BLACK TIE
Summary: It is the age old story of womanhood—looking through your closet and realizing you have nothing to wear for an upcoming wedding. You're not sure when Spencer Reid becomes the person to call during times of panic, but he agrees to accompany you to the boutique anyway. Contents: 3.3k words, FLUFF, fake relationship, prof!reader who wears glasses, no use of y/n, anxious prof!reader, very slight nonsexual nudity, SO much tension, descriptions of dresses, pic isn't entirely accurate just for vibes. A/N: ILY guys. Happens after I Don't Even Dare To Wish It. Gif by @reidgif . ➳ Save the Date masterlist
Between teaching, research, and consultations, there's not much time on your schedule left for shopping. Unfortunately, shopping is exactly what you have to do, as your best friend's wedding is creeping ever closer and the dresses in your closet are comically unfit for neither theme.
A Winter Ball.
It's so endearingly predictable. Of course Melissa—who loves snow, fantasy and fairy tales, and anything tipped with silver frost—would choose a winter ballroom wedding. The colors on the invitation say dress in the colors of the northern lights, accompanied with a palette that's admittedly very pretty. Some of these colors would be flattering on you. It's workable.
Unfortunately, the dress code is black tie. Which poses a problem.
You have black tie gowns in your closet, but they don't quite fit the whimsical winter theme. Plain black silk with modest necklines, falling straight to the floor. Just pretty enough to suggest effort, but never eye catching, never particularly beautiful. Dresses that say I made an effort while simultaneously insisting please don't perceive me.
Perfect for faculty dinners.
Terrible for pretending to be a glamorous guest at a winter fairytale wedding.
Thus, shopping.
Now for your next issue: finding someone who'll come with you last minute.
In-store shopping has always triggered a very specific kind of anxiety—the tongue-tied, chest constricting, panic sweating kind. It's irrational—you know that—but knowing it's irrational has never stopped your pulse from racing every time a sales associate asks, Can I help you?
Normally, you'd simply order online and save yourself the stress. But you don't want to risk the delayed shipping, or the inaccurate sizing. Additionally, in case the whole thing is a bust, online returns take way too long.
Besides, you have friends. Surely, you'll find one willing to accompany you, right?
Right.
Before you know it, you've dialed a number. It takes a full ring before you realize it's Spencer's.
Fuck. You stare at the screen, wondering when the hell did Spencer Reid become your go-to contact. Your thumb hovers over the end-call button, debating whether you should salvage your dignity and hang up now.
He answers before you can make the decision.
"Hey, what's going on?" he sounds soft.
Your mind flashes back to when he was here, in your apartment—in your bed—armed with takeout and reassurance and warm hugs while you cried over your dissertation.
He'd used the exact same tone then. Low enough to soothe over the frayed edges of your nerves. Does he use that voice with anyone else, or is it unique when he's talking to you?
Why do you care? You don't.
Why is that important? It's not.
You push your glasses up your nose and reply, "Hey. Um." Oh wow. Brilliant. You are so eloquent.
"Is something wrong?"
Is it too late to say you've accidentally butt dialed his number? Perhaps not. However, in that split second, you decide that the truth is less mortifying than a lie so lame as butt dialing, so you blurt it out.
"Nothing's wrong. Just wondering if you're busy."
"I'm free after lunch."
Fuck. Why couldn't he make your life easier by saying he's busy? Why didn't you just call Carrie in the first place? Why was Spencer's number the first thing you dialed?
"Would you..." You squeeze your eyes shut. "Would you maybe come shopping with me?"
No answer. You power through, against your better judgement, the words spilling in one suspended breath. "I… I need to find a dress for Melissa's wedding and I hate going shopping by myself."
There's a pause, which you use to alternate between praying the ground swallows you whole, and hoping he says yes.
"Are you sure you want me to come?" his voice more animated now, colored with confusion, "I'm not exactly knowledgeable on women's fashions."
"I don't really need you there for your expertise, just the moral support."
He doesn't answer again. An image of him comes so sharply to your mind—brows furrowed, nose crinkled, lips lightly curling like he's fighting back a smile—it makes your lips twitch before you catch the action and school them into a neutral straight line.
"It's fine if you don't want to," you begin to say, voice lightly strangled. "It's a weird request."
"No, no. I don't think it's weird at all."
You can imagine him shaking his head. Cheeks dimpled and curls gilded by light. You feel it would take too much energy to expel the thought from, so you allow it to linger. It roots like some sacred memory, and you find you don't mind it too much.
"I'm just curious why you need 'moral support' when you're shopping?"
You laugh, mostly at yourself. "It's… okay, those ladies doing sales freak me out. I feel like they're always sizing me up or something, it's a whole thing and it's dumb because I know it's literally their job to anticipate if I need help, but I just feel weird going there alone."
He hums through the phone, sounding thoughtful. You push your glasses up your nose, just for something to do.
"You know," Spencer says after a moment, "there's evidence that people significantly overestimate how much strangers notice them."
"You think I don't know that? I told you, I know this is dumb. You can say no."
"Okay."
"Okay I'm being dumb, or okay you're saying no?"
"Okay, I'll come with you," for the first time this whole conversation, he finally sounds amused.
And for the first time since he picked up, your chest doesn't feel like there's a pile of bricks sitting on top of it, impeding your breaths.
"Really?" you don't bother hiding the relief from your voice.
"Really. I can pick you up around 1:30."
Pick you up around 1:30 sounds awfully close to being picked up for a date. Your brain unhelpfully goes back to the dates of your youth, what few ones you've been on, arm and arm with a man and smiling in excitement. Traitorously, your brain also replaces the faces of the men in these memories into a tall, dimpled professor.
No. You shut the thought down quick.
This is normal friend behavior. Carrie uses the same terms, except Carrie is Carrie, not a very attractive older colleague who you're also pretending to date.
Whatever. You're getting worked up over nothing.
This is Spencer doing you a favour because he's an extraordinarily kind person helping out a friend.
You thank him, managing to sound remarkably normal considering your internal monologue has descended into complete chaos.
The boutique is just as you predicted. Too bright, too many sales associates welcoming you with too wide smiles. The air is saturated with cloying jasmine and vanilla, and soft, instrumental music hums just loud enough to hide the buzz of conversation.
""Welcome!" one of the ladies chirps the moment you and Spencer step inside. "Are you shopping for a special occasion?"
Your shoulders tense automatically.
"We're just going to look around," you answer, trying to match her enthusiasm without sounding as uncomfortable as you feel.
Her smile doesn't falter. "Of course! Let me know if I can start a fitting room for you."
"I will. Thank you." You don't move until she's turned away. Once she does, you make a beeline for the least crowded rack, shoulders still tense. Spencer follows beside you, and without a word, rests his hand between your shoulder blades. You feel the warmth of it through your coat, quietly, steadily melting some of the tension.
When you glance over your shoulder, you notice the sales associate watching the two of you from across the boutique.
Before you can overthink it, Spencer shifts. Instead of walking beside you, he moves behind by half a step. You're confused for just a moment until you realize that, with him standing at that angle, the sales associate completely disappeares from your view.
Quite literally shielding you with his body.
He doesn't say anything. Doesn't drop his hand either. Just follows you like a patient shadow, while you browse through rows upon rows of blues and greens. You feel you chest tightening for reasons unrelated to the perky sales ladies.
It's silent, surprisingly comfortable, until he breaks it with one of his usual tangents.
"You know," he says, lifting a hanger to inspect the fabric, "the distinction between black tie and white tie has become significantly less rigid over the last century. Certain movements have called out the elitism of these dress codes, as well as the ridiculous standards set upon each gender."
"I thought you said you know nothing about women's fashion?" you glance at him with a grin.
"I did a little research after you called."
"Are you aware that little usually means a lot?"
He shrugs with an easy smile. "I had a couple of hours to kill. Fashion, history, and capitalism go hand in hand."
You laugh, moving to the next rack while he regales you with more of his findings. Before you know it, you've forgotten about the other people in the boutique. Spencer Reid has successfully monopolized your attention, and though you can't believe you're saying this, you're glad he did. You're glad you asked him to come. You're glad he said yes.
Twenty minutes later, your arms are draped with dresses and you're surveying another one, when he breaks his current information dump with a question.
"Wouldn't you be cold in some of these?" Spencer looks at you with concern.
Indeed, most of the gowns are strapless, or made with thin material.
"The ceremony's indoors, everything will be heated." you reply. It had said so in the invitation.
"But getting there?"
"I can wear a coat over it on the way, don't worry."
He accepts your logic, keeps quiet as you go from one rack to the next. It lasts all of two minutes before he's asking something again.
"Am I expected to wear these colors too?" he asks, watching you peruse through shades of green.
You glance over, brows furrowing. "What?"
"Should I rent a new suit in these colors?" he says, gesturing at the array of gowns in your arms.
"I mean, men's formal wear is so much more straightforward, I think you can get away with a standard black coat and tie." you answer, checking a price tag on one dress and wincing lightly. Back on the rack it goes.
"I suppose that's true," he follows you to a different rack, hands deep in his pockets. Spencer's dressed the most casual you've ever seen him, in a black sweater without a button down collar peeking underneath, and a heavy black jacket to combat the cold. It's a good look on him, not that you'd ever admit it out loud.
"And I'm assuming you already have those already."
"I do, but wouldn't it be nice to match a little? If we're attending together, do men's accessories usually coordinate with the gown? I've never been someone's wedding date before."
You whirl to face him.
He smiles. "If we're going as a couple, don't you think that'll more convincing?"
You blink, mouth agape.
"No one would consciously notice," he continues, like this is something he's thought about for a while, "but coordinated colours tend to reinforce the perception that two people arrived together," he tilts his head, "it increases credibility."
"I suppose that's true." you say finally.
"It'll also narrow down my options."
"Your options?" your brows are probably at your hairline now.
"For which tie to wear. I wouldn't want to clash with you."
"Right."
"So, if you think about it, it's actually a good thing I came. I'll know exactly what color you'll pick, and I can match you accordingly."
"You realize it'll be unbelievably corny?" you joke, because how else are you supposed to react to Spencer Reid offering to color coordinate with you for a stupid fake relationship?
"I daresay most people would encourage being corny at a wedding." Spencer replies, grinning wide and proud.
"That's fair," you nod, "Yeah that's—oh god, I hate that this makes sense."
He laughs. "I'm just doing my job as your boyfriend."
There are three final contenders in the dressing room, all of them within your budget and fitting Melissa's curated winter color scheme.
The first dress is nice enough, a solid choice if you don't find anything better.
The second is gorgeous, a total steal for its price point, but the fabricis nearly translucent you can't even show it to Spencer without worrying about flashing him, so it's eliminated from the running.
Which leaves the third.
Save the best for last, so the saying goes, and this one is definitely it. It's cut in a timeless silhouette made of a heavier fabric than the other two, which makes it perfect for the cooling temperatures. Despite its weight, it is soft, draping delicately over your body, and flowing like liquid with every movement.
The neckline dips lower than anything you'd normally wear, while the back falls open a few inches above your hips, held together by slender ribbons threaded through loops and criss-crossing over across your back.
It's elegant. Daring. So unlike the plain, very classic dresses in your closet.
Which is probably why you like it so much.
Unfortunately, you can't quite get a whole picture of how it looks on you because you've unravelled the lacing while trying to put it on. One long ribbon is hopelessly tangled around your forearm, while the rest resemble the world's most expensive ball of string. You would be a cat's dream plaything right now.
"Fuck," you hiss. You're unsure how you fucked it up so badly, and you're terrified you'd accidentally tear open a seam if you keep twisting around. "Fuck!"
"You okay? You've been in there six minutes and forty-nine seconds, that's three minutes and thirty-one seconds longer than normal." Spencer calls out.
You stop struggling long enough to frown, even though he can't see you.
"Why are you timing me down to the seconds?" you huff.
"It's an old habit," he replies. "Need any help?"
No. Yes, but are you really prepared for that?
"I could call one of the ladies and—"
"No," you croak. You do not want one of them coming in, no matter how nice or accommodating they are, "I think you'd be… sufficient."
"If you're sure."
"I'm sure… I'm just, uh, a little tangled up."
"Ah." he knocks on your door, as if to indicate he's ready and willing.
"Don't peek or be a creep, Spencer, I swear to god."
"Of course not!"
The front of the dress is held up only by an arm tightly pressed to your chest. It's not so bad. He'll catch maybe a hint of side boob, but you can live with that. You crack the door open and peek out.
His owlish eyes greet you, concerned and unblinking. The rest of the hallway is clear.
"All right, here." You open the door wider, and turn around, letting him see the twisted mess of silk across your back. "The ribbons are supposed to go into the slots along the sides, see?"
Spencer's quiet. You feel his gaze like an insistent weight, and suddenly the room lacks oxygen.
"Spencer, do you see where they're supposed to go?" you repeat, your free arm twisting to run over the material, trying to feel for where the loops are located. "I think I missed a slot here, so it's always uneven when I tighten it."
"Yes, I see." his voice is low, hoarse, and lands in a space so unfamiliar you can't even name it. His exhale is a lick of heat across the back of your neck and shoulders, fingertips ghosting over your skin as he tugs at the silk ties, slowly separating them one by one.
"Okay."
"You really did tangle the entire thing, it's kind of impressive." he chuckles.
You can only sheepishly laugh in return, eyes fixed upon the ground, and arms crossed protectively over your chest. Anything to distract you from his proximity.
He's close enough that his scent surrounds you, the warm spices and slight musk of old books now welcome and customary.
"How'd you get so tangled up like this anyway?" he asks, pushing some of your hair back over your shoulder. The continued contact of his fingertips makes you suppress a shudder. He's going back and fixing the mistake from the top, and you're wishing the knot in your stomach is as easy to unravel as these ribbons.
"Beats me," you say, laughing weakly.
"They go kind of like shoelaces." he answers in that same hoarse voice.
You exhale. "Mhm, but those are easier to fix."
The ribbons drag across your back as he tugs, slow and steady. He repeats the same motion to the other side, quiet in his focus. Rough knuckles brush on your skin every now and then. Accidental. Probably unavoidable.
You think you're two seconds away from combusting.
The worst part is, you're not entirely sure why.
Because nothing about this is should be riling you up. He's lacing you in, for heaven's sake, not out. A friend helping a friend.
But every brush of his fingers on your skin, accidental or otherwise, lingers far longer than it should.
The frightening thing is, part of you wants to welcome it. Wants to become familiar with his touch, wants to lean in and relish it.
Spencer is quiet, guiding the ribbons through every loop with sure fingers, steadily getting lower. He fumbles with the loop by your waist. You can't help but jump.
"Did I hurt you?"
How could he possibly, moving this delicately?
"No, I'm good."
"Ticklish, then?" he asks, amused.
"I'm—yeah." Sure. Ticklish, let's go with that.
"My bad. I'll be more careful."
"It's fine, really. I'm not porcelain."
"I know, but I'd rather be."
You squeeze your eyes shut and bite the insides of your cheek. The dress settles to your form as he works, the bodice now properly hugging your torso, snug enough that you can lower your arm without fear of the top collapsing.
"Do you think it's too much?" you ask, relaxing now that you're more covered. A quick glance at the mirror confirms your initial assessment—this is the dress. Far more sensual than what you're used to
Now that it's fitted to you properly, it might be your favorite out of everything you've tried. Snug at the top, hugging your curves just enough. But the low, exposed back is a little out of your comfort zone.
"The dress?"
"Yes." You feel one harsh tug as he tightens the last row, and something in you clenches and burns.
"I don't know."
Unbidden, your stomach sinks. But then, he adds,
"This isn't my area of expertise, remember?"
You laugh, shaking your head. "You don't need to be an expert to give an opinion, Spencer."
"For a wedding? No, it's not too much. It fits the dress code, doesn't it?"
"It does. I really like it but I'm—I don't know, it's not something I normally wear."
Spencer's head lifts finally, looking over your shoulder. Your eyes meet in the mirror, equally apprehensive.
"I think it suits you." he says, "Different can be good, right?"
"Right." You exhale, relieved.
"Do you feel comfortable in it?"
You pause, considering. Are you willing to spend an entire evening in this dress without being worried about wardrobe malfunctions? You shift, turn to one side, eyeing your reflection in the mirror. Oddly enough, even though it reveals a lot more than what you're accustomed to, the dress feels very secure.
"Yeah. I do. It's a pretty thick fabric, too." You consider for a moment, before adding, "I like it.
"Then that's what matters," he smiles, watching you move around the dressing room, feeling out the dress. He adds, in a rushed tone, "For what it's worth, I think you look beautiful."
The words make you pause. Even the haphazard speed couldn't mask the earnestness in his voice. You manage a smile, murmur a thanks, because he might not know it yet—hell, you don't want to admit it yourself—but it's worth a lot.
Thank you deeply for reading, please reblog if you enjoyed!
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