#waldorf!reader

He knows from experience that observing allows you deep insight into people, and so he knows after two semesters that you’re perhaps the most competitive out of the entire team, the most hungry for a win. This drive, he suspects, comes from a deeply rooted desire to prove yourself, though he’s unsure why. What else do you have to prove? You have everything, as far as he’s concerned. Keenly intelligent, beautiful, with a circle of friends that adore you. You aren’t like him, who has to sink his claws deep into this debate team in order to get a dose of social interaction. No, you have a life, no matter how marblesque you may seem.

And yet, somehow it’s still not enough for you.

He thinks it’s utterly ridiculous, and absolutely fascinating.

The weekend of nationals is taxing. You’ve been fighting for the opener role since the semis, but it would require too much adjustment, which no one is willing to risk so close to nationals. Not only does he not want to give up his spot, he also knows how ruthless you can be as a rebuttal speaker. He's meek, and you have a tendency to be aggressive, it's why the original roles go so well. 

Your adviser agreed, and there’s been tension ever since. 

To make matters worse, hotel arrangements somehow have placed both of you in the same room. The force of your resentment is palpable even to a normally clueless guy like him. Distracting. Pages being turned in your exaggerated annoyance. He’d complain of dramatics, but he doesn’t want to start anything. 

The fact that you’re rooming together also doesn’t help him. Sure, there are different beds, small twin mattresses on either side of the room, but still. Proximity to a woman his age has him anxious for reasons entirely unrelated to nationals. 

So when you lose the championship, his concern for your reaction behind doors overwhelms the regret of losing. 

No one is happy with the results. It is obvious from the set of his jaw, the tenseness of your shoulders. Spencer tries to calm down, accept defeat with a modicum of grace, at least in front of other people. He can tell the rest of the team is trying too, but quite unconvincingly. Onstage, accepting the medals for second place—mockingly silver, and no trophies—the team’s smiles are forced, plastic. 

Back to the hotel rooms are a different story. When you slam the hotel door shut, it echoes down the hall and makes even your debate adviser flinch. It would have made Spencer flinch too, if he hadn't already expected it. He's grown accustomed to how bad of a loser you can be. Like a tornado, your anger spares no one from its destruction. It is in these moments that your stoic resolve crumbles, no longer unfeeling, but rather fully human. Hurtful. Ruthless Unfortunately for him, he's directly in your line of fire.

He catches bits and pieces of your muttered diatribes. He’s used to those too. Normally, he would have ignored them. Losing sucks the energy out of a person, regardless of how uncompetitive he is. Besides, your ranting is mostly harmless, until one sentence snags his attention.

“— knew I should have been the opening speaker —”

He is clawing at his tie, trying desperately to get it off, but the words make him stop immediately. He whirls around, brows furrowed, “What?”

You pause as well, “What?”

“What did you say about being the opening speaker?” He watches you roll your eyes. It does nothing to calm the bitterness in the back of his throat. The normal song and dance goes like this: he’d say a string of words in an attempt to soothe the fire burning in your nerves, and you'd say something so vitriolic he'd refuse to speak to you for the rest of your time together. 

But today, having just lost the biggest championship after working so hard, he's a short fuse and your words are incendiary.

“I said I should have done it, like I asked—”

“Ah, as usual, you're mad that you didn't get what you wanted.” 

An offended scoff. He's almost proud he managed to pull that out of you. “You take too long—”

“Nationals isn't the time to suddenly alter the roles,” he tells you, shaking his head. He manages to loosen the tie, finally, tossing it on his bed with so much aggression it misses the mattress and lands limply on the floor, “I've always been the opening speaker.”

“Yes, and one would think that after going through so many debate competitions,  you would learn to be more succinct,” you snap, shoes making harsh clacks against the tiled floor, “The goal isn't to let us know you're the smartest person in the room, Spencer, it's to set up the tone and groundwork of—”

“I don't need you to lecture me about being the opening,” he interrupts, “I know what my role requires of me.”

“Do you?” Eyes flashing, you walk to him until you're almost chest to chest, “Because we still lost.”

“And you blaming me?” he hisses, leaning down. He hates doing this, stooping to your level of pettiness. Normally, he would choose to be the bigger person, refusing your verbal sparring; he likes to focus his energy on the actual debate, the opposing team, not his own teammates. But your words cut deeper than normal; it isn't the fault the team lost, that's just a flat out lie, “We advised you multiple times to memorize the statistics—”

“Something you're better at!” You look physically pained to admit his superiority, but the words spill anyway, “You'd be so much better to do the rebuttals since you have your stupid photographic memory, and I can set the tone better, but nobody on this little boys club ever listens to me!”

He's surprised at the choked tone your voice has taken. In his mind, you're a complete equal—you made it to the team through hard work and impeccable skills, like the rest of them did, after all. It didn't matter that you are a woman to him, so of course his instinct is to deny. “That’s not true.” but even his voice sounds weak. 

How would he know if it’s not true? He’s never been in your shoes before, never had to reckon with what comes with being the only woman in a team of men.

“Isn’t it?” he flinches at the venom in your voice, “You all act like I'm an afterthought—I get the shittiest positions even when I know I can be more effective in a different one, no one ever asks me for strategy, hell, you never invite me to your stupid chess games.”

His mouth opens and closes foolishly, latching on to the one thing he has a full response to, “I thought you hate chess.”

A sharp laugh, petulant and bitter, “I do, but it would have been nice to be included.”

He doesn’t know what to say. You’ve turned around, yanking off your pristine maroon blazer so roughly he’s afraid it might rip. The silence that grows makes him itch, hands balling into fists as he tries to think of what to do. Social dynamics have always been a thing of mystery to him. 

He wonders if he is part of this problem. He’s no stranger to feeling different and on the outs, and it pains him to think that he inadvertently caused someone else to feel that same, unpleasant exclusion.

But, no. Quickly, he recalls every single time he’s tried to include you—a museum trip that you’d declined because you had a party you wanted to attend. His extra tickets to the Nutcracker.

“That’s not true,” his voice is firm now, following you until he’s standing right behind. Lavender hits his nose and his brain registers the scent of your shampoo. Definitely too close if he can smell that, but he refuses to back away, intent on getting his point across, “That’s not true, I’ve tried to— you were always too busy.”

“What, I’m a liar now?” you spin around, pretty features twisted to somehow express both anger and hurt. He almost falters. Almost. 

But he’s too worked up, even though he knows he should back off, to not trivialize your experiences in order to defend himself. He should know better than this, but the sting of your accusation spurs him on. So he pushes, eyes narrowing, “Last year, September 14, 21, and 29, I invited you to come with us for several casual chess tournaments, you declined all invitations because you claimed you hated chess. October 29th, I told you about the new exhibit they were displaying—”

“It was Halloween weekend, I already had plans—”

“December 19th, I offered you Nutcracker tickets and you said you’d already seen it—”

“I have,” your voice has grown quiet now, and if he stops speaking for a single moment to look, your features have relaxed into something gentler. But he’s on a roll, and you have always been right about things; his inability to be succinct is one of them.

“Even this year, I invited you to study multiple times, but you’ve always had prior plans,” the words are spoken with neutrality. He isn’t even angry anymore, just eager to list everything down and let you know how hard he’s tried with you. Even after the numerous rejections, he’s made an effort, but of course, you have other friends, other plans outside your nerdy debate team. He’s never held that against you, but if you wanted to point fingers, he has the means to defend himself. And sure, he wants to prove you wrong on some level too, but that’s the lesser point. “Maybe if you stopped acting like you’re better than me, and just accepted, you wouldn’t be feeling so excluded.”

“I don’t act like I’m better than you.”

“You just said you would have made a better opening speaker.”

You scoff, “Oh my god, you’re infuriating, I can’t believe I’m stuck with you!”

Spencer bristles at that, “I’m giving you the facts, it’s not my fault you can’t handle them.” he says, leaning closer, trying to make her see his point, “You’re always so closed off and the other guys have just given up trying. Maybe if you—”

“What? If I smiled more? Acted less like a bitch?” you sneer, eyes narrowed dangerously, “I thought a genius like you would know better than to use misogynistic language like that.”

“Wha— no! Don’t put words in my mouth.” Spencer replies, shaking his head. The conversation is devolving into something dangerous, the air crackling with something electric. He assumes it’s anger. They will never get anywhere, so he sighs, softening slightly, “I never said that. I’m just pointing out that you weren’t blameless in this, you know?”

You’re silent. He watches you, takes in how the resentment in your eyes have been dulled by something more contemplative.

He continues, “Listen, I’m sorry if we’ve made you feel like you were on the outs. I’m sure we have to do so much reflection as a team and as individuals about how we treat each other, but it’s unfair to say that we never include you when I have actively been making efforts to—”

Your lips are upon him. 

That’s inaccurate. 

You are upon him, arms flung around his neck, body pressed flush against his. He feels the entire world tilt, and he’s unsure if it’s because you’re pulling him down or because your lips are so pillowy he’s instantly eager for more. Wants it like a man starved. Needs it, needs more, but his body betrays him. Whether it’s his inexperience or surprise or a combination of both. He freezes, blinking rapidly at the sight of you. Eyes shut, and face so close to him; so, so close he can count each individual eyelash, see the tiny freckle on your eyelid that gets hidden if your eyes are open.

And then you're gone. The freckle disappears as you look at him with wide eyed mortification. 

“Shit, Spencer, I—”

It’s his lips that cut you off this time, seeking out the velvety warmth of your mouth. Your lips part under his, and he registers a sound, soft and whining. It takes him a moment to realize it came from him, from the back of his throat and muffled by your lips and tongue and oh you’re both falling.

Literally. He must have leaned too far into you; you’re suddenly collapsing, forcing him down because your arms have him in a vice grip and he’s too busy chasing after your lips. The next thing he knows is he’s on top of you and you’re sprawled on the bed beneath him. Time stands still; he’s painfully aware of how cliche that is, but every sense of eloquence seems to have been expelled from his brain as he takes you in; lips swollen and wet from his kisses, pupils blown wide. Every breath you take pushes your chest up against his, and he can feel your heart thrumming against his body. 

“Well, that was one way of shutting you up,” you chuckle with a cockiness that makes his heart speed up, though it isn’t borne out of embarrassment. Every single physiological effect of your body is evidence that you’re enjoying this, telling him you’re just as worked up as he is. The breathiness in your voice, the quickness of your heartbeat. 

The fact that you’re pulling him down again, legs hooking around his hips. He surrenders to it, lips meeting yours once again, deeper and more desperate this time.

He closes his eyes, relishing this, kissing you, touching you, an act he had believed is reserved for attractive jocks and charismatic art nerds. Not him, quiet and lanky, shifting to avoid his angular bones from digging into you, and to place himself more comfortably on the bed. Inexperienced, ungainly, and yet here he is, his tongue pushing into your mouth in his first forays into something that his peers have experienced years ago.

Spencer Reid isn’t used to being the one behind, doing the catching up. Child prodigy, genius, the words aren’t meaningless. He’s been ahead academically—which, up until this point, has been his whole life. But feeling warm lips beneath his own has him reconsidering some of his life choices. 

The kiss is messy. Sloppy from his clumsy attempts to keep up with your eagerness. You’re tugging at something, and he realizes it’s to untuck the rest of the crisp shirt you’ve donned for the debate tournament out from your skirt. His hands settle on your waist, finding smooth, heated skin from where your shirt has ridden up. Careful fingers help push it up, burying under the fabric until his palms are mapping out the slopes of your body. 

Soft. So damn soft. 

Not cold marble after all. He theorizes you must be soft everywhere, and he decides to test it out with his lips, laving kisses along your jaw, down the sweet, musky skin of your neck where your perfume still lingers. Instincts take over and he allows himself a taste, tongue darting out. You shudder, so he does it again, greedy for your pretty moans and gasps. 

He can’t help the smile that tugs at his lips, “Thought you were mad at me?” he mumbles, trailing his kisses down the column of your throat. 

You’re all mhms and ohhhs right now, so far from the usual image you present to the world, a preppy, manicured woman who wrestles for control over everything. You must hate this, he thinks, being beneath him physically, caged within his arms which are deceptively strong for how fragile he looks. 

“Shut up,” you grumble.

“Make me.” His grin is dopey when he lifts his head to meet her gaze.

Something brushes against his crotch, and now he’s the one gasping, jerking in surprise at the friction. You’ve slotted your thigh between his, and his traitorous body responds by grinding down on it shamelessly. The look on your face is smug, triumphant.

“Huh,” saccharine and mocking, you blink up at him innocently, “That was easier than I thought.”

His head drops to your neck again, but he isn’t kissing you anymore. Just open mouthed breathing as he rubs himself on your thigh, hands tightening on your sides, “Mhm.”

“Are you gonna come? Spencer, I haven’t even touched you yet.”

He sinks his teeth into your flesh to fight the needy whines because yes, he’s so embarrassingly close and you’re both still fully dressed. He hears a hiss, and he backs off immediately, murmuring apologies, “Didn’t mean to—”

“‘S okay,” you tilt your head back, give him more access to your neck, “Just don’t leave marks.”

Permission to bite. He gulps, heart beating wildly, before ducking back down. Chapped lips run over your neck, finding a soft spot to bite, forcing himself to soften the way his teeth sink into your skin. All the while rubbing himself on your thigh because it’s probably the closest thing to heaven a man such as him will ever experience. 

He hears your laughter, your mocking cooes of, “You’re so fucking needy” but he can’t bring himself to care.

You’re correct, he decides, as you usually are. He’s needy, desperately so, eagerly chasing the delicious pleasure of dry humping your thigh. 

“Hold on, Spencer.”

You push him back gently. A whine rips from his throat, “Mhm—why?”

He gets his answer soon enough. Your hands undo his belt and he swears this sets his whole body on fire. Nobody’s ever seen him like this. Never has another person touched him so intimately, seen him so out of control, so brainless. He’s babbling incoherently as your hand strokes up and down his length, his hips rutting into your hand. It’s out of sync. Two dancers on entirely different rhythms.

Your laughter rings in his ears, one hand tangled in his hair as the other does unspeakable, tantalizing things to his aching cock. 

“Mhm, can’t— I’m gonna—” and he’s spilling into your hand, hot, viscous liquid overflowing from your hand and staining your skirt, “Ah, shit.”

He collapses against you, head on the crook of your shoulder as he tries to catch his breath. “‘M sorry, I’ll– I’ll pay for your dry cleaning.”

Your chest shakes as you laugh, “Would you? I think you owe me more than that.” The heat in your voice makes his breath catch in his throat.

Soft kisses press upon your neck as he gathers his thoughts, willing his brain to work again. Anatomy, female anatomy. Female pleasure. What does he know about this? A lot, surprisingly, though mostly from books. Mostly in theory, but that’s a start. He can put them to practice right now. His hands drag down your sides until they catch the waistband of your skirt. “May I?”

“Okay.”

He pulls gently, exposing the rest of your thighs and legs. Honey brown eyes devour the expanse of your skin, hands clutching at the softness. He marvels at the way your flesh accepts his own, bright red splotches imprinted from his fingertips.   

He thinks of poetry, the uncountable amount of words and phrases written to immortalize women and love and sex, and he finds himself wishing he has the skill to compose something as beautiful, something worthy of you right now, radiant and half naked and somehow all his. 

But he is no poet, so he touches his lips upon your body instead. Pretty words will escape him, but his lips can speak even without them, he’ll make sure of it. He kisses down your abdomen, making sure to pay attention to every hidden freckle and birthmark he comes across. Your reactions make him feel drunk, to the point of affecting him physically. Messier kisses. Hands tugging and nearly ripping the lace of your panties because he’s unaware of his own strength. 

“So pretty,” he mumbles, “So pretty.” It’s all he can repeat, but then his tongue lands on your slick heat and suddenly words are forgotten in favor of vague groaning. Because how can he accurately describe the sensation of this? Tasting you. God how has he gone so long without this? Your nails scraping his scalp, his fingers sinking into your thighs as he keeps you still. He’s halfway off the bed, legs dangling off the edge, your thighs squeezing his face. 

There’s nowhere else he would rather be. 

He laps at your folds like a mad man, tongue pressed flat and dragging up slowly to get as much of you in his mouth as possible. His feet find the floor, allowing himself more stability to once again rub his growing erection against a solid object. The poor mattress is going to be ruined once they’re done.

“Faster,” you gasp, jerking your hips into his face, “Spencer— oh, yeah like that!”

Spencer Reid is a quick study, and when he hears the positive reactions, he doubles down until he feels you convulse against his tongue. You jerk so violently he has to hold you down. He pushes his tongue past your entrance experimentally, and feels you tug roughly on his hair in response, gasping his name and God’s name in slurred phrases as you ride out your high.

It’s the hottest damn thing he’s ever experienced.

 “Jesus Christ,” you gasp, and he has to repeat that ridiculous sentence again, because it’s true and he feels you deserve it.

“You’re so pretty.” He fears you might be some kind of magnet, because his lips keep getting drawn back to your skin. He lets his kisses travel up your hip bone, before grinning up at you, “Even when you’re being insufferable, you’re still so beautiful.”

“Gee thanks,” you huff, pulling at his arm, “How romantic, I’m swooning.”

“Might not be swooning, but you did just come on my face.” brilliant rows of teeth flash at you as he smiles smugly.

“Asshole.”

“Is that how you say thank you?” he drags his body up lazily, draping himself over you.

“I’m not— wait, are you hard again?”

“Uh…”

“Needy, needy boy.” you pull him down to you, and he almost protests, his chin and mouth still covered with your slick. But you don’t seem to care, so he follows your lead, God at this point he would follow you anywhere at all. You’re shifting beneath him, and the next thing he knows is your legs are wrapped around his waist again, your heat completely exposed and pressing against his cock.

“Mhm,” he pulls back, eyes wide, “I—”

“What?” you whisper, lifting your head to continue giving him kisses, teeth playfully nipping at his jaw, “It’s fine, I’m on birth control.”

“It’s not that,” he can’t deny you, his body relaxing back down over you. His lips catch yours for a moment, slow and achingly tender, “I’ve just never really done this before.”

He waits for the inevitable laughter. Here he is, at 21, and somehow still the same person he had been when he first entered college at 14. But you continue to look at him with heavy lids, breathless and flushed. 

“Okay,” your voice is kind, sweet, “Take it slow then.” your hand wraps around his length again, the movement slower this time, as you align him to your entrance. He hisses as the sensitive tip grazes against your folds, as he feels your entrance slowly give way to him and envelop his cock. 

“Oh,” he sighs. With your help, he sinks halfway into you, one hand gripping your hip, the other bracing himself on his elbow. Eyes squeezed shut, he stills and manages to ask, “Are you okay?”

You don’t speak, and so he forces his eyes to focus and look at you. The sight has him twitching inside you. Mouth agape and eyes hazy, you’re nodding up at him wordlessly as your hips rock up into his. “More.”

It’s exhilarating. He’s known you for the past year, worked alongside you but respected your need for distance. And now, here you are, not merely close, but one. Spencer sighs, and thrusts shallowly, eyes zeroed in on you and your reactions. He doesn’t want to hurt you, doesn’t want it to end too soon, so he moves slowly, dragging out his cock until only the tip rests inside you, then sliding into the hilt.

It elicits the most mellifluous sounds from you, making him smile in relief. He lets his forehead rest against yours, thrusts growing more confident, but still in that slow, almost dreamy pace. He memorizes every detail of this moment, from the way your eyes flutter closed, to the quiver of your legs as they wrap tighter around his thighs. 

“So good,” he hears himself say, “God, you feel so good.”

“Mhm,” you nod, nails digging into his back, even through his clothes. In the heat of the moment, you’re both still half dressed, only getting rid of your bottom clothes in order to get what you need from each other, “More, Spencer, I need more.”

He nods, letting his thrusts grow faster, rougher. It’s an awkward angle, he’s afraid his knees will start cramping, but the feeling of being surrounded by your warmth, drowning in your moans has him reckless. “There?” he grunts, angling just so, and he can’t help the smirk on his face when he feels your walls clenching around him.

“There, there, yes!”

He’s not sure how he manages to last as long as he does. Maybe it’s the sheer desire to feel you fall apart, for his cock to be drenched in your slick that keeps his release at bay. Maybe he has too much pent up sexual energy that’s just been dying to come out. Whatever it is, he’s thankful for it, because it means he’s spending more time inside you, hips moving with so much impact he’s pushing you forward with each thrust. 

“Yes, just like that.” you’re shuddering beneath him, and he moves his arm to the top of your head, creating a barrier between you and the headboard so you don’t hit it. He could stop, readjust your positions, but he doesn’t have it in him. 

No, he wants to stay inside you, forever if there’s an anatomically feasible way to do it. But unless he invents it, he’ll settle for right now, settle for the heat between your bodies, and how you’re practically melting into the mattress, arching so prettily against him.

“You close?” he murmurs, one hand finding your clit, drawing gentle circles with his fingertips.

“No fair,” you whine, bucking into him, “That’s cheat— Spencer!” 

You come undone in the most enthralling way, eyes squeezed shut, bottom lip bitten by your own lips. You squeeze and flutter around him, and he’s helpless to stop his own release, spilling deep inside you with a broken cry from his own mouth. Your name is whispered, over and over again, until he stills, his vision blurry as he collapses against you.

He curls around you, trying to get as close, “You—that was—wow.” 

You giggle, still breathless and glassy eyed, “Are you sure that was your first time?”

“Yes,” he gives you a series of kisses along your temple, “Yes, it was. You—wow.” he carefully pulls out of you, hissing quietly when the cool air conditioned air hits his sensitive flesh. “Was that enough of an apology for not including you to our chess nights?”

“You’re making jokes now?”

“No,” he smiles, leaning away to look at you, all starry eyed and boneless, “Not a joke. Because if it’s not enough, I can do it again.” a kiss to your cheek, “And again.” one on the tip of your nose, “And again.”

When you laugh in response, he cups your cheek, “I mean it.” he says with all the seriousness he can muster.

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“Does this mean you’ll accept my invitations now?” he lights up, a large smile splitting his face.

“Only if it’s a date.”

"Then it's a date."

You would have been pleasantly surprised to see anyone from the team, truly, if it weren’t for the fact that the coworker in question is Spencer Reid. Gawking at you from behind his thick glasses and dressed as though he doesn’t understand the concept of off duty with his white button-down shirt tucked under a sweater vest, and slacks. A tie hangs around his neck, lopsided and slightly too loose, making your hands itch at the tips with the desire to fix it for him.

Instead, your eyes narrow as you say, “What are you doing here?” 

His brows raise, as if the answer is obvious and he doesn’t understand why you’re asking. 

“I’m here for the pre-Code film festival—well, what’s still available to catch, anyway,” he says, holding up a hand. A bright green paper bracelet circled around his wrist, this festival’s version of an all access pass. His gaze lands on your hand, and he smiles in that pressed-lips, half smirk, half grimace way when he sees the same pass encircling your own left wrist. “I’ve been inviting everyone in the office if they wanted to come with—” 

He stops himself abruptly, and the expression on his face becomes that exact grimace you were expecting.

Because he said everyone. 

But you both knew the invitation had never been extended to you. 

“Let me guess, everyone was busy.” You manage to disguise the bitterness in your voice with copious amounts of unnecessary snark, “Like they always are whenever you invite them to your little excursions.”

He shifts, averts his gaze awkwardly, and something dangerously close to satisfaction blooms in your chest when the blow lands exactly where you wanted it. 

You know this is precisely why you rarely get invited to their hang outs. 

Too ready for an argument, always brandishing words like they’re weapons. 

You sigh, immediately regretting it, but not quite enough to apologize. Not when it’s true, at least. Not when he didn’t even think to include you. 

“What are you planning to watch?” you ask, shifting the topic to something more neutral. The building boasts eight screens, meaning eight films are simultaneously playing at all times. People who have availed the all access pass often work out a schedule in order to see the movies they want to watch.

Spencer perks up at your question, eyes catching the exaggerated stage lights and glinting like honey filtered with sunlight. “Frankenstein. It’s a horror classic.”

Of course. 

“Figures. And the sun rises in the east.” You say, rolling your eyes slightly. Leave it to him to watch a film adaptation of a classic novel. Still, the predictability makes you smile, albeit reluctantly. 

“Yes, I suppose that was an obvious answer,” Spencer chuckles, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear, an action so reminiscent of a lovestruck schoolgirl you almost laugh. “What are you watching?”

“Red-Headed Woman.” 

He blinks, surprised, and then his face lights up like you’d just handed him the answer to the Navier Strokes equation. “Oh, that's a great choice, it’s a wonderful film! Did you know that F. Scott Fitgerald actually worked on the screenplay?”

“Yes, I did,” you lift a shoulder delicately, nonchalantly, as if his knowledge didn’t make your own spine straighten—most of your friends don’t care for those details, and it’s jarring to be in conversation with someone who does. “He had creative differences with Marcel de Sano, and the producers wanted the film to be more comedic, so they hired Anita Loos to do the rewrites.” 

He’s nodding along, cheeks dimpling as he smiles at your words. “That’s correct, in fact—”

“I’m really sorry, Reid,” against all odds, this isn’t another sarcastic barb made to make him stop talking; you actually are a little sorry to interrupt. There’s a sincerity to your tone that surprises both of you. “I’m pretty sure my film starts in three minutes.”

“Oh,” he blinks, nods in understanding, “Of course, yes, I should head to my cinema too.” he smiles sheepishly.

“Yeah. Try not to talk to your neighbor while the movie’s playing.”

To your surprise, he laughs, “No promises.”

As you expected, the film is just as good as the last time you’ve watched it. (You’ve seen it an embarrassing number of times, something you wouldn’t admit to anyone because no normal person should watch the same film that many times.)

Leaving the cinema, you glance at your watch. It’s early enough that you could catch one of the other films before going to dinner. You walk around, avoiding the small crowd of people also adamant on finding the next movie to watch—not that there’s a lot. Turns out watching movies from the early 1930s isn’t a popular pastime among… well, anyone. All things considered, there’s a modest crowd milling around, people of all ages though a majority seems to be made up of older people.

Your feet tread along the plus carpet, intending to make it to a screening of The Divorcee as your last movie for the day. There’s no line when you locate where it’s screening, and only a young, nervous usher waits outside the doors. With a friendly smile, you show the band to him, and enter the cinema in search for a seat.

You head to the middle—the best spot in the house, you’d argue with anyone—only to find a familiar figure already sat on the aisle, hugging a bucket of popcorn to his chest.

“Oh god, you again.”

Spencer glances up, surprise visible on his face. The shadows play upon his features, making him look strangely ethereal. “Oh, hi. I didn’t think you’d still be here.” he awkwardly shifts, angling his gangly legs to the side to allow you to pass through.

“I have the same pass as you do, Spencer.” you mutter, shuffling into the row, “It’d be a waste to go so early.”

“Would you like to sit with me then? Since we’re both here, anyway. We could share the popcorn.”

The sentence seems to surprise both of you. You whirl around, brows knit in confusion, and his mouth clamps shut as though he regrets the invitation. You try to ignore the sting of that look in his eyes.

You sigh. “Buttered?”

“Of course.”

“Then all right.” You feign a begrudging sort of acceptance as you settle into the seat beside him, smoothing down your clothes. Spencer seems amused by it, smiling as he places the bucket on the arm rest between you. In the cool dimness of the room, you could feel him shifting, his sleeves brushing against your bare arms. 

“I didn’t realize it would be so easy to bribe you.”

You scoff, glaring at him, “You haven’t bribed me.”

“Yet here you are next to me.” He shifts again, teeth flashing, triumphant. A whiff of something musky and clean hits your nose—his cologne mingling with the buttery scent of the popcorn. He might be too close. You don’t do anything to create more space.

“Yet here I am. And it has everything to do with these seats being the best spot to watch a film. Your offer of popcorn is simply an added bonus,” you glance at him through your periphery, willing the stupidly adorable smile to slide off his face, “Besides, it would take much more than buttered popcorn to bribe me.” 

“I’ll make sure to remember that.”

There’s a slight urge to ask him what he means, wriggle out more from him and that dimpled smile… an urge which you squash when you realize it’s coming from a place of enjoyment. You like bantering with Spencer Reid.

Cheeks burning, you cross your arms and turn your annoyed pout to the screen. Saved by the movie, you think, as the opening credits begin rolling and you can direct all your focus on the film and not by how nice your coworker smells.

It’s forty minutes into the film before his whispering starts. If you’d been a betting woman, you would have struck gold—you knew he could only hold his tongue for so long.

“Did you know this was based on a book?”

You’re about to tell him to shush, but, well, you didn’t know that, and being caught so unawares is such an irregularity that you have no choice but to indulge him. 

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah—it’s based on Ex-Wife by Ursula Parrott, though the credits to the author were lost to time for quite a while,” he turns to you with a smile, the scenes from the film reflecting in his glasses and dancing across his face. 

You don’t speak, half from waiting for his continuation, half stunned into silence by how pretty he looks aureoled in pale swathes and flashes of light.

He must mistake this for judgement—heaven knows he’s used to those—because his head whips back to face the screen, pink rising across his cheeks. “It’s just something I found interesting, you know, considering people criticize book to movie adaptations as a contemporary trend that indicates unoriginality, when the reality of it is, it’s been done since the birth of cinema.”

“I’d argue it goes even beyond that,” you whisper back, earning his gaze once again, this time wide eyed and curious. You look away, definitely not because his eyes feel like coals burning past your skin, “Humans have always been adapting and retelling stories, from different accounts of mythology, to multiple versions of the same fairytale.”

He seems to blossom, a sproutling fed by theater lights and your interest, sitting up straight and lips splitting into a grin, “Yes! Stories are often derivative, but that’s not—”

“Shhhh.”

You both whip around in surprise like kids being caught doing something naughty. An older couple meets your gaze, sitting a few rows behind you. It dawns upon you then, that your voices have started becoming louder, more animated. The man is shaking his head and the woman is wearing a stern expression. 

Spencer whispers a contrite sorry and you flash the sweetest smile you could muster before sinking back into your seats.

When it happens again, it’s a little less gracious. Spencer had begun whispering about the Academy nominations the film gained, and, once again intrigued by his earnest knowledge of a topic people often dismiss as silly, you’ve engaged in these hushed conversations until the same couple shushes you.

Only this time, it’s accompanied with a snide murmur, “There’s a trivia night out there somewhere, I’m sure that’s a better spot for insufferable know-it-alls like you.”

You turn, looking over your shoulder armed by a glare that burns. Your voice is saccharine, syruped to disguise the poison, “You’re correct, of course, and we wouldn’t have to deal with you as I’m sure you wouldn’t qualify.”

Beside you, Spencer shrinks, opening his mouth nervously, but the older lady beats him to whatever he might say.

“Excuse me? Oh you have some nerve, missy, when you and your boyfriend have been disrupting this entire movie with your silly conversations!”

You’re so annoyed you let the boyfriend comment slide, moving so as to turn your whole body to face her. However, as you shift in your seat, your arm knocks over the bucket of popcorn that’s been delicately balanced on the armrest. Before either of you can catch it, it topples over and spills. Tiny little kernels scatter across the floor, pale dots against the black carpet like some cheap imitation of the night sky. 

Spencer squeaks.

The lady looks smug, tutting and shaking her head at the mess, while her husband walks away, presumably to find an usher.

“Apparently, being loud and disrespectful isn’t enough for you,” she says, casting her judgemental stare upon you like a curse, “You had to make a mess too. Young people, these days, my goodness, what a tragedy you all are.”

You remind yourself it’s not a good look to get into an altercation with an old lady. Especially as an FBI agent. 

“We’re sorry,” Spencer speaks up finally, shakily, lips tilted up in a nervous smile, “We didn’t mean to be so unruly—”

“A little too late for that.” the lady smirks, as her husband reappears with an usher. You suppress a groan, glancing at half a bucket’s worth of popcorn strewn all over the floor. Goodness, any argument against this lady is bound to be futile when so much evidence is all over the floor.

“Excuse me,” the poor usher looks as though he’d rather be anywhere but here, “But I’m gonna have to ask you guys to leave. This gentleman here has been complaining and, well, there’s this mess.” he sweeps a gesture over the floor, wincing. 

Before you can say anything, a hand wraps around yours, cool and slightly clammy, and tugs.

“Of course,” Spencer is saying, redness seeping past his cheeks and well into his ears and neck, “We’re terribly sorry for the inconvenience and the mess. We’ll go.” he stands up, and gives another gentle tug at your hand.

Spencer Reid, an infamous germaphobe, is holding your hand.

You’re so stupefied that you simply follow, eyes trained on the way his large hand has completely engulfed yours in a firm grip. He repeats his meek apologies to the usher and to the old couple behind you, all the while leading you to the exit. 

“Until you learn some manners, you and your girlfriend should stay away from public spaces.” the lady says, her voice taking on a patronizing maternal tone that makes your own blood boil. “That way, you wouldn’t bother other people who are trying to have a nice time.”

Before Spencer could pull you all the way to the exit, you turn back, unwilling to let her have the last word, “Of course, we’ll keep that in mind. We wouldn’t want to ruin the last few dates you two will have together.”  

You manage to catch a glimpse of her pinched, affronted expression before Spencer manages to wrangle you to the doors. 

“You didn’t have to argue with her like that, you know,” he mumbles, walking quickly across the carpeted halls, “We could have just apologized and stayed—”

“Well, she didn’t have to call us insufferable know it alls either!”

“Why not? You all think so.”

His tone catches you off guard. No bitterness, no anger, only a quiet resignation. As if he believes it—accepts it. Your footsteps halt. He’s forced to do the same—your hand is still in his. 

“By ‘you all’, do you mean the team?”

He sighs, looking away. The grip around your hand loosens, and he moves to walk away, but this time, it’s you who holds on. You who tugs, root him back into place. 

“Hey,” you say, moving closer to catch his eyes, “I can’t speak for the rest of the team, but I don’t think you’re insufferable. The know-it-all part, well, I’ll concede that she got you there.”

He scoffs, cheeks dimpling as his lips curl up.

“But I’d argue that’s a good thing,” you continue, squeezing his hand, “You know things, and you use that to help people. That… that’s noble. There’s worse things to do with that knowledge, possibly more lucrative, less traumatizing things, but… you’ve chosen one that does good.”

“Still, you didn’t need to argue with her for me.”

You grin, eyes flashing with mischievous glee. “Not for you. She called us insufferable know-it-alls, remember?”

“I might have missed that,” he quips, squeezing your hand again. The coldness has seeped away from his palms, chased away by your heat, “I was too busy being mortified by all the popcorn you spilled. Who knew you could be so graceless?”

“Dr. Reid, are you making fun of me? After I defended your honor?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” 

“Good. You’d never survive my wrath.”

“If that scene back there was any indication, then you’re correct.”  Another firm squeeze, before he lets go. Your hand feels oddly empty so you shove it in your pocket as he says, “I won’t do anything to provoke it.”

“Smart man.”

“A know-it-all, some would say.”

You laugh, and he does too, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Perhaps it is. Perhaps it could be—maybe Spencer Reid could be the person you wouldn’t mind running into. Maybe you could be the only person he needs to invite on his nerdy excursions next time.

He is still glowering today, four months into your employment, passive aggressively hitting the keys on his keyboard. He’s a slow typist, and he’d agreed to write Morgan’s reports for him this week, a favor between friends he’s now beginning to regret. You are the only one keeping him company. The rest of the team has already left hours ago, but you’re typing away at your desk, fingers flying through the keyboard without even a glance. His own skills seem laughable in comparison, going at the keys one by one, with the speed of an old grandparent squinting over a typewriter instead of a man in his twenties. 

“Take a picture, Reid, it’ll last longer.”

He blinks, forcing his eyes back to the monitor. “You’re so original.” he mutters, pushing his glasses up to nestle on top of his head. He rubs his eyes, already despising the glare of the screen.

“Aw, what, the genius can’t handle a little blue light?”

He doesn’t bother with a response, blinking at the screen instead. The sooner he can get this done, the sooner he can leave. Sounds of tapping keys fill the air again, but he stops after a few moments again, rubbing at his eyes. He hears a sigh, and then your voice again, haughty but somehow concerned.

“You’re not supposed to rub your eyes, it makes it worse.” 

“I know,” he grumbles, “I don’t need you lecturing me about the importance of eye health.”

“It seems like you do, since you’re still doing it.” you reply derisively. He’d be rolling his eyes if he isn’t too busy rubbing them.

“Here,” you say, “Catch.”

Confused, he lifts his head, only to flinch as something hurls right at him. “What-” it hits his desk, then bounces off.

“Oh, look what you’ve done, genius.”

“You threw it at me.” his lips are pulled into a tight line of disapproval, “A head’s up would have been nice.”

“I did, genius, I said catch. You just have the reflexes of an eighty year old.” your voice is tinged with annoyance.

To his surprise, you’re up and walking to his desk, heels echoing in the empty bullpen. He watches as you gingerly kneel on the ground, bending down, and his eyes grow wide. The image of you bent down like this is surprisingly enticing, your skirt straining against the soft curve of your hips, hair falling down your shoulders like a curtain of the night sky. You’ve gotten close enough that he can smell your perfume, something citrusy and clean, and he subconsciously leans closer.

Mouth dry, he manages to croak out, “What are you doing?”

“Trying to find the damn eye drops.” you snap, an arm extending towards him and for a moment he holds his breath, waiting for contact. Instead, you grab something from the ground, “There it is.” 

He watches as you straighten, lifting your torso upright, but still kneeling in front of him. An image flashes through his mind, your face between his thighs, those large eyes staring up at him, but he banishes it quickly lest his thoughts begin to stir his body. 

“Here, these should help.” You say, finally standing back up and placing the tiny bottle on his desk. A filthy part of him wishes you’d get back on your knees. He catches the tilt of your head, the confusion in your eyes, “Reid. Are you still with me? Has your brain finally short circuited from all those statistics?”

Oh his brain is short circuiting, all right, just from a different cause.

“I’m - yeah.” he replies, and then he rattles off the first thought his frazzled mind could come up with, “Did you know some people have used eye drops as a method for murder? Not these ones, but there are specific brands that contain—”

“Tetrahydrozoline,” you finish for him, “Yeah, I know.”

He blinks. There you go again, proving your intellect, your value, somehow matching his even though he’s pretty sure you are no genius, not in the same way he is. Still, perhaps it’s the late night, or your offer of relief, but the sting of being bested doesn’t resonate tonight. A softer feeling unfurls in his chest, something warm and addictive, something like understanding. He smiles, “That’s right.”

You nod, curls spilling over your shoulders again, “Mhm. Well… These are for your eyes, I’m not trying to poison you.”

“Wouldn’t put it past you.”

A scoff, “Please, I’m not dumb enough to attempt murder in the office.”

His brows lift and he finds himself grinning, “So you’ve thought about it?”

“I will neither deny nor confirm.” you’re smiling now too, and he lets his eyes roam over the pretty lines of your face, memorizing how lovely you look in this moment, guards lowered and smiling at him with ease. He thinks he sees something flash in those pretty eyes of yours but he’s not sure. Reading people has never been his strong suit, regardless of his profession.

“Come on, I’ll help you.” you gesture at his glasses, and he immediately obeys, pushing it back up to nestle on his hair. He holds his breath as you come closer, bites his lips when your hand comes to his chin. It’s soft, unbelievably gentle, and you tilt his head back. From this angle, he can see the way your lashes curl, the soft hint of shimmer swept across your lids. Eyeshadow, he remembers from what Penelope and JJ have told him, and it highlights the shape of your eyes, making them appear brighter.  

He blinks as coolness hits his eye, and then you’re tilting his head to the other side, and he’s trying not to panic, trying not to be a creep, but in reality, he hasn’t been this close, this intimate to a woman in so long that it’s messing up his ability to inhale, to think, to function. Your hair flutters gently around his face, and the scent of citrus is stronger now, heady, and he feels so light headed he’s afraid he’ll faint.

The same coolness hits the other eye, and before you can pull away, before he can think it through, he’s curling his own hand over your wrist. He lifts it up, pressing a kiss to the inside of your palm, admonishing any thoughts of germs and bacteria, and instead relishing at the tender flesh beneath his lips. He kisses your palm again, lips gently tracing the lines, before moving down to the inside of your wrist, before pausing.

He dares to peer up, waiting for a reprimand, a cutting sentence that would have him lashing back at you, but there’s none. There it is again, the flicker in your eyes, and now he finally knows the word to attach to it: desire.

He kisses the inside of your wrist again, and feels you pulse fluttering beneath his lips. Fast, to his surprise, almost matching the quick succession of thudding in his chest. 

“Reid,” you whisper, and he waits again, allows you time to pull away. You don’t, but he’s apprehensive now, afraid he’s crossed a boundary. He definitely has, but he would do it again if you express the desire to do so, to tumble into whatever this is with him. He just needs confirmation, one verbal acknowledgement that you want this too, because he doesn’t trust his ability to read you yet, not when he’s spent so much time despising you.

But you’re just looking at him, and the embarrassment is almost painful. His cheeks heat up, and he drops your hand.

“I’m sorry.” he murmurs, sinking back on his seat. He’s about to turn to his monitor, intent to forget about this, forget everything even though his memory would make that impossible, but he finds his face being tilted up again, cradled between impossibly soft hands, and then there’s lips against his own, your lips, oh god you are kissing him.

He wraps his arms around your waist, following the movement of your mouth to the best of his limited ability. Your teeth dig into his bottom lip and he lets out an involuntary whimper, his body jerking at the sting. He feels you smiling against his mouth, cocky even in the midst of a kiss, in the midst of the most heated kiss he’s had since - since - he can’t even remember her, the brief dalliance he had with an actress once upon a time, because all he can think of is your mouth, and your hands, nails scratching at his scalp, and every single thought is expelled from his mind when you climb on his lap.

“God,” he moans in between kisses, his breaths ragged, but he would gladly drown in you before stopping.

“Not god,” you correct him and nip at his lower lip with more force this time.

“Mhm.” he whines, and kisses you again, shifting so you’re more comfortable on his lap. He wonders if the chair is creaking from your combined weight, but then you’re grinding directly on his cock and he’s lost in a haze of white hot pleasure. 

Apparently, Spencer Reid cannot multitask, because his lips fall slack as you grind against his hardening cock. Your laughter tinkles in his ear, before your mouth latches on his jaw, down his neck, open and wet and sticky. He knows you said you aren’t god, and he’s never been religious, but he swears this must be heaven. Fitting too, in the same way he’s never thought he’d reach some place he doesn’t even believe in, he’s also never thought he would have you—beautiful, infuriating, untouchable you—grinding on his lap with a desperation that borders frenzy.

Recognizing that your need burns you just as his is making him reckless, he manages to whisper, “Tell me— tell me what to do. How do I make you feel good?”

You giggle, taking one of his hands away from your waist and leading it under your skirt. The fabric has bunched up over your thighs, and he grips the smooth flesh greedily. But you have other ideas, and he’s eager to learn, so he lets you move his hand higher, until the tips of his fingers brush against moist fabric.

His mouth goes dry. You’ve soaked through your panties. 

“Like this?” he dips his fingers past the lace, his mouth falling open at the slick that’s gathered at your core. You have your face buried at his neck, lips and tongue still assaulting the tender skin there, but he feels you nod, feels the shudder that runs through you, and he takes those as a good sign. His touch is exploratory, gentle, fueled by an intoxication over the fact that you’re here and you’re enjoying it, you’re making those sounds for him. 

He’s awestruck rather than cocky, and when he slides his fingers into your pussy, he’s immediately trying to figure out a rhythm that would draw out those pretty noises from your lips. When he finds it, he sticks to it, greedily drinking in your moans, no matter how muffled they are against his neck.

There’s a sense of degeneracy to this whole thing. Fingering his coworker in the office, right there on his desk, he could get fired should this get out, they both could. Still, he’s never truly had anyone want him so unabashedly and he simply cannot stop. You had been the one to kiss him, after all, the lines in the sand had been completely trampled by the time you had climbed on his lap. 

“You feel so good,” you whisper, and he feels you move, riding his hand shamelessly, and he has to bite your shoulder to keep himself from whining again. The sight alone nearly undoes him, and you’ve barely done anything. He’s been actively providing you with stimulation this whole time, fucking you with his fingers relentlessly, and somehow, he wouldn’t change a single thing. 

“Yeah?” he asks, pupils blown wide, wanting, needing the assurance that he’s doing good, he’s making you feel good.

“Yes, oh fuck, yes!” your voice grows sharper as he curls his fingers with every thrust. After a few moments of fumbling with your panties, his thumb presses against your clit and he’s rewarded by another groan from you. 

He draws figure eights against your slick core, finding a rhythm that has you tugging at his hair wildly, and he’s whispering into your ear, pleading, “That’s it, please come for me, please, let me see how good you feel, please, please—”

“Spencer!” you groan, and then you’re shuddering in his lap, and his fingers down to his knuckles are wet with your slick. 

He grins, helping you through your orgasm, pressing kisses to your hair, the FBI issued office chair creaking so much he’s afraid the two of you would break it if you don’t stop. The image is hilarious in its absurdity, making his grin widen, and you must have taken it for arrogance because he feels a slight smack on his shoulder.

“Don’t get cocky.” you mutter.

He takes you in, the flushed cheeks and hazy eyes, mascara now smudged along your lash lines, and he’s reverential instead of arrogant, grateful that he has brought someone so stunning and capable to the throes of pleasure, has taken you apart so much you’ve ruined your normally perfect facade. 

“You’re beautiful.” he tells you, his own eyes glistening with an unfocused daze. You roll your eyes and shake your head, and he’s seized with a desire to keep you hear and bury his fingers inside you over and over again until you believe him.

“Your turn.” You chuckle, hands unwinding from his neck and travelling down the length of his abdomen, coming to the buckle on his belt.

“Wait, I—uh,” he turns beet red once again, clearing his throat, “Are you on the pill? I don’t have—”

You tilt your head, as if the idea of a man walking around without a condom is foreign. Perhaps it is, but Spencer simply never assumed he would have any use for it. He turns away, teeth worrying his lower lip, but you pull his face to you again.

“I have hands.” you say as you resume undoing his pants. You shift, then slink away from him, and he whines at the loss of your warmth, but he sees you on your knees once again, and this time it’s not just his brain making up lewd, inappropriate thoughts, “And a mouth.”

“Y-you really don’t have to.”

“I know,” you grin, pretty as the devil and twice as tempting, and as your hands wrap around his engorged length, thumb circling at the tip, “But how can I not, when you’re this pretty?”

He blacks out, he swears he does, there’s no way this isn’t a perverted dream, no way that you’re actually stroking up and down his throbbing cock. Somehow he comes to, only to feel a warmth, a wetness, enveloping the swollen tip, and his hips buck up instinctively. He whines when your hands push at his thighs, holding him in place. 

“Please,” he gasps, babbles, really, “Please, oh god, that feels so good.” 

You take him further down and he throws his head back so violently the glasses slip past his ears and clatter onto the floor. He feels your laughter vibrating against his cock and it almost has him keening. He whines, wriggles against your hold with no real desire to break free. He finds that likes the force of your hands on him, nails leaving harsh indents on his flesh as he struggles. The pain is delicious, heightening his already frazzled senses.

You bob your head up and down, your hair swaying gently, and he manages to will his hands to move, gathering the soft tresses in his hand so they won’t impede your movement. Your eyes flicker up, meet his own, and he swears there’s a thank you in the glint of them. He cannot do anything else. 

Slack jawed, he watches you hollow your cheeks, saliva dripping down the sides of your mouth as you give him the best head he’s ever experienced. Never mind that it’s his first one, and that he doesn’t have a point of comparison. He’s convinced this is the best, you are the best, and he’s never been more thankful for his eidetic memory until this night, knowing that he cannot, will never, ever forget the way you look as you knelt down and sucked his cock like you were being paid to do it. 

“God, you’re so pretty, oh my god, yes, just like that, please, please, yes.” he’s aware that he’s whining, and there’s an amused twinkle in your eye that tells him he would never hear the end of this after. 

He knows you well enough to know that you would dangle this over his head any chance you get, that you aren’t above playing dirty. Instead of dread, it makes his stomach roil with another gush of desire, and he knows that that is even more concerning than whatever you were going to do.

(It never occurs to him to do the same, that he could tease you back and point out that he has had you on your knees and sucking on his cock like you were made for it simply because his brain cannot fathom ever associating the sight of you kneeling before him as something to be ashamed of.)

He’s drawn from his thoughts as he feels your hands cupping his balls, stimulating an entirely new area that has him thrusting up. He feels his cock brush against the back of your throat, and he pulls back immediately, eyes wide with worry as you gag around his length.

“Oh god, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, baby you can stop if—”

But you do it again, soldiering past your gag reflex and taking him all the way, and he can hear someone saying oh fuck oh fuck I’m cumming agh, please, I’m cumming, and he thinks its his own voice but he’s unsure. His eyes are squeezed shut, colors exploding behind his lids as he feels your tongue swirling over and over his sensitive cock, before the cool air surrounds it, telling him you’ve stopped completely.

When he opens his eyes, you have your head on his thigh, cheek pressed against the fabric, a lazy smile on your ruined lips.

“God,” he whispers, reaching for you, wanting you close, “That was—wow, you—come here, please.”

He watches as a flicker of surprise flits over your face, before you mask it with a giggle, “Good?” you murmur, tucking his soft cock into his pants before climbing on his lap again.

“Incredible.” He holds you tight, your slick only half dry on his fingers, the taste of him still on your tongue, “You’re incredible.”

You’re quiet, contemplative, and he presses a kiss to your neck, wanting to bring you out of whatever funk you’ve gone into, “Hey, what is it?” He’s almost terrified of the answer, worried you would pull away and leave him cold.

“I just didn’t think you’d be a cuddler.” you reply, eventually sinking into his arms. Your voice is soft when you say, “Most men aren’t.”

The thought of her having experiences doesn’t bother him; it’s the fact that they callously left her after that makes him tighten his hold on her. “I’m sorry.”

“For the entirety of shitty men? You’d need more apologies than that,” you chuckle, fingers absently curling into his hair, “But thank you. This is— this is nice.”

“It is,” Spencer nods, leaning into your touch, eyes shut.

“You lost your glasses.”

“I did.”

Your laughter fills the air, “Hey, are you sleepy? You still have Morgan’s reports to finish.”

His eyes flutter open, a sheepish smile on his lips, “Why’d you have to remind me?”

“Because the sooner you finish it, the sooner we can do this again.”

“What’d you do now, princess?” Derek inquires, though the concern in his voice is drowned by the obvious teasing, the need for gossip.

“Hey,” you glare half heartedly at the handsome, smirking man across your desk, “That implies I’ve a reputation for being in trouble.”

“Don’t you?”

“Derek Morgan, how dare you imply such a thing?”

“This is the third time since you’ve been here,” Spencer seems to think that the perfect time to volunteer his statistics is right when you’re beginning to grow nervous, “And you’ve only been with us for a month and two weeks, and—”

“I didn’t realize you were counting each and every day you’ve had the pleasure of working with me, Dr. Reid.” you tease as you rise, smoothing down your skirt.

He frowns, flushes scarlet. A few feet away, Derek laughs.

On slow days like this, it’s easy to slip into such pretenses. Exchanging quips and light remarks to alleviate the tedious piles of paperwork, like you’re working a regular office job and the most exciting thing that could happen is an inter-office affair, or someone getting in trouble.

“All of that to say,” Spencer continues, frowning at the older man, “Three meetings in under two months is rather unusual. So Morgan is correct in implying that. You do have a bit of a reputation.”  

“My, my, look at that. Do you keep track of every single thing an agent does, Dr. Reid, or am I just lucky?” you gasp. A hand pressed to your chest, a show of theatrics to disguise the growing anxiety. Spencer doesn’t dignify you with a response, shoulders slumping as he turns his attention back to his screen.

He’s right, of course, even you can admit that three in under two months is excessive, especially for such a new agent. You have an idea as to why Hotch is calling for you this time, and you know this infraction is going to require something harsher than a simple stern reminder, which had been all you got from last time.

“I’m sure I’ll survive,” you begin walking away, pointing a warning finger at Spencer, “Don’t let Morgan sneak his files into my desk while I’m gone.”

The ascent to Hotch’s isolated office is becoming frighteningly familiar. The first time he’d called you up here had been to warn you that underhanded dealings are unwelcome within the BAU. It had been a polite way of calling out your attempts to bribe Penelope into letting you have the team’s classified files. 

(The tech genius hadn’t allowed it, despite all your gifts of croissants and freshly brewed coffee from the fancy cafe she liked. You had to accept defeat, however begrudgingly. Loyalty seems to run deep within this team, something you're unaccustomed to; your last department had all been ready to stab each other in the back.)

You’d managed to get through that with relative ease, citing research and genuine curiosity as the driving factors behind your actions. 

“I simply wanted to be thorough, sir, Section Chief Strauss didn’t give me much to work with.” you had said, mustering your sweetest, most innocent smile, though even you could tell that the impenetrable Aaron Hotchner wasn’t buying it. 

Still, he was down one team member—he couldn’t afford to get rid of you, especially since you came with a squeaky clean record and near prodigious marks. Plus, you were new to the team. Your explanation is believable, though your methods to obtain the files were inappropriate. Regardless, he had given you the benefit of doubt. 

The second time should have been a non-issue, in your opinion, getting asked to refrain from wearing colored tights to work. What an embarrassment, to be dress coded of all things! Derek wouldn't let you hear the end of it, but Penelope had been sympathetic—she enjoys her own quirky fashion habits, and has gotten chewed out for them too. 

But you and Hotch had managed to come with a compromise, promising no more bright colors to work, (admittedly, the red tights were a bit much, but you had been trying to go for a bold statement) and opting from then on to wear muted hosiery.

But this third one.

Oh, you’re genuinely nervous to face him for this third infraction.

Aaron Hotchner is not an imposing man because he’s broad and stoic, though that helps. But no, it’s something in his air, the way the office space seems to shrink from his mere presence, rendered insignificant from the calm authority he wields. Being in his office always makes you feel like you’re back in high school, being reprimanded for something.

He’s writing when you enter, brow relaxed, almost casual. He doesn’t look up at your soft good morning, only says, “Sit down.”

The pleather squeaks as your weight sinks upon it, a simple chair with a sad excuse for a cushioned seat. 

“May I ask what this is about?”

Hotch looks up then, stern as ever. “I’ve reread the reports from the last case. You were the one who called for another interview with Casey Jennings?”

“That’s correct.”

“And subsequently been the one to acquire the whereabouts of the body?” 

You shift, nodding in admission. It feels like a nail in the coffin, because you know exactly what he’ll ask you next.

“Therefore, you had given the location to the local PD. Not the other way around, as you’d led me to believe.” His voice is level, but the accusation rings true. “When you arrived at the crime scene, it wasn’t because they asked you to come along; you were the one calling the shots.”

“I was under the impression that taking initiative is valued when we’re handling time sensitive circumstances.” 

Two pools of midnight black fix upon you in warning. “Obedience is also valued. I can’t have agents doing whatever they want when they have explicit instructions to do otherwise. I told you to stay with Reid at the precinct.”

“And I did, sir, until I realized Casey Jennings was a lead.”

“Then you should have let the PD handle it once you gave them the information.”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes, feeling very much like a child being reprimanded for something silly. Except, well, you did disobey a senior agent’s orders, and rolling your eyes would simply reinforce that childishness he seems to see in you.

“With all due respect sir, I just feel… underutilized.” you reply, fighting through the shaking in your voice, “You have me in the precincts helping Reid, when I know I could be more useful elsewhere. I have better shooting and physical qualifications than he does, I can handle myself on the field.”

“And do you think that’s a good enough excuse to go behind my back and deliberately disobey your unit chief’s orders?”

There’s nothing you can say that won’t get you into more trouble, so you shut your mouth. The silence feels like an admission of guilt, of defeat. Hotch lets it swell, allows you to sit in your discomfort. You muster as much grace as you can and stay steady. As much as you hate it, you know you wield no power in this situation. 

A mark of a good opponent is always knowing when to surrender, so you soften your expression, hoping it looks sincere. “Am I in trouble?” 

Hotch catches onto what you really want to ask—are you replacing me?

“Technically, no. You haven't broken any rules, per se, and your instincts prove to be valuable,” he says, going back to his files, “However, you’ll be on filing duty while we’re not on any active cases. We have a backlog of records that require digitizing; Reid can tell you more.”

“Reid?”

“You’ll be helping him. He’s been working on it for a few days now. Having two agents would make it go faster.”

Oh. Spencer had been disappearing off to do paperwork elsewhere. Morgan was betting it’s because he’s having a secret office liaison. “Understood, sir.” you say, unsure of what to expect. The workload couldn’t be that bad; the awkwardness between you and Spencer has melted and you have reached a sort of neutrality. Besides, scanning and typing documents feels like a light trade, considering you had, in Hotch’s own words, deliberately disobey your unit chief’s orders.

What greets you in the filing room is a dusty, cramped mess of shelves spilling with boxes upon boxes overflowing with folders. Your nose scrunches as Spencer boots up your computer. There’s barely enough space for even one desk, so you two have to work side by side, with barely two feet of space to separate you.

“God, and you volunteered to do this? Are you secretly a masochist, Spencer?”

He clears his throat, “No, it’s not that. My eidetic memory simply works well with the task—I can read the folder and memorize its contents in three minutes.”

“Uh huh, and then you take sixteen hours to type. Amazing tradeoff.”

“I don’t take that long!”

“Okay, twelve hours then.”

Spencer glares halfheartedly, “That’s statistically improbable and you know it.”

“Yet you manage to achieve it!” you pat his shoulder mockingly, before sliding into your creaky seat, “Congratulations on once again being an outlier.”

Spencer rolls his eyes. It makes you laugh; the fact that you’ve officially managed to annoy this normally well tempered man feels like an achievement in its own right. 

“Maybe that’s why he thinks I need help.” he grumbles, pushing a pile of folders to your side of the table, “You can start on the 1980s.”

“Wait,” The year catches you by surprise and you examine the pile in front of you. Papers yellowed and delicate sit neatly stacked as if they haven’t been touched in ages, but surely it couldn’t be. “1980s? Are we digitizing all the way back to the start?”

“Yep. All the records in our backlog—I’ve managed to digitize up to 1976.” Spencer is already reading his first file, fingers gliding through the blurry page. “You start with the 80s.”

“You mean to tell me no one’s bothered to digitize these before?”

He simply hums in response, infuriating you even more.

“Then this should be a team project!” you exclaim, horrified in a way that bears sincerity and not your usual exaggeration, “Two people working on decades of paperwork is inhumane.”

“Now, don’t be so dramatic,” he heaves a sigh, finally glancing at you, “We’re being compensated. Besides, nobody else wants to, it’s grunt work.”

“So we have to do it because we’re the youngest and can’t opt out?”

“No, we’re doing this because I’m apparently a secret masochist, and you’re the team’s troublemaker forced into detention.”

Despite yourself, his answer makes you laugh. And from the corner of your eye, Spencer’s lips are turned up in a self satisfied smirk.

It becomes routine. Without fail, on those treasured days where the team isn’t called on a case, you and Spencer slip off after lunch time to the filing room, spending the rest of your work hours typing away on computers that keep lagging and keyboards that have temperamental ‘P’ keys. 

Well, it’s mostly your keyboard that has this problem. You work past it easily—it just needs a little extra pressure to work and there’s a sense of satisfaction whenever you press it hard.

Admittedly, the arrangement isn’t too bad. You and Spencer both have the tendency to intensely focus when you have a specific goal, so while it’s tedious work, it’s relatively easy. Plus, you’re sequestered away from the rest of the agents, which opens up possibilities for small acts of rebellion.

Such as snacking on the clock.

“Provisions.” You plop a paper bag on top of the current pile of folders before sidestepping your way into your chair. After a week of consistent work, Spencer’s managed to finish until 1978, and you’re on 1984. 

Confused and slightly suspicious, Spencer opens the bag. Warm, buttery, and freshly-baked, the scent of croissants fill the room, and for the first time, the persistent smell of must is overpowered by something more delectable.

“We aren’t allowed to eat here.”

Of course he has to ruin it. 

“And who’s gonna stop us?”

“Nobody, but that’s not the point,” he says, adopting an exasperated tone that seems to always tinge his words whenever he talks to you, “The crumbs could mess up the files.”

“Are you that messy of an eater?”

“What? No—”

“Then it shouldn’t be a problem,” you interject, “And there’s napkins too, so you can clean up the grease and crumbs off your fingers. Come on, I did something nice to you for once, it’s rude to criticize it.”

He hums, lips pulled into a taut line that exposes his dimples. “What’s in it for you?”

“Nothing. Why would you think that?”

He’s quiet. Places the bag back on top of the pile, then shrugs. Innocent. Acting clueless.

Your eyes narrow, “Spencer Reid, do you really think every nice thing I do is transactional?”

“This was how you tried to bribe Garcia.”

Oh. 

“She told you about that?” your face feels warm. You’d been under the idea that only Hotch knew.

“Yeah,” Spencer shrugs, “Nothing really stays secret in this team.”

But that night at the film festival does. Otherwise, Derek would be teasing you with the moniker “film nerd” on top of “princess”. You can’t decide if this is a positive sign or not, this secret, chance meeting between you two. 

However, judging by the fact that he seems to think you’re using croissants as leverage or a bargaining chip, you can surmise that he isn’t the biggest fan of your character. Of course. One night watching half of a movie together isn’t enough to shatter his caution.

Stung at the realization, you snatch the bag from the desk, huffing softly. “Fine. More for me.”

A strangled sound escapes his lips, but you angle your chair away from him, the bag of pastries cradled protectively on your lap. Exaggerated click clacks of the keyboard fill the room as your fingers fly over the letters, fast and angry, the momentum only being broken whenever you encounter that stupid ‘p’.

One afternoon, your impatience with that damn keyboard gets the best of you and you’d slammed it in annoyance. 

“I’m asking Hotch for a new keyboard.” you grumble under your breath. Jaw clenched, your fingers fly over the keys, cursing heaven and hell anytime you encounter a word with the letter ‘p’ and you’re forced to press the unreliable button. 

To your left, Spencer snorts in amusement. Your leg snaps out from under the desk, catching his ankle almost playfully.

“Ow.” he says, just to complain.

“Stop finding joy in my misery.” your voice is more forceful than the kick, snappy and hissed. What he said and insinuated about you from the croissant incident still sting, despite any of your attempts to forget about it.

“Sorry, you just have a tendency to pout when things don’t go your way.” he doesn’t sound sorry at all. Your pout deepens, and he smiles, like everything’s well. “It’s kind of adorable.”

“I am not adorable. I’m highly inconvenienced by this decrepit machine, and it’s inhibiting me from doing my job, and you should reconsider why you find this amusing.”

“You know, you can’t really dictate the way I perceive you.”

You glare at him. Part of you knows he’s right, but when you’ve committed so much of your energy into curating your image to manage people’s perceptions and expectations, this casual observation is a reminder that it’s fruitless. 

The same way you can’t manufacture goodness. The same way they view your earnest attempts with lingering caution.

It’s something of a slap in the face. 

“If this is your way of making amends, it’s not working.”

Spencer sighs, nodding. “Sorry.” he’s quiet for the rest of your time together, focused intently on typing.

To your surprise, the next day, your keyboard is working immaculately even though you haven’t had the time to bring up the issue with Hotch. 

It’s only hours later when you realize that beside you, Spencer has been struggling with a certain letter on his own keyboard.

The next time you place a bag of pastries on your shared desk, his spine straightens and he twists in his seat to look at you questioningly.

You fix your eyes on your computer to avoid his gaze, deliberately angling your chair away from him again. After a pause, shuffling and crinkling paper can be heard beside you, followed by the buttery scent of the croissants.

He thanks you, voice low and soft. Pushes the bag to your side gently, like it’s the most fragile thing in the world. Somehow, you think it is. Hastily, you grab the bag, and take your own croissant.

“Don’t mention it.” Your eyes flick to the side casually, and sure enough, Spencer biting into his piece. The slender line of his neck is curved elegantly, head tilted forward as he reads through his file at that inhuman speed of his. 

As if he could feel your gaze, he looks over, and you quickly turn back to your computer. A small smile curls your lips. You hide it with a bite of croissant.

“Poor baby,” your tone is mocking as Spencer sneezes for what feels like the fiftieth time in an hour. “If I catch this from you, I’m leaving you to finish the rest of these files by yourself.”

All credit to him, he’s being as polite as he can, turning away from you and covering his mouth every time the impulse to sneeze overtakes him. But it’s always fun to tease him and watch his lips press into that familiar line, cheeks dimpling in the process.

“Luckily, allergic rhinitis isn’t contagious.” he sniffs, reaching for a bottle of alcohol to spritz his hands. “It’s just a reaction to that new box we pulled out yesterday.”

Despite being one of the newer boxes, that box had accumulated some of the worst case of dust. It didn’t help that you’d both dropped it as you pulled it out, spilling the files on the linoleum floor and sending the dust particles in a chaotic spin all around the air. You and Spencer left the door open to help the room air out, but it seems to have badly triggered his allergies.

“Sure, lucky. That’s exactly how I’d characterize this.” After a beat, you survey his face. The tip of his nose is red, his eyes watery. Grinning, you add, “You look like Rudolph.”

“Rudo—the reindeer?” he looks affronted, brows crinkling into his eyes, “Real original.”

“Would you rather be Bambi?”

“That’s an even more tenuous connection, why on earth would I be Bambi?” 

“Your eyes are big and wet, and you walk like a baby deer learning it has legs for the first time.”

He glares, but it’s so petulant that you can’t help but laugh. “Aw, look who’s pouting now.”

“Yeah, turns out that habit of yours is the thing that’s contagious.” he grumbles, turning away to blow his nose into some tissue. “We should warn the rest of the team. We can’t have the BAU being known as the department with pouty agents.”

“Whatever you say, Rudolph.”

A wad of crumpled tissue hits your shoulder. “Ew, Spencer!” you manage to complain through your laughter.

“You smell different.”

Well, that’s not something you’d ever expect from Spencer Reid’s mouth. Wild theories about the combustion of the human body, sure, morbid statistics about babies death rates in the early 90s, absolutely, but not a comment about your scent. From your position on the chair, you twist to face him, the chocolate croissant—an extra special sweet treat, since it’s Friday—held in midair. 

A mixture of confusion and utter bewilderment contorts your features. “Excuse me?”

He flushes, his cheeks now matching his ruddy nose. “You heard me.”

“Okay, creepy. I didn’t realize you were that brand of weird.”

“What does that even mean?” Spencer frowns, sniffling, gingerly unwrapping the tissue from his own pastry, “I don’t mean anything harmful by it. You always just smell like flowers and bergamot, but today you… don’t.”

Now your own cheeks burn at his words. You’re unsure what to make of this; the fact that he recognizes the notes of your perfume is both unnerving and, admittedly, a little sweet.

“You sure it’s not just your stuffy nose inhibiting your sense of smell?” you ask, feigning nonchalance. 

“No, I’m certain you still had the same perfume yesterday.” 

You shrug, lying through your teeth, “Your allergies must be getting worse today then.” 

He seems unconvinced, but you grab a new folder from your pile, ducking behind the aged pages to put an end to the conversation. 

A sense of relief fills you when he drops the topic; there’s absolutely no way you’re admitting to the fact that you skipped wearing your perfume today to avoid agitating his allergies even more, that you're trying to avoid his hay fever from getting any worse.

Nope. Better to keep that a secret.

Just when you think you’re going to go nuts digitizing the files, you and Spencer finish everything. It’s nothing short of miraculous, nearly four decades worth of paperwork accomplished in such a short amount of time. It seems like serial killers took a break to let the BAU digitize its backlog, since the team hadn’t been called on an active case once. 

It feels strange to be sat on your desk for the full day, doing research and cross examining profiles instead of mindlessly regurgitating and typing decades old data into an equally old desktop. But you’re glad. Partly.

Part of you kind of misses that secluded time with Spencer—yes, even that last stretch where he’d gotten hay fever and was sneezing up a storm. The quiet focus, his steady, 25 words per minute typing speed alongside your faster, slightly more haphazard speed. The shared croissants, the way a stubborn strand of hair falls over his forehead and—woah.

Stop.

You’re running a little late today, heels tapping loudly, hurriedly, as you try to make it before the cut off. JJ exchanges a small smile with you as you walk by her—early in the morning and she’s already up and about, one hand on her phone, the other holding two files. 

Something in her stance, her brisk and stiff gait, the tight smile, tells you that the weeks of relative quiet are about to be broken today.

You make it to your desk, still looking back at JJ’s retreating form, so lost in your thoughts that you barely recognize the small paper bag on your desk. As you lower yourself to your seat, the unmistakable fragrance of a flaky, buttery croissant fills your nose. Your teeth catch your lower lip to stop the smile threatening to consume your face. 

Slowly, shyly, you glance up, finding Spencer watching you. He grins, then lifts his left hand, as if toasting from afar with his own croissant.

Regardless of difficulties and differences, Alana Taylor had been saved. Found in an underground bunker beneath an unassuming farmhouse. A success, as far as cases go, although it’s difficult to count it as a success when you know there’s been four prior lives you couldn’t save. Still, it’s a moment of cautious optimism, a case ready to be wrapped up and typed into reports.

Around you, the precinct is abuzz with activity. The rest of the team has left for interviews with the victim’s family, last minute debriefings with the local police. You’re at one of the interrogation rooms, which the BAU had made into a temporary conference spot, tasked with the insignificant grunt work—reorganizing the case files and reports with Reid. Apparently, being a genius doesn’t save him from the regular people job. 

You wouldn’t mind being paired with him, normally. He’s diligent, rarely complains (something Morgan enjoys extensively, even in jest). Mostly, organizing papers with Spencer just means enduring an earful of scientific trivia and random statistics. The same thing is happening today, only that he’s not telling them to you.

Rather, the receiver of his tangential spiel is one of the local officers in the department, Officer Mitchell. Who happens to be young. And pretty. And hanging onto his every word. 

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what she’s doing. While the officers had been given explicit instructions to help the BAU, you know this one’s interest lies beyond providing assistance. No, the too loud laughs, the fluttering lashes, and deliberate hair tucking are all thinly veiled, rather clumsy attempts at flirting. 

It’d be amusing if it weren’t so pathetic.

Ironically, the genius in question doesn’t seem to understand what’s going on, rattling off statistics and differences in distance between abduction sites—which had ultimately led to the identification of the perpetrator—utterly oblivious to the flirtatious attention being thrown his way.

Truthfully, you can’t really blame her. Reid seems to have taken your fashion recommendations to heart, avoiding clashing prints in favor of a more flattering color palette. He’s in shades of blue today, a button down the color of cotton candy clouds on a summer morning, tucked neatly beneath a navy blue sweater vest. You’d taken him to a barbershop a few days ago too, instructing the man to cut into his hair in order to give it some dimension. He looks good, even with his glasses—especially with his glasses—which he’s wearing because he’d run out of solution for his contacts. You’re tempted to tell him to keep this bespectacled look, it’s working for him.

But not right now, because 1) you don’t want him to think you’ve been scrutinizing his appearance, 2) you can’t because his attention lies elsewhere and you’re not about to compete for that, thank you very much, and 3) that’s an inappropriate comment to make in the workplace and you are the pinnacle of professionalism. 

Unlike other people.

You glare at Officer Mitchell.

You don’t even realize another team member has returned until a hand rests on your shoulder. You flinch, the action extracting your attention from the scene before you. Looking up, JJ’s amused blue eyes meet yours. “You're almost done?”

“Yeah, almost.” you reply. Grumble, really, as your gaze inexplicably returns to Reid and Officer Mitchell. Still wrapped up in conversation, neither of them seem to notice JJ’s arrival, or particularly interested in helping you. “No thanks to these two.”

JJ chuckles, “Shouldn’t you go rescue her?” 

“Rescue her?” 

“Spence is rambling, you know how he gets.”

“Yeah, and she’s openly flirting on the job.” it comes out in a hiss paired with narrowed eyes. Perhaps too harsh for the conversation, but the idea that anyone needs to be saved from Reid’s rambling doesn’t sit right with you. Rescue is what you do to people in trouble, who need help. Officer Mitchell is not in trouble, and if she needed help, she’d be casting glances to the rest of the room, not looking at Spencer Reid like he holds the key to the universe. Matter of fact, it seems like she’s the complete opposite of in trouble.

Something crosses over JJ’s face, fleeting by so quickly you couldn’t really place it. 

“He’s talking her ear off,” There’s a placating tone to JJ’s voice that you don’t appreciate.

It makes you catch yourself though, so you attempt to soften your own voice, trying to match her calm one but yours still comes across sneering (Oh well, she’s the liaison for a reason), “Yeah, but she initiated the conversation. If she voluntarily subjects herself to Reid’s tangents, that’s not on me. Neither of them need rescue, they seem perfectly happy in each other’s company. ”

Try as you might, that last bit comes out snappy. 

JJ catches it too, shrewd as always. But she doesn’t comment on it, not directly at least. “Hm, I did notice a few people back in the office giving him more attention than usual.”

“Yeah, so he’d proofread their reports for them.” you stand with a huff, paperwork and evidence carefully balanced inside the police issued cardboard box. JJ follows you as you stride out of the room, leaving Reid and Officer Mitchell alone to do whatever they so wish. None of it is your business anyway, you just wish he’d been able to multitask and not leave the dumb task to you.

“Mhm, are you sure it has nothing to do with the little makeover you gave him?” JJ says, matching your quick steps. 

You don’t like the little smirk playing on the blonde woman’s lips. Her idea isn’t far off, Reid does look good. Still himself, with his crooked ties and the converse you couldn’t talk him into replacing, but now more elevated. Less nerdy kid and more rumpled academic. Which means you did exactly what you’d originally set out to do. Reflect who he is through clothes, communicate his intelligence and competency just with a few styling adjustments.

“Good job to me, then.” Why did that sentence leave through gritted teeth? 

JJ doesn’t dignify you with a response, and simply watches you with that same, infuriating smile, as though she knows something you don’t. 

“What?”

“Nothing.”

It doesn’t seem like nothing, but you let it go, walking outside to the SUV that will take you to the airport. Gathered around, you notice that the team is missing one specific member, who’s probably still busy inside, being flirted with.

“Hey, where’s Reid?” Morgan seems to have the same idea. He directs the question at you, though, seeing as you were the last one to be paired with him.

“I’m not his keeper,” you reply dismissively, brushing past the burly man to slide into the back of the car. Any more mention of Reid and that officer and you’re afraid you’ll snap and say something you’d regret.

Outside, Morgan shoots JJ a confused look, baffled by your abruptness. The blonde woman simply shrugs, wearing the same smile from earlier, keeping her thoughts to herself. It’s too soon for anything, anyway, and if she so much as mentions the faintest bit of her theory, JJ knows the entire team will know in an instant. Better to let it play out. Better you figure it for yourself.