Hello, hello~ Welcome to my corner of the internet! I'm Avery! I've got starry-eyes for both Sam and Dean Winchester (because why choose?), and you'll find me moonlighting as a writer every now and again! I've got a soft spot for romance and happy endings, but what's all that without some heartache? My inbox is always open â come talk lore, love, or your latest hyperfixation! This is a safe space!
--- Avery đđđ
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Taking the Ambiguous out of Avery one post at a time!
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Come read all the amazing submissions to my summer writing challenge!
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Check out my side blog, @averys-athenaeum, if you just want my fics with no filler!
Promise that I'm not dead, y'all! I've been working on a bunch of my WIPs. My latest brainworm has been a soulmate AU for Spencer where soulmates share dreams. It's currently sitting at 6k words and I'm maybe halfway through. So it's gonna be a long one! As proof of life, here's a snippet of it! I'm so excited about it and can't wait to share the whole thing~! đđđ Sneak peek below the cut~
Everyone settled back into their seats. Hotch continued with the briefing, but for once, the case took the backseat in Spencerâs mind. His gaze kept drifting towards you, cataloguing the mannerisms he swore he had seen countless times before. You were listening with rapt attention, your chin propped up on one hand while your pen tapped absently against the notepad in front of you. He memorized the shape of your profile. The slope of your nose and the way your lips pursed as you thought. You shifted in your seat, and Spencer watched you cross your legs in the same way heâd seen it dozens of times before. He had watched you sit like that on park benches and library steps and dream-constructed porch swings that only existed behind his eyelids.
Morgan was saying something about geographic profiling, and Spencer nodded along without fully processing a single word, scratching notes on the page in front of him purely out of instinct. You jotted down notes as the others spoke, and he learned the way you held your pen while you wrote. His throat worked around a swallow. He knew those hands. Heâd held them. Traced his fingers along your palms. Pressed his lips to your knuckles. Felt them against his cheek when you cradled his face in his dreams.
He dragged his mind back to the present, forcing his attention on the case Hotch was presenting. He leaned into the familiar rhythm of profiling, relying on the routine to ground him in reality. You were sitting right there beside him, real and solid, and he couldnât afford to lose himself in memories that only he could recall.
Had to dust off the old pinterest account. I'm never on there so it'll be interesting to see what it gives me. Thanks for the tags @bettystonewell, @aseafullofstars, and @reginaphalangelobster!
I just gotta say that I love how the outfit feels like it embodies both of my current hyperfixations character-wise. Like it's giving Spencer Reid but also the plaid throws in hints of Winchester.
No pressure tags: @chroniclesoftime @chevroletdean @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth @jollyhunter @zepskies @voodoochildthings @h0lym01y @kblognar @aniresrene + anyone else who'd like to jump in!
Just GOTTA drop by with the song Maybe My Soulmate Died bc I just found it again after so long and I kiiinda wanna write something for Sammy about it....
(also those AIA recs yu gave me were SO GOOD and led me to my new fav song of theirs, Light Like You - for a solid week in any silence I just went a-cid, a-cid in my head lol)
SO SORRY, LOVELY! I have no idea how I missed the notif for this! Iâm jut gonna blame tumblr for it.
Iâm gonna give that song a listen right now and get back to you on it!! Please DO write something for it~
Iâm so glad you liked those Arrows in Action songs! Iâm gonna see them in person in October! Iâm so excited for it. Light Like You is so good! Twice is definitely my favorite, though đ
The Statistical Improbability of Dating Spencer Reid
Spencer Reid x fem!BAU!Reader | WC: 9640
Summary: Or: Five times you and Spencer dance around your feelings, and the one time Spencer finally puts the pieces together.Â
Tags/Warnings: Mutual pining, idiots in love, confessions, fluff, Spencer being an oblivious cutie patootie, no use of Y/N, no beta we die like men
A/N: New fandom, who dis? Iâm officially branching out into the Criminal Minds fandom because tumblr has my number and fed me Spencer Reid on a silver platter. Special shoutout to @h0lym01y and their lovely headlock series for inspiring me to write for him! Iâm still pretty early into the series, so apologies if my characterization isnât quite there yet! (Also, fun fact: this was supposed to be a nice quick little piece to dip my toes into a new fandom, and it turned into its own beast so... sorry, not sorry) Thanks @mythandmemories for giving it a twice-over to make sure it all makes sense!
The first time you brought Spencer coffee, it had been completely by accident. The shop you went to had made your order wrong the first time and given you both cups. Unsure of what to do with it, you had offered it to him since he was the only other one in the bullpen when you had arrived. Surprisingly, he had accepted it. The second time you brought him coffee had been the day after a particularly stressful case. And the fourth time, it had become a problem.
Not a real problem, of course. The BAU had serial killers and kidnappers and interstate investigations to worry about. Compared to those, your increasingly embarrassing crush on your coworker wasn't even on their radars. Which was great because no matter how much you told yourself that you couldnât date someone you worked with, your heart never seemed to get the memo.Â
Which was why you had found yourself standing in line at a coffee shop at six-thirty in the morning, mentally reciting Spencerâs order while pretending you werenât. One coffee for you. One coffee for him. Because apparently you had become the sort of person who memorized a manâs coffee order. Lovely. You blamed it on your inability to simply ask Spencer out like a normal person.
The elevator doors opened onto the BAU floor. Most of the lights were still off. Hotch wasnât in yet. Neither was Rossi. The bullpen was quiet enough that you could hear the sound of pages turning. Your stomach did an embarrassing little flip, and you tried to remind yourself that you were an adult, not a high schooler. It didnât do anything to quell the butterflies.
Spencer was already in office. As he always was when you came in early. If you didnât know any better, you wouldâve guessed that he slept there, curled up behind his desk with a book for a pillow. The mental image made you smile. You crossed the bullpen, thankful that Spencer didnât seem to notice you at first. It gave you a few stolen seconds though youâd never admit to taking them.
You watched the way his slender fingers dragged across the page before deftly turning it and moving onto the next. Watched the way he chewed on his lip, the muscle in his jaw flexing slightly with every movement. It was ridiculous, just watching him exist. You knew it was ridiculous. Then again, no one had ever accused a crush of being rational.
âMorning,â you said softly as you drew closer, not wanting to startle him. His head snapped up, warm brown eyes landing on your face before dropping down to the two cups of coffee in your hands.
âGood morning,â he replied, a small smile spreading across his face. It was gentle and genuine. The kind of smile that always felt like a reward. You dragged your thoughts back to yourself before they could stray too far into dangerous territory. âYouâre early,â he said, closing the book with one finger marking his page.
âSo are you.â You tried to sound casual as you set the coffee down on his desk, careful not to spill any of it on his papers. âI figured Iâd beat the morning rush.â Spencerâs gaze lingered on the cup of coffee youâd set down, his expression softening slightly. He picked it up and turned it in his hands, examining the order written on the side. He frowned.
âHow do you know what I order?â
Your heart stuttered against your ribs for a beat. Of course heâd ask. He couldnât just accept a free coffee without asking about the details. And it wasnât like his order was something straight off the menu either. It was just something youâd⊠remembered one day. Because apparently your brain just stored information about Spencer Reid with frightening accuracy.
âOh.â You made a vague gesture with your free hand. âYou mentioned it once.â
âI did?â
âAbout three months back.â And thatâs where you fucked up. Because now it sounded weird. Who in the world remembered a coffee order from three months ago? Fortunately for you, in Spencerâs world, it was a completely normal thing. Or at least something that didnât seem out of the ordinary. He looked thoughtful for a moment, as though he were filing the information away somewhere.
âThatâs impressive.â You preened for a brief moment before confusion kicked in.
âImpressive?â
âThe average person retains significantly less information from casual conversation than people assume. People typically forget about fifty-percent of a conversation within the first hour of having it.â Of course. Of course that was his takeaway. You laughed, hoping that it didnât sound as nervous as you felt. Spencer smiled at you and took a sip of the gifted coffee. Something warm and dangerous settled low in your chest, and for a second, neither of you looked away.
Then, Morgan showed up with his booming voice, and the moment shattered, the fragile pieces of it collapsing down around your feet as you shuffled over to your desk.
âDamn, whereâs my cup?â he asked, glancing between the two coffees you and Reid held. He grinned, already moving towards the break room to start up the communal pot.
âYou snooze, you lose,â you called after him, sinking into your chair and sipping at your drink.
Three weeks later, Spencer still hadnât figured it out. Not that youâd expected him to. At least thatâs what you kept telling yourself. The only problem was that somewhere along the way, bringing Spencer coffee had stopped being about flirting. Anymore, it was a habit. Part of your routine. It was something small that made him smile, and that smile â the one that was just for you in the mornings before anyone else showed up â had become your favorite part of the mornings. You were halfway through the motion of setting the cup down when Spencer spoke up.
âYou donât do this for anyone else.â
You froze, coffee in hand as you looked at him like a deer caught in the headlights. âWhat?â
âI noticed that you donât bring coffee for anyone else in the office.â The cup sat between the two of you. Spencer looked at it then up at you. âJust me.â Your pulse hammered beneath your skin. Had he actuallyâ?
âOh.â You let out a nervous chuckle. âWell.â Every coherent thought fled from your mind, leaving you with an absolute masterclass of a non-response. Spencer continued before you could manage anything more.
âI was wondering why.â
And there it was. The most perfect opening in the world in the history of flirting. Because the answer was simple. Because I like you. Four words. Thatâs all you had to say, and you wouldnât have to dance around this anymore.
âBecause,â one down, three to go, âyouâre here earliest.â Nope, those werenât the right words to say. What a traitor of a tongue you had. Spencer nodded in understanding, accepting your explanation like it was the most sound reason in the world. You were pretty sure that the thought of someone being interested in him in a romantic way hadnât ever crossed his mind. And that realization hurt just a little more than it should have.
âYou donât have to keep doing it.â
âOh,â you squeaked, your stomach lurching uncomfortably.
âNo, I meanââ Spencer sat up a little straighter, suddenly flustered as he shook his head. âI appreciate it.â The sincerity in his voice nearly knocked the air from your lungs. âI really appreciate it. I just donât want you to feel like you have to keep doing it.â And there it was again. The small smile that no one else in the office got except for you.
âNot a problem at all, Spence.â And suddenly, the coffee didnât feel quite so embarrassing anymore. Maybe he didnât understand what it meant. For all you knew, maybe he never would. But he liked it. And that was enough for you.
Spencer hated formal events. This wasnât anything new. Heâd hated them the first time Hotch dragged him to one. Heâd hated them the second time. And he hated this one all the same. There were too many people, too much noise, and far too many strangers trying to shake his hand.
Worst of all, he had to wear a tie.
The tie itself wasnât the problem. He wore ties for work almost every day. The problem was that heâd tied it three separate times, and it still somehow looked wrong. Spencer frowned at his reflection in the restroom mirror. The knot was slightly off-center, and the collar of his shirt sat unevenly. He loosened it again, his mind going over all the different ways he could potentially convince Hotch to let him stay behind at the hotel. He wasnât really needed for this part. He sighed, pulling the tie free entirely and draping it over his shoulders. Maybe he could blame it on jet lag. Theyâd been in Colorado for three days, but he couldâ
There was a knock at his hotel door that pulled him from his thoughts. Spencer glanced at the clock on the nightstand. He wasnât expecting anyone, and you all werenât scheduled to leave for at least another forty-five minutes. He briefly wondered which one of his teammates had come to check on him. Probably Morgan, ready with some quick joke or quip. Spencer opened the door, fully expecting Morganâs grinning face. Instead, he found you.Â
All of his thoughts crashed into each other at once as he took in the sight of you. You were dressed and ready for the event, more put together in a way that looked effortless. Spencer had seen you in plenty of business casual stuff before. Heâd seen you wear nice outfits for other undercover work in the past too. But something about you in this exact moment was⊠different. A little more put together. A little more ethereal in a way he just couldnât wrap his brain around. When his mind finally kickstarted back into action, it supplied him a single thought.
Oh.
Which wasnât particularly useful. Or eloquent. Especially for a man with his vocabulary.
âHi,â came the oh-so-professional greeting from his lips. He watched your eyes travel from his face down to the tie that was still draped around his neck, and a small smile curved your lips. The same one that always made something warm settle between his ribs.
âTie giving you trouble?â you asked, and Spencer had to look away. You were standing in his doorway looking fully put-together, and he was standing there with his tie undone and hair mussed from running his fingers through it one too many times. It wasnât exactly the image he wanted to present.
âIt doesnât want to sit properly,â he admitted, gesturing vaguely. âThe knot keeps shifting.â
âHere, let me help.â You stepped into his room without waiting for an invitation
âI can do it,â he said too quickly. Because the alternative involved you standing close enough to touch him. Which felt like a terrible idea but not for the usual reasons he had. For reasons Spencer was trying very hard not to examine. You paused and folded your arms.
âSpencer.â
âReally,â he insisted. âIâm perfectly capable of tying a Windsor knot.â He was. He did it every day for work. He was a fully functional adult who could dress himself for a formal event he had zero desire to attend. You laughed, â not at him, never at him â and Spencer was beginning to suspect that your laugh mightâve become his favorite sound. Not that he planned on telling anyone that. Ever. Before he could think of another excuse, you stepped fully into his room and beckoned him closer.
âCome here.â His heart raced. He opened his mouth to argue. Then closed it as his traitorous feet obeyed, bringing him within armâs distance before he could think better of it.
You reached up for him, pausing for a moment to let him retreat if he suddenly decided he didnât want your hands on him after all. When he didnât budge, your fingers gently grasped the loose tie and drew closer to him. You were so close. Closer than Spencer could ever imagine you being. Close enough that Spencer could see the tiny details he might not have fully been able to catalogue from afar. The faint shimmer of your makeup. The way your eyelashes cast the faintest shadows against your cheeks. The scent of you. Something warm and familiar. Something that immediately lodged itself in his brain.
He didnât dare look away from your face. Somewhere at the back of his mind he recognized that your movements werenât putting together a regular Windsor knot. There were too many steps for that. An Eldredge knot his mind supplied. Your fingers brushed against his throat as you looped the fabric around itself, and Spencer was pretty sure he forgot how breathing worked. Which was, obviously, impossible considering that breathing was an autonomous action that his body was physically incapable of forgetting in any sense of the word.
And it wasnât like you were doing anything inappropriate, either. You were fixing a tie. A completely normal thing. A thing that approximately half the population of men got help with. It wasnât an official statistic, so the percentage was likely higher. Which put him in the majority. So why did his entire nervous system feel like it had short-circuited?
âHold still,â you chided, lightly tugging on his tie. His gaze fell to your lips, and for a single, dangerous, second, he let himself wonder what they would feel like against his. Spencer diverted his gaze.
âI am holding still.â
âYou just moved.â Your fingers ghosted against him again, and Spencer stared very intently at a piece of the peeling wallpaper against the opposite wall of the hotel room. At the mirror that hung on the wall. At literally anything except for you. Because looking directly at you felt like it was too risky at this exact moment. What if you looked in his eyes and found all of his secrets there? It was a ridiculous notion. âThere.â You smoothed the tie against his chest, and he didnât need to see it to know that it was perfect.
âThank you,â Spencer said, his voice softer than he meant for it to be. You looked up at him, and for a moment, neither of you moved. The space between you hummed with possibility.
âYouâre welcome,â you replied, your hand still resting lightly on his chest. âNow you look ready to impress a room full of strangers.âÂ
He swallowed hard, throat feeling uncharacteristically dry.Â
âYou clean up real nice, Reid.â Your words were light and teasing, but they landed somewhere deep inside his chest. Spencer blinked, caught off guard.
âWhat?â
You smiled at him. âYou look good.â
His ears burned. Because people didnât usually say things like that to him. Not in any serious way. Not while looking him directly in the eye. Not like this. The warmth in your expression made his stomach twist itself into knots.
âYou look nice too.â That wasnât right. You looked beautiful. You looked stunning. You lookedâ
Nice. Truly the most exceptional word he could pluck from his vocabulary. But your smile brightened regardless as though nice had been the best compliment you had ever heard.
âThanks.â The silence between the two of you stretched, neither of you willing to break it. After a moment, you took a small step backwards, and Spencer immediately missed the closeness. Which was an alarming realization in and of itself. You nodded towards the hotel door. âCome on. Before Morgan sends a search party for us.â
Spencer laughed, feeling the tension slip from his shoulders. âIâll be right there.â You nodded before slipping out the door. Spencer pressed his fingers to the knot you had done, stepping into the bathroom to take a brief look at your handiwork. He smiled at his own reflection. The knot was immaculate, sitting exactly where it needed to be. He hadnât expected anything less from you.
You were pretty sure you looked like hell. Honestly, the entire team did. The case had been long and grueling. Three states, four victims, and next to no sleep. You all had piled into a diner after the arrest. Tables pushed together and everyone was nursing mugs of coffee. Youâd spent most of the last seventy-two hours surviving on gas station coffee and sheer stubbornness. Everyone had.Â
Morgan was poking at the fries on his plate like theyâd personally offended him. JJ looked ready to curl up beneath the table and sleep for eternity. Even Rossi looked tired, which felt vaguely unnatural. The only person who seemed remotely functional at the table was Spencer, which somehow wasnât surprising.
He seemed to operate on an entirely different set of biological rules than the rest of humanity. You sat next to him, shoulder pressed lightly to his. He didnât seem to mind. Or at the very least, he didnât move away. And that tiny fact was all the fuel your little crush needed to continue burning for the next eternity.
You stole a glance at him out of the corner of your eye as you sipped at your coffee. His tie was loosened, and the top button of his dress shirt was undone. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. His hair was a disaster, the product of running his hands through it several times too many. You liked him best like this. Not because he looked more attractive. Although he absolutely did. That wasnât the point. The point was that this version of Spencer felt more real. More relaxed. More human.
This was the version of him you didnât get to see nearly as often as youâd like. The version of him that you had somehow, disastrously, fallen head over heels for. Months ago, the realization wouldâve been horrifying. Anymore, though, it mostly felt exhausting. Because you were pretty sure absolutely nothing was ever going to come of it. Garcia and Morgan both insisted that he liked you back, and JJ swore that everyone could see it. You werenât so sure about it, though. If Spencer liked you back, then surely something wouldâve happened by now, right?
The waitress showed up beside the table before your thoughts could spiral any further. She had a pot of coffee in hand and proceeded to fill everyoneâs cups as they were offered up to her. You dutifully held yours up. There wasnât enough caffeine in the world that was going to keep you from passing out once you were on the plane. But you did have to stay awake long enough to make it there. She set the coffee pot down and pulled out the notepad she had taken everybodyâs orders on.
Your eyes drifted to Spencerâs hands and they way his fingers wrapped around his mug. There was a small scratch on his knuckle, and you vaguely wondered when heâd gotten it. He hadnât been part of the takedownâŠ
ââtogether?â
You turned to look at the waitress, eyes wide. She was pointing her pen between you and Spencer. Your brain short-circuited. The word echoed in your head, and because you were apparently incapable of functioning like a completely normal human being around Spencer Reid (or maybe you could blame the exhaustion), your brain latched onto the idea that you were so obvious about your crush that even the waitress could see it.
Heat rushed into your face, and all at once, every trace of exhaustion had been wiped from your system. Beside you, Spencer froze, and you could see the way his brow furrowed. Then, he let out a small, awkward chuckle before shaking his head.
âNo, weâre not together,â he said, and the easy way he said it made you want to slide beneath the table and disappear. Which was dumb, because obviously you werenât dating. But your stupid heart still carried that hopeful torch. âJust coworkers.â You looked down at your coffee, wondering if there was any way you could drown yourself in it in case the embarrassment wasnât enough to end you. Unfortunately for you, Spencer kept talking. âActually, workplace relationships, while fairly common, tend to be more complex than people realize. Fifty-seven percent of people report a negative impact on their work performance andââ
âReid,â Morgan cut in. âShe means the check.â Spencerâs mouth snapped shut. The tips of his ears turned a faint shade of pink, and you watched the realization dawn across his face.
âOh,â he said, his voice going quiet. âThe check.â The entire table went quiet as the waitress scribbled something down on her notepad, her expression unreadable.
âRight. Separate checks then,â she said, clicking her pen. She slipped away, and mercifully, the rest of the table went back to their low chatter. You focused on your coffee, stirring it just to have something to do with your hands. Spencer shifted beside you, his shoulder brushing against yours again. The contact sent a ripple of warmth through your body despite the humiliation still burning in your cheeks and the sting spreading through your chest.Â
Logic dictated that you shouldnât have felt hurt. Spencer was simply being honest, and thatâs what you liked about him, wasnât it? It was just a misunderstanding. Obviously, Spencer hadnât said that he wouldnât have dated you specifically. He had simply launched into reasons why dating a coworker could be difficult. They were just facts. And Spencer wasnât exactly known for choosing the most socially graceful option when a factual one was available.
But facts or not, the logical side of your brain was already checked out for the evening. All your heart could hear was âjust coworkers.â The words burrowed deeper into the hole in your heart, finding the weakest spot and curling up to fester. You took a sip of your coffee, letting the bitter taste of it burn its way down your throat. Spencer shifted beside you, and you could vaguely feel the way the rest of the teamâs eyes drifted down to your end of the table. You stayed quiet for the rest of the evening.
Spencer had fully expected you to cancel on him. Not because you were unreliable but because the team had landed late the previous night after a case in Wisconsin. And âlateâ was being generous. The jet touched down close to midnight on Friday, and by the time everyone made it to Quantico, filed the necessary reports, and dragged themselves towards their cars, it had been close to two in the morning.
Movie night had been planned for Saturday. It was your idea, technically speaking. Spencer had made an offhand comment that he hadnât seen a movie you were referencing during a conversation in the bullpen, and youâd stared at him like heâd committed a federal offense.
âYouâve seriously never seen it?â
âNo.â
âSpencer,â you began, your tone suggesting that you were trying very hard to stay reasonable. You were joking, of course. At least⊠he hoped you were joking and that you werenât actually upset at him for not having seen whatever movie you were talking about.
âItâs not statistically unusual to miss popular media,â he reasoned. âIn fact, given the rate that newââ
âWeâre watching it.â
Spencer stopped talking, thoughts careening off a cliff as your words sunk into him. He blinked. âW-we?â
âYes. My civic duty demands it. This Saturday. Clear your calendar.â He smiled before he could stop himself. Then, he proceeded to spend the rest of the week trying very hard not to look too deeply into the fact that you had made plans with him. Not with the team. Not with a group of people that included him. Him.
Which, he had to remind himself, was objectively nothing.
Coworkers spent time together outside of work. Friends watched movies together and made plans. Friends brought takeout and laughed with each other and sat on couches in living rooms while pretending none of it meant anything more. Still, by Saturday afternoon, Spencer had convinced himself that the plan would fall through even as he reorganized the stack of books on his coffee table for the fourth time.
You were probably too tired. Or maybe something else would come up. He could think of a small list of things that you probably prioritized on a Saturday evening over watching a movie youâd already seen with a coworker you saw almost every day. So when you called him at six asking him for what he wanted from the Chinese restaurant just a couple blocks away from his apartment and assured him that youâd be there right around seven, Spencer found himself standing completely still in the middle of his living room for three whole seconds.
He looked down at himself. Cardigan, button-down, and slacks. Was it too formal? Probably. He had already changed twice. The first outfit felt too casual, but the second had seemed like he was trying too hard. He thought that maybe this one had landed in a more reasonable middle ground, but now with the timer until you showed up at his front door counting down, Spencer was beginning to suspect that there was no such thing as reasonable.
The stack of books on his table got adjusted for a fifth time.
The knock at his door came at exactly 6:57. He crossed his apartment too quickly, stopping just a couple paces away from his door and forcing himself to breathe. This was completely normal. And it wasnât like this was the first time youâd ever been over either. There was the time when youâd driven him home when it was snowing and used his restroom before braving the journey home. He still kicked himself for letting you drive alone in that weather.
The knock came again, jolting him from his thoughts. He pulled the door open. You stood in the hallway wearing jeans, a soft-looking sweater, and the kind of tired smile that turned his thoughts to static. You held up the takeout bag in one hand and a DVD case in the other.
âI come bearing food and cultural education.â He took the bag from you and stepped aside, something warm and impossible settling into his chest as you crossed the threshold.
âYou didnât cancel,â he said before he could stop himself. You looked at him, eyebrows lifted as you slipped your shoes off and lined them up next to his.
âWas I supposed to?â
âNo.â He winced. âI mean, no, obviously not. I just assumed you might. We got in late last night, and we were in the field for almost four days. Statistically, sleep deprivation can significantly impact social follow-through.â
You stared at him for a moment before grinning, eyes practically twinkling as they found his. It was his favorite expression you had. âWell,â you began, walking further into his apartment. âStatistically, I really wanted to be here.â That was a nonsensical answer that didnât really make grammatical sense, and Spencerâs brain supplied him with several possible responses. He rejected all of them.
âIâm glad you came,â he said finally. It wasnât his best work, but it was genuine. And he meant it more than he probably should have. Your smile widened anyway, and he was sure that heâd said the right thing.
His apartment felt different with you in it. An irrational thought but not an inaccurate one, he mused. Nothing had physically changed about the space, but it seemed less quiet with you there. Less⊠solitary. Spencer wasnât entirely sure what to do with that observation.
Dinner was easy which, admittedly, surprised him a little. It shouldnât have, in retrospect. Lots of things with you were easier than with others. He didnât have to filter himself nearly as much. The two of you had made it through maybe five minutes of the movie before you had paused it in the midst of him pointing out several historical inaccuracies in the opening scene. Spencer looked over at you in alarm.
âWhat?â
âKeep going.â You motioned for him to keep talking.
He glanced back at the screen. âYou paused it.â
âYeah, so I can hear what youâre saying.â
Spencer stared, a strange warmth moving through him that left him just a little breathless. Most people tolerated him. But not you. You didnât interrupt him when he started explaining things. You didnât get that glazed, polite look people sometimes got when they were waiting for him to realize that heâd rambled on too long. You listened. You asked him questions. Real, engaging questions. Not just the surface level ones to be courteous. He swallowed and looked back at the television because looking directly at you made whatever had wedged itself between his ribs threaten to tumble out of his mouth.
âItâs just that the timeline doesnât really support the costuming choices,â he said at last.
âOkay,â you said, nodding. âWhat wouldâve been more accurate?â
The first half of the movie took twice as long to watch because you kept pausing it to argue with him, ask him questions, or point out inconsistencies. And somewhere along the way, Spencer felt himself relax into the moment and stopped worrying about whether he was talking too much.
You were curled up on the opposite end of the couch, legs tucked beneath you and your takeout container sitting empty on the table in front of you. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as you brought your hand to your mouth to hide a yawn. Moments later, you did it a second time. By the fourth one, he frowned.
âYouâre tired.â
You gave him a look from across the couch. âAstute observation, Doctor.â
âYou should sleep.â
âIâll sleep when Iâm dead, Spence,â you said, shaking your head at him. Spencerâs frown deepened.
âThatâs an incredibly reckless mindset, especially given that the average adult needs between seven and nine hours of sleep per night to maintain optimal cognitive function.â
âSays the man who once stayed away for forty-eight hours straight during that Chicago case.â
âThat was different,â he argued. âIt was a case.â
You laughed softly and pointed at the tv. âEyes on the screen, genius. Youâre missing important cultural references.â He dragged his gaze away from you and only half paid attention to the characters as you shifted, scooting closer to him and settling deeper into the couch cushions.
The movie continued. Your commentary became less frequent until it stopped entirely. Spencer glanced over again. Your head was tipped back against the cushions, eyes closed. He waited a moment, unsure if he should say something or not. Your breathing evened out.
You were asleep. On his couch. In his apartment. Beside him. Not because you had to. Not because the jet didnât have any other available seats. You had come here intentionally. You had stayed. And you felt safe enough in his company to let yourself drift off within armâs reach of him. The realization settled over him all at once.
The objectively correct thing to do, he thought, would be to wake you and offer you the bed. Or a blanket. Or, more realistically, a cab home. Something practical and considerate. But you looked peaceful. And Spencer didnât want to be the reason that peace ended.
He had discovered, over the last several months, that he liked when you got to be comfortable. He liked seeing the way your shoulders would loosen after a hard case. He liked when you were happy, and more than anything, he wanted to be the person who could make you smile when work had taken too much from you.
It was a truly dangerous thing to want. Spencer knew that. He wanted it anyway.
You shifted in your sleep, and before Spencer could process what was going on, your head settled against his shoulder. Every single one of his well-earned IQ points evacuated the premises. Gone. Vanished. Like they had never existed in the first place. He didnât move. Couldnât move, really. Every muscle in his body had locked into place the moment your hair brushed against his jaw.
The movie continued playing, but Spencer had stopped processing any of it. All of his thoughts gravitated around the weight of you against him, the slow rhythm of your breathing lulling him into a strange, unfamiliar calm. He had never been big on physical contact before. He knew the physiological benefits of it and could cite several studies done over the years about how physical touch affected the human brain. But knowing the science of it and actually experiencing it were two very different things.
Your warmth seeped through his cardigan and settled into his skin, and he found himself leaning into it despite every rational part of his brain telling him that this was a bad idea. Minutes ticked by, and Spencer remained exactly where he was, too terrified to move and risk ruining whatever this was. Because this was nice. Dangerously nice. The kind of nice that made him want impossible things. The kind of nice that made him imagine what it would feel like if this had been on purpose rather than an accident.
This wasnât a date. He knew that. You were his coworker. A friend. A friend who brought him coffee and fixed his ties and fell asleep on his couch because you trusted him. That was all. And yet⊠Spencer tilted his head just enough that he could catch a glimpse of you. Maybe there would be a day when you chose this with him. Maybe one day he could simply reach over andâ
Nope. Absolutely not. His thoughts were venturing into dangerous territory.
Spencer turned his attention back to the television, but he didnât see anything on the screen. He realized with a quiet start that he was in trouble. Because somewhere between the coffee and now, you had become his favorite part of every day. And Spencer wasnât entirely sure when that had happened.
You had reached your breaking point. Not because anything in particular had happened. In fact, it was precisely because nothing had happened. Absolutely nothing at all. You were trapped in your own personal hell, unable to move past your childish crush on your coworker while simultaneously incapable of addressing it like the very reasonable, mature adult that you were.Â
The bullpen was empty. The rest of the team had finished their paperwork and gone home early. Rain tapped against the windows of the building. Across the room, Spencer was still buried in paperwork, reading and organizing files with quiet, focused efficiency. He was hunched over his desk, glasses balanced precariously on the bridge of his nose and threatening to slide off completely with every passing line he read.
It was a terrible idea. You knew it was. But you were tired. Tired of wondering. Tired of hoping. Tired of reading meaning behind every little smile. You stood from your desk and perched yourself on the edge of his.
âHey, Spencer?â His attention snapped to you in an instant, eyes wide over the rims of his glasses, and you hated how your brain reminded you that he always looked at you immediately whenever you spoke. As though your voice mattered more than whatever he had been doing before. It was a dangerous thought.
âHm?â
Your pulse pounded in your ears. âIf someone liked youâŠâ You looked at the papers on his desk, eyes focusing on the spot where his fingers still held his place. ââŠdo you think youâd notice?â
The question hung between you, heavy and loaded with every implication you could pack into it. You watched as Spencerâs brow furrowed, and he pressed his lips together into a thin line. His head tilted slightly, and you knew that this was the worst idea youâd ever had. Because the longer he sat there, the more he profiled the question, the more likely he was to figure out the reason for it. Which meant it became more and more likely for the reality of rejection to crash down over you with each passing second. Then, finally,
âProbably not.â
Your jaw went slack. âWhat?â
Spencerâs hand pulled away from the page he had been reading as he spun in his chair, turning to face you fully. âHuman courtship relies heavily on implication. There are dozens of signals that could indicate romantic interest, but most also have non-romantic explanations.â You stared at him. He had gone into full lecture mode. During the closest thing to a confession youâd been able to give a voice to. Granted, it wasnât really a confession. âPhysical proximity, gift-giving, and prolonged eye-contact are typically the most common signs of attraction, but those all exist in platonic relationships as well.â He paused, eyes searching your face. âWhy?â
Something twisted inside of your chest, and you werenât sure if it was relief or devastation. Probably a horrible mix of both. Because of course. Of course Spencer Reid could profile a strangerâs entire life from a single crime scene, but he couldnât recognize romantic interest if it hit him in the face. And somehow that was even worse. Because if he didnât know â if he genuinely couldnât tell â then maybe every missed signal wasnât rejection.
You werenât sure if you wanted to laugh or scream more. Instead, you settled for a weak smile and a shrug that you hoped looked more casual than it felt. âJust curious,â you said, voice sounding strange even to your own ears. âA hypothetical.â Spencerâs brow furrowed, and you could practically hear the gears turning in his head as he thought.
âHypothetical,â he repeated. âYou know, statistically speaking, most questions posed as hypotheticals arenât actually hypothetical.â
âJust thinking out loud,â you insisted, voice pitching up slightly as you moved to retreat back to the safety of your desk. Spencerâs eyes tracked you as you fled, and you could feel the weight of his gaze following you back to your desk. Your heart hammered against your ribs, and you focused intently on the computer screen in front of you, clicking through files you had already reviewed three separate times. You made it almost four minutes before Spencer spoke again. Which, considering the circumstances, felt both mercifully brief and unbearably long.
âAre you asking because of someone specific?â
Your fingers froze over the keyboard. You shouldâve expected it. Really, you should have. Spencer Reid was not known for letting a loose thread hang, especially not one that had been handed to him with a flashing neon sign that read âsuspicious emotional subtext.â You didnât dare look up at him.
âWhat was that?â
âYour hypothetical,â he clarified. âAre you asking because someone has been flirting with you, and youâre not sure how to interpret it?â The laugh that left you was strangled.
God, this was the worst part of it all. He sounded genuinely interested. Concerned, even. Fully prepared to help you solve a problem that was, unbeknownst to him, currently sitting across from you with his glasses sliding down his face. And it wasnât even his fault. Okay, it was, but you could hardly blame him. You hadnât exactly been the most forthcoming about it.
âSomething like that,â you said. It was close enough to the truth to make your stomach lurch. Spencer was quiet for a beat. Then, you heard the soft scrape of his chair wheels against the floor. You looked up despite yourself. He had perched himself on the edge of his desk, right where you had been moments before. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he had that look on his face that he got whenever he was trying very hard to figure out the answer to a question.
âYouâre asking whether someone would notice if they were being flirted with. That suggests either uncertainty about the other personâs awareness or uncertainty about whether your perception of their behavior is accurate.â
Your mouth went dry. Damn him and his brain. Damn the way he could pull the edges of a thing apart without ever realizing that he was the center of it. âItâs rude to profile your coworker, Spence,â you chided, but you couldnât muster any heat behind it. âMaybe I was just wondering how often people miss obvious signals.â
âFrequently,â he said without any hesitation. âPeople tend to overestimate their ability to interpret romantic interest accurately. There have been studies done suggesting that men, in particular, are more prone to misreading friendliness as flirting, but the inverse happens too. Some people under-detect attraction because theyâre trying to avoid making wrong assumptions.â
There was something softer in his voice. He was looking at you. Not with the sharp focus that he used on suspects. This look was quieter. Like he was trying to understand something he didnât want to scare away. You chewed on your lip and turned back to your computer. The almost-confession sat between you like a live wire. One more honest word and the whole balance that your friendship sat on could come crashing down around both of you.
I like you, Spencer.
Your friendship with Spencer wasnât theoretical. You already had it. What if confessing made every plane ride awkward? What if movie nights suddenly stopped? What if you couldnât look across the bullpen and smile when you caught his eye? The possibility of something more with him wasnât guaranteed. But the possibility of losing what you already had was a risk you simply werenât ready to take.
âAnyway,â you said, too brightly. âForget I asked.â
âI donât think I can do that.â Your stomach did a little flip, and Spencer seemed to realize how it sounded a second after he said it. His ears went pink, and he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. âI mean, I have an eidetic memory, so technicallyââ
You laughed before you could stop yourself. It came out breathless. Relieved. A little too fond. Spencerâs mouth curved in response. And there it was. That smile. That small, private, devastatingly Spencer smile. The tension between you eased into something more bearable. Almost manageable, even. He looked down at his desk, shuffling around the papers he wasnât reading. âYou know, if this hypothetical person is making you feel uncertain, you could always just ask them directly.â
You nearly choked. âCould I?â
âIt would be the most efficient way to resolve the ambiguity.â
âRight.â You nodded, swallowing down all the words you wanted to say. âEfficient.â
âAlthough,â he mused aloud, âefficiency isnât always emotionally comfortable.â That surprised you. You looked at him again. For a moment, he seemed younger than he already was. Not naive. Just uncertain in a way he rarely allowed himself to be around anyone. His thumb brushed against the side of his index finger, a small self-soothing gesture you only noticed because you noticed too much about him.
âNo,â you agreed. âIt isnât.â Another pause hung between you. Somewhere deeper in the building, an elevator chimed faintly, but no one came into the bullpen. No one interrupted. No one saved either of you from the conversation you were both pretending not to have.
Friday afternoons at Quantico always felt different when there wasnât a case taking you across the country. There was something almost strange about witnessing the building slowly empty as agents filtered towards the elevators. So often, you only ever got to experience the bustling activity of a regular work day or the quiet of coming into the office in the wee hours of the night after touching down post-case.
You shouldâve left twenty minutes ago. Your reports were finished, youâd organized your desk twice, and your car was sitting in the parking lot just waiting for you. Hell, you could probably even catch the latest episode of whatever show one of your friends was raving about. And yet, here you were, standing beside Spencerâs desk while he carefully slid a file back into its proper place.
âYou know,â you said, âyou donât have to finish that tonight.â You gestured to the file in his hands. Spencer looked up, warm brown eyes finding yours.
âI know.â His fingers lingered on the file. âI just want to finish organizing these before Monday.â
âHavenât you organized them like four times already?â
âThose were different files.â
âAh.â You nodded solemnly. âCompletely different.â Spencer shook his head, the faintest smile tugging at the edges of his lips. The thing that kept ruining your life. You shouldâve been immune to it by now. You werenât.
âAre you leaving?â he asked.
âEventually.â Your answer earned you a look. âWhat?â
âYouâve been standing there for ten minutes.â
âMaybe I enjoy judging your filing system.â
Spencer laughed. The sound was soft. Almost private. âYouâre terrible.â But there was no bite behind his words.
âOnly when it comes to you.â
Minutes later, the two of you were finally heading to the elevators. The ride down was quiet. Comfortable. The kind of silence that had developed naturally over months of shared cases, shared flights, and far too many late nights together. By the time you stepped outside, the sun hung low on the horizon. The air was beginning to cool. The perfect weather for an evening walk.
âSo, got any plans for this weekend? Besides our weekly movie night?â you asked, falling in step beside Spencer as the two of you began the familiar route to the train station. Spencer adjusted the strap of his messenger bag, his gaze fixed somewhere ahead of you both.
âNothing particularly exciting. I was planning to finish a book Iâve been working through.â
âThe one on forensic linguistics?â
âYou remembered?â
âOf course I remembered,â you said, bumping him with your shoulder. âYouâve been talking about it this whole week.â
Spencer ducked his head, a smile playing at his lips. âI didnât realize.â
The two of you passed the coffee shop you always stopped at. The one that always got Spencerâs order right. Spencer stopped to peer into the window of the bookstore he always liked to stop at because they usually had first editions of books. You offered to go in with him, and he declined your offer every time. None of this shouldâve felt significant anymore. The coffee shop. The bookstore. The walk to the station. They had all become part of your routine months ago. They were small, ordinary things.
Except that you thought about them constantly.
For months, you had collected scraps of ordinary things. Tiny pieces of evidence that maybe he liked you back. Tiny fragments of hope. And for months, none of them had amounted to anything. You were tired. Tired of carrying this thing around inside your chest. Tired of pretending that walking him to the station every Friday wasnât your favorite part of the week. You were tired weeks ago. Now, you were exhausted.
And the worst part of it was that you couldnât even bring yourself to stop. Because every time you thought you were finally getting over it, heâd smile at you. Or remember some insignificant detail youâd mentioned weeks ago. Or call you first when he found an interesting article. And you always ended up right back where youâd started.
âIâve noticed something,â Spencer said abruptly as the two of you stopped at an intersection. âYou do this every Friday when we donât have a case.â
âDo what?â
âYou walk me to the train station.â You kept your eyes on the sidewalk across the street, unwilling to let yourself hope that maybe heâd finally picked up on your feelings. Spencer turned to face you, and you could see the way the sunlight caught the edge of his jaw in your peripheral vision.
âWell someone has to make sure you actually make it home. Canât have you sleeping in the office over the weekend. The cleaners might mistake you for a stack of files,â you said, keeping your voice light. The crosswalk signal blinked white, and you stepped forward. Spencer didnât move.
âYour carâs in the opposite direction,â he pointed out, falling in step behind you again. âYou walk fifteen minutes out of your way every Friday.â
âMaybe I just enjoy a nice Friday evening walk,â you countered, hoping that the deflection would land. Spencer fell silent beside you, and for a moment, you were sure youâd gotten away with it. The two of you crossed the street, and you let yourself believe that heâd let it go like he always did. That heâd simply file the observation away in that impossibly organized mind of his and move on. He didnât.
âYour apartment is in the opposite direction,â Spencer said again. âYou walk me to the station and then turn around and walk back to your car. Thatâs thirty minutes of extra walking every Friday.â
The train station came into view, its familiar brick facade catching the last golden rays of sunlight. You shoved your hands into your jacket pockets and turned to look at Spencer. The evening light caught in his hair, turning the edges of it gold, and something about the way he was looking at you made your stomach drop. You didnât have an excuse for him. You didnât have the energy anymore to try to think of one.
âYou know, Spence, for someone whoâs supposed to be good at noticing patterns,â you began before your exhausted brain could stop you, âyou miss some really obvious things.â
His brow furrowed instantly. âWhat does that mean?â
Your heart stuttered then stopped as you realized what you had said, and you wished you could take it back. Abort mission. You laughed. Too quickly. Too loudly. Too forced.
âHave a good weekend, Spence.â You started backing away, plastering a too-nervous smile on your face.
âThatâs not an answer. You canât just say something like that and leave.â
âWatch me.â
Spencer stared at you, jaw going slack as you laughed again and turned to walk back the way you had just come. He blinked, feeling like heâd just been blind sided by something as subtle as a bullet. As you disappeared among the crowd, he readjusted his bag again and began his descent to the station.
People moved around him. Commuters, tourists, the usual Friday evening crowd. But even as he navigated through them towards the station, he didnât notice any of them. You miss some really obvious things. The comment sat at the forefront of his mind. Something about it bothered him. Not because it was insulting. Because it was specific. Patterns and obvious things. Something he had missed.
Spencer frowned. The train hadnât arrived yet. Which was good. Because now, he was thinking. And unfortunately, thinking was how Spencer got himself into trouble. What obvious thing? The question settled into his brain. Made a little nest. Refused to leave. You seemed amused when you said it. But also⊠something else. Something that he couldnât quite place.
A memory surfaced. The diner several weeks ago. The way you stared into your coffee after the waitress asked if you were together. The sudden quietness. The hurt heâd read in your body language. No⊠not hurt. Disappointment? Why would you be disappointed? Unlessâ
His stomach dropped.
The coffee. Every morning. You had remembered his order after hearing it once.
The tie. Your hands against his collar. You look good.
Movie nights. The fact that you had never cancelled. Not once.
The hypothetical. Spencerâs breath caught in his throat. The hypothetical.
âIf someone liked you, would you know?â
âOh my god.âÂ
The words escaped before he could stop them. Several people glanced at him, but Spencer didnât notice. Because every memory was rearranging itself in his head. Like puzzle pieces falling into place next to each other. The realization crashed over him. Youâd been trying to tell him. And he had answered you with statistics and facts. Spencer covered his face with one hand. You had been handing him answers, and he had somehow missed every single one.
A second realization hit him before he could fully recover from the first. Why did the thought make him so happy? Spencer lowered his hand. Because the answer was painfully obvious. He liked your smile. He looked for you when he entered a room. His favorite evenings somehow always involved you. His apartment felt quieter after you left. His first instinct when something interesting happened was to tell you.
The train pulled into the station, doors opening with a mechanical hiss. Spencer watched as people boarded it, but his feet were rooted to the spot. The train doors chimed their final warning before departure. Spencer turned around, the doors sliding shut behind him. But he was already halfway up the stairs before the train started moving.
The evening air hit him immediately, cool and sharp. He broke into a jog. Then a run. His messenger bag bounced against his hip, books and files shifting with every stride. Several pedestrians turned to stare as he passed, but he couldnât be bothered to care. His lungs burned in a way that was entirely unfamiliar as he retraced the path you both had just walked minutes ago. He wasnât a runner. He had never been particularly athletic, but his legs carried him forward with a determination he couldnât explain.
His mind raced faster than his feet, cataloguing every moment between you that was suddenly so obvious. When he finally made it to the parking lot he knew you always parked in, he was breathing harder than heâd ever admit to. His chest heaved, and he pressed a hand to his chest as he scanned the rows of cars, searching for yours. The lot was nearly empty at this hour, and for one terrible moment, he thought he had missed you.
Then he spotted your car. And you. You were standing beside the driverâs side door with your keys in hand. Spencer started towards you before he could talk himself out of it. Before he could overthink it. You looked up at the sound of approaching footsteps. Surprise crossed your features before settling into confusion.
âSpencer?â
He slowed to a stop just a few footsteps away. You stared at him. He stared back at you. And he realized that, despite sprinting out of a train station to chase you down, Spencer hadnât actually planned what he was going to say. âDid you miss your train?â
âYes.â
You didnât look convinced. Spencer couldnât blame you. He was still catching his breath, his chest rising and falling in uneven bursts. Strands of his hair had fallen across his forehead. Your expression shifted from confusion to concern then from concern to something softer.
âSpencer.â The way you said his name nearly undid him. âWhy are you here?â
âI figured it out.â
The words settled between you, and for one long moment, neither of you moved. Then,
ââŠwhat did you figure out?â
Spencer let out a single, helpless breath of a laugh. Everything. He had figured out everything. The coffee. The tie. The movie nights. The hypothetical. The station walks. Months and months of things heâd managed to completely miss because the idea that they couldâve meant anything more than just friendship had never occurred to him.
âYouâve been flirting with me.â
Your eyes went wide, and Spencer didnât have to be a profiler to know. He had never seen anyone look more guilty than you.
âOh.â You looked away. Towards the parking lot. Towards the sun setting over the horizon. Towards anywhere but him. Spencer took a single step closer. âIâm sorry,â you said, and Spencer was taken aback. That wasnât what he had expected you to say. âIâm sorry. I didnâtâ I wasnât trying to make you uncomfortable. I justââ Your voice cracked. Spencer thought his heart mightâve done the same. Why were you apologizing? He was the one who shouldâve been sorry. You were the one who had tried. He was the one who had missed it. âSpencer, Iââ
âCan I kiss you?â
For a second, Spencer wasnât entirely sure that he had actually said the words out loud, but judging by the look on your face, he had. You opened your mouth to say something. Then closed it. Then opened it again.
âSpencerââ
âI know itâs abrupt.â That was the understatement of the century. His heart was beating so hard that he could feel it in his throat. âI know itâs not exactlyâ I didnât plan any of this, and Iâm probably doing this wrong. But I ran out of the train station because the thought of going home without telling you was somehow worse than the thought of you thinking that I was rejecting you and thatâsââ
You kissed him.
Or maybe he kissed you.
The distinction blurred into irrelevance the moment your lips touched his. Your lips were warm and soft, and they chased every thought from his mind. His hands hovered uncertainly at your sides before they finally settled on your waist. Your fingers found the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer as the world narrowed to this moment. The kiss was slow and uncertain but devastating all the same.
When you finally pulled apart, neither of you moved very far. His eyes found yours. A smile played on his lips. He was somehow more breathless than heâd been a moment ago.
âWow.â The word slipped out before Spencer could stop it. You laughed immediately.
âThatâs all youâve got to say, genius?â
âIn my defense, I had a much better sentence prepared.â
âDid you really?â
âNo.â
You laughed harder, the sound echoing across the nearly empty parking lot. And Spencer found himself laughing with you. Because somehow, after months of missed signals and crossed wires, youâd both ended up exactly where you were supposed to be.
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âSpence⊠Spencer.â Thereâs a pause, a weight settles across his stomach. âDoctor ReidâŠâ you sing from above him.
âHmm?â He hums, with his eyes still closed, the feeling of your hands on his face pulling him from his slumber.
âItâs time to wake up.â You press a kiss to the tip of his nose. His lip twitches, his hands settling atop your bare thighs by feel alone as you straddle him. âItâs not good for you to sleep in so late.â
He finally opens his eyes, glances at the clock on the bedside table, before shaking his head at you. âItâs eight oâclock. Considering we were still awake well after two in the morning, neither of us have met the recommended-â
âBaby?â You cut him off, and he raises his eyebrows curiously. âWhat if I just missed you?â
Heat flashes to his cheeks at your tone, despite him being shirtless under you. The sunlight streams gilded beams over your skin. âThat, that would be an okay reason to wake me.â
You smile, leaning down until your lips graze his. âGood,â you kiss him once. âPlus, I didnât think you were complaining about staying up so late last night.â
âNot at all.â He shakes his head again, his hand sliding under your shirt as he pulls you closer and deepens the kiss.
â
Giggling, you jump into the passenger seat, bunching up your drenched jacket in your lap. He closes your door, rushing to the drivers side before trapping himself in the vehicle with you.
He plops his head back against the headrest, both of you breathing heavily after running through the downpour. He looks over to you as you wipe away the droplets from your face. Your eyes glowing golden from the light above the mirror. âYouâre so beautiful.â
You look stunned at his words, just for moment, before you laugh again. âI look like a soaked rat.â Youâre always so quick to dismiss any compliments he gives you. No matter how frequent, or honest they are. Your self deprecation always wins in your mind.
âNo, you donât.â He doesnât feel clever enough to quip back at you, so he settles on disagreeing. âIâve seen plenty rats, in varying degrees of dryness. None of them are beautiful.â
Youâre quiet for a moment, your eyes taking him in now. Even after all this time, heâs still not used to having your undivided attention and adoration. A cold drop of water falls down his face, having escaped a clump of hair plastered to his temple. You reach up, pushing the curls away and back. âYouâre beautiful, too.â
He leans into your warmth, kissing your palm. Once, twice. Before pulling away, and putting the car in reverse.
â
Tap-tap-tap-tap
Derekâs hands are heavy over his shoulders, smoothing out wrinkles Spencer knows arenât there. He spent two hours steaming his jacket, before making sure it laid just right while in transit, and steaming it again after he arrived.
Tap-tap-tap-tap
He goes over it all, the timeframe, the menu, the pacing, the music. The guests. His lines.
He swallows loudly.
Tap-tap-tap-tap
âReid.â Morgan steps back, tilting his head with a smirk. âYouâre gonna fly away if you keep that up.â
Immediately the tapping stops. His hands stilling on his thighs before curling into fists. âSorry. Although, it is completely normal to be nervous, you know.â Itâs said as a fact, but itâs really just a verbal reminder to himself.
âYeah I know, pretty boy. But youâre going to do fantastic.â Spencer can feel himself nodding, though he doesnât fully believe him. His best man seems to catch that, because he continues in a softer tone. âI saw her, yâknow?â He whistles lowly. âShe really is a vision in white. Itâs a good thing Iâm gonna be right behind you, I think youâre gonna pass out when you see her.â He pats his cheek, laughing as Spencer pales.
He shoves him off, âthat is not helping.â
He didnât pass out. He was speechless for a moment too long after you walked down the aisle. Your smile turning just a bit concerned as he stared at you.
Derek was right, you were truly a vision.
Shining and radiant, breathless as he slipped a golden band on your finger. âI do,â his voice croaked, overcome with emotions as he finished his vows.
Beaming up at him as you began your own, you were eager after waiting your turn. The rest of the room had faded away, the itinerary he was so concerned about just hours before, suddenly unimportant. Your voice, your smile, your vows were the only thing that mattered.
He kissed you, like it may have been the last. One final first kiss. The first kiss as your husband. Still one of his favorites.
He tries to cling to that memory for just a moment longer. His eyes squeezed shut so tight sparks of silver flash behind his eyelids.
âDoctor ReidâŠâ the singsong voice grates in his ears. âItâs time to wake up.â
The cold stone bites into his palms as he pushes his weak body up into a sitting position again. His head is throbbing, the wound at his temple must have reopened in his restless sleep, a nauseatingly warm droplet slides down his face.
âI have a little surprise for you.â
Spencer hardly finds the strength to look up, his capturer dragging something limp behind him, a person. Their head is covered by a white bag, uncannily clean in the dank room. He cannot see for sure, but his heart rate quickens, his scrambled mind trying to make sense of the devastating familiarity of you with him, here, after all this time.
He tosses the lifeless body at his feet.
âI heard sheâs been missing you.â
A/N: thank you for reading! I feel like I havenât posted something Iâve written in so so long. But! I am truly trying to get back into writing. Shout out to @ambiguous-avery for reigniting my love for Spencer <3 please go read their story <3 itâs incredible
Oh my god, I read this as soon as you posted it but I just haven't had a chance to sit down and reblog and comment on it.
This was so damn heartbreaking! Like oh my god I was in tears! Spencer can just never catch a break. And the last line? "I hear she's been missing you."
My heart! This was beautiful, but you monster! (I say this lovingly!) đđ
Thanks so much for the tags, @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth @kblognar and @aseafullofstars!! I've always got stuff going on in my kitchen. But most of the time I feel like I'm just sitting at the dining room table waiting for it to serve itself lol If only these stories could bake themselves so I could read them already đđ
There are 3 options:
đThree-tier-cake with cherries on top: this WIP is nearly done and just needs some final touches before it's served. đ§Cake mix (but it comes from the heart): this WIP has either been sitting in your pantry a while, or lives somewhere between "I'm technically writing it" and "I stopped writing in the middle of it and don't remember the recipe plot" đ„I forgot to buy eggs: this is a mere idea, a gleam in your eyes, an itch in your balls. You're not totally sure what it's gonna be when it grows up, but you're excited about it nonetheless.
đThree-tier-cake with cherries on top:
What Ails You (Spencer Reid x Writer!reader): Fun little smut piece that I've been putting together as I've been diving into a new fandom. I love this nerdy little guy, and I consider it my own little love letter to all the other writers out there who I know deal with the same issues as me when it comes to writing! We all need someone to take the edge off every now and again đ
[Untitled fic war] (Sam Winchester x reader): Office AU! I'm so excited for this! Chapter 1 is almost finished and then I hand it off to my lovely writing partner, @kblognar so they can throw a monkey wrench into all my freshly laid plans!
đ§Cake mix (but it comes from the heart):
Veritas et Misericordia (Spencer Reid x BAU!Reader): Of course, I can't get into a new fandom without thinking about a new story! This is a seven chapter series that I've been plotting out over the course of the past couple of weeks. I've got the overarching plot and big events planned out as well as the general shape of the whole story. It's just the little details I have to figure out. Plus other projects that I'm working on that are keeping me from it, but I am slowly cobbling it all into a coherent story!
Terminal Velocity (Mister Marathon x Centerfold!Reader): Sequel piece to All We Have Are Glory Days, continuing the story of the fun little dance reader and Mister Marathon find themselves in. Full of fake dating, forced proximity, Mister Marathon being a general asshat and dragging reader through all sorts of bullshit! I really love this, and characterizing Mister Marathon! The fact that we didn't see much of him has given me so much wiggle room to make my own headcannons!
Collateral Damage (Soldier Boy x Raccoon!Reader): Sequel piece to Stealth Means STFU, more continuation between SB and the raccoon!reader. I got a little stuck on it because I started introducing feelings and we all know that SB's so damn stubborn when it comes to those pesky things!
First Contact (AshRaven!Sam Winchester x HellCat!Reader): Special Forces AU that I'm collaborating with @jollyhunter on! I fell in love with her BadWolf x Sweet Vixen pairing with Dean and just HAD to write more around the world she developed. The AU is like an interesting take on HunterCorp but isn't exactly the same. I'd love to yap about it, so please send me an ask if this intrigues you!
Fever Pitch (alpha!Dean Winchester x omega!reader): Sequel piece to Heat Waves that has been in my drafts for way, way too long! It's just been staring at me. Menacingly. I want to work on it, but there's just so many other ideas that have been taking up bandwidth in my brain!
Helluva Thank You [title pending] (Dean Winceshter x reader): Another kinktober sequel piece to Forget Him, just a bunch of omegaverse smut for the sake of smut :D
Not Religious, But... (Dean Winchester x religous!reader): A series of headcanons of if Dean was with a religious partner! It was sparked by a fun conversation with @aniresrene and co. but it just hasn't come together quite as smoothly as I want it to!
Then and Now (Sam Winchester x reader): Another fic that struck with really fast inspiration and then fizzled out as I put it together. Inspired by this post about the difference between older and younger Sam's first times. I have most of it figured out, just need to put the words on the page and stop thinking so much!
If We Never Wake (Sam Winchester x reader): Another series that I started thinking about before I finished up with Ashes of Grace. This one would be focused around dreams (in case the title didn't give it away). I've got the general shape of this one figured out, just need to work out the little details, as per usual
Into the Fray (Dean Winchester x Reader x Sam Winchester): A polyship series that's been on the back burner for so damn long. I know what I want to do with it, but I just need to sit down and put the words on the page. What's new there? lol
đ„I forgot to buy eggs:
Kama Sam-Tra (Sam Wincehster x reader): Another inspiration by @aniresrene. This would be a series of snippets with Sam and reader going through various different Kama Sutra positions. I even downloaded a book about it for 'inspiration' :D
[untitled Gabriel wing-kink fic] (Gabriel x reader): Exactly what's on the package. I just want to write Gabriel being a kinky motherfucker, and dive more into his character! I've got snippets of it pieced together but nothing coherent so far.
[untitled alpha!Spencer Reid fic] (Alpha!Spencer Reid x Omega!reader): Another one of those 'what you see is what you get' kinda fics. I love omegaverse, so of course I'm gonna throw my new, shiny hyperfixation into it! I'm thinking, though, that Spencer wouldn't be your typical kind of alpha, and I love the thought of playing with that kind of dynamic!
Oh dear lord I didn't realize how much was in my kitchen... I'm really sitting on quite a lot of stuff! I know I haven't really been acting on here much, but I have been working on things even though it doesn't look like it! Feel free to ask me about anything. I love yapping about stuff (when I should be writing it instead lol)
I have the problem of having so many lovely writer friends that I can't always keep track! So if you see this and want to join in, consider yourself tagged! but @h0lym01y @godmadeaterribleerror @voodoochildthings @bettystonewell @jollyhunter @aylacavebear @tinysnacklefan @chroniclesoftime @chevroletdean @spectralgalaxygauntlet @reginaphalangelobster @wvffles + anyone else who sees this and wants to join!
I hope every writer who sees this writes LOADS the next few months. Like freetime opens up, no writers block, the ability to focus, etc etc you're able to write loads & make lots of progress <3
You actually cannot skip to being good at a creative endeavour that you haven't put much practice into. You cannot trick your way out of the 'knows that your work is not what you want it to be but don't know how to improve it' stage by planning or reading or talking about it really really hard. At some point you just have to craft through it until your brain finds it's own unique way back to the 'everything I make slaps' stage and be prepared to start the cycle all over again. You just have to make that project you're excited about slightly less good than you want it to be. (Says this standing in a pool of blood and covered in blood and also coughing up a little blood)
I don't know the context because I'm not here yet, but he could hold me at gunpoint for however long as he wanted so long as he looks at me like in that first gif đ
Thank you for so much love on my Gabe x Soulmate fic! I struggled heavily between making the reader human and not. I made the ultimate decision to make her a fae because the SPN universe is so wide and there are so many different creatures. From demigods, to celtic mythology, to faeries and other things!
I will keel you on my taglist! Thanks for the love đđ€
Anytime, lovely! I absolutely love the Spn universe specifically because you can play around with creatures. They open enough doors that you can feasibly squeeze just about anything from myth or folklore and it feels believable! Thanks so much for sharing it with us all! đđđ
The Statistical Improbability of Dating Spencer Reid
Spencer Reid x fem!BAU!Reader | WC: 9640
Summary: Or: Five times you and Spencer dance around your feelings, and the one time Spencer finally puts the pieces together.Â
Tags/Warnings: Mutual pining, idiots in love, confessions, fluff, Spencer being an oblivious cutie patootie, no use of Y/N, no beta we die like men
A/N: New fandom, who dis? Iâm officially branching out into the Criminal Minds fandom because tumblr has my number and fed me Spencer Reid on a silver platter. Special shoutout to @h0lym01y and their lovely headlock series for inspiring me to write for him! Iâm still pretty early into the series, so apologies if my characterization isnât quite there yet! (Also, fun fact: this was supposed to be a nice quick little piece to dip my toes into a new fandom, and it turned into its own beast so... sorry, not sorry) Thanks @mythandmemories for giving it a twice-over to make sure it all makes sense!
The first time you brought Spencer coffee, it had been completely by accident. The shop you went to had made your order wrong the first time and given you both cups. Unsure of what to do with it, you had offered it to him since he was the only other one in the bullpen when you had arrived. Surprisingly, he had accepted it. The second time you brought him coffee had been the day after a particularly stressful case. And the fourth time, it had become a problem.
Not a real problem, of course. The BAU had serial killers and kidnappers and interstate investigations to worry about. Compared to those, your increasingly embarrassing crush on your coworker wasn't even on their radars. Which was great because no matter how much you told yourself that you couldnât date someone you worked with, your heart never seemed to get the memo.Â
Which was why you had found yourself standing in line at a coffee shop at six-thirty in the morning, mentally reciting Spencerâs order while pretending you werenât. One coffee for you. One coffee for him. Because apparently you had become the sort of person who memorized a manâs coffee order. Lovely. You blamed it on your inability to simply ask Spencer out like a normal person.
The elevator doors opened onto the BAU floor. Most of the lights were still off. Hotch wasnât in yet. Neither was Rossi. The bullpen was quiet enough that you could hear the sound of pages turning. Your stomach did an embarrassing little flip, and you tried to remind yourself that you were an adult, not a high schooler. It didnât do anything to quell the butterflies.
Spencer was already in office. As he always was when you came in early. If you didnât know any better, you wouldâve guessed that he slept there, curled up behind his desk with a book for a pillow. The mental image made you smile. You crossed the bullpen, thankful that Spencer didnât seem to notice you at first. It gave you a few stolen seconds though youâd never admit to taking them.
You watched the way his slender fingers dragged across the page before deftly turning it and moving onto the next. Watched the way he chewed on his lip, the muscle in his jaw flexing slightly with every movement. It was ridiculous, just watching him exist. You knew it was ridiculous. Then again, no one had ever accused a crush of being rational.
âMorning,â you said softly as you drew closer, not wanting to startle him. His head snapped up, warm brown eyes landing on your face before dropping down to the two cups of coffee in your hands.
âGood morning,â he replied, a small smile spreading across his face. It was gentle and genuine. The kind of smile that always felt like a reward. You dragged your thoughts back to yourself before they could stray too far into dangerous territory. âYouâre early,â he said, closing the book with one finger marking his page.
âSo are you.â You tried to sound casual as you set the coffee down on his desk, careful not to spill any of it on his papers. âI figured Iâd beat the morning rush.â Spencerâs gaze lingered on the cup of coffee youâd set down, his expression softening slightly. He picked it up and turned it in his hands, examining the order written on the side. He frowned.
âHow do you know what I order?â
Your heart stuttered against your ribs for a beat. Of course heâd ask. He couldnât just accept a free coffee without asking about the details. And it wasnât like his order was something straight off the menu either. It was just something youâd⊠remembered one day. Because apparently your brain just stored information about Spencer Reid with frightening accuracy.
âOh.â You made a vague gesture with your free hand. âYou mentioned it once.â
âI did?â
âAbout three months back.â And thatâs where you fucked up. Because now it sounded weird. Who in the world remembered a coffee order from three months ago? Fortunately for you, in Spencerâs world, it was a completely normal thing. Or at least something that didnât seem out of the ordinary. He looked thoughtful for a moment, as though he were filing the information away somewhere.
âThatâs impressive.â You preened for a brief moment before confusion kicked in.
âImpressive?â
âThe average person retains significantly less information from casual conversation than people assume. People typically forget about fifty-percent of a conversation within the first hour of having it.â Of course. Of course that was his takeaway. You laughed, hoping that it didnât sound as nervous as you felt. Spencer smiled at you and took a sip of the gifted coffee. Something warm and dangerous settled low in your chest, and for a second, neither of you looked away.
Then, Morgan showed up with his booming voice, and the moment shattered, the fragile pieces of it collapsing down around your feet as you shuffled over to your desk.
âDamn, whereâs my cup?â he asked, glancing between the two coffees you and Reid held. He grinned, already moving towards the break room to start up the communal pot.
âYou snooze, you lose,â you called after him, sinking into your chair and sipping at your drink.
Three weeks later, Spencer still hadnât figured it out. Not that youâd expected him to. At least thatâs what you kept telling yourself. The only problem was that somewhere along the way, bringing Spencer coffee had stopped being about flirting. Anymore, it was a habit. Part of your routine. It was something small that made him smile, and that smile â the one that was just for you in the mornings before anyone else showed up â had become your favorite part of the mornings. You were halfway through the motion of setting the cup down when Spencer spoke up.
âYou donât do this for anyone else.â
You froze, coffee in hand as you looked at him like a deer caught in the headlights. âWhat?â
âI noticed that you donât bring coffee for anyone else in the office.â The cup sat between the two of you. Spencer looked at it then up at you. âJust me.â Your pulse hammered beneath your skin. Had he actuallyâ?
âOh.â You let out a nervous chuckle. âWell.â Every coherent thought fled from your mind, leaving you with an absolute masterclass of a non-response. Spencer continued before you could manage anything more.
âI was wondering why.â
And there it was. The most perfect opening in the world in the history of flirting. Because the answer was simple. Because I like you. Four words. Thatâs all you had to say, and you wouldnât have to dance around this anymore.
âBecause,â one down, three to go, âyouâre here earliest.â Nope, those werenât the right words to say. What a traitor of a tongue you had. Spencer nodded in understanding, accepting your explanation like it was the most sound reason in the world. You were pretty sure that the thought of someone being interested in him in a romantic way hadnât ever crossed his mind. And that realization hurt just a little more than it should have.
âYou donât have to keep doing it.â
âOh,â you squeaked, your stomach lurching uncomfortably.
âNo, I meanââ Spencer sat up a little straighter, suddenly flustered as he shook his head. âI appreciate it.â The sincerity in his voice nearly knocked the air from your lungs. âI really appreciate it. I just donât want you to feel like you have to keep doing it.â And there it was again. The small smile that no one else in the office got except for you.
âNot a problem at all, Spence.â And suddenly, the coffee didnât feel quite so embarrassing anymore. Maybe he didnât understand what it meant. For all you knew, maybe he never would. But he liked it. And that was enough for you.
Spencer hated formal events. This wasnât anything new. Heâd hated them the first time Hotch dragged him to one. Heâd hated them the second time. And he hated this one all the same. There were too many people, too much noise, and far too many strangers trying to shake his hand.
Worst of all, he had to wear a tie.
The tie itself wasnât the problem. He wore ties for work almost every day. The problem was that heâd tied it three separate times, and it still somehow looked wrong. Spencer frowned at his reflection in the restroom mirror. The knot was slightly off-center, and the collar of his shirt sat unevenly. He loosened it again, his mind going over all the different ways he could potentially convince Hotch to let him stay behind at the hotel. He wasnât really needed for this part. He sighed, pulling the tie free entirely and draping it over his shoulders. Maybe he could blame it on jet lag. Theyâd been in Colorado for three days, but he couldâ
There was a knock at his hotel door that pulled him from his thoughts. Spencer glanced at the clock on the nightstand. He wasnât expecting anyone, and you all werenât scheduled to leave for at least another forty-five minutes. He briefly wondered which one of his teammates had come to check on him. Probably Morgan, ready with some quick joke or quip. Spencer opened the door, fully expecting Morganâs grinning face. Instead, he found you.Â
All of his thoughts crashed into each other at once as he took in the sight of you. You were dressed and ready for the event, more put together in a way that looked effortless. Spencer had seen you in plenty of business casual stuff before. Heâd seen you wear nice outfits for other undercover work in the past too. But something about you in this exact moment was⊠different. A little more put together. A little more ethereal in a way he just couldnât wrap his brain around. When his mind finally kickstarted back into action, it supplied him a single thought.
Oh.
Which wasnât particularly useful. Or eloquent. Especially for a man with his vocabulary.
âHi,â came the oh-so-professional greeting from his lips. He watched your eyes travel from his face down to the tie that was still draped around his neck, and a small smile curved your lips. The same one that always made something warm settle between his ribs.
âTie giving you trouble?â you asked, and Spencer had to look away. You were standing in his doorway looking fully put-together, and he was standing there with his tie undone and hair mussed from running his fingers through it one too many times. It wasnât exactly the image he wanted to present.
âIt doesnât want to sit properly,â he admitted, gesturing vaguely. âThe knot keeps shifting.â
âHere, let me help.â You stepped into his room without waiting for an invitation
âI can do it,â he said too quickly. Because the alternative involved you standing close enough to touch him. Which felt like a terrible idea but not for the usual reasons he had. For reasons Spencer was trying very hard not to examine. You paused and folded your arms.
âSpencer.â
âReally,â he insisted. âIâm perfectly capable of tying a Windsor knot.â He was. He did it every day for work. He was a fully functional adult who could dress himself for a formal event he had zero desire to attend. You laughed, â not at him, never at him â and Spencer was beginning to suspect that your laugh mightâve become his favorite sound. Not that he planned on telling anyone that. Ever. Before he could think of another excuse, you stepped fully into his room and beckoned him closer.
âCome here.â His heart raced. He opened his mouth to argue. Then closed it as his traitorous feet obeyed, bringing him within armâs distance before he could think better of it.
You reached up for him, pausing for a moment to let him retreat if he suddenly decided he didnât want your hands on him after all. When he didnât budge, your fingers gently grasped the loose tie and drew closer to him. You were so close. Closer than Spencer could ever imagine you being. Close enough that Spencer could see the tiny details he might not have fully been able to catalogue from afar. The faint shimmer of your makeup. The way your eyelashes cast the faintest shadows against your cheeks. The scent of you. Something warm and familiar. Something that immediately lodged itself in his brain.
He didnât dare look away from your face. Somewhere at the back of his mind he recognized that your movements werenât putting together a regular Windsor knot. There were too many steps for that. An Eldredge knot his mind supplied. Your fingers brushed against his throat as you looped the fabric around itself, and Spencer was pretty sure he forgot how breathing worked. Which was, obviously, impossible considering that breathing was an autonomous action that his body was physically incapable of forgetting in any sense of the word.
And it wasnât like you were doing anything inappropriate, either. You were fixing a tie. A completely normal thing. A thing that approximately half the population of men got help with. It wasnât an official statistic, so the percentage was likely higher. Which put him in the majority. So why did his entire nervous system feel like it had short-circuited?
âHold still,â you chided, lightly tugging on his tie. His gaze fell to your lips, and for a single, dangerous, second, he let himself wonder what they would feel like against his. Spencer diverted his gaze.
âI am holding still.â
âYou just moved.â Your fingers ghosted against him again, and Spencer stared very intently at a piece of the peeling wallpaper against the opposite wall of the hotel room. At the mirror that hung on the wall. At literally anything except for you. Because looking directly at you felt like it was too risky at this exact moment. What if you looked in his eyes and found all of his secrets there? It was a ridiculous notion. âThere.â You smoothed the tie against his chest, and he didnât need to see it to know that it was perfect.
âThank you,â Spencer said, his voice softer than he meant for it to be. You looked up at him, and for a moment, neither of you moved. The space between you hummed with possibility.
âYouâre welcome,â you replied, your hand still resting lightly on his chest. âNow you look ready to impress a room full of strangers.âÂ
He swallowed hard, throat feeling uncharacteristically dry.Â
âYou clean up real nice, Reid.â Your words were light and teasing, but they landed somewhere deep inside his chest. Spencer blinked, caught off guard.
âWhat?â
You smiled at him. âYou look good.â
His ears burned. Because people didnât usually say things like that to him. Not in any serious way. Not while looking him directly in the eye. Not like this. The warmth in your expression made his stomach twist itself into knots.
âYou look nice too.â That wasnât right. You looked beautiful. You looked stunning. You lookedâ
Nice. Truly the most exceptional word he could pluck from his vocabulary. But your smile brightened regardless as though nice had been the best compliment you had ever heard.
âThanks.â The silence between the two of you stretched, neither of you willing to break it. After a moment, you took a small step backwards, and Spencer immediately missed the closeness. Which was an alarming realization in and of itself. You nodded towards the hotel door. âCome on. Before Morgan sends a search party for us.â
Spencer laughed, feeling the tension slip from his shoulders. âIâll be right there.â You nodded before slipping out the door. Spencer pressed his fingers to the knot you had done, stepping into the bathroom to take a brief look at your handiwork. He smiled at his own reflection. The knot was immaculate, sitting exactly where it needed to be. He hadnât expected anything less from you.
You were pretty sure you looked like hell. Honestly, the entire team did. The case had been long and grueling. Three states, four victims, and next to no sleep. You all had piled into a diner after the arrest. Tables pushed together and everyone was nursing mugs of coffee. Youâd spent most of the last seventy-two hours surviving on gas station coffee and sheer stubbornness. Everyone had.Â
Morgan was poking at the fries on his plate like theyâd personally offended him. JJ looked ready to curl up beneath the table and sleep for eternity. Even Rossi looked tired, which felt vaguely unnatural. The only person who seemed remotely functional at the table was Spencer, which somehow wasnât surprising.
He seemed to operate on an entirely different set of biological rules than the rest of humanity. You sat next to him, shoulder pressed lightly to his. He didnât seem to mind. Or at the very least, he didnât move away. And that tiny fact was all the fuel your little crush needed to continue burning for the next eternity.
You stole a glance at him out of the corner of your eye as you sipped at your coffee. His tie was loosened, and the top button of his dress shirt was undone. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. His hair was a disaster, the product of running his hands through it several times too many. You liked him best like this. Not because he looked more attractive. Although he absolutely did. That wasnât the point. The point was that this version of Spencer felt more real. More relaxed. More human.
This was the version of him you didnât get to see nearly as often as youâd like. The version of him that you had somehow, disastrously, fallen head over heels for. Months ago, the realization wouldâve been horrifying. Anymore, though, it mostly felt exhausting. Because you were pretty sure absolutely nothing was ever going to come of it. Garcia and Morgan both insisted that he liked you back, and JJ swore that everyone could see it. You werenât so sure about it, though. If Spencer liked you back, then surely something wouldâve happened by now, right?
The waitress showed up beside the table before your thoughts could spiral any further. She had a pot of coffee in hand and proceeded to fill everyoneâs cups as they were offered up to her. You dutifully held yours up. There wasnât enough caffeine in the world that was going to keep you from passing out once you were on the plane. But you did have to stay awake long enough to make it there. She set the coffee pot down and pulled out the notepad she had taken everybodyâs orders on.
Your eyes drifted to Spencerâs hands and they way his fingers wrapped around his mug. There was a small scratch on his knuckle, and you vaguely wondered when heâd gotten it. He hadnât been part of the takedownâŠ
ââtogether?â
You turned to look at the waitress, eyes wide. She was pointing her pen between you and Spencer. Your brain short-circuited. The word echoed in your head, and because you were apparently incapable of functioning like a completely normal human being around Spencer Reid (or maybe you could blame the exhaustion), your brain latched onto the idea that you were so obvious about your crush that even the waitress could see it.
Heat rushed into your face, and all at once, every trace of exhaustion had been wiped from your system. Beside you, Spencer froze, and you could see the way his brow furrowed. Then, he let out a small, awkward chuckle before shaking his head.
âNo, weâre not together,â he said, and the easy way he said it made you want to slide beneath the table and disappear. Which was dumb, because obviously you werenât dating. But your stupid heart still carried that hopeful torch. âJust coworkers.â You looked down at your coffee, wondering if there was any way you could drown yourself in it in case the embarrassment wasnât enough to end you. Unfortunately for you, Spencer kept talking. âActually, workplace relationships, while fairly common, tend to be more complex than people realize. Fifty-seven percent of people report a negative impact on their work performance andââ
âReid,â Morgan cut in. âShe means the check.â Spencerâs mouth snapped shut. The tips of his ears turned a faint shade of pink, and you watched the realization dawn across his face.
âOh,â he said, his voice going quiet. âThe check.â The entire table went quiet as the waitress scribbled something down on her notepad, her expression unreadable.
âRight. Separate checks then,â she said, clicking her pen. She slipped away, and mercifully, the rest of the table went back to their low chatter. You focused on your coffee, stirring it just to have something to do with your hands. Spencer shifted beside you, his shoulder brushing against yours again. The contact sent a ripple of warmth through your body despite the humiliation still burning in your cheeks and the sting spreading through your chest.Â
Logic dictated that you shouldnât have felt hurt. Spencer was simply being honest, and thatâs what you liked about him, wasnât it? It was just a misunderstanding. Obviously, Spencer hadnât said that he wouldnât have dated you specifically. He had simply launched into reasons why dating a coworker could be difficult. They were just facts. And Spencer wasnât exactly known for choosing the most socially graceful option when a factual one was available.
But facts or not, the logical side of your brain was already checked out for the evening. All your heart could hear was âjust coworkers.â The words burrowed deeper into the hole in your heart, finding the weakest spot and curling up to fester. You took a sip of your coffee, letting the bitter taste of it burn its way down your throat. Spencer shifted beside you, and you could vaguely feel the way the rest of the teamâs eyes drifted down to your end of the table. You stayed quiet for the rest of the evening.
Spencer had fully expected you to cancel on him. Not because you were unreliable but because the team had landed late the previous night after a case in Wisconsin. And âlateâ was being generous. The jet touched down close to midnight on Friday, and by the time everyone made it to Quantico, filed the necessary reports, and dragged themselves towards their cars, it had been close to two in the morning.
Movie night had been planned for Saturday. It was your idea, technically speaking. Spencer had made an offhand comment that he hadnât seen a movie you were referencing during a conversation in the bullpen, and youâd stared at him like heâd committed a federal offense.
âYouâve seriously never seen it?â
âNo.â
âSpencer,â you began, your tone suggesting that you were trying very hard to stay reasonable. You were joking, of course. At least⊠he hoped you were joking and that you werenât actually upset at him for not having seen whatever movie you were talking about.
âItâs not statistically unusual to miss popular media,â he reasoned. âIn fact, given the rate that newââ
âWeâre watching it.â
Spencer stopped talking, thoughts careening off a cliff as your words sunk into him. He blinked. âW-we?â
âYes. My civic duty demands it. This Saturday. Clear your calendar.â He smiled before he could stop himself. Then, he proceeded to spend the rest of the week trying very hard not to look too deeply into the fact that you had made plans with him. Not with the team. Not with a group of people that included him. Him.
Which, he had to remind himself, was objectively nothing.
Coworkers spent time together outside of work. Friends watched movies together and made plans. Friends brought takeout and laughed with each other and sat on couches in living rooms while pretending none of it meant anything more. Still, by Saturday afternoon, Spencer had convinced himself that the plan would fall through even as he reorganized the stack of books on his coffee table for the fourth time.
You were probably too tired. Or maybe something else would come up. He could think of a small list of things that you probably prioritized on a Saturday evening over watching a movie youâd already seen with a coworker you saw almost every day. So when you called him at six asking him for what he wanted from the Chinese restaurant just a couple blocks away from his apartment and assured him that youâd be there right around seven, Spencer found himself standing completely still in the middle of his living room for three whole seconds.
He looked down at himself. Cardigan, button-down, and slacks. Was it too formal? Probably. He had already changed twice. The first outfit felt too casual, but the second had seemed like he was trying too hard. He thought that maybe this one had landed in a more reasonable middle ground, but now with the timer until you showed up at his front door counting down, Spencer was beginning to suspect that there was no such thing as reasonable.
The stack of books on his table got adjusted for a fifth time.
The knock at his door came at exactly 6:57. He crossed his apartment too quickly, stopping just a couple paces away from his door and forcing himself to breathe. This was completely normal. And it wasnât like this was the first time youâd ever been over either. There was the time when youâd driven him home when it was snowing and used his restroom before braving the journey home. He still kicked himself for letting you drive alone in that weather.
The knock came again, jolting him from his thoughts. He pulled the door open. You stood in the hallway wearing jeans, a soft-looking sweater, and the kind of tired smile that turned his thoughts to static. You held up the takeout bag in one hand and a DVD case in the other.
âI come bearing food and cultural education.â He took the bag from you and stepped aside, something warm and impossible settling into his chest as you crossed the threshold.
âYou didnât cancel,â he said before he could stop himself. You looked at him, eyebrows lifted as you slipped your shoes off and lined them up next to his.
âWas I supposed to?â
âNo.â He winced. âI mean, no, obviously not. I just assumed you might. We got in late last night, and we were in the field for almost four days. Statistically, sleep deprivation can significantly impact social follow-through.â
You stared at him for a moment before grinning, eyes practically twinkling as they found his. It was his favorite expression you had. âWell,â you began, walking further into his apartment. âStatistically, I really wanted to be here.â That was a nonsensical answer that didnât really make grammatical sense, and Spencerâs brain supplied him with several possible responses. He rejected all of them.
âIâm glad you came,â he said finally. It wasnât his best work, but it was genuine. And he meant it more than he probably should have. Your smile widened anyway, and he was sure that heâd said the right thing.
His apartment felt different with you in it. An irrational thought but not an inaccurate one, he mused. Nothing had physically changed about the space, but it seemed less quiet with you there. Less⊠solitary. Spencer wasnât entirely sure what to do with that observation.
Dinner was easy which, admittedly, surprised him a little. It shouldnât have, in retrospect. Lots of things with you were easier than with others. He didnât have to filter himself nearly as much. The two of you had made it through maybe five minutes of the movie before you had paused it in the midst of him pointing out several historical inaccuracies in the opening scene. Spencer looked over at you in alarm.
âWhat?â
âKeep going.â You motioned for him to keep talking.
He glanced back at the screen. âYou paused it.â
âYeah, so I can hear what youâre saying.â
Spencer stared, a strange warmth moving through him that left him just a little breathless. Most people tolerated him. But not you. You didnât interrupt him when he started explaining things. You didnât get that glazed, polite look people sometimes got when they were waiting for him to realize that heâd rambled on too long. You listened. You asked him questions. Real, engaging questions. Not just the surface level ones to be courteous. He swallowed and looked back at the television because looking directly at you made whatever had wedged itself between his ribs threaten to tumble out of his mouth.
âItâs just that the timeline doesnât really support the costuming choices,â he said at last.
âOkay,â you said, nodding. âWhat wouldâve been more accurate?â
The first half of the movie took twice as long to watch because you kept pausing it to argue with him, ask him questions, or point out inconsistencies. And somewhere along the way, Spencer felt himself relax into the moment and stopped worrying about whether he was talking too much.
You were curled up on the opposite end of the couch, legs tucked beneath you and your takeout container sitting empty on the table in front of you. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as you brought your hand to your mouth to hide a yawn. Moments later, you did it a second time. By the fourth one, he frowned.
âYouâre tired.â
You gave him a look from across the couch. âAstute observation, Doctor.â
âYou should sleep.â
âIâll sleep when Iâm dead, Spence,â you said, shaking your head at him. Spencerâs frown deepened.
âThatâs an incredibly reckless mindset, especially given that the average adult needs between seven and nine hours of sleep per night to maintain optimal cognitive function.â
âSays the man who once stayed away for forty-eight hours straight during that Chicago case.â
âThat was different,â he argued. âIt was a case.â
You laughed softly and pointed at the tv. âEyes on the screen, genius. Youâre missing important cultural references.â He dragged his gaze away from you and only half paid attention to the characters as you shifted, scooting closer to him and settling deeper into the couch cushions.
The movie continued. Your commentary became less frequent until it stopped entirely. Spencer glanced over again. Your head was tipped back against the cushions, eyes closed. He waited a moment, unsure if he should say something or not. Your breathing evened out.
You were asleep. On his couch. In his apartment. Beside him. Not because you had to. Not because the jet didnât have any other available seats. You had come here intentionally. You had stayed. And you felt safe enough in his company to let yourself drift off within armâs reach of him. The realization settled over him all at once.
The objectively correct thing to do, he thought, would be to wake you and offer you the bed. Or a blanket. Or, more realistically, a cab home. Something practical and considerate. But you looked peaceful. And Spencer didnât want to be the reason that peace ended.
He had discovered, over the last several months, that he liked when you got to be comfortable. He liked seeing the way your shoulders would loosen after a hard case. He liked when you were happy, and more than anything, he wanted to be the person who could make you smile when work had taken too much from you.
It was a truly dangerous thing to want. Spencer knew that. He wanted it anyway.
You shifted in your sleep, and before Spencer could process what was going on, your head settled against his shoulder. Every single one of his well-earned IQ points evacuated the premises. Gone. Vanished. Like they had never existed in the first place. He didnât move. Couldnât move, really. Every muscle in his body had locked into place the moment your hair brushed against his jaw.
The movie continued playing, but Spencer had stopped processing any of it. All of his thoughts gravitated around the weight of you against him, the slow rhythm of your breathing lulling him into a strange, unfamiliar calm. He had never been big on physical contact before. He knew the physiological benefits of it and could cite several studies done over the years about how physical touch affected the human brain. But knowing the science of it and actually experiencing it were two very different things.
Your warmth seeped through his cardigan and settled into his skin, and he found himself leaning into it despite every rational part of his brain telling him that this was a bad idea. Minutes ticked by, and Spencer remained exactly where he was, too terrified to move and risk ruining whatever this was. Because this was nice. Dangerously nice. The kind of nice that made him want impossible things. The kind of nice that made him imagine what it would feel like if this had been on purpose rather than an accident.
This wasnât a date. He knew that. You were his coworker. A friend. A friend who brought him coffee and fixed his ties and fell asleep on his couch because you trusted him. That was all. And yet⊠Spencer tilted his head just enough that he could catch a glimpse of you. Maybe there would be a day when you chose this with him. Maybe one day he could simply reach over andâ
Nope. Absolutely not. His thoughts were venturing into dangerous territory.
Spencer turned his attention back to the television, but he didnât see anything on the screen. He realized with a quiet start that he was in trouble. Because somewhere between the coffee and now, you had become his favorite part of every day. And Spencer wasnât entirely sure when that had happened.
You had reached your breaking point. Not because anything in particular had happened. In fact, it was precisely because nothing had happened. Absolutely nothing at all. You were trapped in your own personal hell, unable to move past your childish crush on your coworker while simultaneously incapable of addressing it like the very reasonable, mature adult that you were.Â
The bullpen was empty. The rest of the team had finished their paperwork and gone home early. Rain tapped against the windows of the building. Across the room, Spencer was still buried in paperwork, reading and organizing files with quiet, focused efficiency. He was hunched over his desk, glasses balanced precariously on the bridge of his nose and threatening to slide off completely with every passing line he read.
It was a terrible idea. You knew it was. But you were tired. Tired of wondering. Tired of hoping. Tired of reading meaning behind every little smile. You stood from your desk and perched yourself on the edge of his.
âHey, Spencer?â His attention snapped to you in an instant, eyes wide over the rims of his glasses, and you hated how your brain reminded you that he always looked at you immediately whenever you spoke. As though your voice mattered more than whatever he had been doing before. It was a dangerous thought.
âHm?â
Your pulse pounded in your ears. âIf someone liked youâŠâ You looked at the papers on his desk, eyes focusing on the spot where his fingers still held his place. ââŠdo you think youâd notice?â
The question hung between you, heavy and loaded with every implication you could pack into it. You watched as Spencerâs brow furrowed, and he pressed his lips together into a thin line. His head tilted slightly, and you knew that this was the worst idea youâd ever had. Because the longer he sat there, the more he profiled the question, the more likely he was to figure out the reason for it. Which meant it became more and more likely for the reality of rejection to crash down over you with each passing second. Then, finally,
âProbably not.â
Your jaw went slack. âWhat?â
Spencerâs hand pulled away from the page he had been reading as he spun in his chair, turning to face you fully. âHuman courtship relies heavily on implication. There are dozens of signals that could indicate romantic interest, but most also have non-romantic explanations.â You stared at him. He had gone into full lecture mode. During the closest thing to a confession youâd been able to give a voice to. Granted, it wasnât really a confession. âPhysical proximity, gift-giving, and prolonged eye-contact are typically the most common signs of attraction, but those all exist in platonic relationships as well.â He paused, eyes searching your face. âWhy?â
Something twisted inside of your chest, and you werenât sure if it was relief or devastation. Probably a horrible mix of both. Because of course. Of course Spencer Reid could profile a strangerâs entire life from a single crime scene, but he couldnât recognize romantic interest if it hit him in the face. And somehow that was even worse. Because if he didnât know â if he genuinely couldnât tell â then maybe every missed signal wasnât rejection.
You werenât sure if you wanted to laugh or scream more. Instead, you settled for a weak smile and a shrug that you hoped looked more casual than it felt. âJust curious,â you said, voice sounding strange even to your own ears. âA hypothetical.â Spencerâs brow furrowed, and you could practically hear the gears turning in his head as he thought.
âHypothetical,â he repeated. âYou know, statistically speaking, most questions posed as hypotheticals arenât actually hypothetical.â
âJust thinking out loud,â you insisted, voice pitching up slightly as you moved to retreat back to the safety of your desk. Spencerâs eyes tracked you as you fled, and you could feel the weight of his gaze following you back to your desk. Your heart hammered against your ribs, and you focused intently on the computer screen in front of you, clicking through files you had already reviewed three separate times. You made it almost four minutes before Spencer spoke again. Which, considering the circumstances, felt both mercifully brief and unbearably long.
âAre you asking because of someone specific?â
Your fingers froze over the keyboard. You shouldâve expected it. Really, you should have. Spencer Reid was not known for letting a loose thread hang, especially not one that had been handed to him with a flashing neon sign that read âsuspicious emotional subtext.â You didnât dare look up at him.
âWhat was that?â
âYour hypothetical,â he clarified. âAre you asking because someone has been flirting with you, and youâre not sure how to interpret it?â The laugh that left you was strangled.
God, this was the worst part of it all. He sounded genuinely interested. Concerned, even. Fully prepared to help you solve a problem that was, unbeknownst to him, currently sitting across from you with his glasses sliding down his face. And it wasnât even his fault. Okay, it was, but you could hardly blame him. You hadnât exactly been the most forthcoming about it.
âSomething like that,â you said. It was close enough to the truth to make your stomach lurch. Spencer was quiet for a beat. Then, you heard the soft scrape of his chair wheels against the floor. You looked up despite yourself. He had perched himself on the edge of his desk, right where you had been moments before. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he had that look on his face that he got whenever he was trying very hard to figure out the answer to a question.
âYouâre asking whether someone would notice if they were being flirted with. That suggests either uncertainty about the other personâs awareness or uncertainty about whether your perception of their behavior is accurate.â
Your mouth went dry. Damn him and his brain. Damn the way he could pull the edges of a thing apart without ever realizing that he was the center of it. âItâs rude to profile your coworker, Spence,â you chided, but you couldnât muster any heat behind it. âMaybe I was just wondering how often people miss obvious signals.â
âFrequently,â he said without any hesitation. âPeople tend to overestimate their ability to interpret romantic interest accurately. There have been studies done suggesting that men, in particular, are more prone to misreading friendliness as flirting, but the inverse happens too. Some people under-detect attraction because theyâre trying to avoid making wrong assumptions.â
There was something softer in his voice. He was looking at you. Not with the sharp focus that he used on suspects. This look was quieter. Like he was trying to understand something he didnât want to scare away. You chewed on your lip and turned back to your computer. The almost-confession sat between you like a live wire. One more honest word and the whole balance that your friendship sat on could come crashing down around both of you.
I like you, Spencer.
Your friendship with Spencer wasnât theoretical. You already had it. What if confessing made every plane ride awkward? What if movie nights suddenly stopped? What if you couldnât look across the bullpen and smile when you caught his eye? The possibility of something more with him wasnât guaranteed. But the possibility of losing what you already had was a risk you simply werenât ready to take.
âAnyway,â you said, too brightly. âForget I asked.â
âI donât think I can do that.â Your stomach did a little flip, and Spencer seemed to realize how it sounded a second after he said it. His ears went pink, and he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. âI mean, I have an eidetic memory, so technicallyââ
You laughed before you could stop yourself. It came out breathless. Relieved. A little too fond. Spencerâs mouth curved in response. And there it was. That smile. That small, private, devastatingly Spencer smile. The tension between you eased into something more bearable. Almost manageable, even. He looked down at his desk, shuffling around the papers he wasnât reading. âYou know, if this hypothetical person is making you feel uncertain, you could always just ask them directly.â
You nearly choked. âCould I?â
âIt would be the most efficient way to resolve the ambiguity.â
âRight.â You nodded, swallowing down all the words you wanted to say. âEfficient.â
âAlthough,â he mused aloud, âefficiency isnât always emotionally comfortable.â That surprised you. You looked at him again. For a moment, he seemed younger than he already was. Not naive. Just uncertain in a way he rarely allowed himself to be around anyone. His thumb brushed against the side of his index finger, a small self-soothing gesture you only noticed because you noticed too much about him.
âNo,â you agreed. âIt isnât.â Another pause hung between you. Somewhere deeper in the building, an elevator chimed faintly, but no one came into the bullpen. No one interrupted. No one saved either of you from the conversation you were both pretending not to have.
Friday afternoons at Quantico always felt different when there wasnât a case taking you across the country. There was something almost strange about witnessing the building slowly empty as agents filtered towards the elevators. So often, you only ever got to experience the bustling activity of a regular work day or the quiet of coming into the office in the wee hours of the night after touching down post-case.
You shouldâve left twenty minutes ago. Your reports were finished, youâd organized your desk twice, and your car was sitting in the parking lot just waiting for you. Hell, you could probably even catch the latest episode of whatever show one of your friends was raving about. And yet, here you were, standing beside Spencerâs desk while he carefully slid a file back into its proper place.
âYou know,â you said, âyou donât have to finish that tonight.â You gestured to the file in his hands. Spencer looked up, warm brown eyes finding yours.
âI know.â His fingers lingered on the file. âI just want to finish organizing these before Monday.â
âHavenât you organized them like four times already?â
âThose were different files.â
âAh.â You nodded solemnly. âCompletely different.â Spencer shook his head, the faintest smile tugging at the edges of his lips. The thing that kept ruining your life. You shouldâve been immune to it by now. You werenât.
âAre you leaving?â he asked.
âEventually.â Your answer earned you a look. âWhat?â
âYouâve been standing there for ten minutes.â
âMaybe I enjoy judging your filing system.â
Spencer laughed. The sound was soft. Almost private. âYouâre terrible.â But there was no bite behind his words.
âOnly when it comes to you.â
Minutes later, the two of you were finally heading to the elevators. The ride down was quiet. Comfortable. The kind of silence that had developed naturally over months of shared cases, shared flights, and far too many late nights together. By the time you stepped outside, the sun hung low on the horizon. The air was beginning to cool. The perfect weather for an evening walk.
âSo, got any plans for this weekend? Besides our weekly movie night?â you asked, falling in step beside Spencer as the two of you began the familiar route to the train station. Spencer adjusted the strap of his messenger bag, his gaze fixed somewhere ahead of you both.
âNothing particularly exciting. I was planning to finish a book Iâve been working through.â
âThe one on forensic linguistics?â
âYou remembered?â
âOf course I remembered,â you said, bumping him with your shoulder. âYouâve been talking about it this whole week.â
Spencer ducked his head, a smile playing at his lips. âI didnât realize.â
The two of you passed the coffee shop you always stopped at. The one that always got Spencerâs order right. Spencer stopped to peer into the window of the bookstore he always liked to stop at because they usually had first editions of books. You offered to go in with him, and he declined your offer every time. None of this shouldâve felt significant anymore. The coffee shop. The bookstore. The walk to the station. They had all become part of your routine months ago. They were small, ordinary things.
Except that you thought about them constantly.
For months, you had collected scraps of ordinary things. Tiny pieces of evidence that maybe he liked you back. Tiny fragments of hope. And for months, none of them had amounted to anything. You were tired. Tired of carrying this thing around inside your chest. Tired of pretending that walking him to the station every Friday wasnât your favorite part of the week. You were tired weeks ago. Now, you were exhausted.
And the worst part of it was that you couldnât even bring yourself to stop. Because every time you thought you were finally getting over it, heâd smile at you. Or remember some insignificant detail youâd mentioned weeks ago. Or call you first when he found an interesting article. And you always ended up right back where youâd started.
âIâve noticed something,â Spencer said abruptly as the two of you stopped at an intersection. âYou do this every Friday when we donât have a case.â
âDo what?â
âYou walk me to the train station.â You kept your eyes on the sidewalk across the street, unwilling to let yourself hope that maybe heâd finally picked up on your feelings. Spencer turned to face you, and you could see the way the sunlight caught the edge of his jaw in your peripheral vision.
âWell someone has to make sure you actually make it home. Canât have you sleeping in the office over the weekend. The cleaners might mistake you for a stack of files,â you said, keeping your voice light. The crosswalk signal blinked white, and you stepped forward. Spencer didnât move.
âYour carâs in the opposite direction,â he pointed out, falling in step behind you again. âYou walk fifteen minutes out of your way every Friday.â
âMaybe I just enjoy a nice Friday evening walk,â you countered, hoping that the deflection would land. Spencer fell silent beside you, and for a moment, you were sure youâd gotten away with it. The two of you crossed the street, and you let yourself believe that heâd let it go like he always did. That heâd simply file the observation away in that impossibly organized mind of his and move on. He didnât.
âYour apartment is in the opposite direction,â Spencer said again. âYou walk me to the station and then turn around and walk back to your car. Thatâs thirty minutes of extra walking every Friday.â
The train station came into view, its familiar brick facade catching the last golden rays of sunlight. You shoved your hands into your jacket pockets and turned to look at Spencer. The evening light caught in his hair, turning the edges of it gold, and something about the way he was looking at you made your stomach drop. You didnât have an excuse for him. You didnât have the energy anymore to try to think of one.
âYou know, Spence, for someone whoâs supposed to be good at noticing patterns,â you began before your exhausted brain could stop you, âyou miss some really obvious things.â
His brow furrowed instantly. âWhat does that mean?â
Your heart stuttered then stopped as you realized what you had said, and you wished you could take it back. Abort mission. You laughed. Too quickly. Too loudly. Too forced.
âHave a good weekend, Spence.â You started backing away, plastering a too-nervous smile on your face.
âThatâs not an answer. You canât just say something like that and leave.â
âWatch me.â
Spencer stared at you, jaw going slack as you laughed again and turned to walk back the way you had just come. He blinked, feeling like heâd just been blind sided by something as subtle as a bullet. As you disappeared among the crowd, he readjusted his bag again and began his descent to the station.
People moved around him. Commuters, tourists, the usual Friday evening crowd. But even as he navigated through them towards the station, he didnât notice any of them. You miss some really obvious things. The comment sat at the forefront of his mind. Something about it bothered him. Not because it was insulting. Because it was specific. Patterns and obvious things. Something he had missed.
Spencer frowned. The train hadnât arrived yet. Which was good. Because now, he was thinking. And unfortunately, thinking was how Spencer got himself into trouble. What obvious thing? The question settled into his brain. Made a little nest. Refused to leave. You seemed amused when you said it. But also⊠something else. Something that he couldnât quite place.
A memory surfaced. The diner several weeks ago. The way you stared into your coffee after the waitress asked if you were together. The sudden quietness. The hurt heâd read in your body language. No⊠not hurt. Disappointment? Why would you be disappointed? Unlessâ
His stomach dropped.
The coffee. Every morning. You had remembered his order after hearing it once.
The tie. Your hands against his collar. You look good.
Movie nights. The fact that you had never cancelled. Not once.
The hypothetical. Spencerâs breath caught in his throat. The hypothetical.
âIf someone liked you, would you know?â
âOh my god.âÂ
The words escaped before he could stop them. Several people glanced at him, but Spencer didnât notice. Because every memory was rearranging itself in his head. Like puzzle pieces falling into place next to each other. The realization crashed over him. Youâd been trying to tell him. And he had answered you with statistics and facts. Spencer covered his face with one hand. You had been handing him answers, and he had somehow missed every single one.
A second realization hit him before he could fully recover from the first. Why did the thought make him so happy? Spencer lowered his hand. Because the answer was painfully obvious. He liked your smile. He looked for you when he entered a room. His favorite evenings somehow always involved you. His apartment felt quieter after you left. His first instinct when something interesting happened was to tell you.
The train pulled into the station, doors opening with a mechanical hiss. Spencer watched as people boarded it, but his feet were rooted to the spot. The train doors chimed their final warning before departure. Spencer turned around, the doors sliding shut behind him. But he was already halfway up the stairs before the train started moving.
The evening air hit him immediately, cool and sharp. He broke into a jog. Then a run. His messenger bag bounced against his hip, books and files shifting with every stride. Several pedestrians turned to stare as he passed, but he couldnât be bothered to care. His lungs burned in a way that was entirely unfamiliar as he retraced the path you both had just walked minutes ago. He wasnât a runner. He had never been particularly athletic, but his legs carried him forward with a determination he couldnât explain.
His mind raced faster than his feet, cataloguing every moment between you that was suddenly so obvious. When he finally made it to the parking lot he knew you always parked in, he was breathing harder than heâd ever admit to. His chest heaved, and he pressed a hand to his chest as he scanned the rows of cars, searching for yours. The lot was nearly empty at this hour, and for one terrible moment, he thought he had missed you.
Then he spotted your car. And you. You were standing beside the driverâs side door with your keys in hand. Spencer started towards you before he could talk himself out of it. Before he could overthink it. You looked up at the sound of approaching footsteps. Surprise crossed your features before settling into confusion.
âSpencer?â
He slowed to a stop just a few footsteps away. You stared at him. He stared back at you. And he realized that, despite sprinting out of a train station to chase you down, Spencer hadnât actually planned what he was going to say. âDid you miss your train?â
âYes.â
You didnât look convinced. Spencer couldnât blame you. He was still catching his breath, his chest rising and falling in uneven bursts. Strands of his hair had fallen across his forehead. Your expression shifted from confusion to concern then from concern to something softer.
âSpencer.â The way you said his name nearly undid him. âWhy are you here?â
âI figured it out.â
The words settled between you, and for one long moment, neither of you moved. Then,
ââŠwhat did you figure out?â
Spencer let out a single, helpless breath of a laugh. Everything. He had figured out everything. The coffee. The tie. The movie nights. The hypothetical. The station walks. Months and months of things heâd managed to completely miss because the idea that they couldâve meant anything more than just friendship had never occurred to him.
âYouâve been flirting with me.â
Your eyes went wide, and Spencer didnât have to be a profiler to know. He had never seen anyone look more guilty than you.
âOh.â You looked away. Towards the parking lot. Towards the sun setting over the horizon. Towards anywhere but him. Spencer took a single step closer. âIâm sorry,â you said, and Spencer was taken aback. That wasnât what he had expected you to say. âIâm sorry. I didnâtâ I wasnât trying to make you uncomfortable. I justââ Your voice cracked. Spencer thought his heart mightâve done the same. Why were you apologizing? He was the one who shouldâve been sorry. You were the one who had tried. He was the one who had missed it. âSpencer, Iââ
âCan I kiss you?â
For a second, Spencer wasnât entirely sure that he had actually said the words out loud, but judging by the look on your face, he had. You opened your mouth to say something. Then closed it. Then opened it again.
âSpencerââ
âI know itâs abrupt.â That was the understatement of the century. His heart was beating so hard that he could feel it in his throat. âI know itâs not exactlyâ I didnât plan any of this, and Iâm probably doing this wrong. But I ran out of the train station because the thought of going home without telling you was somehow worse than the thought of you thinking that I was rejecting you and thatâsââ
You kissed him.
Or maybe he kissed you.
The distinction blurred into irrelevance the moment your lips touched his. Your lips were warm and soft, and they chased every thought from his mind. His hands hovered uncertainly at your sides before they finally settled on your waist. Your fingers found the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer as the world narrowed to this moment. The kiss was slow and uncertain but devastating all the same.
When you finally pulled apart, neither of you moved very far. His eyes found yours. A smile played on his lips. He was somehow more breathless than heâd been a moment ago.
âWow.â The word slipped out before Spencer could stop it. You laughed immediately.
âThatâs all youâve got to say, genius?â
âIn my defense, I had a much better sentence prepared.â
âDid you really?â
âNo.â
You laughed harder, the sound echoing across the nearly empty parking lot. And Spencer found himself laughing with you. Because somehow, after months of missed signals and crossed wires, youâd both ended up exactly where you were supposed to be.
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The Statistical Improbability of Dating Spencer Reid
Spencer Reid x fem!BAU!Reader | WC: 9640
Summary: Or: Five times you and Spencer dance around your feelings, and the one time Spencer finally puts the pieces together.Â
Tags/Warnings: Mutual pining, idiots in love, confessions, fluff, Spencer being an oblivious cutie patootie, no use of Y/N, no beta we die like men
A/N: New fandom, who dis? Iâm officially branching out into the Criminal Minds fandom because tumblr has my number and fed me Spencer Reid on a silver platter. Special shoutout to @h0lym01y and their lovely headlock series for inspiring me to write for him! Iâm still pretty early into the series, so apologies if my characterization isnât quite there yet! (Also, fun fact: this was supposed to be a nice quick little piece to dip my toes into a new fandom, and it turned into its own beast so... sorry, not sorry) Thanks @mythandmemories for giving it a twice-over to make sure it all makes sense!
The first time you brought Spencer coffee, it had been completely by accident. The shop you went to had made your order wrong the first time and given you both cups. Unsure of what to do with it, you had offered it to him since he was the only other one in the bullpen when you had arrived. Surprisingly, he had accepted it. The second time you brought him coffee had been the day after a particularly stressful case. And the fourth time, it had become a problem.
Not a real problem, of course. The BAU had serial killers and kidnappers and interstate investigations to worry about. Compared to those, your increasingly embarrassing crush on your coworker wasn't even on their radars. Which was great because no matter how much you told yourself that you couldnât date someone you worked with, your heart never seemed to get the memo.Â
Which was why you had found yourself standing in line at a coffee shop at six-thirty in the morning, mentally reciting Spencerâs order while pretending you werenât. One coffee for you. One coffee for him. Because apparently you had become the sort of person who memorized a manâs coffee order. Lovely. You blamed it on your inability to simply ask Spencer out like a normal person.
The elevator doors opened onto the BAU floor. Most of the lights were still off. Hotch wasnât in yet. Neither was Rossi. The bullpen was quiet enough that you could hear the sound of pages turning. Your stomach did an embarrassing little flip, and you tried to remind yourself that you were an adult, not a high schooler. It didnât do anything to quell the butterflies.
Spencer was already in office. As he always was when you came in early. If you didnât know any better, you wouldâve guessed that he slept there, curled up behind his desk with a book for a pillow. The mental image made you smile. You crossed the bullpen, thankful that Spencer didnât seem to notice you at first. It gave you a few stolen seconds though youâd never admit to taking them.
You watched the way his slender fingers dragged across the page before deftly turning it and moving onto the next. Watched the way he chewed on his lip, the muscle in his jaw flexing slightly with every movement. It was ridiculous, just watching him exist. You knew it was ridiculous. Then again, no one had ever accused a crush of being rational.
âMorning,â you said softly as you drew closer, not wanting to startle him. His head snapped up, warm brown eyes landing on your face before dropping down to the two cups of coffee in your hands.
âGood morning,â he replied, a small smile spreading across his face. It was gentle and genuine. The kind of smile that always felt like a reward. You dragged your thoughts back to yourself before they could stray too far into dangerous territory. âYouâre early,â he said, closing the book with one finger marking his page.
âSo are you.â You tried to sound casual as you set the coffee down on his desk, careful not to spill any of it on his papers. âI figured Iâd beat the morning rush.â Spencerâs gaze lingered on the cup of coffee youâd set down, his expression softening slightly. He picked it up and turned it in his hands, examining the order written on the side. He frowned.
âHow do you know what I order?â
Your heart stuttered against your ribs for a beat. Of course heâd ask. He couldnât just accept a free coffee without asking about the details. And it wasnât like his order was something straight off the menu either. It was just something youâd⊠remembered one day. Because apparently your brain just stored information about Spencer Reid with frightening accuracy.
âOh.â You made a vague gesture with your free hand. âYou mentioned it once.â
âI did?â
âAbout three months back.â And thatâs where you fucked up. Because now it sounded weird. Who in the world remembered a coffee order from three months ago? Fortunately for you, in Spencerâs world, it was a completely normal thing. Or at least something that didnât seem out of the ordinary. He looked thoughtful for a moment, as though he were filing the information away somewhere.
âThatâs impressive.â You preened for a brief moment before confusion kicked in.
âImpressive?â
âThe average person retains significantly less information from casual conversation than people assume. People typically forget about fifty-percent of a conversation within the first hour of having it.â Of course. Of course that was his takeaway. You laughed, hoping that it didnât sound as nervous as you felt. Spencer smiled at you and took a sip of the gifted coffee. Something warm and dangerous settled low in your chest, and for a second, neither of you looked away.
Then, Morgan showed up with his booming voice, and the moment shattered, the fragile pieces of it collapsing down around your feet as you shuffled over to your desk.
âDamn, whereâs my cup?â he asked, glancing between the two coffees you and Reid held. He grinned, already moving towards the break room to start up the communal pot.
âYou snooze, you lose,â you called after him, sinking into your chair and sipping at your drink.
Three weeks later, Spencer still hadnât figured it out. Not that youâd expected him to. At least thatâs what you kept telling yourself. The only problem was that somewhere along the way, bringing Spencer coffee had stopped being about flirting. Anymore, it was a habit. Part of your routine. It was something small that made him smile, and that smile â the one that was just for you in the mornings before anyone else showed up â had become your favorite part of the mornings. You were halfway through the motion of setting the cup down when Spencer spoke up.
âYou donât do this for anyone else.â
You froze, coffee in hand as you looked at him like a deer caught in the headlights. âWhat?â
âI noticed that you donât bring coffee for anyone else in the office.â The cup sat between the two of you. Spencer looked at it then up at you. âJust me.â Your pulse hammered beneath your skin. Had he actuallyâ?
âOh.â You let out a nervous chuckle. âWell.â Every coherent thought fled from your mind, leaving you with an absolute masterclass of a non-response. Spencer continued before you could manage anything more.
âI was wondering why.â
And there it was. The most perfect opening in the world in the history of flirting. Because the answer was simple. Because I like you. Four words. Thatâs all you had to say, and you wouldnât have to dance around this anymore.
âBecause,â one down, three to go, âyouâre here earliest.â Nope, those werenât the right words to say. What a traitor of a tongue you had. Spencer nodded in understanding, accepting your explanation like it was the most sound reason in the world. You were pretty sure that the thought of someone being interested in him in a romantic way hadnât ever crossed his mind. And that realization hurt just a little more than it should have.
âYou donât have to keep doing it.â
âOh,â you squeaked, your stomach lurching uncomfortably.
âNo, I meanââ Spencer sat up a little straighter, suddenly flustered as he shook his head. âI appreciate it.â The sincerity in his voice nearly knocked the air from your lungs. âI really appreciate it. I just donât want you to feel like you have to keep doing it.â And there it was again. The small smile that no one else in the office got except for you.
âNot a problem at all, Spence.â And suddenly, the coffee didnât feel quite so embarrassing anymore. Maybe he didnât understand what it meant. For all you knew, maybe he never would. But he liked it. And that was enough for you.
Spencer hated formal events. This wasnât anything new. Heâd hated them the first time Hotch dragged him to one. Heâd hated them the second time. And he hated this one all the same. There were too many people, too much noise, and far too many strangers trying to shake his hand.
Worst of all, he had to wear a tie.
The tie itself wasnât the problem. He wore ties for work almost every day. The problem was that heâd tied it three separate times, and it still somehow looked wrong. Spencer frowned at his reflection in the restroom mirror. The knot was slightly off-center, and the collar of his shirt sat unevenly. He loosened it again, his mind going over all the different ways he could potentially convince Hotch to let him stay behind at the hotel. He wasnât really needed for this part. He sighed, pulling the tie free entirely and draping it over his shoulders. Maybe he could blame it on jet lag. Theyâd been in Colorado for three days, but he couldâ
There was a knock at his hotel door that pulled him from his thoughts. Spencer glanced at the clock on the nightstand. He wasnât expecting anyone, and you all werenât scheduled to leave for at least another forty-five minutes. He briefly wondered which one of his teammates had come to check on him. Probably Morgan, ready with some quick joke or quip. Spencer opened the door, fully expecting Morganâs grinning face. Instead, he found you.Â
All of his thoughts crashed into each other at once as he took in the sight of you. You were dressed and ready for the event, more put together in a way that looked effortless. Spencer had seen you in plenty of business casual stuff before. Heâd seen you wear nice outfits for other undercover work in the past too. But something about you in this exact moment was⊠different. A little more put together. A little more ethereal in a way he just couldnât wrap his brain around. When his mind finally kickstarted back into action, it supplied him a single thought.
Oh.
Which wasnât particularly useful. Or eloquent. Especially for a man with his vocabulary.
âHi,â came the oh-so-professional greeting from his lips. He watched your eyes travel from his face down to the tie that was still draped around his neck, and a small smile curved your lips. The same one that always made something warm settle between his ribs.
âTie giving you trouble?â you asked, and Spencer had to look away. You were standing in his doorway looking fully put-together, and he was standing there with his tie undone and hair mussed from running his fingers through it one too many times. It wasnât exactly the image he wanted to present.
âIt doesnât want to sit properly,â he admitted, gesturing vaguely. âThe knot keeps shifting.â
âHere, let me help.â You stepped into his room without waiting for an invitation
âI can do it,â he said too quickly. Because the alternative involved you standing close enough to touch him. Which felt like a terrible idea but not for the usual reasons he had. For reasons Spencer was trying very hard not to examine. You paused and folded your arms.
âSpencer.â
âReally,â he insisted. âIâm perfectly capable of tying a Windsor knot.â He was. He did it every day for work. He was a fully functional adult who could dress himself for a formal event he had zero desire to attend. You laughed, â not at him, never at him â and Spencer was beginning to suspect that your laugh mightâve become his favorite sound. Not that he planned on telling anyone that. Ever. Before he could think of another excuse, you stepped fully into his room and beckoned him closer.
âCome here.â His heart raced. He opened his mouth to argue. Then closed it as his traitorous feet obeyed, bringing him within armâs distance before he could think better of it.
You reached up for him, pausing for a moment to let him retreat if he suddenly decided he didnât want your hands on him after all. When he didnât budge, your fingers gently grasped the loose tie and drew closer to him. You were so close. Closer than Spencer could ever imagine you being. Close enough that Spencer could see the tiny details he might not have fully been able to catalogue from afar. The faint shimmer of your makeup. The way your eyelashes cast the faintest shadows against your cheeks. The scent of you. Something warm and familiar. Something that immediately lodged itself in his brain.
He didnât dare look away from your face. Somewhere at the back of his mind he recognized that your movements werenât putting together a regular Windsor knot. There were too many steps for that. An Eldredge knot his mind supplied. Your fingers brushed against his throat as you looped the fabric around itself, and Spencer was pretty sure he forgot how breathing worked. Which was, obviously, impossible considering that breathing was an autonomous action that his body was physically incapable of forgetting in any sense of the word.
And it wasnât like you were doing anything inappropriate, either. You were fixing a tie. A completely normal thing. A thing that approximately half the population of men got help with. It wasnât an official statistic, so the percentage was likely higher. Which put him in the majority. So why did his entire nervous system feel like it had short-circuited?
âHold still,â you chided, lightly tugging on his tie. His gaze fell to your lips, and for a single, dangerous, second, he let himself wonder what they would feel like against his. Spencer diverted his gaze.
âI am holding still.â
âYou just moved.â Your fingers ghosted against him again, and Spencer stared very intently at a piece of the peeling wallpaper against the opposite wall of the hotel room. At the mirror that hung on the wall. At literally anything except for you. Because looking directly at you felt like it was too risky at this exact moment. What if you looked in his eyes and found all of his secrets there? It was a ridiculous notion. âThere.â You smoothed the tie against his chest, and he didnât need to see it to know that it was perfect.
âThank you,â Spencer said, his voice softer than he meant for it to be. You looked up at him, and for a moment, neither of you moved. The space between you hummed with possibility.
âYouâre welcome,â you replied, your hand still resting lightly on his chest. âNow you look ready to impress a room full of strangers.âÂ
He swallowed hard, throat feeling uncharacteristically dry.Â
âYou clean up real nice, Reid.â Your words were light and teasing, but they landed somewhere deep inside his chest. Spencer blinked, caught off guard.
âWhat?â
You smiled at him. âYou look good.â
His ears burned. Because people didnât usually say things like that to him. Not in any serious way. Not while looking him directly in the eye. Not like this. The warmth in your expression made his stomach twist itself into knots.
âYou look nice too.â That wasnât right. You looked beautiful. You looked stunning. You lookedâ
Nice. Truly the most exceptional word he could pluck from his vocabulary. But your smile brightened regardless as though nice had been the best compliment you had ever heard.
âThanks.â The silence between the two of you stretched, neither of you willing to break it. After a moment, you took a small step backwards, and Spencer immediately missed the closeness. Which was an alarming realization in and of itself. You nodded towards the hotel door. âCome on. Before Morgan sends a search party for us.â
Spencer laughed, feeling the tension slip from his shoulders. âIâll be right there.â You nodded before slipping out the door. Spencer pressed his fingers to the knot you had done, stepping into the bathroom to take a brief look at your handiwork. He smiled at his own reflection. The knot was immaculate, sitting exactly where it needed to be. He hadnât expected anything less from you.
You were pretty sure you looked like hell. Honestly, the entire team did. The case had been long and grueling. Three states, four victims, and next to no sleep. You all had piled into a diner after the arrest. Tables pushed together and everyone was nursing mugs of coffee. Youâd spent most of the last seventy-two hours surviving on gas station coffee and sheer stubbornness. Everyone had.Â
Morgan was poking at the fries on his plate like theyâd personally offended him. JJ looked ready to curl up beneath the table and sleep for eternity. Even Rossi looked tired, which felt vaguely unnatural. The only person who seemed remotely functional at the table was Spencer, which somehow wasnât surprising.
He seemed to operate on an entirely different set of biological rules than the rest of humanity. You sat next to him, shoulder pressed lightly to his. He didnât seem to mind. Or at the very least, he didnât move away. And that tiny fact was all the fuel your little crush needed to continue burning for the next eternity.
You stole a glance at him out of the corner of your eye as you sipped at your coffee. His tie was loosened, and the top button of his dress shirt was undone. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. His hair was a disaster, the product of running his hands through it several times too many. You liked him best like this. Not because he looked more attractive. Although he absolutely did. That wasnât the point. The point was that this version of Spencer felt more real. More relaxed. More human.
This was the version of him you didnât get to see nearly as often as youâd like. The version of him that you had somehow, disastrously, fallen head over heels for. Months ago, the realization wouldâve been horrifying. Anymore, though, it mostly felt exhausting. Because you were pretty sure absolutely nothing was ever going to come of it. Garcia and Morgan both insisted that he liked you back, and JJ swore that everyone could see it. You werenât so sure about it, though. If Spencer liked you back, then surely something wouldâve happened by now, right?
The waitress showed up beside the table before your thoughts could spiral any further. She had a pot of coffee in hand and proceeded to fill everyoneâs cups as they were offered up to her. You dutifully held yours up. There wasnât enough caffeine in the world that was going to keep you from passing out once you were on the plane. But you did have to stay awake long enough to make it there. She set the coffee pot down and pulled out the notepad she had taken everybodyâs orders on.
Your eyes drifted to Spencerâs hands and they way his fingers wrapped around his mug. There was a small scratch on his knuckle, and you vaguely wondered when heâd gotten it. He hadnât been part of the takedownâŠ
ââtogether?â
You turned to look at the waitress, eyes wide. She was pointing her pen between you and Spencer. Your brain short-circuited. The word echoed in your head, and because you were apparently incapable of functioning like a completely normal human being around Spencer Reid (or maybe you could blame the exhaustion), your brain latched onto the idea that you were so obvious about your crush that even the waitress could see it.
Heat rushed into your face, and all at once, every trace of exhaustion had been wiped from your system. Beside you, Spencer froze, and you could see the way his brow furrowed. Then, he let out a small, awkward chuckle before shaking his head.
âNo, weâre not together,â he said, and the easy way he said it made you want to slide beneath the table and disappear. Which was dumb, because obviously you werenât dating. But your stupid heart still carried that hopeful torch. âJust coworkers.â You looked down at your coffee, wondering if there was any way you could drown yourself in it in case the embarrassment wasnât enough to end you. Unfortunately for you, Spencer kept talking. âActually, workplace relationships, while fairly common, tend to be more complex than people realize. Fifty-seven percent of people report a negative impact on their work performance andââ
âReid,â Morgan cut in. âShe means the check.â Spencerâs mouth snapped shut. The tips of his ears turned a faint shade of pink, and you watched the realization dawn across his face.
âOh,â he said, his voice going quiet. âThe check.â The entire table went quiet as the waitress scribbled something down on her notepad, her expression unreadable.
âRight. Separate checks then,â she said, clicking her pen. She slipped away, and mercifully, the rest of the table went back to their low chatter. You focused on your coffee, stirring it just to have something to do with your hands. Spencer shifted beside you, his shoulder brushing against yours again. The contact sent a ripple of warmth through your body despite the humiliation still burning in your cheeks and the sting spreading through your chest.Â
Logic dictated that you shouldnât have felt hurt. Spencer was simply being honest, and thatâs what you liked about him, wasnât it? It was just a misunderstanding. Obviously, Spencer hadnât said that he wouldnât have dated you specifically. He had simply launched into reasons why dating a coworker could be difficult. They were just facts. And Spencer wasnât exactly known for choosing the most socially graceful option when a factual one was available.
But facts or not, the logical side of your brain was already checked out for the evening. All your heart could hear was âjust coworkers.â The words burrowed deeper into the hole in your heart, finding the weakest spot and curling up to fester. You took a sip of your coffee, letting the bitter taste of it burn its way down your throat. Spencer shifted beside you, and you could vaguely feel the way the rest of the teamâs eyes drifted down to your end of the table. You stayed quiet for the rest of the evening.
Spencer had fully expected you to cancel on him. Not because you were unreliable but because the team had landed late the previous night after a case in Wisconsin. And âlateâ was being generous. The jet touched down close to midnight on Friday, and by the time everyone made it to Quantico, filed the necessary reports, and dragged themselves towards their cars, it had been close to two in the morning.
Movie night had been planned for Saturday. It was your idea, technically speaking. Spencer had made an offhand comment that he hadnât seen a movie you were referencing during a conversation in the bullpen, and youâd stared at him like heâd committed a federal offense.
âYouâve seriously never seen it?â
âNo.â
âSpencer,â you began, your tone suggesting that you were trying very hard to stay reasonable. You were joking, of course. At least⊠he hoped you were joking and that you werenât actually upset at him for not having seen whatever movie you were talking about.
âItâs not statistically unusual to miss popular media,â he reasoned. âIn fact, given the rate that newââ
âWeâre watching it.â
Spencer stopped talking, thoughts careening off a cliff as your words sunk into him. He blinked. âW-we?â
âYes. My civic duty demands it. This Saturday. Clear your calendar.â He smiled before he could stop himself. Then, he proceeded to spend the rest of the week trying very hard not to look too deeply into the fact that you had made plans with him. Not with the team. Not with a group of people that included him. Him.
Which, he had to remind himself, was objectively nothing.
Coworkers spent time together outside of work. Friends watched movies together and made plans. Friends brought takeout and laughed with each other and sat on couches in living rooms while pretending none of it meant anything more. Still, by Saturday afternoon, Spencer had convinced himself that the plan would fall through even as he reorganized the stack of books on his coffee table for the fourth time.
You were probably too tired. Or maybe something else would come up. He could think of a small list of things that you probably prioritized on a Saturday evening over watching a movie youâd already seen with a coworker you saw almost every day. So when you called him at six asking him for what he wanted from the Chinese restaurant just a couple blocks away from his apartment and assured him that youâd be there right around seven, Spencer found himself standing completely still in the middle of his living room for three whole seconds.
He looked down at himself. Cardigan, button-down, and slacks. Was it too formal? Probably. He had already changed twice. The first outfit felt too casual, but the second had seemed like he was trying too hard. He thought that maybe this one had landed in a more reasonable middle ground, but now with the timer until you showed up at his front door counting down, Spencer was beginning to suspect that there was no such thing as reasonable.
The stack of books on his table got adjusted for a fifth time.
The knock at his door came at exactly 6:57. He crossed his apartment too quickly, stopping just a couple paces away from his door and forcing himself to breathe. This was completely normal. And it wasnât like this was the first time youâd ever been over either. There was the time when youâd driven him home when it was snowing and used his restroom before braving the journey home. He still kicked himself for letting you drive alone in that weather.
The knock came again, jolting him from his thoughts. He pulled the door open. You stood in the hallway wearing jeans, a soft-looking sweater, and the kind of tired smile that turned his thoughts to static. You held up the takeout bag in one hand and a DVD case in the other.
âI come bearing food and cultural education.â He took the bag from you and stepped aside, something warm and impossible settling into his chest as you crossed the threshold.
âYou didnât cancel,â he said before he could stop himself. You looked at him, eyebrows lifted as you slipped your shoes off and lined them up next to his.
âWas I supposed to?â
âNo.â He winced. âI mean, no, obviously not. I just assumed you might. We got in late last night, and we were in the field for almost four days. Statistically, sleep deprivation can significantly impact social follow-through.â
You stared at him for a moment before grinning, eyes practically twinkling as they found his. It was his favorite expression you had. âWell,â you began, walking further into his apartment. âStatistically, I really wanted to be here.â That was a nonsensical answer that didnât really make grammatical sense, and Spencerâs brain supplied him with several possible responses. He rejected all of them.
âIâm glad you came,â he said finally. It wasnât his best work, but it was genuine. And he meant it more than he probably should have. Your smile widened anyway, and he was sure that heâd said the right thing.
His apartment felt different with you in it. An irrational thought but not an inaccurate one, he mused. Nothing had physically changed about the space, but it seemed less quiet with you there. Less⊠solitary. Spencer wasnât entirely sure what to do with that observation.
Dinner was easy which, admittedly, surprised him a little. It shouldnât have, in retrospect. Lots of things with you were easier than with others. He didnât have to filter himself nearly as much. The two of you had made it through maybe five minutes of the movie before you had paused it in the midst of him pointing out several historical inaccuracies in the opening scene. Spencer looked over at you in alarm.
âWhat?â
âKeep going.â You motioned for him to keep talking.
He glanced back at the screen. âYou paused it.â
âYeah, so I can hear what youâre saying.â
Spencer stared, a strange warmth moving through him that left him just a little breathless. Most people tolerated him. But not you. You didnât interrupt him when he started explaining things. You didnât get that glazed, polite look people sometimes got when they were waiting for him to realize that heâd rambled on too long. You listened. You asked him questions. Real, engaging questions. Not just the surface level ones to be courteous. He swallowed and looked back at the television because looking directly at you made whatever had wedged itself between his ribs threaten to tumble out of his mouth.
âItâs just that the timeline doesnât really support the costuming choices,â he said at last.
âOkay,â you said, nodding. âWhat wouldâve been more accurate?â
The first half of the movie took twice as long to watch because you kept pausing it to argue with him, ask him questions, or point out inconsistencies. And somewhere along the way, Spencer felt himself relax into the moment and stopped worrying about whether he was talking too much.
You were curled up on the opposite end of the couch, legs tucked beneath you and your takeout container sitting empty on the table in front of you. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as you brought your hand to your mouth to hide a yawn. Moments later, you did it a second time. By the fourth one, he frowned.
âYouâre tired.â
You gave him a look from across the couch. âAstute observation, Doctor.â
âYou should sleep.â
âIâll sleep when Iâm dead, Spence,â you said, shaking your head at him. Spencerâs frown deepened.
âThatâs an incredibly reckless mindset, especially given that the average adult needs between seven and nine hours of sleep per night to maintain optimal cognitive function.â
âSays the man who once stayed away for forty-eight hours straight during that Chicago case.â
âThat was different,â he argued. âIt was a case.â
You laughed softly and pointed at the tv. âEyes on the screen, genius. Youâre missing important cultural references.â He dragged his gaze away from you and only half paid attention to the characters as you shifted, scooting closer to him and settling deeper into the couch cushions.
The movie continued. Your commentary became less frequent until it stopped entirely. Spencer glanced over again. Your head was tipped back against the cushions, eyes closed. He waited a moment, unsure if he should say something or not. Your breathing evened out.
You were asleep. On his couch. In his apartment. Beside him. Not because you had to. Not because the jet didnât have any other available seats. You had come here intentionally. You had stayed. And you felt safe enough in his company to let yourself drift off within armâs reach of him. The realization settled over him all at once.
The objectively correct thing to do, he thought, would be to wake you and offer you the bed. Or a blanket. Or, more realistically, a cab home. Something practical and considerate. But you looked peaceful. And Spencer didnât want to be the reason that peace ended.
He had discovered, over the last several months, that he liked when you got to be comfortable. He liked seeing the way your shoulders would loosen after a hard case. He liked when you were happy, and more than anything, he wanted to be the person who could make you smile when work had taken too much from you.
It was a truly dangerous thing to want. Spencer knew that. He wanted it anyway.
You shifted in your sleep, and before Spencer could process what was going on, your head settled against his shoulder. Every single one of his well-earned IQ points evacuated the premises. Gone. Vanished. Like they had never existed in the first place. He didnât move. Couldnât move, really. Every muscle in his body had locked into place the moment your hair brushed against his jaw.
The movie continued playing, but Spencer had stopped processing any of it. All of his thoughts gravitated around the weight of you against him, the slow rhythm of your breathing lulling him into a strange, unfamiliar calm. He had never been big on physical contact before. He knew the physiological benefits of it and could cite several studies done over the years about how physical touch affected the human brain. But knowing the science of it and actually experiencing it were two very different things.
Your warmth seeped through his cardigan and settled into his skin, and he found himself leaning into it despite every rational part of his brain telling him that this was a bad idea. Minutes ticked by, and Spencer remained exactly where he was, too terrified to move and risk ruining whatever this was. Because this was nice. Dangerously nice. The kind of nice that made him want impossible things. The kind of nice that made him imagine what it would feel like if this had been on purpose rather than an accident.
This wasnât a date. He knew that. You were his coworker. A friend. A friend who brought him coffee and fixed his ties and fell asleep on his couch because you trusted him. That was all. And yet⊠Spencer tilted his head just enough that he could catch a glimpse of you. Maybe there would be a day when you chose this with him. Maybe one day he could simply reach over andâ
Nope. Absolutely not. His thoughts were venturing into dangerous territory.
Spencer turned his attention back to the television, but he didnât see anything on the screen. He realized with a quiet start that he was in trouble. Because somewhere between the coffee and now, you had become his favorite part of every day. And Spencer wasnât entirely sure when that had happened.
You had reached your breaking point. Not because anything in particular had happened. In fact, it was precisely because nothing had happened. Absolutely nothing at all. You were trapped in your own personal hell, unable to move past your childish crush on your coworker while simultaneously incapable of addressing it like the very reasonable, mature adult that you were.Â
The bullpen was empty. The rest of the team had finished their paperwork and gone home early. Rain tapped against the windows of the building. Across the room, Spencer was still buried in paperwork, reading and organizing files with quiet, focused efficiency. He was hunched over his desk, glasses balanced precariously on the bridge of his nose and threatening to slide off completely with every passing line he read.
It was a terrible idea. You knew it was. But you were tired. Tired of wondering. Tired of hoping. Tired of reading meaning behind every little smile. You stood from your desk and perched yourself on the edge of his.
âHey, Spencer?â His attention snapped to you in an instant, eyes wide over the rims of his glasses, and you hated how your brain reminded you that he always looked at you immediately whenever you spoke. As though your voice mattered more than whatever he had been doing before. It was a dangerous thought.
âHm?â
Your pulse pounded in your ears. âIf someone liked youâŠâ You looked at the papers on his desk, eyes focusing on the spot where his fingers still held his place. ââŠdo you think youâd notice?â
The question hung between you, heavy and loaded with every implication you could pack into it. You watched as Spencerâs brow furrowed, and he pressed his lips together into a thin line. His head tilted slightly, and you knew that this was the worst idea youâd ever had. Because the longer he sat there, the more he profiled the question, the more likely he was to figure out the reason for it. Which meant it became more and more likely for the reality of rejection to crash down over you with each passing second. Then, finally,
âProbably not.â
Your jaw went slack. âWhat?â
Spencerâs hand pulled away from the page he had been reading as he spun in his chair, turning to face you fully. âHuman courtship relies heavily on implication. There are dozens of signals that could indicate romantic interest, but most also have non-romantic explanations.â You stared at him. He had gone into full lecture mode. During the closest thing to a confession youâd been able to give a voice to. Granted, it wasnât really a confession. âPhysical proximity, gift-giving, and prolonged eye-contact are typically the most common signs of attraction, but those all exist in platonic relationships as well.â He paused, eyes searching your face. âWhy?â
Something twisted inside of your chest, and you werenât sure if it was relief or devastation. Probably a horrible mix of both. Because of course. Of course Spencer Reid could profile a strangerâs entire life from a single crime scene, but he couldnât recognize romantic interest if it hit him in the face. And somehow that was even worse. Because if he didnât know â if he genuinely couldnât tell â then maybe every missed signal wasnât rejection.
You werenât sure if you wanted to laugh or scream more. Instead, you settled for a weak smile and a shrug that you hoped looked more casual than it felt. âJust curious,â you said, voice sounding strange even to your own ears. âA hypothetical.â Spencerâs brow furrowed, and you could practically hear the gears turning in his head as he thought.
âHypothetical,â he repeated. âYou know, statistically speaking, most questions posed as hypotheticals arenât actually hypothetical.â
âJust thinking out loud,â you insisted, voice pitching up slightly as you moved to retreat back to the safety of your desk. Spencerâs eyes tracked you as you fled, and you could feel the weight of his gaze following you back to your desk. Your heart hammered against your ribs, and you focused intently on the computer screen in front of you, clicking through files you had already reviewed three separate times. You made it almost four minutes before Spencer spoke again. Which, considering the circumstances, felt both mercifully brief and unbearably long.
âAre you asking because of someone specific?â
Your fingers froze over the keyboard. You shouldâve expected it. Really, you should have. Spencer Reid was not known for letting a loose thread hang, especially not one that had been handed to him with a flashing neon sign that read âsuspicious emotional subtext.â You didnât dare look up at him.
âWhat was that?â
âYour hypothetical,â he clarified. âAre you asking because someone has been flirting with you, and youâre not sure how to interpret it?â The laugh that left you was strangled.
God, this was the worst part of it all. He sounded genuinely interested. Concerned, even. Fully prepared to help you solve a problem that was, unbeknownst to him, currently sitting across from you with his glasses sliding down his face. And it wasnât even his fault. Okay, it was, but you could hardly blame him. You hadnât exactly been the most forthcoming about it.
âSomething like that,â you said. It was close enough to the truth to make your stomach lurch. Spencer was quiet for a beat. Then, you heard the soft scrape of his chair wheels against the floor. You looked up despite yourself. He had perched himself on the edge of his desk, right where you had been moments before. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he had that look on his face that he got whenever he was trying very hard to figure out the answer to a question.
âYouâre asking whether someone would notice if they were being flirted with. That suggests either uncertainty about the other personâs awareness or uncertainty about whether your perception of their behavior is accurate.â
Your mouth went dry. Damn him and his brain. Damn the way he could pull the edges of a thing apart without ever realizing that he was the center of it. âItâs rude to profile your coworker, Spence,â you chided, but you couldnât muster any heat behind it. âMaybe I was just wondering how often people miss obvious signals.â
âFrequently,â he said without any hesitation. âPeople tend to overestimate their ability to interpret romantic interest accurately. There have been studies done suggesting that men, in particular, are more prone to misreading friendliness as flirting, but the inverse happens too. Some people under-detect attraction because theyâre trying to avoid making wrong assumptions.â
There was something softer in his voice. He was looking at you. Not with the sharp focus that he used on suspects. This look was quieter. Like he was trying to understand something he didnât want to scare away. You chewed on your lip and turned back to your computer. The almost-confession sat between you like a live wire. One more honest word and the whole balance that your friendship sat on could come crashing down around both of you.
I like you, Spencer.
Your friendship with Spencer wasnât theoretical. You already had it. What if confessing made every plane ride awkward? What if movie nights suddenly stopped? What if you couldnât look across the bullpen and smile when you caught his eye? The possibility of something more with him wasnât guaranteed. But the possibility of losing what you already had was a risk you simply werenât ready to take.
âAnyway,â you said, too brightly. âForget I asked.â
âI donât think I can do that.â Your stomach did a little flip, and Spencer seemed to realize how it sounded a second after he said it. His ears went pink, and he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. âI mean, I have an eidetic memory, so technicallyââ
You laughed before you could stop yourself. It came out breathless. Relieved. A little too fond. Spencerâs mouth curved in response. And there it was. That smile. That small, private, devastatingly Spencer smile. The tension between you eased into something more bearable. Almost manageable, even. He looked down at his desk, shuffling around the papers he wasnât reading. âYou know, if this hypothetical person is making you feel uncertain, you could always just ask them directly.â
You nearly choked. âCould I?â
âIt would be the most efficient way to resolve the ambiguity.â
âRight.â You nodded, swallowing down all the words you wanted to say. âEfficient.â
âAlthough,â he mused aloud, âefficiency isnât always emotionally comfortable.â That surprised you. You looked at him again. For a moment, he seemed younger than he already was. Not naive. Just uncertain in a way he rarely allowed himself to be around anyone. His thumb brushed against the side of his index finger, a small self-soothing gesture you only noticed because you noticed too much about him.
âNo,â you agreed. âIt isnât.â Another pause hung between you. Somewhere deeper in the building, an elevator chimed faintly, but no one came into the bullpen. No one interrupted. No one saved either of you from the conversation you were both pretending not to have.
Friday afternoons at Quantico always felt different when there wasnât a case taking you across the country. There was something almost strange about witnessing the building slowly empty as agents filtered towards the elevators. So often, you only ever got to experience the bustling activity of a regular work day or the quiet of coming into the office in the wee hours of the night after touching down post-case.
You shouldâve left twenty minutes ago. Your reports were finished, youâd organized your desk twice, and your car was sitting in the parking lot just waiting for you. Hell, you could probably even catch the latest episode of whatever show one of your friends was raving about. And yet, here you were, standing beside Spencerâs desk while he carefully slid a file back into its proper place.
âYou know,â you said, âyou donât have to finish that tonight.â You gestured to the file in his hands. Spencer looked up, warm brown eyes finding yours.
âI know.â His fingers lingered on the file. âI just want to finish organizing these before Monday.â
âHavenât you organized them like four times already?â
âThose were different files.â
âAh.â You nodded solemnly. âCompletely different.â Spencer shook his head, the faintest smile tugging at the edges of his lips. The thing that kept ruining your life. You shouldâve been immune to it by now. You werenât.
âAre you leaving?â he asked.
âEventually.â Your answer earned you a look. âWhat?â
âYouâve been standing there for ten minutes.â
âMaybe I enjoy judging your filing system.â
Spencer laughed. The sound was soft. Almost private. âYouâre terrible.â But there was no bite behind his words.
âOnly when it comes to you.â
Minutes later, the two of you were finally heading to the elevators. The ride down was quiet. Comfortable. The kind of silence that had developed naturally over months of shared cases, shared flights, and far too many late nights together. By the time you stepped outside, the sun hung low on the horizon. The air was beginning to cool. The perfect weather for an evening walk.
âSo, got any plans for this weekend? Besides our weekly movie night?â you asked, falling in step beside Spencer as the two of you began the familiar route to the train station. Spencer adjusted the strap of his messenger bag, his gaze fixed somewhere ahead of you both.
âNothing particularly exciting. I was planning to finish a book Iâve been working through.â
âThe one on forensic linguistics?â
âYou remembered?â
âOf course I remembered,â you said, bumping him with your shoulder. âYouâve been talking about it this whole week.â
Spencer ducked his head, a smile playing at his lips. âI didnât realize.â
The two of you passed the coffee shop you always stopped at. The one that always got Spencerâs order right. Spencer stopped to peer into the window of the bookstore he always liked to stop at because they usually had first editions of books. You offered to go in with him, and he declined your offer every time. None of this shouldâve felt significant anymore. The coffee shop. The bookstore. The walk to the station. They had all become part of your routine months ago. They were small, ordinary things.
Except that you thought about them constantly.
For months, you had collected scraps of ordinary things. Tiny pieces of evidence that maybe he liked you back. Tiny fragments of hope. And for months, none of them had amounted to anything. You were tired. Tired of carrying this thing around inside your chest. Tired of pretending that walking him to the station every Friday wasnât your favorite part of the week. You were tired weeks ago. Now, you were exhausted.
And the worst part of it was that you couldnât even bring yourself to stop. Because every time you thought you were finally getting over it, heâd smile at you. Or remember some insignificant detail youâd mentioned weeks ago. Or call you first when he found an interesting article. And you always ended up right back where youâd started.
âIâve noticed something,â Spencer said abruptly as the two of you stopped at an intersection. âYou do this every Friday when we donât have a case.â
âDo what?â
âYou walk me to the train station.â You kept your eyes on the sidewalk across the street, unwilling to let yourself hope that maybe heâd finally picked up on your feelings. Spencer turned to face you, and you could see the way the sunlight caught the edge of his jaw in your peripheral vision.
âWell someone has to make sure you actually make it home. Canât have you sleeping in the office over the weekend. The cleaners might mistake you for a stack of files,â you said, keeping your voice light. The crosswalk signal blinked white, and you stepped forward. Spencer didnât move.
âYour carâs in the opposite direction,â he pointed out, falling in step behind you again. âYou walk fifteen minutes out of your way every Friday.â
âMaybe I just enjoy a nice Friday evening walk,â you countered, hoping that the deflection would land. Spencer fell silent beside you, and for a moment, you were sure youâd gotten away with it. The two of you crossed the street, and you let yourself believe that heâd let it go like he always did. That heâd simply file the observation away in that impossibly organized mind of his and move on. He didnât.
âYour apartment is in the opposite direction,â Spencer said again. âYou walk me to the station and then turn around and walk back to your car. Thatâs thirty minutes of extra walking every Friday.â
The train station came into view, its familiar brick facade catching the last golden rays of sunlight. You shoved your hands into your jacket pockets and turned to look at Spencer. The evening light caught in his hair, turning the edges of it gold, and something about the way he was looking at you made your stomach drop. You didnât have an excuse for him. You didnât have the energy anymore to try to think of one.
âYou know, Spence, for someone whoâs supposed to be good at noticing patterns,â you began before your exhausted brain could stop you, âyou miss some really obvious things.â
His brow furrowed instantly. âWhat does that mean?â
Your heart stuttered then stopped as you realized what you had said, and you wished you could take it back. Abort mission. You laughed. Too quickly. Too loudly. Too forced.
âHave a good weekend, Spence.â You started backing away, plastering a too-nervous smile on your face.
âThatâs not an answer. You canât just say something like that and leave.â
âWatch me.â
Spencer stared at you, jaw going slack as you laughed again and turned to walk back the way you had just come. He blinked, feeling like heâd just been blind sided by something as subtle as a bullet. As you disappeared among the crowd, he readjusted his bag again and began his descent to the station.
People moved around him. Commuters, tourists, the usual Friday evening crowd. But even as he navigated through them towards the station, he didnât notice any of them. You miss some really obvious things. The comment sat at the forefront of his mind. Something about it bothered him. Not because it was insulting. Because it was specific. Patterns and obvious things. Something he had missed.
Spencer frowned. The train hadnât arrived yet. Which was good. Because now, he was thinking. And unfortunately, thinking was how Spencer got himself into trouble. What obvious thing? The question settled into his brain. Made a little nest. Refused to leave. You seemed amused when you said it. But also⊠something else. Something that he couldnât quite place.
A memory surfaced. The diner several weeks ago. The way you stared into your coffee after the waitress asked if you were together. The sudden quietness. The hurt heâd read in your body language. No⊠not hurt. Disappointment? Why would you be disappointed? Unlessâ
His stomach dropped.
The coffee. Every morning. You had remembered his order after hearing it once.
The tie. Your hands against his collar. You look good.
Movie nights. The fact that you had never cancelled. Not once.
The hypothetical. Spencerâs breath caught in his throat. The hypothetical.
âIf someone liked you, would you know?â
âOh my god.âÂ
The words escaped before he could stop them. Several people glanced at him, but Spencer didnât notice. Because every memory was rearranging itself in his head. Like puzzle pieces falling into place next to each other. The realization crashed over him. Youâd been trying to tell him. And he had answered you with statistics and facts. Spencer covered his face with one hand. You had been handing him answers, and he had somehow missed every single one.
A second realization hit him before he could fully recover from the first. Why did the thought make him so happy? Spencer lowered his hand. Because the answer was painfully obvious. He liked your smile. He looked for you when he entered a room. His favorite evenings somehow always involved you. His apartment felt quieter after you left. His first instinct when something interesting happened was to tell you.
The train pulled into the station, doors opening with a mechanical hiss. Spencer watched as people boarded it, but his feet were rooted to the spot. The train doors chimed their final warning before departure. Spencer turned around, the doors sliding shut behind him. But he was already halfway up the stairs before the train started moving.
The evening air hit him immediately, cool and sharp. He broke into a jog. Then a run. His messenger bag bounced against his hip, books and files shifting with every stride. Several pedestrians turned to stare as he passed, but he couldnât be bothered to care. His lungs burned in a way that was entirely unfamiliar as he retraced the path you both had just walked minutes ago. He wasnât a runner. He had never been particularly athletic, but his legs carried him forward with a determination he couldnât explain.
His mind raced faster than his feet, cataloguing every moment between you that was suddenly so obvious. When he finally made it to the parking lot he knew you always parked in, he was breathing harder than heâd ever admit to. His chest heaved, and he pressed a hand to his chest as he scanned the rows of cars, searching for yours. The lot was nearly empty at this hour, and for one terrible moment, he thought he had missed you.
Then he spotted your car. And you. You were standing beside the driverâs side door with your keys in hand. Spencer started towards you before he could talk himself out of it. Before he could overthink it. You looked up at the sound of approaching footsteps. Surprise crossed your features before settling into confusion.
âSpencer?â
He slowed to a stop just a few footsteps away. You stared at him. He stared back at you. And he realized that, despite sprinting out of a train station to chase you down, Spencer hadnât actually planned what he was going to say. âDid you miss your train?â
âYes.â
You didnât look convinced. Spencer couldnât blame you. He was still catching his breath, his chest rising and falling in uneven bursts. Strands of his hair had fallen across his forehead. Your expression shifted from confusion to concern then from concern to something softer.
âSpencer.â The way you said his name nearly undid him. âWhy are you here?â
âI figured it out.â
The words settled between you, and for one long moment, neither of you moved. Then,
ââŠwhat did you figure out?â
Spencer let out a single, helpless breath of a laugh. Everything. He had figured out everything. The coffee. The tie. The movie nights. The hypothetical. The station walks. Months and months of things heâd managed to completely miss because the idea that they couldâve meant anything more than just friendship had never occurred to him.
âYouâve been flirting with me.â
Your eyes went wide, and Spencer didnât have to be a profiler to know. He had never seen anyone look more guilty than you.
âOh.â You looked away. Towards the parking lot. Towards the sun setting over the horizon. Towards anywhere but him. Spencer took a single step closer. âIâm sorry,â you said, and Spencer was taken aback. That wasnât what he had expected you to say. âIâm sorry. I didnâtâ I wasnât trying to make you uncomfortable. I justââ Your voice cracked. Spencer thought his heart mightâve done the same. Why were you apologizing? He was the one who shouldâve been sorry. You were the one who had tried. He was the one who had missed it. âSpencer, Iââ
âCan I kiss you?â
For a second, Spencer wasnât entirely sure that he had actually said the words out loud, but judging by the look on your face, he had. You opened your mouth to say something. Then closed it. Then opened it again.
âSpencerââ
âI know itâs abrupt.â That was the understatement of the century. His heart was beating so hard that he could feel it in his throat. âI know itâs not exactlyâ I didnât plan any of this, and Iâm probably doing this wrong. But I ran out of the train station because the thought of going home without telling you was somehow worse than the thought of you thinking that I was rejecting you and thatâsââ
You kissed him.
Or maybe he kissed you.
The distinction blurred into irrelevance the moment your lips touched his. Your lips were warm and soft, and they chased every thought from his mind. His hands hovered uncertainly at your sides before they finally settled on your waist. Your fingers found the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer as the world narrowed to this moment. The kiss was slow and uncertain but devastating all the same.
When you finally pulled apart, neither of you moved very far. His eyes found yours. A smile played on his lips. He was somehow more breathless than heâd been a moment ago.
âWow.â The word slipped out before Spencer could stop it. You laughed immediately.
âThatâs all youâve got to say, genius?â
âIn my defense, I had a much better sentence prepared.â
âDid you really?â
âNo.â
You laughed harder, the sound echoing across the nearly empty parking lot. And Spencer found himself laughing with you. Because somehow, after months of missed signals and crossed wires, youâd both ended up exactly where you were supposed to be.
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I LOVE SPENCER and its been a very long time since ive read something about him, but this masterpiece just revived my spencer obsession UGHHHJHK it fabulous
Itâs so fascinating to me how much crossover there is! Lots of folks that I see that write for Spn also write for Criminal Minds, specifically Spencer. Likewise, thatâs how I ended up finding Spencer stuff is because lots of people I follow have recently liked stuff for him lol funny how that works! đđđ
