Sanctuary
A/N:Â i loved this fic request! Requests are always open :)
Summary: Reader is having a bad case of imposter syndrome, but luckily her boyfriend knows just how to help.
tw: none, pure fluff   word count: 2.1k
masterlist
You sat at the kitchen table, head in your hands, staring at your laptop screen. Itâs like it was taunting you, lines and lines of words and symbols mocking your inability to fix them. All you had to do was find the error in the code, a task youâve done a million times. But this time it seemed utterly impossible. The software was due in two days and it was your first solo project and you wanted to impress everyone, finally prove your worth to the company. The pressure was on and it had to be perfect. You needed it to be perfect. But it wasnât even close to perfect. In fact, every time you launched it, it crashed; leaving you to stare at your reflection in the screen, making you want to give up and cry.Â
You knew how to fix it, you always know how to fix it. Youâre who everyone comes to to fix it, but you were too nervous to even begin typing. If you failed, youâd be proving everyone who doubted you right. The thought made you nauseous. Youâd be proving that every misogynistic a-hole teacher you had in college who said âsoftware isnât a womanâs jobâ to you right. All the men at the startup would chuckle at your failure and say something rude like âsee? thatâs what we get for letting a woman do the work.â Youâd be ruining the chances of any other woman who interviewed. Most of all you were terrified of failing and letting yourself down, letting everything you worked for go to waste. Maybe everyone was right; software isnât a womanâs job. Deep down you knew you were being irrational, but the thoughts just wouldnât stop.Â
You kept staring into the abyss of numbers and symbols, going through every letter in every line. Was it in HTML? JAVASCRIPT? Neither? Suddenly you couldnât tell the difference.Â
âY/N?â Your boyfriend said opening the front door of your shared apartment, âWhat are you doing up? Itâs 1 am.â
You didnât look up at Spencer, too fixated in trying to decipher your work to acknowledge him. How was it already 1 am? Youâd been sitting there for hours and had done nothing. Â
Spencer waved his hand in front of your face, âY/N?â
No response, you just stared into the code getting more and more hypnotized by it, entering some sort of strange trance.Â
âY/N!â He said more forcefully this time, causing you to blink and look up at him.Â
âWhat?âÂ
âWhat are you so stressed about?â
You broke eye contact then and brought your lower lip in between your teeth, âStressed? Iâm not stressed!â
A lie. A very obvious lie. Which Spencer knew, because reading you like a book was high on his never-ending list of talents.Â
âReally? Youâre not stressed?â He sounded half amused.Â
You shook your head, âNope, never been more calm in my life.â
He chuckled, âThen maybe you should stop chewing on your lip and lower your shoulders, theyâre practically at your ears.â He moved behind you and pressed his hands against your shoulders, lowering them for you. He took his thumbs and rubbed the knots that formed there, âNow, Angel, tell me, what are you so stressed about?â
Again, you didnât answer. He thought heâd catch your attention by using your favorite term of endearment, but instead you just turned your attention back to the screen.Â
Spencer didnât understand, he never would. If you google âgeniusâ a picture of Dr. Spencer Reid is what comes up. With an IQ of 187, the ability to read 20,000 words per minute, three doctorate degrees and three bachelors degrees all by the ripe old age of 30, there is quite literally nothing he canât do. Except maybe ten push ups, he could probably get to 9. He was a child prodigy and CalTech graduate. You went to public school and a college with a 70% acceptance rate. He was recruited to the FBI at twenty-two. When you were the same age you were a college senior getting trashed at a different bar every Thirsty Thursday. He spends his work days catching killers and saving lives, and you spend yours typing away at a computer hoping something works out.Â
Being with him was simultaneously the best and worst thing for your self esteem. Sure he made you feel loved, appreciated, beautiful, important, but he also made you feel stupid. Not on purpose of course, it just seemed like he was better than you at everything, even the things you thought you were best at. Thank god heâs a technophobe, if he knew his way around a computer better than you that would be the last straw. Oftentimes you wondered why he even wanted to be with you when you so clearly were not on his level, and when there are so many people who are. Heâs smart and handsome and could have his pick of the bunch, so why did he pick you?Â
âYou know, 83% of workers in the US feel stressed out in their jobs, itâs totally normal. Iâm stressed all the time at my job,â He said, trying to coax you out of the shell you crawled into. It didnât work, instead you went through the lines of code again mumbling to yourself that it looked perfect, so what was wrong with it?Â
âCan I help? Let me see,â He asked. He didnât wait for a response, and reached over to turn your laptop towards him.Â
âNo!â You yelped, and snatched the laptop away from him. You couldnât have him help you, you couldnât let anyone help you. If anyone helped you then it wouldnât be your achievement. This was one thing you had to do alone.Â
He sighed and put his hands up in defeat, âAlright alright, I know Iâm not a computer whiz. I just want to help.â
âI donât need your help,â You snapped, getting frustrated with him now. Why couldnât he just let it go? Why did he always have to try and help? You knew the answer was because he loves you and wants to make you happy, but your judgement was too clouded to see that. You huffed out angrily, trying to suppress the hot, frustrated tears that were threatening to spill over. Â
Spencer slid into the chair next to you and gripped your shoulder, âY/N...Angââ
You turned to him and cut him off, âWhat? You think I canât do this on my own? Donât you?â
He just took the jab in his stride. âI know you can do it on your own,â he grabbed your hands from the keyboard and held them between his, forcing you to stop for a moment and just be with him.
âTalk to me.â
You waited a moment before conceding, âOkay fine, the software is due in two days and Iâve been working on it for weeks and it still isnât perfect. Something is wrong with it and I canât find it and if I canât fix it then Iâm just proving to everyone that I canât handle this job and that Iâm stupid and incapable of doing anything on my own and then Iâll get fired because thereâs newer, smarter kids coming into tech everyday and all the men at work will never take another girl seriously again and then after I get fired and end up homeless youâll realize that Iâm actually stupid and useless and that you can do it wayyyy better than me anââ
âWoah slow down,â He interrupted your rambling. You were staring at the floor, hands still trapped between his two much larger ones rendering you useless. He let you go, hands coming up to your cheeks and forcing you to look at him. They were calloused but soft, and his eyes demanded your attention, darting all over your face to read your expression. He poked his tongue out of the right side of his mouth, the same way he has a hundred times. You softened a little into his touch.Â
âI think you have imposter syndrome.â
You pulled back, âWhat? Donât you dare try to diagnose me or profile me Spencer Reid.â
He ignored you and started into his own ramble, much like the one you had just finished, âItâs a collection of feelings of inadequacy that persist despite evident success. 'Imposters' suffer from chronic self-doubt and a sense of intellectual fraudulence that override any feelings of success or external proof of their competence. It was first documented in the 70s by successful working women who felt like they had âfooledâ everyone into thinking they were intelligent.â
You looked at him even weirder now, your eyebrows scrunching together, âOh?â
âItâs very common in the tech industry because of how fast paced it is.â He said it all so matter-of-factly.Â
âI-I donât think so. Thatâs not me.â
âThink about it Y/N. It makes sense!âÂ
It did. It made perfect sense. It explained the constant questioning and anxiety. It explained why you donât ask for help or offer up an opinion at meetings. It explained why you had jumped from failing a project to being homeless like it was the natural progression of things. AÂ âdiagnosisâ, if you even could call it that, shouldâve made you feel better about everything, but it didnât.Â
âI just feel like I donât deserve anything I have. I-I donât even know how I got here Spence! Like how did I manage to convince everyone that Iâm talented enough to do this on my own!â
He let the words marinate between you. Then it all clicked in your head; you sounded exactly like those women in the 70s.Â
âYou just proved my point, Angel.â
You glared at him, âOkay hereâs another example. I donât deserve you. You just got home from a long day of saving lives and being a genius crime fighting machine and instead of getting some damn sleep you have to console me because Iâm over here crying like an idiot because some code wonât run.â
Spencerâs hand came under your chin, forcing you to look at him again, âYou donât know how much you do for me, do you?â
You just shook your head, genuinely not knowing what he meant.Â
He smiled, the corner of his mouth turning up just a little, âYes I am a life-saving crime-fighting genius, but without you I wouldnât be able to cope.â
âReally?â You sniffled.Â
âYeah, Angel, really. I spend all day looking pure evil in the face, and without you to come home to and talk to Iâd be trapped in my head all day, thinking of what I couldâve done better. Youâre my safe space. Without you Iâd probably go insane,â He tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear.Â
You smiled now. You believed him; Spencer isnât one to lie, âAnd youâd have no social life.â
He laughed, âHey! Iâd have a social life.â
âWho? Henry and Jack?â
He laughed, âYouâre right, Iâd have no social life.â
You stood up then and he followed suit. You threw your arms around his slender frame and nuzzled into the crook of his neck. Spencerâs shaggy brown hair tickled your cheek but you didnât mind. All that mattered was his heartbeat and breathing. You were his sanctuary, and he was yours. When either one of you would dive head first into the deep end, the other would be waiting there to catch you. Tonight it was his turn.Â
And catch you he did, into a loving kiss, holding you close to him. When you pulled away he planted another kiss on your forehead and mumbled into your hair, âTrust me, you keep the internet world running. Without you weâd all be lost.â
You sighed and thanked him, happily sitting in front of the laptop now. All your fears had been pushed away. You knew they would resurface eventually, but right now it felt like you were unstoppable. With two simple corrections you tried to run the code and it worked perfectly.Â
âSee!â He cheered, squeezing your shoulders again, âYou deserve the world, Angel.â
You stood up and jumped into his arms for another hug, wrapping your legs around his waist, his arms holding you up.
âYou may be a life-saving, crime-fighting genius Dr. Reid, but I am a bad-ass, intelligent, woman who codes at the top of a male dominated field.â
He smiled then, pride practically beaming out of him, âWell, Iâd say weâre a perfect match.â










