Professional Y(n)apper

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Spencer Reid

‘Breathe for yes, Back flip for no’ -non BAU!reader x Spencer Reid- Asking out the cute man at the coffee shop!!

Save The Date. -non BAU!reader x Spencer Reid- First date!!

‘Our Routine’. -Forensic scientist!reader x Spencer Reid- Waking him up by taking care of him after a long night

‘The loss of a Friend’ -BAU!reader x Spencer Reid- Reader being there for Spencer while they’re grieving Emily’s death. (TW:Drug mention and needle warning)

‘Wants and Dreams’ -BAU!FEM!reader x Spencer Reid- Reader entertains a sweet baby boy and then says her aspirations. Spencer has something to hide after hearing about her dreams ;) (16+)

‘A Profilers Dilemma’ - BAU!Forensic generalist!reader x Spencer Reid. - the course of which Spencer falls in love with the BAU’s Forensic liaison.

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Blurb: Lovey Reader❣️- Spencer x reader who loves loudly and unapologetically and how he reacts to it. (18+)

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Spencer Reid x someone who loves him loudly and openly will never fail to make my heart melt.

Like (THEYRE IN A RELATIONSHIP)

WC: ain’t got a clue this was just me blurbing nonsense.

AN: some smutty themes, and sentence fo smut so 18+ only!! Sorry if it sucks i dont do smut.

You are resposible for your own media consumption!!!!

Just thoughts of mine. Before i have to lock in and do my homework >:( (and plan pt 2 of ‘A Profilers Dilemma’, ‘Intervention’)

Lovey reader❣️ who always uses your pinkies to “secretly” hold hands with him. But then gets impatient an wants more contact so you slither your fingers between his or wrap them around his arm. He loves that you always want to be in contact with him.

It starts with your pinkies. You’re sitting beside him on the jet, (the seat across from his was taken. You always sat across from him to link your ankles together. ) neither you, nor him were walking, your hand felt suspiciously empty. That longing and tingling within your palms growing more and more each moment it was empty. Each moment you were not in physical contact with Spencer.

Your hand begins to drift. Wandering over the leather of the jet sears, across the arm rest and into his personal bubble. He had like a sixth sense when someone came too close to him. It was adorable and so him, when he steps back to reclaim his bubble. But when you popped it, he looked up, eyes alit in curiosity.

His eyes tracking the moment of your hand. You slowed down the movement of your hand. Teasingly inching it closer to his arm. Walking your two forefingers up and down his arms, and dragging your pinky on his sleeve. He bumped his shoulder with yours, forcing your eyes to meet his. He was pouting. Your boyfriend. Pouting. Over not being able to touch you. Who hates physical touch.

You loved this side of him. Reaching out you link your pinkies together. He rubbed his free fingers up and down the back of your hand. Then you got impatient. It was enough. You want to crawl in his skin. But since it was impossible to do so and you like your boyfriend alive, you slither your fingers between his. They were cold, and a bit clammy, but they were his. And you loved him. From the tips fo his fingers to the tips of his toes.

Spencer melts every time. Even when he’s used to it, and he’ll unconsciously extend his pinkie out towards yours. He could be doing anything, even reading and without looking up he will wiggle his pinkie at you if he’s feeling needy and clingy.

You nearly combust.

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Lovey reader❣️who always has her body turned toward him. He learns to love how your body shows how much you mean to him.

You don’t even realize you do it. If Spencer was in the room, your feet would shift towards him. Shoulders pointed in his direction. If you’re sitting in a group, hanging out with the team, your chair is angled toward him.

Someone asks you a question from across the room and you turn your head to answer them— you’re not a brute. Your body however, remains angled toward Spencer.

Every.

Time.

It wasn’t long before the team noticed. Well the rest of the team. Spencer still was oblivious. He was a great profiler, of course he noticed that you do it, but that little thought in his mind, that evil and sick voice, whispered about how it couldn’t have been related to attraction. He couldn’t believe that someone would love him that much for their body to literally show it.

But when it clicks that its a natural thing, something you dont even notice your doing. He gets so unbearably shy about it. The cutest pink blush flaming his cheeks. (How i long to bite them.) It sets off something within you. When he does finally come to the fact that it is natural. Not something you’re forcing. It reassures him. Very deeply.

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Lovey reader❣️ Who’s always glancing at Spencer, or straight up staring and admiring him. He gets butterflies when he catches you staring. He gets embarrassed and does a cute little wave.

You always notice that your eyes flick to Spencer many times a day. Something you thought would dissipate when you got out of the honeymoon phase, newsflash it didn’t. When ever you heard his voice, your eyes or head would turn in its direction. Looking for him.

It’s not like you were creepy about it. Most of the time. there were times where your eyes chased the shard edge of his jaw. Oh you loved seeing his jaw clench in frustration or annoyance. If you were a brat you’d purposefully piss him off just to see it. It was mouthwateringly attractive seeing the muscles clench. Ugh.

Anyways, You loved the way he spoke, how his fingers would wiggle in emphasis, or wander when his mind did. Even the constant fidgeting and rubbing was the most adorable thing to you. You loved guessing in your mind what he would fidget with next on dates.

The way his eyebrows are so expressive when he’s explaining something. The way he gets excited about bizarre facts. How he brushes and muses with his hair.

What you didn’t know, is that you weren’t slick about it.

He knew. Of course he did.

To him, more often than not he caught you. Something he didn’t reveal. He would keep doing his thing, a small smile listing his lips and maybe the tips of his ears and cheeks heating up.

But eventually he does make it known. One day he catches your eyes. This time he wasn’t expecting you to be staring so…. Openly. Your full attention on him. He pauses mid-sentence. A small embarrassed smile appears on his face. He lifts his hand and gives you a little wave.

A WAVE

you could just eat this man up. He goes back to his file. and you keep staring.

Obviously.

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Lovey reader ❣️ Who makes sure to remember everything about him. From little things to large things. You have a journal in a nightstand with a little lock on, it filled with notes of him. He feels so giddy every time you remember something.

You remember everything. Not because you ave an eidetic memory like Spencer, but because you have your own method. A small journal with a lock on it. In your pocket a little key that opens it. It is absolutely FILLED with notes on Spencer. From his favorite books, to tea. Which sweater is the softest and most comfortable to him. Which brands he likes. The exact way he likes his coffee. How he likes is food. The list goes on.

On a red sticky note is a revised version of an obscure fact he once mentioned six months ago.

He finds out you remember something he said once, a few months ago, he genuinely didn’t expect you to remember and he just…

Lights up.

He asks how you remember, a small, surprised smile on his face

You just shrug.

You say… “because you told me.”

Like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

He discovers the journal one day.

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Lovey reader ❣️ Who melts your praise.

Who blushes so hard when you say he’s “so good,” or whisper, “I’m so proud of you,” maybe add in a, “good job baby..”

He looks at you like you hung the moon. Because Spencer is used to being valued for what his brain can do. But you are proud of him because he is.

not his usefulness, not for his intelligence, (while it is very attractive how he whispers statistics and other obscure knowledge into the long kisses you share. Very satisfied with how he moans against your lisp when you nibble on is bottom lip to shut him up. )

Anyways, your proud of just…

Him.

Who’s whimpers are muffled against your shoulder as he listens to you praise him as you stroke his hard on. Who’s stuck sobbing as he pumps uselessly against your hands. Who cums as you whisper how good he is at “using” your hands fo his own pleasure. (Wow. Im ovulating can you tell.)

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Lovey reader ❣️ who always allows him to use your stomach as his favorite pillow.

At first you thought it was weird. Why would he want to listen to the squelches and rumbles of your stomach as it fulfills its duty of digesting your food. But to Spencer, who discovered that the plush of your stomach was apparently the most comfortable place on earth, didn’t mind the noises or the rumbles.

More of than then not, if your lying down together, he will absolutely migrate there. Resting his head against you while his arms loosely settle around your waist. Sometimes he even tucks them under your back, hugging you closer. He’ll press sleepy kisses against your stomach, before settling down.

Like a dog doing their circling before resting in their nest.

His hands if not still and behind your back, squeezing your little pockets of flesh, they will be doing something absentmindedly. If your on your period, he’ll gently kneed into your stomach, head resting and providing pressure for your cramps. Gently queening your sides in a random rhythm.

The most important part. He falls asleep almost immediately. Most times Spencer struggles to sleep. Plagued by many things, from nightmares to insomnia. He can and is used to surviving on little to no sleep, is somehow completely passed out the second he’s comfortable against you. Which unfortunately means, he drools on you.

The cutest quirk you noticed when he first fell asleep near or on you, is that he’s a drooler. The first time you saw it, he was so embarrassed when he woke. It must have been the best sleep of his life, because he says he doesn’t normally drool.

So, on occasion, you’ll glance down and find him passed out, hair messy, cheeks squished against you, with the smallest, or on other cases whole puddles, of drool. Quickly ad quietly. You’ll wipe it away. He doesn’t even wake up.

On other occasions, when necessary, you two will have to pull all nighters at the BAU. You however get tired earlier than him, and make yourself comfortable against the break room couch. Spencer longing for some physical attention, will wander over, find you in a vulnerable position, and make himself comfortable against your stomach.

He’s even done it on occasion on the Jet (providing your on cases) where he’s tired and uncaring about how the team will notice when he settles against your stomach.

There are a few occasions in both locations where the team has caught you and Spencer snuggling together.

You underneath him. Spencer sprawled out over you. One arm around your waist, his face buried against you. Dead asleep. The entire team stops and stares.

They’re so tired of you two.

Affectionately of course.

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Lovey reader ❣️ Project Hail Mary.

You and Spencer both loved the movie and book of Project Hail Mary with you.

After ward you buy him the shirt as both a joke, and you wanted to see how he would react to it. The one that says: “I had potential”

Spencer laughs when you give it to him. He puts it on that night, and then wears it every night. Every time he smiles at it and thinks it’s so funny when he thinks about it scientifically.

Science puns were a fan favorite.

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Lovey reader ❣️ The sacred hair time.

Spencer loves when you play with his hair while he’s on your stomach.

It will start like this, He’ll lay down on your lap or his favorite, your stomach, and he will let you braid the strands. Unbraid it. Try a different style, then take that one out. Sometimes if he showered recently, you’ll wear gloves to prevent it from getting too greasy.

He doesn’t care. He’s content lying there while your fingers move through his hair. He could be reading, though it will be put away by you when he starts to fall asleep. Especially when you start massaging your head.

The second your fingertips start working against his scalp, his eyes close. Entire body relaxing. Sometimes he’ll mumble something incoherent, other times he’ll just go completely quiet. And if you happen to continue to run your fingers through his hair afterward? He’s putty in your lap.

He’ll even let you scrunch some curling cream in his waves, to reduce the frizz. You like it, finding him so cute, but you know he doesn’t like the process, so its only in times like these where he’ll let you curl them, if only if you reward him with whispered praises or more fingers running through his hair.

You’ve created a sassy monster, who will grunt, whine, and wiggle until you let in and either massage him or play with his hair. He doesn’t whine and pout to lay on your stomach, he just slots himself there and manhandles you if necessary. He doesn’t like things coming between him and his scheduled tummy time.

List of head cannons used they belong to @codykins-candy-obsession

Follow them on TikTok @ theonly.spence or unsub. Their headcannons are so YUMMY AND KEEP ME ALIVEEEEEEEE AND THRIVING.

Tag-list

@khxna @arayajasmynee @lacecam @sixvin @hiddentattooodyssey

Spencer Reid x Forensic generalist! Reader.

AN: Sorry it took me forever. I started esthetician school and it was sooo unexpected. I might try my hand at smut i have an idea for Esthetician x Spencer. >:P i love the idea of him with someone who he DOESN’T work with. Cause i feel Spencer is too rule following to break rules or even develop feelings for someone he’s working with, (i think it goes with his autistic tendencies) Note: If you see (word) its meant to be bold. *word* - italicized. *(word)* - both.

Just to preface I hated this. I’m sorry if you don’t like it :( I thought it was so horribly written >:(

WC: 7131

CW: Fluff, two nerds in love. Spencer loving someone who speaks his language. Spencer dovelops a crush on reader even though they never met :((. A smidge Insecurities on Spencer’s part. I hope i did you justice @masivechaos (Ask)

Garcia noticed the construction well before anyone else.

“What do you mean they’re taking my office?” She demanded from the hallway, hands planted onto her hips as two contractors wheeled another cart of equipment past her.

”Its not your office,” the Morgan stated, leaning back against the wall with the grin of a man who knows what he’s about to say and the impact it will have. “It’s the FBI’s office.”

”It became mine when I decorated it. Added my own pizazz. And my nicnacks.” She clenched her fists and shook them dramatically in the air. The attachment to her office was painfully obvious.

”It’s a glorified storage room, Baby girl.” She smacked a hand over his chest, offense plastered on her face as she glared up at him. “It is my glorified storage room,” she mockingly seethed.

Morgan smirked down at her, as he leaned against the wall. Tossing another teasing remark that earned an even louder gasp from Garcia. She shoved his shoulder this time, pointing an accusatory finger at him while he laughed. Completely unbothered by her rising annoyance. The playful bickering continued in the background, drawing the occasional curious glance from passing agents.

With a soft ding, the elevator doors slide open. Hotch stepped out, a manila folder tucked under one arm, walking directly into the middle of the squabble.

Listening to her complaints and whines of people invading her cozy cove, and manhandling her precious items and knickknacks.

“They’re turning it into a storage room,” Hotch cleared his throat. “You will be relocated to a larger workspace directly across from the new forensic laboratory.” He continued walking towards his office, gesturing to the newer glass-front room. Full of people wheeling in and installing expensive looking machines, tech, and all sorts of other things.

Looking back at Morgan and Garcia he shrugs, “construction started last week.”

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Instance 1) Fibers.

Your first day wasn’t anything crazy. Which, honestly, was unexpected. After being hired as the BAU’s Forensic liaison—and by extension, their forensic generalist. You like to jokingly call your position the special forensic liaison.

Maybe you'd have expected Profilers crowding around corkboards covered in red string, pinning photos and theories together until someone put the pieces together enough to describe someone. As always, the movies had lied.

Instead you were handed a lab. A really cozy lab, one you’ve always dreamed of. Which smelled of fresh paint and stainless steel. Every drawer had a label, every machine had its place. The evidence lockers were empty, as of now, due to the evidence being organized and stacked on your desk.

Narcotics seized by a department a few miles down the road. A blood sample shipped in from two states over, that needed DNA confirmation. A muddy pair of boots from the West Coast with pollen trapped in the tread, just waiting for someone to identify where exactly they’d been.

Your noisy office neighbor Penelope Garcia barely made it through the first week before she appeared in your doorway, leaning against the frame with a grin.

“Y’know,” she smirked, watching as you produce the exact evidence bag she had called for not even thirty seconds ago. “You’re like some sort of… forensic fairy.”

Ever since that day the nickname stuck.

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It also didn't take long to notice something else. No one challenged Dr Spencer Reid, Or corrected for that matter.

It wasn’t out of arrogance—never Spencer was too shy, too gentlemanly. The man was just always… right. Constantly.

He rattled off statistics, historical facts, obscure scientific principles, behavioral patterns, and even made up math equations for when to fold in poker. Like a man who knew he’d already checked his work three times before actually speaking it aloud.

No one interrupted. No one corrected him. No interruptions. Never once a muttered, *“actually…”*

That was until your first case. There wasn’t anything ceremonious about it. It was like any other day, running evidence. Fibers, gloves, fingerprints galore!

By the time the team had finished the initial briefing and boarding the jet. Your lab looked like Christmas morning. That’s if Christmas came wrapped in evidence tape instead of sparkly wrapping paper.

You’d already moved from the comparison microscope to the trace evidence bench, your gloves dusted with blue fingerprint powder from an earlier request before switching back to fibers. Somewhere in the middle of it all, Garcia poked her head through your lab door.

”Hello my forensic fairy.”

You looked up to smile at her, “what can i do for my favorite neighbor?”

She smiled back, sliding a cup of what you knew to be your favorite drink across your desk. “The team will need whatever you’ve got.”

”Tell ‘em I’m working on it.” You thank her before turning back to your microscope.

“I know,” Garcia mumbled, leaning against the doorway. She watches as you juggle three different tests without looking the slightest bit overwhelmed. “You always are.” With that she left with a grin.

You took a sip from the cup, smiling at the taste that never seemed to get old. A few moments later, the fibers finally began to make sense.

Well… that's interesting.

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Several states away, the team had finished laying out the profile for the local detectives.

“Given the transfer evidence," Dr. Reid explained, “the victim was most likely transported in either a compact sedans or an SUV.”

Hotch’s phone vibrated, when glancing down the contact ‘FORENSICS LIAISON’ flashed back at him. With a raised hand the entire room quieted. “Our forensic liaison has more information.”

He pressed the answer button, ”Go ahead, you're on speaker.” There was a faint him in the machinery in the background before your voice came through, calm and focused.

”Sorry to interrupt. I just finished the trace analysis on the upholstery fibers.”

”You’ve got us,” Hotch responded.

“So the profile isn’t wrong, based on what Garcia told me was happening. However it is incomplete and that could mess things up. The fibers recovered from the victim don't belong to a compact sedan or SUV. They’re a premium wool-cashmere blend that almost exclusively are used in luxury vehicles. Think, Bentley, Rolls-Royce, Aston Martin, Maserati… manufacturers in that class.”

A few detectives exchanged glances with each other. Spencer frowned, listening carefully.

“However,” you continued, “those fibers aren’t related to the murder itself. It was a transfer after death.”

There was a brief pause before one of the local detectives frowns. he spoke up, “…What do you mean after death?”

You took a breath, “The fibers couldn't have been deposited while the victim was alive.” You explained your tone patient but matter-of-fact. “The autopsy places the time of death several hours before those fibers were introduced. Lividity had already become established, and the transfer patterns don’t match someone sitting or moving under their own weight.”

You shifted another evidence bag onto your workbench as you spoke into the phone. “If the victim had been alive in that vehicle, we’d expect compression patterns, different trace distribution, and biological transfer consistent with movement. Instead, the fibers are concentrated only at the body’s contact points. Thus proving that they were deposited when the body was already deceased. Now, are there any more questions?”

Silence answered over the phone. Before anyone could interrupt, you continued. “So whoever killed the victim isn’t necessarily the person who drove the luxury vehicle.”

Dr. Reid stared ahead. Processing silently. A soft, ‘…what?’ Slipped out before he could stop it. Not dismissive.

Just… Genuinely caught off guard.

”the body was moved twice,” you clarified.

“No,” Reid blinked once, almost shaking himself from his thoughts. “We heard you the first time.”He rubbed the back of his neck, still staring at the floor plan spread across the table.

The room stayed quiet. And from over the phone you let out a breath, it sounded like you deflated. “Oh. Okay that's good… It saves me a breath”

Morgan let out a chuckle from beside Hotch. Emily pressed her lips together and looked away.

Rossi softened as he spoke into the air, “We’re looking for two vehicles.”

”Correct,” you replied. “Ill send the finalized report in about five minutes. Through email. I’m running one last confirmation, but I don't expect anything miraculous to happen.”

“Good work,” Hotch grunted out.

The call ended. For a brief second, nobody moved. Nobody spoke. Only Dr. Reid remained staring at the now-dark phone screen.

”So… W- ahem. Who is our forensic liaison?”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Instance 2) Blood pattern analysis.

You stared at the crime scene photos for another few seconds. Everything looked right. Too right. The team mentioned drawbacks and the crime scene showed blowblack and sprays of blood. Something about it was… missing. Some creepy feeling tingled up your spine. The blood pooling, impact splatter, passive flow, everything was set like a stage. waiting for the cameras to start capturing.

Everything agreed with one another… which is what bothered you. You frowned at the photographs once more before lightly rapping your knuckle on the shared wall between your lab and Garcia’s office. This was a habit the two of you had picked up somewhere around the third month working across from each other. It became a way of announcing your presence before you go into her office.

Rolling your chair away from the workbench, you used your feet to shuffle across the hall into Garcia’s Cozy Cove™

She was already on the phone. Mumbling into her headset, “…Yeah, I’m looking at it right now,” her fingers dancing across the key board. Through the headset, you could faintly make out someone, likely Agent Morgan with how much he calls her, talking.

Garcia looked up when she saw you, her face brightening. “Well hello my gorgeous Forensic Fairy, what can I do for you?”

”Hey love,” without missing a beat, she covered the microphone with one hand and effectively cut off her conversation with the team. No doubt they could now only hear you two mumbling.

”Whatcha need honey?” Her tone taking on something more serious.

You waved it off and watched her relax. “Nothin much, just a hunch. Do you happen to have the number for the CSI supervisor working the team's case? They should be with the team now if I’m not wrong.” You glanced at your watch, the face shimmering gold.

One blonde brow rose, “…why would you need that?” She asked quietly. “Hmm?”

You threw a glance toward your lab. Toward the photographs. “Just a hunch.”

Garcia stared at you for half a second, then she smiled. “Ill have it emailed to you ASAP.” She smiled, popping the p. You gave her shoulder an appreciative squeeze as you shuffle your chair back to your lab, already mentally piercing together your next steps.

The conference room at the cases local department was quiet. Over the speaker, Morgan was the first to speak, “…Baby girl?”

”Hm?” She hummed.

”What was that about?” He poked.

Garcia watched you scoot back into the confines of your lab before turning her attention back to the call.

“I don't know,” she admitted with a grin. “But I think the Fairy’s on a trail.”

”…The Fairy?” Emily echoed.

”our residential Forensic Fairy,” Garcia corrected. there was a beat of silence across the room. Garcia could feel the judgmental stare from Hotch and hear the resounding sigh from Rossi.

”Every time she says, ‘Just a hunch,’ somebody’s theory gets flipped upside down. Expect a call should she find anything.” Garcia giggled out, twirling her feather tipped pen around her fingers, as she lounged in her chair.

Across the hall you called the CSI team and asked for a favor.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

‘I've got a reaction’ was attached to the email along with several photos. The luminol glowing a brilliant blue beneath where the body had been laying.

Transfer indicating and holding the pattern of liquid being wiped away. In this case blood. Someone had cleaned blood before putting down the body and creating the final scene.

It was staged!

You practically shoved your chair back, feet carrying you across the hallway before you can remember that the mumbling coming from the opposite side of the wall was from Garcia talking with the team.

“Garcia!” You called, unable to hide the excitement in your voice. “Honey, guess what?!”

Garcia looked up from her desk, one hand still holding on to her headset. ”what happened Fairy?”

“The hunch was right! The crime scene was staged!” The other side of the call was silenced immediately. She lifted a finger before tapping a button on her headset, she set the headphones onto her desk.

You barely acknowledged Garcia gesturing to speak, already pulling the email up on her monitor.

“Look!” You pointed excitedly at the glowing photograph. “I had a hunch. The scene was too clean. Turns out they wiped the original transfer stains before depositing the final blood pool. It’s underneath everything—they cleaned it and rebuilt the scene!”

you turned toward the microphone, “I can say with one-hundred percent certainty there is no way that victim died at that scene.”

With a happy little dance, you grinned. The energy vibrating onto your fingertips.

"I don't see how. “ The speakers crackled as Reid’s Voice filtered through the call. The smile on your face never waivered. Leaning forward you blurted it, "I can give you a walk through if you want,”

“you’ll have to,” Reid admitted. “The clotting times fit, The gravity flow is. Consistent with the body’s position, and the passive blood patterns all indicate the victim died exactly where they were found.”

”They do,” you hummed thoughtfully. Letting a brief pause on the other side of the phone stretch.

“They do..?” Reid asked.

”Mhm.” You replied again, bounding on the balls of your feet. Which is when you admitted, “Which is what bothered me.”

The room stayed quiet. “That’s what bothered me. The scene is perfect. Everything agrees with each other. Like a scene for a movie, believable but off. Uncanny valley style.” you tapped the glowing transfer stain on the screen. Listening to the click and clack of Garcia’s fingers flying across the scene to send the evidence to the teams tablets.

”The clotting, flow, and passive patterns are all real. But not from before that body was placed there. The splatters on the wall, the blowback cannot be from this body. This body cannot have produced this level of chaos.” You clarified. How it is real, the body and the crime scene real, but a piece of the puzzle was missing.

”The luminol is showing wiping transfer near the final blood pool shows blood was present before our victim was found, and in this case wiped away. but not all of it, and a very bad job at that.” You spoke up, listening to the buzz behind the call. Nervous of their reactions.

”…Are you sure?” Reid asked.

You zoomed in one last time. “Positive,” your voice is full of conviction. No hesitation. No uncertainty.

”The victim was staged.” The call didn't last long after that. Hotch thanked you and did his usual praise.

“Good work,” mumbled out before the line went dead.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Incident 3) Fingerprints.

This time it started with trash. Which wasn’t totally unusual. As a forensic generalist, you had long since accepted that some of the most valuable evidence people threw away without second thought.

“…Reid thinks our unsub has a latex allergy.” Garcia’s voice crackled through the speaker. She was updating you on the team’s progress. This was a recent introduction, as your forensics proved to be at its best when knowing the teams profile and following their path. Cases as Spencer says, “were statistically lower” when you were given all the details. Not that you minded either way.

“So…” Garcia hummed, scanning the notes on her monitor. Tapping her squishy topped pencil against her lips. “ ‘Given the evidence, the unsub likely has a latex allergy. Nitrile gloves are a logical substitute because they provide comparable tactile sensitivity while eliminating exposure to latex proteins.’”

You blinked at her. A small smile tugging at your lips, “Did Spencer happen to say that?”

“Yeah—“ Garcia answered without thinking, she stopped abruptly. She began to turn toward you very, very slowly. A wicked grin spread across her face. “…Wait a minute.” You looked up from the tablet. Raising a brow at her you paused your perusing of the evidence photos.

“Did you just call him Spencer?” She laid out, “You’ve always called him ‘Dr. Reid.’” With a small shrug you looked back at your tablet. Your flushed cheeks, hidden by your hair.

A resounding, “ooooohhhhhh….” Made you look up. Eyes zeroing in on Garcia’s posture. She leaned over, narrowing her eyes at you dramatically. you recognized that look.

”…After lunch, we're totally talking about Spen-cer.” She sang out, wiggling her eyebrows at you.

You were not going to be let off easy.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Two days prior you had asked Hotch for a favor. To bag the trash. Any in that house that was missed. You had been given some, allegedly from the house, but alas you had found nothing. That being said, the amount was too small for a murder of an entire household. He had told you that Morgan would bag-n-tag it.

A day prior you had received the bagged evidence, making you grimace and giggle at the accidental misery you set upon Morgan. But today, you hoped he would forgive you. Cause you had found viable evidence.

A fingerprint, Not a partial finger print. Full fingerprint. Or should you say fingerprints. an entire array of a hand spanning the box was found. The same position one would normally take to then reach inside the box to grab a glove. Fortunately the box was full when the unsub grabbed them, and fortunately he also threw away the box inside the house.

“Cia, my love,” you sang as you strolled into her office. Garcia looked up at you with a smile, “Forensic Fairy!!”

You leaned over her shoulder, pulling the fingerprint up on one of her monitors. Pointing at the fingerprints, “Can you run these through AFIS? It was lifted off the nitrile glove box.”

Garcia’s brows shot up, looking at you in disbelief. You continued, “My guess,” you smirked, “is that it’s our unsub’s.”

”Ohhhh,” She hummed. Cracking her knuckles before beginning her assault on her keyboard. “Let’s see what my forensic fairy has for me/“

The flash of every fingerprint on the database began searching, the loading bar crawled. For hours it searched, paging through each print. And by the time you came back for the search to finish…

’NO MATCH’

You frowned. “Nothing?”

Garcia shook her head, “Sorry toots, looks like they’re not in AFIS”

You blinked, face twisted in confusion. Then it hits you, ‘Sometimes you can get as much information for a profile in what you don't find.’ It was Hotch who said it, apparently he quoted a previous agent, Gideon. He was a wise agent!!

A grin spread across your face, an excited breath leaving your lungs as you sprinted toward your lab. Barely caring the breathless laugh and Garcia’s exclamation of surprise. Your phone rang before you even made it to your chair.

A resounding, “Hotchner.” Awaited you. He spoke before you could answer, “we're updating the profile.”

“Im listening,” you replied back. He wasted no time. Explaining the details. Organized offender. He’s meticulous, plans ahead in detail, minimizes mistakes. Thoroughly understands forensic science and took counter measures.

”…The lack of evidence suggests he consistently wears gloves during the commission of the crime.” Spencer went on. explaining how they found a lack of forensic evidence, no bodily fluids. No fingerprints.

“Actually there were fingerprints. From both the gloves and from a hand.” rolling your chair toward your workbench, and pulling the evidence onto the monitor. “Im emailing the evidence to your tablets. The glove impressions left at the scene can be traced to a specific box of nitrile gloves.”

There was a beat of silence before you continued, “This box was found by our very special agent Dumpster Diver.” You heard a dramatic groan from the other side of the phone. A smirk lighting up your face. “The impressions left at the scene are consistent with the texture and pattern from a partially used box of nitrile gloves Morgan recovered from the crime scene's trash.”

You clicked on the photographs, “unfortunately, Garcia ran through them through AFIS and came with nothing. So we are empty handed.” You probed paving the way for a special boy genius to step in and continue where you left off. Or maybe you just wanted to hear his voice.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Spencer picked it up almost immediately. His expression changed to one of delight, as if he found the missing piece to a long finished puzzle. “So we can reasonably eliminate anyone whose fingerprints would already exist within the system,” he said, more to himself than anyone else. “Prior felony arrests become less likely. Nobody in the military, or federal employment. We can rule out healthcare employees.”

He let out an exhale. “But why nitrile..?” He asked. You perked up, “Well if he has a known latex allergy, that could be one reason. However, nitrile is also more resistant to chemicals and punctures.” He nodded once. Eyes trailing after hotch as he started working with Rossi.

Spencer reached over and quietly pressed the button on Hotch’s phone, taking you off speaker. Bringing it to his ear, he retreated back into a quieter corner of the local police department. Backing away from the steady hum of detectives and ringing phones. The team had only just broken for the night. Coffee cups sat half-finished across the conference table, case files being gathered, and everyone had been preparing to find a few hours of sleep before morning.

Instead, many eyes, ones Spencer knew very well watched as he stalked away with the phone. Morgan was the first to notice, tapping at the air to get Emily’s attention before pointing toward Spencer and smirking at her. She returned the smile.

Spencer stopped in the hallway. He already knew the answer to the question lingering on the tip of his tongue. Well, he knew the textbook answer. I knew it by heart actually. But that's not what interested him, it was your answer he longed to know.

“If you control for substrate, pressure, angle of contact, and manufacturing variation, what’s the limiting factor that prevents forensic examiners from individualizing a glove impression the way they can a fingerprint?”

The question was heavily layered, touching on a handful of different topics. For a split second, you hesitated. Not because you didn't know, you’ve been in this field long enough to have accounted for all that he’s asking in this case and the hypotheticals attached to it. You hesitated because you were trying to gauge whether he was testing you with… malicious intent.

Quiet hum through the receiver smoothed your nerves slightly. He was listening. For an answer or for a clue as to why you were hesitating, you didn’t know. Slowly you began to explain. The first question you answered, beginning to unravel it like a present. You explained through it, connecting thoughts, information, hypotheticals, and the case all into one.

Each bit you gave, he took. Without correction. He listened intently, humming all the way. Quiet responses and breathing on the other side of the phone. He heard as you got more confident. One thought blending into two, then four, then ten. You walked him through manufacturing molds, polymer expansion during curing, microscopic embossing, and so on.

Once in a while he would interrupt. Not rudely, softly. To move the goalpost. Adding in a hypothetical contamination. An uncommon manufacturing defect. Each thing is more specific and complex than the last, to challenge your thinking. Each one designed to see whether your reasoning held together.

It did.

Not once did you stumble. Not once did a contradiction left your lips. Somewhere between manufacturing tolerances and courtroom admissibility… his focus had begun to waver. He stopped thinking about his next question. He had just.. listened.

Which wasn’t surprising. He was good at listening. Remembering as well. But it was as if your voice were a siren call to his ears. He found himself leaning against the hallway wall, the phone resting comfortably against his ear. Your voice filled the silence with an ease that surprised him.

C onversations required effort. There was a rhythm learned to maintain, responses to understand and calculate, social cues to interpret. This didn't. He didn't have to think about the next thing to say, didn’t lose focus, and didn't have to convince himself that its better to stay than to just walk away.

He was utterly entranced. Over a topic he knows. His pulse had quickened considerably after that thought entered his brain. It seemed to linger, like an intruder. Unwanted and unwavering.

He placed two fingers against his carotid artery, feeling his pulse jumping. Odd. He shifted his weight. Took a deep breath, waited a second. He tried again. Still there. Pulsing faster against his fingertips. His thumb began absentmindedly against the edge of the phone…

Why was his heart beating so fast?

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Incident 4) Toxicology

Twelve has always been your lucky number. The Pantheon, which represented the complete authority of the heavens, was created by Ancient Greek and Roman culture. This is anchored by the 12 Olympian gods, who, in their beliefs, ruled over the sky. It’s the hours on a clock. The ancient Mesopotamians created early water clocks. Numbers always fascinated you. Oddly enough, it was your twelfth case which was your most interesting.

Today though, the number three was on the forefront of your mind. Many believe it’s linked to expanse and the lucky planet Jupiter in astrology. In natural terms linked to both the past, present and future, as well as, birth, life, and death.

Three is also the number of times Spencer had called you today. Which, considering you were always too busy working to attend team meetups and have barely spoken in person, was… a considerably large number.

Working as the BAU’s forensic Liaison meant you worked with the team far more than you worked around them. Most conversations happened through Garcia’s headsets, Hotch’s cell, or case files dropped off by Garcia filled with notes to begin searching for forensic answers. By all accounts, you and Spencer were still a little more than professional acquaintances.

Which was very unfortunate. His voice was easy on the ears, a drone that buzzed pleasantly. A low hum against your ears when he was particularly deep in thought. How he rattled off questions as he challenged you previously.

His quick wit and ease as he tested your perspective never failed to amaze you. He was smart, with a multitude of PHD’s but you could tell simply by what he knew to ask. How he could so easily maneuver around information you worked so hard to memorize. Each time you called Hotch, either with an update or a clue, you would perk up whenever you heard his voice.

The teases from Garcia were relentless when she first saw it. But oh how you longed to put a face to the man who made your heart flutter and brain frazzle. But you’ve never seen more than his brown hair fluttering past. You’ve never properly laid eyes on this man before.

So why had he called you three separate times—for reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with the case for that matter—was beyond you.

The first call came just after nine in the morning. He called to ask about a bookstore. Which was definitely not pertaining to the case but you humored him. Explaining the one you frequent and enjoy how they have a section on vintage versions. You described the original copy of Alice in Wonderland you picked up and have displayed in your living room.

The second call came just after lunch. He called to ask what you did for fun. You paused again. This wasn’t about the case either. But with a humor filled scoff and continuation of your analysis through a microscope, you explained your favorite hobby. Going to vintage stores around the city and picking up old things, either planning to restore them or just display them. You explain how you had gotten an old typewriter you’ve restored.

The last call arrived just as you thought you made a break through in the case. Allowing the machines to work as you took a break to review other evidence.

You answered without looking away from the microscope. A small, “forensics.” Leaving your mouth.

“Hi.” You smiled at the sound of Spencer’s voice. It was soft…nervous. Like when you call your boss to say something went wrong. There was a pause.

A very particular pause. “I-i uhm.. thought I said you could call me Spence…” You blinked.

He sounded so sweet. The whispers of his plea rattled in your brain as you tasted the words on your tongue. You shook your head with a smirk. There is no temptation greater than a man being soft and oh so sweet.

Goodness how you fantasized about sinking your teeth into the meat of that temptation.

You smiled despite yourself. “Or at least Spencer, if thats what makes you comfortable.” His voice somehow got softer, he chuckled nervously, “Just… no more of this ‘Doctor’ stuff.”

Your chair squeaked as you leaned back, hands dragging down your face as you closed your eyes. Self-control is a wonderful virtue, but one that treads thin when tested. Especially by a specific man who was the definition of your type.

“Alright, *Spencer*.” The silence that followed was almost suspiciously pleased. A small, “thank you,” murmured through the speakers.You shook your head, a smile tugging at your lips.

“Why did you call me?”

There was a brief pause, it hung in the air as you awaited a response.

“It’s-.. I need information about the language of Lilies.”

“The language of lilies?” You questioned.

He paused, “yes. It’s for a case—“

You slowly raised an eyebrow, despite the fact he couldn’t see you. “Is it?”

“Yes.” His answer came all too quickly, “I promise.”

You hummed. “…Uh-huh.”

You brightened either way. “Anyways—Lilies are my favorite flower, so I actually know a lot about them.”

”Oh?”

You smiled, “yeah, especially tiger lilies and lilies of the valley.” You reached over for the little reference book tucked beside your monitor.

“Tiger lilies traditionally represent confidence and wealth, although the meaning changes depending on the cultural tradition. Lilies of the valley are associated with sweetness and often, the return of happiness.”

you flipped through another page. Continuing to explain the difference between each lily. Water lily, white Easter lily, and leopard lily. You explained the significant, meaning, and what culture the meaning is most attached to. Circling back, “they’re also really interesting botanically because lilies of the valley aren’t technically true lilies, they belong in the non-true lily. As in despite its name, it does not belong to the lily family, and—“

You caught yourself. ”sorry.. i-I’m rambling.” You giggle nervously.

“No, I’m listening” he refuted, So you continued.

You explained Victorian flower culture and how its language brought and changed cultures today. How particular colors could change the meaning so drastically, and why tiger lilies always seemed to be your favorite. Spencer didn’t once interrupt.

When you finished, there was only a short pause. “Okay, I've got enough,” with a smile you responded, “Okay.”

stating your farewells, you waited for him to hang up the phone, only to catch the tail end of, “…i see you later?”

You blinked. “Is that a question?”

you waited.

“Spencer?”

Click bmmmmmmm

You stared at the phone. A small breathy laugh escaping your lips. Garcia poked her head inside.

“Who hung up on my Fairy?”

You immediately regretted saying his name. The look that sank into her eyes was pure evil.

“Don’t,” you glared at her. She held her hands up in surrender. “I can feel the barely-contained feelings form here.”

She giggled as she darted away.

you could only shake your head.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

An hour after Spencer had hung up on you. Which you didn’t mind, chalking it up to an accident. Your laboratory has settled back into its usual rhythm. Tests, evidence, labeling, and signing. So on and so forth.

The call had been mostly forgotten about.

Mostly

Your attention was however sapped away when Missus Mass Spec, the machine who had been humming steadily beside you as it worked through the blood samples, sent in from this case and the M.E. You were halfway through reviewing another Chromatogram when—

Beep.

you pushed off the floor, delighting in the little spin your chair took in it’d unintentional flare as you reached your mass spectrometer. Abby would kill you if she heard you calling the machine something so… impersonal.

All three samples had come back. Each labeled from he three victims. You went over each composition. Your expression is slowly changing. You double checked the confirmation, and each concentration compared all three results to each other. One thing stood out.

Scopolamine.

In the criminal underworld as “Devil’s breath” or Burundanga. Low concentrations. Present at roughly the same dosage, rules out strict cc’s used in medical care, In every victim.

You immediately dialed Hotch’s number. Nothing. You frowned and tried again. He went straight to voice mail. That’s not right, He never refuses to answer a phone call, especially when it's from you.

Pausing, you waited until it hit voicemail. This was definitely weird. Glancing at the toxicology results on your monitor, they needed to know this information. Little bits like this could make or break the case. The team was several states away and whatever had made Hotch unreachable had happened at the worst possible times.

So you scrolled through your contacts. Tapping a familiar genius’ number, you hit the dial. He answered after a few short rings.

“Hello?” He sounded nervous again.

“Hey Spencer, please don’t hang up on me, it's important.”

There was a pause. A really long pause. You could practically hear him thinking through your frantic request. Taking it apart and formulating the words appropriate to answer.

”I wasn’t going to..” you breathed a sigh of relief. Listened as he cleared his throat. You launched into the toxicology reports. How each was low enough to confuse and subdue rather than be lethal. You continued to explain in depth what your chromatograms depicted, throwing glances their way to rerun the results. Like this was some dream you could change if you noticed something was off.

While you were rambling, you barely noticed the shuffling and muffled voices that came through the phone. barely catching Spencer whisper—low and hurried— “Get Hotch. He's in the interrogation room.”

You were already halfway through explaining why the consistency between the samples bothered you. “—The three examples, which sit within a narrow range, Then it isn’t accidental exposure. However whoever dosed them had a lack of care when intoxicating them. I wouldn’t say the person who drugged them worked in pharmacology, but they definitely knew someone who did. You don't just stumble across scopolamine and—“

Spencer cut in. “—Because scopolamine is a competitive antagonist at muscarinic acetylcholine receptors.”

you paused, listening to the team’s rambles as they conversed and listened to one another. You hadn’t even realized they were there. Spencer continued, slipping effortlessly into his own lecture. “It disrupts cholinergic signaling in the central nervous system, particularly in the pathways, particularly in the memory formation and cognitive processing.”

You blinked. He explained that really well, however too scientifically for most to catch onto. “Okay! Simpler version for the non-brianiacs!!” Spencer stopped and allowed you to fill in, “Your brain is incapable of communicating with your body.” You smiled into the phone.

You gestured emphatically at the toxicology report, highlighting the numbers in bold pink. Scribbling notes as you spoke, “You are literally stuck in your own body and awake. To anyone else, you’re consenting.”

your voice softened “However, the person drugged remembers nothing.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

For a moment, Spencer said nothing. He just listened. It was all information you had been previously ranting about. Toxicology results, scopolamine, concentration ratios, metabolism, and detection threshold. But Spencer noticed something else. Something more peculiar.

You changed the way you explained things

The terminology he had just heard you say, was no where to be found. Now it was simpler. Explanations were shorter, more concise. You weren’t exactly summing anything down, you just translated it into something they would understand.

You had somehow picked up on what the team would understand, how they would understand it, and explained it. Allowing them to catch on and comprehend without making anyone feel less than.

Spencer quickly found himself quite fascinated by that. It was gentle.

You were so gentle.

Always considerate. As well as being incredibly intelligent. You knew the science well enough to explain it in its most complicated form, but you also knew when not to.

He liked that.

More than he should.

While Hotch, Morgan, Emily, and Rossi began quietly discussing and revising the profile amongst themselves, Spencer remained slightly apart. “So the half-life,” he asked quietly. He leaned into the receiver. “How does that affect the concentration we’re seeing?”

You answer swiftly and effortlessly. Back to explaining in-depth and long answers stringing together that only he could really catch. It felt amazing to listen to you. Like being the only people in the room speaking a language only each of you knew. It was surprisingly intimate.

His face warmed at the thought. Each and every moment spent with you, he was beginning to see his memory as more than a curse than a blessing.

You were finishing up your first explanation. Something within him tugged, begging to ask another question. If only to hear your voice. so he asked another question. Then another, and this time it wasn’t to challenge your thinking or gauge your brilliance. It was to listen. To hear the rhythm of your breathing when you spoke and to the erratic beating of his heart.

His inflamed cheeks had yet to calm down as you began to explain metabolism and how it could alter over time. Your voice carries the same enthusiastic tone you’d had earlier when you spoke of Lilies so fondly.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Across the room, Morgan noticed Spencer leaning over the same receiver that the team had left behind. His eyes slyly slid over to Emily, who returned a look that mirrored his own. Neither had said anything, and they didn't necessarily need to when Spencer was so enraptured by his conversation with you.

Spencer was practically folded over the phone, listening with an expression Morgan had never seen on him before. Spencer's shoulders were relaxed, his head was tilted slightly, and every so often the faintest smile would pull at his mouth.

Morgan’s eyebrow slowly raised. Emily’s lips twitched in amusement. mouthing, ‘Really?’

Morgan gave the smallest nod towards her. Rossi watched across the table as both Supervisory Special Agents gossiped like school girls. Then he followed their line of sight, his head immediately finding the offender red handed. “Oh,” he smirked. Morgan threw a look at Rossi, amusement twinkling in his own eyes.

Rossi leaned back in his chair, studying Spencer for another second. Breathing out, “I’ve had too many wives to not know where his is going.”

“This is going to be painful,” Emily nearly laughed at Rossi’s dramatic groan. Emily whispered, “How painful?”

Rossi watched Spencer's shy and boyish smile at something you said. “Excruciating,” he murmured, Morgan’s grin widened. He nudged Emily, “How long do you think it will take for them to figure it out?”

Emily shrugged, “Reid? If she doesn't tell him outright, probably six months.” She pushed a folded twenty toward the middle of the table with two of her fingers.

“Three,” Morgan countered, sliding two crumpled tens. Both of their eyes rested on Rossi, who looked up from his file. Stared at the money, then flicked his eyes to them. “I am not betting on Reid’s love life.”

”Technically,” Morgan drawled, “we’re betting on his ability to recognize his own feelings.”

Rossi scoffed quietly. “I am not betting.

Emily smirked, “what? Scared?”

”No.” He countered. “My money will not end up in your grubby hands.”

Morgan chuckled.

All three of their eyes snapped to Hotch, “It’s inappropriate to gamble on an associate’s personal life.” He spoke, not once looking up from the files spread out on the table.

The door opened. JJ stepped inside, a file tucked beneath her arm. “I’ve got an update from the local news—“ she stopped.

Her eyes looked at the money resting on the middle of the table. Then to Morgan. Then she went one by one down the table, looking at each co-worker. “What… is that?” She pointed to the pile of money.

Morgan casually leaned back, her eyes locking in on Spencer. He was still standing apart from everyone. Fidgeting with his fingers as he listened and exchanged information with you.

JJ knew that look. Knew it in a way that you’ve never seen before but still knew what it meant. She’d seen Spencer excited over books. Over new information. She’d seen him get fidgety over obscure facts nobody else really cared about.

But this was different.

She smiled, small and genuine. Though there was a faint pinch of something behind it. She smirked and pretended to think… “Six months,” she said, almost playfully. Setting down a single pristine 20 onto the table.

Spencer finally lifted and pulled away from the receiver. He stared at it for a moment. Then slow as molasses, looked up. Everyone had been watching. Well, almost everyone.

Morgan’s face had changed from a smirk to a large boyish grin. Emily was biting her tongue to try not to laugh. Rossi looked very tired, sipping on his cheap coffee. JJ had her arms folded, wearing a knowing little smile. Hotch was doing an admirable job of pretending none of this existed.

Spencer blinked. His gaze dropping back to the receiver. That shy smile was back. He shook his head slightly, almost to himself and beginning to walk back to the team.

”What a woman…” he mumbled, expression twisted into a dopey smile.

Tag-List:

Since I’m so close to finishing this ask ima answer it!! I would LOVE to write this out!!! I hope you like my writing!! Apologies for this taking forever, and it isn’t my best writing :((( my life has been crazy recently

ITS DONE!!!! - ‘A Profilers Dilemma’

AN: Rant post. About my past unhealthy coping mechanisms. Reader uses such coping mechanisms. If you use mechanisms like these seek help if your ready and want change :)) have a blessed time! (This was all because Emily compared her trauma with Reids and it triggered me :). was watching CM to get inspired for an ask from @masivechaos and watched S7E2 for the instant time and had a lot of feelings. (Sorry if it sucks i was emotional)

CW:Unhealthy coping mechanisms. Reader hurts herself to stop crying. Loss of emotion and feeling empty. Sad-ish ending (not devastating just sit with your emotions sad.) Pissed off Reader. IDK what to call it but trauma and hurting and things

WC: 1005 Words :)

Emily’s voice is quiet. As if it were a secret she was sharing. Spencer who sat across from her, let is eyes scan the page absentmindedly. Masking. You knew it like the back of your hand. Covering the grief. The pain that sank so deep you couldn’t see past it. Couldn’t breathe without a reminder of it. Like a thorn in your side, or a broken rib.

“You mourned the loss of a friend.” Emily starts. “But I mourned the loss of six.” Her words pieced through the air, cracking your facade. Making an ugly amalgamation of anger, fear, and grief rear its disgusting head. You simmered in the silence. Mentally battling with yourself. You couldn't let yourself take it out on Emily cause you were triggered by her words. But then your eyes met Spencer.

His shoulders shrunk. Just like they did when you watched him storm off away from JJ. Just like they did when he was put down. Misunderstood. The battle was lost.

“Emily.” You punctuated. You could practically hear everyone's heads as they snapped to look at you. Your eyes were hardened when hers slid over to look at you. You continued, “this plane is not big enough for what you just said.”

Morgan's eyebrows shot up. JJ freezes. The rustle of paper as both Hotch and Rossi lower the files in their hands. Garcia’s eyes widen to the ice of saucers as a low, ‘oh no..’ leaves her mouth.

Emily frowns at you, “I didn’t—“

You raise a palm to stop her. “Yes you did Emily.” you look up at her. “You took his completely valid feelings and covered them with your own pain. Making yours feel more than his.”

Emily blinks. Opening her mouth, "I didn't do that.”

You begin pointing, not aggressively. Enough. Enough to make sure you punctuate every word. “You took his trauma—one loss—and your own trauma—six losses—and stacked them against each other."

Spencer didn't move. Nobody moved.

”That is by definition a comparison.” You clarify. “You took your trauma and made his sound smaller by comparing them” Your eyes level hers.

“That’s not what I meant.” She started. “It doesn't matter. That’s what you just did Emily.” You never raised your voice.

Emily opens her mouth to say something. Nothing comes out. So you continue, “You compartmentalize better than anyone ive ever met. That’s how you adjust.” You pause.

”Because you’re Emily Prentiss."You point to Spencer. “He isn’t Emily Prentiss. His name is Spencer Reid.” Your words hang in the air. Gathering tension to them like a sponge. “He deserves to heal on his own timeline. He doesn't owe you a faster recovery. Or JJ. Or Hotch. Especially not because someone else suffered more.”

No one speaks. Not Morgan cracking a joke or chuckling to release tension. Or Rossi to lighten the load. Everyone is stunned into silence. Garcia has both hands covering her mouth now

Hotch finally decides to step in. He stands up and gets your attention by saying your name. “I said to blame it on me.”

You scoffed. Trying to will the tears to stop burning your lash line where they gathered. Begging the knot in your throat to loosen. Your stomach to stop dropping. Disbelief sank into your features as you stared at him, He’s still trying to cover it up. To make it all ‘okay’ again.

”No,” you shake your head. Your breathing begins to hitch. A tear spills out. “No, I am not going to pretend this didn't happen. That you and JJ. And now Emily tried to make him feel less than because he isn’t okay on your timeline.”

The dam breaks. Full hiccupping sobs begin to shake your frame. Your fingers dig into your chest as you point at yourself desperate, “I was hurt. I am hurt” you cry out. “I was betrayed. By the people I’m supposed to trust with my life.” Your voice cracks. “I forgave—“ you gasped, trying to breathe”—because i understood.”

she turns to look at Emily, cheeks damp with tears. “Am I less cause I’m hurt? Cause I’m not fully healed yet?” You laughs humorless as you gather everyone expressions. Unworthy. Your mind screamed. They cannot be trusted with this information. A sick voice whispered in your ear, hide. They will use your pain against you. They cannot be trusted.

Your hand clamps over your mouth hard. Nails biting into the skin on your cheeks. Hard enough to hurt. Enough for it to tear the attention fo the crew as you tried to regulate your emotions. Your eyes squeezed shut for a moment. Then nothing. The pain, betrayal, anger, hurt. All gone. All that was left was an ice cold numbness that sank into your veins.

It was instant.

Your breathing steadied. Eyes no longer crying. Body stilling.

You released your mouth. Watching as Emily’s face twisted into confusion, and when she met your eyes, a mix of concern and hurt.

It was frighteningly sudden to everyone else. How you could switch from such sadness to nothingness. There wasn’t anything in your eyes as you looked over them. Garcia met your gaze with a sob. her eyes catching on the four deep crescent shaped nail indents that mark your cheeks.

Wiping your cheeks with unsettling steadiness. You start, “Bottom line.” This time your nose. “Don’t compare trauma.” This time your cheek, not even to relieve the skin, you pushed at it like you were flicking off dust. “It’s emotionally immature.”

You turn back to your seat. Picking up your headphones and putting them on with practice ease. That’s it. you turn out the window. The numbness spreads to your ears as you focus on your music and ignore the other people for as long as this flight lasts. You unfocus your gaze, sinking into the small part of your brain that's safe. That's protected when you dont feel safe in the real world. One that cannot be taken from you. Even when you are hurt by those you trusted with your emotions.

Tag-List

It’s pre-relationship and if anyone is interested in moments they wanna see reader do (i.e gossiping with Garcia about her crush, watching Spencer be sassy ect ect. Feel free to send an ask or even comment what you want!! I am in serious need of ideas (i want i to be a series and to write the relationship evolve between the two. But the only moment i have in my small pebble brain is the one where Spence stares down Morgan like ‘r u fr’ when Morgan asked if he was sure about his information. )

Edit: there will be banter between Garcia and reader and CANNON. PENELOPE.X.MORGAN.

Anyways have a blessed day!! And look out for it!!! :))

Look at how cute he is :(((

Tag-list

AN: FEM!READER in this one. This one got a little spicy. Sorry if it sucks ive never writing anything REMOTELY spicy :p. Reader wants to be a MOM! Thoughts of Pregnant reader. Spencer popped a boner cause he thought of reader pregnant. (Someone give this man kids.) (I volunteer!! As tribute ofc ;))

WC: 2k+ words

CW: one moment of pregnant reader, a little spicy 16+ readers only!! (You are in charge of your OWN media consumption. Reader is good with kids. Spencer thirsting over reader. FLUFFFFFFFF. Tooth rotting actually.

Anyways sorry if it sucks <3 lots of love!!

The case was finally over. The unsub was officially, finally, in custody. The mother, who had been kidnapped, was found alive— Exhausted, terrified, but safe.

Now all that remained was waiting for the mother to be transported back to the local authorities. Which had left one energetic eighteen-month-old sitting in the corner of the sheriff’s conference room. He had remained in that room, wandering with wide curious eyes for the last twelve and a half hours.

He was far too young to answer questions. Far too young to understand why his mommy wasn’t in the room yet. So the little boy did what toddlers do best. He continued wandering.

Emily smiled as he toddled uncertainly across the carpet. She murmured, “someone’s got places to be.”

Morgan chuckled, “Little man is on a mission.”

The mission turned out to be you, as it became obvious the second he spotted you. His entire face lit up. The chub of his baby fat lifting as he smiled his gums up at you, eyes squinting in with soft wrinkles forming around his big doe eyes.

“There you are!!” You beamed, immediately crouching down and meeting his eyes. “Hi sweetheart.”

In response, the little boy squealed. Mouth wide, eyes shut, excited squeal. The sound made your smile wider. Oh how that noise soothed your soul.

Tiny feet pattering as fast as they could carry him before he practically launched himself into your arms. You laughed, catching him with practiced ease.

“Oh my goodness!” She semi-squealed back in excitement. The baby boy buried his face into your shoulder for exactly two seconds before leaning back to look up at you. Then he giggled again.

“Oh that's a happy baby boy,” you whispered. A hand coming up to cradle the back of his head so he wouldn’t lose balance.

Spencer couldn’t help but smile.

“You’ve only known him for a few minutes,” Morgan commented.”

She turned towards him, eyes never actually leaving the baby you cradled. “I’ve been the one hes most comfortable with while you guys were catching the unsub.”

She leaned down to press her forehead into his before rubbing it and blowing a raspberry in his neck. “So give or take 2 and a half hours.” You spoke to Morgan in a baby voice. The baby giggles infectiously as he fights to flee from the ticklish feeling.

Only for him to plop into your lap. Staring at you with those large curious eyes, the little boy reached up and patted your cheek. You gasped dramatically. Whispering a small, “high five?”

Then he slapped your face instead. It didn't hurt, his little cubby hands did nothing but softly plap against your cheek, but Morgan’s roaring laughter could, in fact, be heard.

He quaked with laughter, “He got you good!”

The smile never left your face as the toddler began clapping for himself.

“So proud,” Emily smiled. You had sat down fully onto the carpet. The little boy wasted no time and climbed into your lap. Then back out. Then into your lap again.

“Busy day? You asked him. He answered with complete and utter nonsense. You nodded solemnly, “I completely agree.”

Spencer finally looked up from where he was pretending to review paperwork. He tilted his head, “…What, exactly are you agreeing with?”

You simply shrugged, “He made a pretty compelling argument." The little boy giggled, almost as if in agreement. Spencer smiled despite himself

A few minutes later, the toddler wiggled away from you. He took off across the room in that wonderfully unstable toddler run that looked more like falling with confidence. Or the first few steps of a baby deer, shaky legs but pure determination.

“Oh no..” Morgan muttered.

You saw it too. The lip of the rug in the middle of the room was lifted. Just enough for the toddlers' feet to catch if they went for it. Which this baby boy was gunning for. The little boy's foot caught on the edge of the rug, pitching him forward.

While everyone else inhaled, you reacted. You threw yourself sideways, rolling across the carpet just enough to slide your arm underneath him before her could hit the floor.

Instead of landing face-first, he landed on you. There was a moment of silence, where the little boy looked down at your face. Looked back up to where he was walking. Then back down at you. You crossed your eyes dramatically and made an awfully embarrassing noise. A dramatic “Heyuck” left your lips.

He exploded into giggles. The loud, breathless kind that bade his small baby body bounce.

“Oh!” You laughed. “Was that funny?”

He reached over and grabbed your nose. You pretended to be absolutely shocked. Squealing about how you lost it, and more squeals and giggles left his small body.

Spencer had completely stopped reading. He couldn’t take his eyes off of you. The way you never seemed embarrassed. How you didn't even think before you threw yourself onto the floor. The way you currently held the boy so gently. How the boy looked at you like you hung the moon.

“He really likes her,” Emily said quietly. Morgan snorted, “Likes?”

The toddler had already crawled back into your lap. Again. He began reaching both of his little arms toward your face. Then leaned his forehead against your own. Two little hands fisting your hair. Morgan smiled, “That kid is obsessed.”

”Kids are a good judge of character,” Rossi folded his arms.

Hotch watched as the little boy looked around the room. The second you shifted to grab one of his toy cars, he wined. Soft little hands opening and closing in your direction. You came right back. Whispering, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Instantly the baby was once again content. Emily made a hushed comment on how the baby didn't seem interested in anyone else. As if to prove her point, Morgan crouched down.

“Hey buddy,” he murmured lowly. Coaxing the baby toward him with open arms. The toddler looked at him. Then immediately turned back toward you, burring his face against your shoulder. He chose to instead peek out of the small space between your shoulder and where he was nuzzled into it to look at Morgan.

Derek Morgan, ever the dramatic, clutched his chest. “I’ve been rejected,” he sighed dejectedly.

You giggled at his little show. The little boy leaning back to show you a giant gummy smile.

Spencer couldn’t stop the smile from forming on his face.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Soon the boy had to be returned to his mother. Though it was sad to watch as he whined and reached for you, it didn't take more than seeing his mother for him to become distracted.

“So,” Morgan started, “If none of us worked here, what would you be doing?” The question had come as a surprise. You looked at him confused, watching as he looked pointedly at each person in the jet. You looked over at JJ, confused, only to see her swamped in files.

Emily answered first, “I’d still end up in law enforcement somehow.”

“I’d probably be writing,” Rossi chuckled.

Hotch put his report into his lap and looked up. “I honestly don't know,” was all you received before he was back into his work.

Nodding, you watched as Morgan turned to Spencer. “Pretty boy?”

Spencer paused, thoroughly thinking through the question. “I think I would pursue academia. Teaching, research…maybe even something like forensics.”

You smiled at his answer, it was very much like him. Morgan nodded along with the rest of the team. Then everyone turned to look at you. You winced under their piercing gaze, even Hotch lowered his report to raise an eyebrow.

“Your turn.” Morgan prodded before you could even question their stares. Honestly you didn’t think you’d be involved in this conversation. You had only worked for them for roughly a year. So with a sigh, you murmured a small, “my biggest dream?”

“I would want to be a mom.” your chest warmed. “Whether stay-at-home, or working,” you clarified. Offering a shy smile.

You heard the silence stretch across the cabin. and you shrugged lightly, almost embarrassed at your own answer.

“I dont kno. it might sound simple, but I’ve always dreamed of a little house. Nothing huge,” you gestured with your hands. “Just big enough, and a garden. One growing an abundant of fruits and veggies to support us.” You smiled.

”one with those tomatoes that no matter how perfect they look always taste better than store bought,” You caught as Rossi started to smile. ”i want flowers around the fence. Sunflowers, daisies too. I want herbs that I accidentally forget to water until it rains.”

Emily snorted at you. IT didnt deter the fire burning in your heart. “I want a porch swing, and a dog. One that tracks mud through the entire house and into the kitchen for a snack.” You paused and smiled wider, remembering how the little boy clung to you so tightly when you had to part. “I want finger-painted masterpieces that are..” you giggled, “..objectively terrible. But they’re mine.”

Morgan couldn’t help but smile as you continued, fidgeting with your fingers. “I want a bunch of little ones running around. I want to bake cookies and get flour on the floor. To bandage their scraped knees. To cheer embarrassingly loud at soccer games, or dance practice. And every Halloween i want to make their costumes, even if they’re crooked.” Your smile began to soften.

Fading into something more…comfortable. “I just want to spend my life, making a home where each and every person who comes in, whether it be forever or for a night, that they will feel safe. And so… unbelievably happy.”

Another silence stretched. But this one wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t harsh. No one rushed to fill it. Every word that had left your mouth twisted and transformed the atmosphere into something softer. The words that had left your mouth genuine and excited for what the future might hold.

It sounded heavy all the same, as if you’d been carrying it for years. Long enough to mull in over in your head, repeatedly. Enough so, that sometimes you feel as if its right in front of you but yet, so far out of reach.

Looking around, as if snapped out of a trance, you could see everyone staring at you. Their eyes softened, fondness shining especially bright in Rossi’s eyes.

“I’ve never heard anyone describe a dream like that,” he smiled at you. Almost fatherly in the way his face wrinkled at the corner of his eyes. You smiled sheepishly

Across the aisle, Spencer hadn’t said a word. He couldn't. His brain had stopped somewhere around: ‘A garden in the back yard.’ Or was it a bunch of little ones running around’

His hand slid slowly down his face, pulling the skin with it before he slouched over. Shuffling towards the window. Morgan noticed first. Upon realization he nudged Emily. Emily looked, then quickly snapped her head away to hide her grin.

Rossi followed their gaze. He saw Spencer staring at you with the most hopelessly softened expression he’d ever seen. Rossi turned toward Hotch. He whispered a small, “He’s gone.”

Hotch didn't even pretend to misunderstand. He glanced over at Spencer. Turning his gaze back to Rossi, he quietly replied, “Completely.”

Spencer prayed and hoped they would stop staring. The straining in his tight dress slacks was starting to become too prominent. He pressed the pillow which had been behind his head, into his lap. Whether to search for friction or to cover the evidence, he didn’t know. The image of you pregnant and glowing was burned into his mind every time he closed his eyes. All he could see was you. Waddling, a beautiful hour, a gorgeous garden. God how he wanted it. That image burned into the depths of this mind.

Curse that eidetic memory of his. Curse how you were so beautiful that you left him nothing but a puddle of need. Curse how you made him feel like a teenager stuck in a rut.

Curse that you didn't even know how it affected him.

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