#records!reader

You gulp, hugging the two cups close to your chest, a thick, heavy brown overcoat—his—draped over your forearm. The lights are brighter up here, it smells faintly like citrus cleaner and someone’s too-strong cologne and nothing at all like what you’re used to.

Paper and dust and faded ink.

It’s loud too, far louder than you’re used to, the sounds of phones ringing and pens scribbling and people chattering that it feels like this is a whole other world. Like there’s no way this is the same building as the room you work in.

But you take a heavy breath and stick your leg out quickly as the doors begin to close before you can even make it off the elevator.

You feel horrendously out of place in this area full of suits and slacks and general business attire.

Your FBI badge hangs off your cardigan and you wonder, for a moment, with all of these people milling around you, if you even deserve to wear it.

You haven’t been anywhere above the main floor in six years, bar once.

Three weeks ago. Agent Hotchner of this very unit had requested your assistance on a case. But that was different—you were called up here, and he had met you at the elevator to lead you to the conference room himself.

Now? Now you’re here alone, nobody meeting you at the elevator because this is a non-bureau sanctioned visit to the BAU.

And it’s making you really fucking nervous.

But you grip at the handle of the heavy glass door with your pinky, pulling it open with your foot with a soft grunt to enter the bullpen.

It’s not that people stop and stare, really, but… but it’s awkward. Like, really awkward.

You imagine, from what you know about Dr. Reid, his desk is the one covered in stacks of books with a messenger bag propped against the side of it, but he’s not there.

Who does spot you, however, is Agent Morgan.

And you swallow roughly. Because he is openly staring at you with his brows raised so far up his forehead that you’d worry they’d get lost in his hair, if he had any.

He’s staring at you like someone just walked in dragging the fucking Loch Ness monster and simply said “Hey, I found her.”

You blink at him.

It’s a small miracle that Dr. Reid is approaching his desk again, sitting down and immediately scribbling something onto his file.

You don’t hesitate—not with Agent Morgan looking at you like that—and make a beeline for his desk.

Spencer blinks up at you, like even he’s shocked you’re up here. (He is. He doesn’t think Hotch called you up here again).

You don’t give him a chance to speak before you’re setting a cup down on his desk and drop his coat over his lap.

“You forgot your coat,” you mumble quietly. “And, uh, I got coffee. As a thanks for last night. I stopped by that place on Eighth you mentioned a while ago.”

His lips curl into a little smile, but you grab the lid off his cup before he can grab it, checking the contents before swapping it out for the one in your other hand. “Mixed them up,” you offer lamely, an embarrassed grimace on your face.

Spencer just huffs a soft laugh, taking a sip. Sweetness melts on his tongue and his eyes go slightly wide as he looks up at you. “You know how I take my coffee?”

You shrug. “You dumped four sugars into yours that one time,” you take a sip of your cup. “I just figured that’s your usual.” You remembered it, actually. He said he had a sweet tooth and you’d stored the information away for later use.

This is that later use.

He’s barely able to mumble out a thank you before you’re nodding and darting back out the glass door towards the elevator, slamming your palm on the down button.

You step inside and keep your head down as the doors close, sending you back eight floors down.

Morgan stares at him. “Oh hell no,” he says, dropping his folder onto his desk. “Did she just say ‘thanks for last night’ and walk in here with your coat?”

Spencer blinks, spluttering. “Wha- no! N-no, it’s not like that!”

“Oh, I see how it is, kid,” he cackles, leaning in. “You two kept warm, huh? Played a little basement survival?” His grin reaches ear to ear.

“I- Morgan, it wasn’t like that!” Spencer huffs, face redder than Garcia’s glasses of the day. “She didn’t have a ride home! I drove her. She was freezing, I didn’t- Nothing happened!”

Garcia chooses then to walk into the bullpen from her office, a wide grin on her red lips. “Did I just hear basement survival?” she stops beside Morgan’s desk. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

“You’re blushing, Spence,” JJ laughs, hardly looking up from the file on her desk.

Spencer falters. “I- I always blush,” he mutters, ducking his head to hide the obvious redness that’s flushed up his neck and cheeks and ears. “I have sensitive skin!”

Morgan leans back in his chair with a smug chuckle. “It’s always the quiet ones, huh? Records cryptid and the genius golden boy. Who’d have thought?”

Spencer just sighs, picking up the cup again and taking a long swig. “She just brought me coffee, okay? That’s not some secret code for anything.”

Garcia smiles coyly. “Oh sweetie,” she says, tone dripping with honey. “For you? That’s basically a marriage proposal.”

“It is not! JJ brings me coffee!” Spencer groans, gesturing to her with his hand.

JJ raises a brow. “I don’t leave a cave and come up from a basement for like, the third time this year just to do that though.” She still hasn’t looked up from her desk, once.

And Spencer just blinks. Okay, maybe it was a bit of a big deal, you coming up here. He knows you rarely leave B3 other than just coming and leaving work, but still. It’s not like it’s some deep, important, big thing, you were just… being nice.

Right?

He lifts the cup to his lips again with a quiet, heavy sigh, just to furrow his brows.

Scribbled in tiny font on the side of the red cup, is your handwriting.

i hope you weren’t too cold driving home. thank you for being kind.

And, oh. Just underneath is the shyest, sweetest little doodle of a snow cloud . Because of course.

He blinks, then just stares at it with a goofy little half-smile, picturing you writing it on the way over, and now he’s cradling this paper coffee cup like it’s made of solid gold, when Morgan approaches over his shoulder and snatches it out of his hand.

“OH MY GOD,” he howls, dramatically clutching at his chest with his free hand. “A HANDWRITTEN NOTE? Reid, you got a love letter from the basement dweller!”

“Morgan, give it back!” Spencer stands, lunging to flail and grab his coffee back, a deep furrow in his brow.

Penelope gasps, running over from her spot beside Morgan’s desk. “A love letter?! Oh, let me see!” she laughs.

“It’s not a love letter,” Spencer huffs. “It’s just a- a thank you, that’s all!”

“It is absolutely a love letter, kid,” Morgan cackles, holding the cup up above his head as Spencer reaches for it again. “Spencer Reid and goblin from the Archives. Sounds like a Netflix original,” he laughs again.

Spencer’s not laughing.

In fact, he’s pretty frustrated, honestly. Not only at Morgan stealing his coffee, but at the names he’s used for you.

Names that came from office gossip. Names you don’t like, but deal with anyway.

Records cryptid. Basement dweller. Goblin from the Archives.

It’s not nice, not kind, not what you deserve.

And he knows Morgan means nothing malicious by it, he knows that. Derek is kind. But he doesn’t know you, either. Nobody really does, that’s the problem.

“She’s not ‘the goblin from the archives’, or a ‘basement dweller’, or a ‘cryptid’, Morgan. She has a name,” Spencer huffs, crossing his arms. “Give me my coffee back. Please.”

And that shuts them up.

Because he’s not laughing, he hasn’t been laughing since Morgan grabbed his cup in the first place. It’s not funny anymore.

Derek nods, setting the cup back down on the desk before raising his hands with a soft sorry, kid before heading back to his own desk. Garcia offers a tiny smile of apology before backing into her office again.

Spencer sighs. He doesn’t mean to snap, really. He doesn’t like doing that. But you deserve to have people know your name.

And if he’s the one who has to remind people of that for you, because he knows you won’t do it yourself? Then yeah, he will.

It’s still enough to scare the hell out of you, though.

Your yelp is embarrassingly loud, and you bump your head on the open drawer above you, the sound of metal echoing through the room, bouncing off shelves.

“Sorry, sorry!” comes his voice immediately, full of wide-eyed concern as he steps into the doorway. “I really didn’t mean to startle you. Are you okay?”

You’re already scrambling out from behind a shelf, paperclips stuck to your cardigan and a pen in your hair somehow. You look wild and, frankly, you’re mortified.

“Dr. Reid!” you breathe, blinking at him like he’s a painting that suddenly walked off the wall. “Um, yes! I’m fine, it’s just—sorry, it’s a total disaster in here, I was just reorganizing by incident year instead of investigation date, and it sort of…” You wince, looking at the mess. “Escalated.”

Spencer looks around at the utter chaos. Drawers are open randomly, boxes filled with manila folders sit piled on the floor, sheets of paper and stacks of folders labeled in your handwriting scatter the concrete floor. It should be overwhelming, but honestly? He thinks it’s kind of amazing.

“You’re reorganizing the entire cold case section?” he asks, eyes wide.

You nod, nervously fidgeting with your sleeve. “I- It wasn’t in the new system,” you say quickly. “I just thought it might help, y’know… in the future. Make it easier to find them.” You shrug lamely.

Spencer just blinks at you. “...You did all of this by yourself?” He thinks there’s no way. The records room is massive; every single case file dating back to the FBI’s very inception is stored here. There’s no possible, conceivable way that the Bureau rests all of it on one person’s shoulders.

But you nod shyly, glancing away. “I like having a project,” you murmur, tucking your arms in close, crossing them over your chest.

And oh, the way you say that? Like you’re trying to shrink yourself down into nothing, trying to drown yourself in this paper sea of white and beige, like it’s a bad thing to be so smart and passionate and dedicated? He feels it in his chest. “That’s incredible,” he breathes out. He means it. “Really, it’s- it’s genius.”

Your eyes go fractionally wide, the barest hint of a smile twitching at your lips, startled and small. He smiles back. You blink at him like you don’t quite know what to do with the compliment, so you chew at your lip, quickly pivoting back to the task at hand. “Um—what were you looking for, Dr. Reid?”

And it actually takes him a second to remember. He mentioned needing a file, but he gave a fake reason; something to excuse himself from the bullpen and Hotch, and make his way to sublevel three. He could’ve just had it brought up, like always, but something was pulling him downstairs.

He feels… guilty, almost. He’s worked here for twelve years, and not once has he ever stepped foot on the floor beneath the parking garage.

It’s… a little jarring. How empty it is. The short hallway coming off the elevator is barren, all concrete and tile and a single sign reading “records archive”, as if it’s necessary when there’s only one door. The air in the hallway is immediately frigid, but the records room is warm. Too hot. Stuffy. He thinks it’s messing with his head because he can’t remember what he even came looking for. Him—with an IQ of 187 and an eidetic memory.

You’d been stuck in his head since Hotch had requested your assistance on a case a week earlier. He’d heard of you, of course, through the typical office gossip. The goblin that hides in the records room, who talks to the walls and thinks the people in the files are her friends. The mole-person living in the basement, who hasn’t seen sunlight since the Bush administration, the FBI’s very own cryptid. Some people just didn’t believe in your existence at all, insisting that you were some myth, a fable of the archivist who died in the records room, relegated to “haunting it for eternity,” using you as a reason to head home at the end of the day.

He never believed any of it anyway, he knows office gossip is just about as reliable as a conversation with the dead. But it’s the kind of thing that’s stuck with him. Because you seemed… painfully normal, when you were in the round-table room. Nervous, sure. Awkward, very. But certainly not a goblin, or a cryptid, or a mole-person.

Now all he wants to do is watch you, observe the work you’re doing, nearly forty feet below the rest of the FBI. He’s curious about how it all works, how you manage to handle all of this, entirely on your own. He wants to ask what your favourite case is, which ones broke your heart, which one you reread when you can’t sleep. He wonders if you’ve read his reports.

He swallows roughly. “I think I forgot,” he mutters, awkwardly adjusting the strap of his messenger bag.

You blink at him. “You… forgot the case you needed?” Your brows pinch in confusion, and oh. Spencer’s gone. He can feel it.

“I… get distracted easily,” he offers, and it’s almost smooth. Not quite. The lie stings at his tongue and he winces.

But you? You laugh. And it’s soft. It’s the first time he’s ever heard it, and oh, he already wants to hear it again. Endlessly.

He thinks it might be his new favourite sound.

Spencer clears his throat before he can spiral too far to get himself out. “I should, um,” he thumbs over his shoulder. “I should get back.”

You nod, gnawing on your lip. “For sure, uh,” you cough. “I’ll be here if you manage to remember that file you needed.”

He grins, pursing his lips together tightly before backing out of the room. He slams his palm on the elevator button and takes a breath.

You’re weird. He thinks he likes you.

***

You’re standing alone again, surrounded by a tornado of chaos. You blink at the now-empty space Dr. Reid was standing in.

You exhale shakily before allowing yourself a small smile, turning to the shelving unit again.

He’s weird. You think you like him.

Hotch left just minutes ago, reminding the team to head home before the storm hits.

Morgan followed, same with Garcia and Emily and JJ and Rossi hours ago.

And now… Spencer’s alone. He blinks at the clock on the wall. 7:12pm.

The office is nearly empty, just two agents still packing up at their desks, but he knows they’ll probably be gone soon.

And then he frowns. Because he knows you probably left before the rush of the evening crowd, you hate the crowds. But you’ve lost track of time before—many times, in fact, and instead waited for the end of the evening rush to head out.

But today he just has a… a weird feeling. Like something’s wrong, a tugging low in his gut that just won’t settle.

So he grabs his scarf and his messenger bag and heads onto the elevator, pressing B3 instead of G.

He watches the numbers drop on the screen as he descends three levels below the rest of the FBI.

As soon as the doors open—cold. Dry, stinging cold.

Like, actual, literal basement air-conditioning-in-February cold. The kind of cold that bites at your skin, sinks into your very bones and stays there.

And the hallway here is always cold but this- this makes Spencer tug his coat a little closer to himself.

He walks to the only door, peeking into the room labeled Records Archive like he has before.

“Hello?” he calls out. “Dewey? Are you still here?”

No answer.

Just the faint hum of the vents and the shuffling of paper and the clicking of the long-busted space heater.

Wait… shuffling of paper?

He steps in further, about to call out again when—

A sneeze.

He rounds the corner of a hulking shelf to find you curled up on the floor, huddled under three thick blankets with a coat on, boxes of files scattered around you like a little fort.

You look frozen—your poor nose. He’s half-convinced it’s about to chip like glass. Your lips are trembling, your fingers, gloveless and shivering, grip the folder in your hands tightly.

You’re actually shaking.

Spencer gapes at you, all shock and worry. “Oh my god,” he drops to a crouch, panicked and furrowing his brows tightly. “What are you still doing here? Why didn’t you go home?” There’s something not far off from horror in his voice. “It’s freezing down here.”

You blink at him, tired, a little hazy. Dazed, in a way. You look at him blearily, like you’ve just woken up from a nap. “Metro’s shut down.”

His brows don’t relax from their tightly knitted form. “Why didn’t you take a cab?” he asks, taking the folder out of your hands and setting it on a box nearby.

You shrug lamely. “…I don’t trust taxis.”

There’s a pregnant pause, Spencer eyeing you carefully. There’s a glint in your eye, one he doesn’t recognize. He sighs, fully dropping to a kneel now. His coat is wrapped tightly around him, and it’s really fucking cold in here, but he shrugs it off and drapes it over your shoulders anyway.

His hands rub gently up and down your upper arms, bringing some warmth to your body. “Do you trust me?” he asks softly, warm brown eyes peering into yours.

And it’s that that breaks you. Not the cold, not the incoming snow, not even this cold, dark, underground room.

It’s him. Just that look on his face, kind and earnest and concerned and—god, you don’t know if anyone’s ever asked you that before.

So you nod. Slowly, softly, hesitant, perhaps. But no less sure.

And he smiles, this soft, warm little thing that curls gently at his lips.

He moves to a crouch again, taking your trembling hands into his as he helps you stand from the ground. “Okay.”

You follow him out of the records room slowly, quietly, his hand hovering just over your back. You’re wearing your own coat with his still draped overtop, having shrugged off the blankets and left them in a heap on the floor. You’re going to have to clean up tomorrow.

You feel warm, though. For the first time, perhaps, in this frigid hallway of sublevel three.

His hand brushes yours gently in the elevator, just once. Just enough.

You don’t pull away.

You’re walking out of the lobby and towards the parking lot when he speaks up. “You don’t trust cabs?” he asks softly, curiously. There’s no interrogation in his voice, just genuine wonder.

You shake your head silently. You haven’t for a long time. Too risky. Too personal. Too dangerous.

He smiles warmly, opening the passenger side door of his car for you. “I’d like it if you would tell me, one day. Why, I mean.”

You blink up at him, seating yourself in the car. “You want to hear?”

Spencer just looks at you like you’ve said something ridiculous, preposterous, like you shouldn’t have had to ask. “Of course. It’s you.”

You’re silent as he rounds the car and starts the engine.

He drives you home in his little beat up Volvo, heater on full blast, the softest tones of Bob Dylan’s Shelter from the Storm coming from the radio.

You almost laugh at the irony of it all, but he’s already pulling into an empty spot in your building’s parking lot, and you’re about to get out when he’s turning off the ignition and getting out of the car himself.

You blink in confusion as he rounds the front of the car, opening your door for you. He helps you out with a warm, gentle hand in yours and you just… stare up at him.

Spencer simply shrugs. “I’d like to walk you up, if that’s alright,” he says plainly. “Just make sure you get inside okay.”

The snow’s falling a little heavier now, the big white flakes landing in his fluffy hair and on his shoulders and, oh.

He looks pretty like this.

You just nod, pushing the thought away as a tiny hint of a smile tugs at your lips as you lead him upstairs.

You unlock and open your apartment door and he looks around.

It’s… sparse. Empty. Quiet.

Bare walls, but cozy corners. There’s a thick blanket on the back of the couch and stacks of books on the floor. Historical prints, file boxes used as bookshelves, a cup of tea half-drunk on the coffee table, a mahogany throw pillow on the chair.

He stares for a moment. Then smiles. “It’s nice,” he says, hands nervously wringing at the strap of his messenger bag.

You blink at him, turning around to face him. “Really?” you ask, brows furrowing in veritable confusion.

“Mhm,” he nods, still smiling. That kind of soft, shy, sideways smile that reaches his eyes and nowhere else. The kind he gets when he’s being totally genuine. “I don’t know. It feels like you.”

And really- it should be an insult. This place is barren.

But… it is you, isn’t it? Little else but papers and history and warmth? Browns and greys and all comfort and home?

You smile up at him, shy and a little nervous. “Thank you, Dr. Reid. For the ride.”

He nods. “I wanted to, honestly.” He huffs a laugh. “I can’t believe you were going to stay in the records room.”

You wince. “Yeah, maybe a bad idea in hindsight.”

“It was really cold down there.”

“I know. Thank you again,” you smile.

He backs up a step. “Anytime, really.” His eyes glance to the elevator. “I’ll um,” he clears his throat. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

You nod shakily. “For sure. I’ll see you then.”

And when you close the door, your little apartment feels just a tad warmer than it did last night, even as the weather rages outside.

But you pause as you’re toeing off your shoes.

Spencer’s coat still rests on your shoulders.

You fling the door back open and peek down the hallway but- he’s gone.

You sigh. You really will have to see him tomorrow.

And somehow, the thought makes you smile.

He adjusts them one final time as the doors open, the screen reading B3 in red LED.

The hallway of sublevel three is cold and quiet, and he just makes sure to check his posture as he makes his way to the only door.

Records Archive, it reads.

Your lair.

He knocks softly on the doorjamb, watching as you peek your head around the corner of a massive shelf.

“Doctor Reid?” you blink, stepping into view, a collection of manila folders in your arms. “Can I help you with something?”

He smiles slightly, a nervous little thing as he holds up the tray higher, stepping forward to set it down on your messy desk. “Not right now,” he looks at you. “I just, uh. I brought coffee.”

You blank at him, stepping forward slightly. “Why?” you ask, brows pinching in confusion. “I didn’t ask you to.”

He pauses. Then purses his lips, nodding slowly. “I know. I just thought- I don’t know,” he shrugs. “Maybe you might like a cup? You know, instead of the cheap stuff they have from the coffee vending machines here. I stopped at that place on Eighth on my way in.”

You nod, as if you have any idea about that place on Eighth, as if you’ve ever even been on Eighth at all. You step closer, now, eyeing the tray and him like they’re things you’ve never seen before, studying both him and the cups.

“I didn’t know what you like,” he coughs. “So I got a dark roast and a latte, just in case. And uh,” he points at the collection on the empty section of the tray. “I brought a bunch of sugar and cream packets, in case you wanted them.”

You look from the drinks to him, a small, hesitant smile growing on your lips. You reach for the latte with one hand, setting down the folders with the other. You bring the cup to your lips, sipping it before your eyes widen involuntarily. “This is really good,” you whisper.

Spencer nods, a tiny grin tugging at his lips as he tears open four sugar packets at once, dumping them in the dark roast. You watch him strangely. “You… like sweet coffee, Dr Reid?” you ask with a short laugh.

He blinks, bringing the cup to his lips. “Yeah,” he says simply, “I have a bit of a sweet tooth.” You simply nod, like you’re storing the information away, before taking another sip.

“I think I should check out this mysterious place on Eighth,” you grin slowly. “Their lattes are really good.”

He smiles slightly, nodding back at you, watching as you flip open the files. He stuffs his empty hand into his pocket nervously, looking around at the room. It isn’t the first time he’s been down here, but it amazes him every time. “Are you busy?”

You sigh. “I guess? But not really. I’m just going through some old files I think might be of use to the CARD team, based on the abduction they’re looking into right now,” you nod at the stack of folders you put on the desk moments ago. “I like to be prepared, so…” you shrug.

Spencer nods again, taking another sip of his coffee. “It’s impressive,” he mumbles, eyes raking over the massive shelves of paperwork and files. “Your work. What you do.”

You shrug shyly, curling into yourself. “I dunno,” you laugh. “It’s just paperwork.”

He shakes his head. “It’s more than that. I’m- honestly I’m stunned by it. You personally manage all of the Bureau’s physical files on your own. I didn’t really believe it when I heard they didn’t have a whole team down here, but you…” he exhales. “You’re pretty… incredible, you know?”

You blink, eyes widening. “Really?”

Spencer just grins brighter, a little shy around the edges, but earnest. “Yeah. Really.”

“Did you want to, um,” you thumb over your shoulder. “Look through them with me?”

He nods, following you to the shelf as you pick up the folders again. You sit on the cold concrete floor, crossing your legs, and Spencer sits beside you.

You drag a box over, heaving a bit at the weight of it. “This is the box of casefiles I sorted out, all to do with kidnapped children in the Philly and general Pennsylvania area. I figured it might be helpful to the CARD case, but,” you shrug. “It’s a lot, and I dunno if any of it will even end up being useful for them.”

Spencer blinks at it. “Uh, okay. Do you know the details of their current case?”

You sigh, shaking your head. “Unfortunately I am not privy to any details until a case is over and I organize the files. I just know it’s about an eight-year-old boy who was abducted in the middle of the day in Philly. I think he was blond, but don’t quote me.”

Spencer nods. He reaches into the box for the first file, and speeds through their details, setting aside files that could be useful, and putting the ones that wouldn’t be into a separate pile.

He jumps when a voice booms through the room and he swears for a moment he just heard god.

“BAU to records, is Doctor Reid with you?” Hotch’s voice thrums from the wall.

You hardly blink. “Yes he is. Did you need him back?”

“Yes, we have a case. Thank you. Hotchner over.”

You smile at him. “Thanks for your help, Dr Reid,” you say, watching as he stands from the floor. “And thanks for the coffee.”

He nods, picking up his nearly-empty cup. “Uh, no problem.” His eyes scan the room. “Where did that come from, by the way?”

You quirk a confused brow, lips downturning to a small pout. “Where did what come from?”

“The… booming voice of Hotch?”

You cover your mouth as you laugh. “It’s the PA system,” you point at it. “There’s no cell service down here, so I rewired it when the landline started getting fuzzy. It took me a weekend, but,” you shrug. “It works.”

His lips part slightly. “You… rewired it?”

You nod slowly, like he might be stupid or something for not understanding your words. “Yeah…? Is that, like, unusual or something?”

He blinks, shaking his head. “No, just,” Spencer exhales. “You’re very impressive, Dewey.”

You freeze, brows furrowing. “You just called me Dewey.”

Spencer grins, a little bold, a little playful, less shy than usual. “I know.”

“Like… like the Decimal System?”

He nods. “Exactly, Dewey,” he chuckles. “But I really do have to go.”

You wave him away with a warmth in your cheeks. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Um,” you swallow tightly. “Sorry for, uh,” you cough softly. “Keeping you, Dr Reid. I didn’t mean to hold you up.”

He just shakes his head, like you weren’t, really. And when he leaves, stepping into the elevator and pressing the sixth floor, he has a grin on his face so wide that he just knows he won’t be able to explain it away when Morgan asks.