy crazy.” 

When Maria began introducing herself as the governess, you were reminded of another fact. “Julie Andrews was actually worried about being typecast as a nanny, especially after playing both Mary Poppins and Maria. However,” you continued, pretending to be unaware of the fact that Spencer wasn’t looking at the screen anymore. He was watching you, the way your mouth moved, how your hand twitched when you got excited. Noticing all the things about you that you probably didn’t even see yourself.

“She said in an interview that she hoped her performance in the Americanization of Emily would show people that she could act well in non-nanny roles.”

He nodded along, acting as though the information was fascinating, though you knew it was nothing new to him. He’d probably read thousands of articles and interview transcripts about the movie already. 

“And,” he whispered, leaning in closer to you than probably necessary, “Julie Andrews kept giggling during the confession scene in the gazebo. She said that she couldn’t keep a straight face, because the lights kept acting up and making strange noises. It wouldn’t stop, so director Robert Wise decided to film the scene in silhouette, with the lights off.”

You thought for a moment, again, electing to ignore the weight of his hand resting on top of yours. “You know, Christopher Plummer absolutely despised the movie. In fact, he hated it so much that he decided to call it ‘the Sound of Mucus’, because it was just so sappy.” Spencer considered that, nodding his head. The puzzled look on his face only served to make you fall in love with him even more. “I read about that.” He said.

Your conversation lulled into another comfortable silence.

Twenty more minutes flew by. During which, your head came to rest on his shoulder. ‘To make it easier for him when he has something else to tell me,’ you told yourself, but both of you knew that was bullshit.

You didn’t lift your hand, though. Or your head. 

When the opening melody of ‘Sixteen Going On Seventeen’ began, so did Spencer’s whispers. “During this scene,” he said, “The actress for Liesl- who was twenty one, by the way, definitely not sixteen- fell through the glass of the gazebo and hurt her ankle. If you look down,” he pointed towards the actress’ leg, and you felt the absence of his warmth much more than you would’ve liked to admit. “-you can see that she’s actually wearing a bandage covered with makeup to hide the injury.”

“I can’t see it,” you lied. “Show me.” You turned to face him, your eyes landing on his. You could still see some of the caramel colour in them, even in the darkness of the theatre. 

His hand grasped yours, and he raised it up, up, pointing exactly at the bandage. “See it now?” He asked, his voice barely audible above the music. The heat of his hand was what you’d really been aiming for. Silently, you begged he wouldn’t let go. Silently, he obliged.

“Yeah, I see it.” You replied. 

The rest of the movie continued like that. But, you noticed one thing above all. He didn’t move his hand off of yours again. Not once.

---

When it ended, because of course, all good things had to come to an end, you were relatively dry, and for the most part, the rain had stopped. The little old lady behind the counter was still there when you walked out of the movie room, still smiling that same smile. You chose to ignore the feeling of Spencer’s fingers, still intertwined with yours, suddenly heavier in your hand than they were before. You hated it when people were right in their assumptions about you. You immediately shut that down, though, because she hadn’t been right. You still weren’t a couple, that had yet to change. Yet. 

Of course, Spencer was too busy rambling about how ‘the real Maria and Captain Von Trapp didn’t actually love each other, and the movie is neither geographically nor historically accurate, because-’ to notice her gleeful but also rather condescending staring.

“Look, Spence,” you said, interrupting his rant. He turned his head to look to where you were pointing, which was at a small shelf with merchandise from the movie. “We should get something. Like a souvenir.” Quickly, you realized (9) what that insinuated. That this was real, and- albeit unconventional-, a date. 

If he came to the same realization, it didn’t show up on his face. Instead, what came to rest where you’d assumed a small frown would be, was a smile. “We should,” he agreed, and the two of you made your way over to that same small shelf. 

You ended up leaving the theatre with matching grins and matching figurines.

---

Spencer found that you had taken up all four corners of his mind. It was a thought that had come to him about two days ago, when he was listening to another one of your voicemails. 

You’d been talking about wanting to perform a social experiment, but not having anyone who would volunteer. It was then that he realized it. He’d do anything you wanted him to if you so much as said the word. He’d volunteer. He’d strip himself of every negative experience he’d ever had, bear his heart for you, raw and bleeding.

Terrifying was the only word he could use to describe it. In the two weeks you’d known each other, you already had him wrapped around your finger. If things continued this way, he wondered how long it would take before he became a lovesick disaster. 

He’d offered to drive back, as it was dark, and you looked absolutely exhausted. 

Spencer had one hand on the wheel. The other was still wrapped with yours. You squeezed it once, twice, like you were making sure he hadn’t disappeared. He never would. He’d stay forever if you wanted him to.

He wondered what it would look like if he could actually stay here. If there weren’t 2,633 miles between you at any given moment. He imagined that it would be soft and sweet. That there was a future if you tried, though he wouldn’t dare dream of it. Too soon, too little time.

If only he could let himself have this one thing. You were his to have, you’d made that much clear- but he didn’t have enough time to actually love you properly.

Tick tock. Time is running out. 

The car ride to the station was silent, silent in a way you hadn’t expected. He refused to meet your eyes, and you weren’t particularly inclined to meet his either. Your hand stayed cold, of course, and empty.

The wind whistled in from the windows. You’d cracked them, just a little, in hopes that he’d seek you out. He didn’t. In an effort to be discreet (and warm again) you rolled them back up. You’d left your coat back at the station, too, so there was that to think about.

Also the fact that he wasn’t talking to you. One thing you’d learned about the man was that he was talkative. To an extreme. When he wasn’t speaking, he often bore an expression of longing to do just that. Talk. He’d never exactly been voluntarily wordless with you before.

This wasn’t a good silence. It was uncomfortable and indescribably wrong. So, of course, you decided to break it.

“We should probably talk about what happened.” You offered, your tone flat. Clinical. So as not to scare him, obviously. You definitely weren’t hurt by his actions. 

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he said. “You’re not upset, I’m not upset, this is fine.”

Fine. So he thought that ignoring you was fine? Deliberately changing both his body language and presentation towards you, in order to feign indifference was fine? First, he abruptly left bed and went to get changed. That was understandable, he was probably embarrassed or uncomfortable. Then he’d stopped talking to you. Okay, great! You could handle a little bit of silence, so you were good there. But this– him pretending that it meant nothing, that what happened didn’t even deserve a shred of recognition– was too far.

If it was so fine, then he definitely wouldn’t care if you did it too.

—

Ignoring Spencer was hard. During the past two weeks, he’d been your outlet. The person who would listen when you needed to bounce ideas off of someone. Without that, you feared you’d go insane. And so, in a fit of what you could only describe as genius, you decided to write down your ideas until you spoke to him again.

Hour one yielded a simple scribble: You. 

Hour two gave you a few sentences: I think this means you get another point. I can’t stop thinking about you, and it’s driving me crazy. I want to

You decided to stop after that. Too close to the truth, too raw and sensitive to be put anywhere but scrawled across your bleeding heart. You also needed to prepare for the Lucy Lecture you were definitely going to receive soon. You estimated that she’d get fed up with waiting for you to come speak with her first. She’d seek you out and dig her claws in. She’d probably tie you up if she had to. You sighed, allowing yourself to spin around in your desk chair for a moment. 

You knew that there was some sort of attraction between you. You doubted he’d stick around if he didn’t think you were pretty. You just wanted some clarity. If he was just using you to sleep with you, you deserved to know.

You couldn’t see Spencer being cruel like that. 

A soft buzz against your thigh and a light coming from your pants pocket quickly snapped you out of your daze. You slid your phone out from the depths of a rather shallow, fabric-y hell, and placed it on the table in front of you like it was a bomb

The name on the cracked screen made you want to cry. Mother. You’d instructed her not to call you at work, but like all your other boundaries, she perceived that rule as optional. ‘I’m your mother for crying out loud!’ You remembered her indignant yelling. ‘I’m allowed to call my daughter whenever I want!’  

And because your spine was as strong as a bowl full of jello, you picked up. You tried to keep some of the pure exasperation out of your voice, lest you cause another screaming match. You were sure that some of your colleagues still felt sorry for you because of the things she’d shrieked last time. Not Tim, though. He hadn’t been there when it happened. You wondered if it would change his opinion of you.

“Hello, mother.” You finally said, some of the defeat you tried to hide seeping into your tone. 

“Why, hello! It’s been so long since we’ve seen each other.” You knew that voice. You knew it well. You remembered being a naive twenty year old, convinced by the very same voice. You knew what she was about to say, too. In fact, you’d made a mental bingo card for this exact situation. ‘Family helps family,’ ‘I fed, clothed, and housed you!’ ‘I raised you, and this is how you repay me?’ ‘I brought you into this world, I can take you out of it.’ (though she’d stopped that when you told her you’d report it to the police as threats against an officer.) ‘I’m your mother, and you can’t even do one thing for me?’ (it was never one thing) ‘You’re such an ungrateful child.’ (you were an adult. You’d been an adult for half a decade now.) ‘Just wait until I tell your father! He’ll have a field day with this disrespect!’ ‘Do you even love me?’ (your least favourite.)

You decided to end things early. “Cut the bullshit, mom. What do you want?” 

She dropped the act instantly. “Well, since you’re single, and living alone.. I figured you’d have some money to spare. Plus, you know, you have so many connections with the police. And now the FBI!” The delight in her tone made you sick. Everything she did made you sick. You’d tried to go no-contact with her so many times, but she always cried and told you she was sorry. That she’d change. She never did. But she was your mother, how could you leave her? How could you do that to family? 

You supposed that she’d trained you well.

“Why on earth would you think that, mother. Come on. Since when do I have money to spare?” You asked. You could lie. You could tell her that Spencer was your boyfriend, and maybe she’d leave you alone. You were still mad at him, though. Then again, he’d never know. It would purely be for your benefit. 

“Because the FBI is in town!” She said it like she’d made some kind of clever deduction. Like the FBI being in LA raised your salary, or something. Knowing her, that was exactly what she thought. 

“That doesn’t mean anything, mom.” You were this close to burying your head in the nearest pillow and screaming. Yes, that included the decorative ones. Yes, you were that desperate. 

“Well, I need you to absolve my tickets. You know how the police are. I think they’re targeting me. Jerald still works for them, so he must have told them to pull me over!” She declared, like she wasn’t the world’s worst driver. She couldn’t even parallel park, for fucks sake. She’d been on the road for over twenty years. Plus, Jerald had retired six years ago. She’d broken up with him at his retirement party to get back with your dad. You felt your face get hot with embarrassment, even though there was no one in the room with you. 

“Jerald is retired, mom.” 

“He could have still told them to target me!” Her voice was getting higher now, angrier. 

“I promise you, no one is targeting you. Everyone at the station loves you.” An absolute lie, everyone hated her for breaking up with Jerald at his retirement party. You hated her for that too, though you’d been forced to defend her actions at the station when it happened. Maybe that was why Tim didn’t like you. He’d been the only one who heard you ‘reassuring’ her when you escorted her out after she made a scene. You hadn’t exactly wanted to, but you were still living with her at the time. You couldn’t risk losing shelter over a breakup. 

“Mom, I’m not absolving your tickets. If you want to fight them, go to court. I’m not going to break the law and risk my career because you can’t drive properly.” You were done. Done with the conversation, done with her antics.. everything. 

“Why not? You can afford it, I know you can. You live alone. Family helps family, you know.” Ding ding ding! Bingo! You win the game!

Now, you had two options. Either tell her no, and have her call you every day for the rest of the week, or tell her that Spencer was your boyfriend.

You opted to go for the second.

"Mom,” you lied. “I have a boyfriend. I can’t pay your tickets for you.”

You could hear her shock through the phone, maybe silent celebration? Rage? 

“Oh. Well.” No congratulations? That was strange, even for her. “I doubt it will last, so you should still pay them.”

What could she possibly mean by that?

“Mom,” you said slowly. “What- what are you talking about?”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed about, sweetie.” She said in a saccharine tone that made you want to claw your eyes out. You delved down into the anger, ready to pull it out, launch it at her–

But there was nothing there. Just sadness, and fear. 

Sad that she thought so low of you, scared that she was right.

“You’re just so– you know what I’m saying.”

“No,” you said darkly. “I don’t. Care to explain?”

“So you. You’re smart, but you’re not very… feminine, if you know what I mean.” She paused for a moment, letting that sink in. “Men want a real woman who can cook and clean, you know. Not a police officer who’s too smart for her own good.”

That hurt. Out of anything she’d said to you– that hit you right where it was supposed to. Your heart.

It wasn’t in your head, then. Of course Spencer was pulling back. You were too much, too smart, not naive enough. Not good enough. You never would be, so why did you even bother trying in the first place? It all probably meant nothing to him the whole time. This morning was his way of telling you that he was done. 

She just kept talking, because she hadn’t destroyed your self-esteem enough, apparently. “It’s not a bad thing!” How? How was being made to be alone not a bad thing? “Some people are destined to end up in relationships, some people aren’t. You chose your career over a husband. It’s basic biology, sweetheart. Men like sweet, soft women.” She gave a little chuckle, laughing at a joke that hadn’t been made. Nothing about this was funny. Nothing at all. “You’re not that.”

“What else am I, mom?” You asked. If she noticed the harshness in your voice, she didn’t comment on it.  

“Well, you’re brash, that’s for sure. Very.. square.” Each word felt like a shard of glass in your heart. Of course you were. Someone so smart shouldn’t be so stupid. He could never actually want you.

You remembered the softness of his touch, now permanently stained with this revelation. (12)

“I mean, I’m not sure I’d be able to put up with you if you weren’t my daughter!”

You thought that your heart was about to stop. An oxymoron, definitely, but that was how it felt. The world stopped moving, clocks ceased ticking, everything parted ways to make way for those words.

What hurt the most was that she was right. Everyone around you only tolerated you because they had to. Lucy was your colleague, your mother was your mother, Spencer was your temporary coworker– every positive relationship you’d ever had could be chalked up to proximity. 

You’d always had friends. But your relationships had always relied on you. If you didn’t text, the other person never reached out. If you stopped talking, no one tried to include you. Conversations revolved around everyone else. You were a background character, a footnote in the story– no one worth noticing, and certainly not worth keeping you around.

You couldn’t do this anymore. You couldn’t keep listening to her say these things about you, no matter how true they may be. 

So, you ended it. “I have to go,” you said, your voice wobbly. Trying to hold back a flood of salty tears. 

“Why? I’m just telling the truth, there’s no need to be dramatic about it.” She said plainly, like she’d been talking about the weather instead of how unloveable you are. 

“Mom,” you said, harsher this time. “I have to go.”

“There’s no need to be so aggressive, “I’m just-”

You hung up.

You heard Lucy knock on the door, but you didn’t want to answer her. You knew she wanted the details, but you had nothing to give her. There wasn’t anything between you and Spencer anymore, there couldn’t be. It was impossible. Your mother showed you that much.

Square.

Too much.

Brash.

Too smart.

Not feminine enough.

He’d been right to ignore you this morning. Time didn’t matter anymore– it never had. 

Tick.

You smashed the clock, eager to see the bits scatter across your mind.

Tock.

—

You were walking to the bathroom when you heard it. Tear stains down to your neck, you froze. Tim’s voice. And Spencer’s. They seemed to be talking. Curiosity took over, and you crept closer, sure to be as silent as you could be. Spencer was engrossed in the case file, and watching him made your heart flutter a little. More tears. Why couldn’t you just sever ties with him and move on? You hadn’t even known each other for that long. Your heart couldn’t take looking at him anymore. You were about to turn away, continue your journey for tissues and a meeting with Sargent Gray to send you home– when you caught your name on Tim’s lips.

Spencer didn’t even look up. You felt another pang of sadness shoot through your body. You didn’t even know why you’d thought he liked you in the first place. 

‘For a genius, you can be pretty stupid.’ More of your mother’s words, more shards of glass.

“Someone told me that you two came in together this morning.” Tim started. Spencer didn’t even look up. Did he really have such little care for you? “-and our genius isn’t exactly being very talkative today.” Spencer nodded.

“Lucy wanted me to ask you if you like her.” Tim said.

‘This is it,’  you thought. You could barely breathe. This was the moment you’d find out if your mother was right or not. Your heart was pounding, your brain spinning with possibilities upon possibilities. Would he say yes? No? Maybe? ‘She’s a fucking bitch’? (Your dad’s words this time. How wonderful.)

He still didn’t look up. 

“No,” he said. “I don’t.”

Everything stopped again. This time, you felt the world of safety you’d built around yourself collapse. Your heart fully shattered. This was it. He’d been stringing you along the whole time. 

And Bradford, Tim fucking Bradford, had the nerve to laugh. Actually laugh. Laugh at your misfortune, your misery, laugh at all of it. Laugh because you were so stupid. So gullible. So worthless. 

“Really? He scoffed. “Of all people, I thought you would. Guess I was wrong.”

You couldn’t keep listening after that. You just couldn’t. You were about to scream, and that wouldn’t do you any good.

Maybe your mother was right. Maybe some people just weren’t made for relationships, no matter how badly they wanted them.

—

You spent fifteen minutes sobbing in the women’s bathroom. When you walked out, eyes puffy and skin blotchy, you remembered feeling like you were in a haze. You talked to Sergeant Gray, made up some excuse that you couldn’t recall.

You’re not sure how you got home. Oh well. Your keys are in your pocket, and your car’s in the parking garage. What more could you want?

You were watching something on TV, something mindless. You didn’t want to think. All you wanted was to pass out and never have to look Dr. Reid in the eyes again.

You thought about the night you spent together, and your chest ached. The movie. The everything. How important it was to you, and then about how worthless it had probably been to him. God, he was probably wishing the whole time that he could get rid of the crazy chick who was obsessed with him. You glanced back at the screen, wishing that this hadn’t happened. That you could go back in time and take it all back. The notes, the flirting– the almost kiss and the night wrapped around each other.

Nothing. Nothing. It all meant nothing– it had to mean nothing, you didn’t think you’d survive if it meant anything to you now. 

You fell asleep numb, cold, and alone.

Painstakingly alone, just like you always would be.

Just like you deserved.

a/n: originally, in fallacy, spence overheard reader saying that she had a boyfriend when she was talking to her mom. and reader overheard spencer saying that he liked someone, and she assumed it wasn't her. i could have done much worse /j.

The voicemails stopped coming after that. Spencer didn’t know why. You hadn't spoken to him in three days. Three days. He wasn’t even angry, just.. empty. Not empty in the way he usually was, but empty like something had been taken from him. Logically, he knew you had every right to pull away. After the case was over, he’d be gone. You’d likely never see each other again. So, like he’d told himself before, your absence made perfect sense. 

If it made perfect sense– if he could comprehend and decode it so easily– then why was he still upset? It seemed that, even with all his genius, Spencer Reid couldn’t grasp the concept of not wanting to feel alone again. He didn’t like it, he’d gotten used to the comfort and warmth your presence provided. Why you’d abruptly stop was.. Confusing, to say the least, even if he got the motivation behind it. 

But that wasn’t really it, was it? No, there was something deeper. If you simply wanted to cut any intricate emotional bonds before his departure, you’d be cordial. Not close, just… like two planets orbiting the same sun. Occasionally brushing by each other, saying hello, and moving on. 

This was different. You’d deliberately frozen him out completely, and he didn’t know why. 

Which, of course, meant he’d have to try to find out. 

—

He started with trying to speak to Officer Chen. All she did was give him a look, one he knew very well. One he actively despised, because no, he didn’t know what he did. Occasionally, you have to tell people how they made you upset before they can fix it!

Spencer wanted to scream. Genuinely, just yell until he couldn’t anymore. No one was giving him any answers, you hadn’t been to the station since Wednesday morning. You’d even left early on Wednesday because you were sick. Now, it was Friday, and he had neither seen you nor heard any answers. He’d tried calling you over the weekend, but quickly found that you’d blocked his number. It hurt him a lot. He didn’t know why you were treating him like this– like you never even cared in the first place. 

He supposed he hadn’t given you a reason to care. But in the grand scheme of things– god, he really thought there was something there. Something in the way you looked at him– how you spoke around him. The things you’d both dared to each other. He had hoped then that it amounted to something– that it mattered to you. Apparently, it didn’t, but that wasn’t going to stop him from trying to find out why. 

If not to fix whatever had gone wrong, then at least so he could have closure. 

—

You were wallowing in misery when you heard a knock at your door. It was late, far too late for anyone to be coming around. Which meant one thing: work was wondering where you were. Since you’d woken up that morning with your eyes practically glued shut (they were that puffy), you thought you’d put it into the system, but then again… in your sleep-deprived state, maybe you hadn’t. 

You opened the door to reveal none other than Tim Bradford. In civvies. Looking at you with a mixture of pity– and absolute rage? You couldn’t tell, you’d left your glasses in your bedroom when you woke up. (You’d even watched TV without them on– how tragic.)

He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, you cut him off.

“Shut up, Tim. If it’s about work, I don’t want to hear it.” You were still crying. You couldn’t stop. Instead of getting angry with you, or yelling at you, or telling you to just ‘do your job’, he… stayed there? At your door? With a box of tissues? “Leave-” you took a deep breath. “Leave me alone.” 

“No. That’s not what this is about.” he said firmly. “You’re upset, and it’s going to start affecting your work. I need to know why.” Ah. So that was what he was worried about. Work. All he ever worried about was work, and honestly, you were fucking sick of it. Sick of him pushing you around. 

“Is that it?” You asked, your voice high and volatile. “Well, Officer, if that’s why you came here, you can exit stage left. I don’t need superficial comfort right now.”

He paused and took a deep breath. “I know we haven’t exactly… gotten along very well. 

You laughed bitterly, scrubbing your eyes like that would fix your broken heart. “That’s the fucking understatement of the year,” you said. He paused, glancing at you incredulously.

“I haven’t been exactly nice to you either.” He continued, the tone of his voice beginning to stray into uncertain territory. It wobbled a little, but for a moment, it sounded like he was about to apologize.

Tim Bradford had never apologized to you in his life. 

“And… well. I should probably explain myself.” He rubbed his neck, the gesture a glaring sign of just how uncomfortable he was.

“Last year, uh. Shit really hit the fan in my life, and I’ve been taking it out on you. That’s not cool. And, uhm. I’m really sorry. It’s not an excuse or anything– I just thought that you should know.” His eyes seemed to be having an intense staring contest with the welcome mat outside of your apartment. 

You stared at him, unsure if you could be any more shocked.

“Did Lucy tell you to do this?” You asked, sniffling a little. You knew how stupid you looked, but frankly, you weren’t exactly in a state to give multiple fucks. You allowed yourself to give one, though, so you tucked your hair back behind your ears. There. One fuck given about your state of mind and body.

“I– not really. It was my idea.” His hands now sat awkwardly at his sides, like he was unsure of what to do with them. “I just asked her how I should say it.”

Oh. Well. Fuck that, fuck this, fuck life, actually, because everything sucked so much that it made his apology the sweetest thing you’d heard in the past 48 hours. Since you seemed to be incapable of regulating your emotions, it just made you cry harder.

“Hey– wait, did I say something wrong? Are you okay?” Both the concern for you and the fact that he wasn’t blaming you for having feelings was what fully opened the floodgates. They’d only been open a fraction, and this was what unleashed the full weight of everything you’d been keeping bottled up your whole life. 

‘Are you okay?’

In a perfect world, you would’ve said no. But this wasn’t a perfect world, no, it was full of broken glass and lost time and love that never even existed in the first place.

Everything– all of the emotion that had threatened to spill was pushed back inside you. Somehow, all of that circled and twirled in your mind, swishing around to form the words, “Yeah, I’m okay.”

He looked at you like you were crazy. Maybe he was right.

Tim opened his mouth, then closed it again. Kind of like the codfish scene from Mary Poppins, though the thought of Julie Andrews shoved another stake through your battered heart. ‘Fuck you, Spencer.’ you thought, because you were sure you’d never be able to watch The Sound of Music the same way ever again. All you’d be able to think about would be his hands, his voice, everything he’d said but never meant. Even the lady at the cash had seen it, for fucks sake– it had been real to you, and to everyone else. Just not real to the one person who actually mattered.

Dr. Reid.

Maybe you really weren’t destined for relationships.

“You don’t look okay,” Tim noted. ‘What a fucking observation!’ You thought. 

“Really? Wow, with those deductive skills, you should be promoted to detective!” You said sarcastically. He thought for a moment, tilting his head upwards. That wasn’t like Sp– Dr. Reid, who always looked down when he was thinking. You preferred not to think at all, especially right now.

“Okay. I deserved that.” He decided. You shot him another look. “More than that?” He asked. You nodded. “Much more.” You said.

“Uh. Do you want to order food and talk about it?” Tim sounded so kind. So… different. This wasn’t the harsh, annoyed man you knew. This was the version of Tim that Lucy admired.

“Depends,” you sniffled again. “Are you going to make fun of me?”

“I- no, of course not.” He sounded. He didn’t get to be offended. He didn’t get to be an asshole to you, then act like one apology would fix everything. It wouldn’t. 

“You’re not allowed to be offended by what I think of you. You’ve treated me like shit the entire time I’ve known you, and I did nothing to deserve that.”

He seemed to consider your point of view. “Yeah,” he said. “Okay.”

“But yes,” you caved. You couldn’t resist food, especially not now, when you felt like garbage. “I want food. Pizza. As much sodium as you can get me.” Tim didn’t know how much sodium a person could have. ‘Spencer would know.’ Your brain said, but you shut that down. You weren’t going to let yourself think about him in any sort of positive light whatsoever. ‘His name is Dr. Reid now,’ You chided yourself. ‘So that’s what we call him.’

After Tim finished ordering pizza, he sat down on your couch. It was clear from his posture that this was all very new to him. You wondered if he’d be able to hold himself back from trying to find a solution to all your Doctor Reid problems. You hoped he could.

“So,” he said. “What happened?”

You told him everything. About the movie, the night spent together, every little detail that you could recall spilled from your lips, splattering out into the space between you like paint to a canvas. By the end of it, you were crying harder than you’d cried in a long time. 

In a lapse of judgement, you decided to tell him about your mother, too. About the things she’d said. And, like an absolute idiot, you told him how it made you feel. ‘He probably thinks I’m manipulating him,’  You thought. 

“And then,” you hiccuped. “I heard what he said when you asked. That he- that he didn’t even like me.”

“So,” you continued, your voice still shaky, “all of that meant absolutely nothing. All of it.”

Tim didn’t say anything. You weren’t sure he knew what to say. 

When the pizza came, he gave you a pat on the back, $20 (“To buy something that would make this disaster worth it,” he had said,), and promptly walked out the door.

You ate alone, still crying, but at least you felt a little bit better.

—

Spencer was making coffee when the doors of the police station flew open. “What the hell is wrong with you?” He ignored the voice at first, assuming it wasn’t for him. Quickly, he found out that he was wrong when a firm hand hit the counter next to him. He turned, only to see the man beside him was none other than Officer Bradford.

“What’s wrong with me?” He asked. “I should say the same thing about you. What you said the oth-”

He held up a hand, and Spencer paused. Not out of obedience (he’d never do that for this man), but rather… curiosity. 

“You’ve screwed up now, Doctor.” He said, giving Spencer a bitter (and condescending) laugh that he didn’t appreciate.

Spencer cocked his head to the side. “What are you talking about?”

“You seriously haven’t noticed that she’s ignoring you? Aren’t you supposed to be a genius?” 

“I– I am, but what– how do you know that?” He asked. If someone had spilled about his predicament concerning you, he really hoped you hadn’t heard it yet. He really didn’t want to sound like some obsessed creep.

“Look, I might be an asshole sometimes, but that’s my job. You crossed the line. What you did– was absolutely disgusting. Don’t expect her to talk to you again. I wouldn’t if I was her.” Spencer opened his mouth to speak, to defend himself– to tell this man that he was completely lost. 

“Why do you care?” Spencer asked, but what he really meant was, ‘what’s going on? WHY IS NOBODY TELLING ME ANYTHING?’  “Don’t you two hate each other?”

“Oh, so just because we don’t like each other means I’m not allowed to be upset? You don’t get to treat people like shit just ‘cause you’re smart, Doctor. That’s not how this works.”

Spencer took a step back, absolutely bewildered. But his sudden confusion did not seem to deter Bradford. 

“You,” he said, punctuating the word like that would make Spencer understand what this was about– “you acted like you were fucking in love with her– hell, you actually went on a date!– and then you turn around, and tell me you don’t like her. Well, asshole, good fucking luck getting her back, because she heard every bit of it. I hope you’re happy.” 

“What,” Spencer said slowly, his voice deep. He leaned towards Officer Bradford. “-the fuck are you talking about.”

“On Wednesday!” He exclaimed, his voice exasperated. “I asked you if you liked her. You said no. She heard us. She heard all of it.” 

“Again,” Spencer’s voice was cold. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I would never say that, because–” he paused for a moment, unsure if this information was something he should reveal to the officer. “It’s not true.”

“Well, you did. Now you have to deal with the consequences of your actions.” He crossed his arms over his chest. Spencer was sure that it was just to seem more intimidating. ‘Well,’ he thought. ‘That doesn’t exactly work on profilers.’

“When did this happen?” Spencer asked. “Because I am–” he paused for a moment, calculating. “-89% sure that I did not say that.”

“You really don’t know?” Bradford paused for a moment, obviously assessing whether he thought Spencer was lying or not. “It was Wednesday morning. You were reading something, and I came in to ask you about why you came in together that morning.”

He… wow. Spencer didn’t even remember that conversation. “I never– oh shit. Shit.” 

“Yeah, you finally realize that you fucked up? Well, it’s too late for that now.” He started to turn away, but Spencer wasn’t done. 

“No– no.” Spencer rubbed his eyes. “I have to go.” ‘I wasn’t actually listening to you. I don’t know what you said.’  Spencer thought. There was no way that Bradford was going to actually believe him, they barely knew each other, every interaction they had consisted of him putting you down and then Spencer putting him down– and you’d told him all about everything you’d shared. ‘– hell, you actually went on a date!– ‘ ‘– hell, you actually went on a date!– ‘ ‘– hell, you actually went on a date!– ‘

Instantly, he knew. You thought of the movie as a date. 

He’d thought the same thing too, but he hadn’t told you because of how you’d reacted when you woke up in his bed the next morning. He thought that you’d realized that he was (for lack of a better word), a loser nerd and decided you wanted nothing to do with him. Maybe your heartbeat that night wasn’t a coincidence. Maybe he’d lost his only chance at making this something real– time be damned. 

The words swirled around his mind, with him trying to grasp at them like straws. Quickly, he pulled his car keys from his satchel and made his way to the parking lot. Before he got there, though, he realized that he didn’t know your address. 

He remembered something from a few weeks ago. You’d sent him another voicemail that night, when you’d gone out with Lucy. In it, you’d been ordering a taxi– and you gave the driver your address.

Spencer didn’t even need the GPS for directions; he knew the city roads like the back of his hand. 

And so, off he drove, into the night, praying to any god that would listen that he wasn’t already too late.