GET. AI. OUT. OF. FANDOM. Stop making headcanons with it, stop making fanfic with it, stop making fanart with it. If I see one more "asking chatgpt *blank* about *character/characters in a fandom* I'm going to lose my goddamn mind. Use your own fucking brain, stop asking AI to do everything. You could even ask other real people what they think. Just. Stop. Using. AI. In. Creative. Spaces.
summary: you didn’t plan on staying late at the bar, hustling reid at darts, or flirting with him after trivia. you definitely didn’t plan on the coffee waiting on your desk the next morning, either.
genre: fluff (and a teeny bit of angst bc it’s greenaway!reader after all but yeah mostly fluff)
tags/warnings: reader is elle's sister, BAU team takes bar trivia night, mild flirting (FINALLY), reader ruffles spencer’s hair and pokes his chest asdfghjklbaqsgfj, drunk garcia, morgan being a little shit, alcohol consumption, mentions of spencer’s past dilaudid use + tobias hankel kidnapping, hangovers, coffee as a love language, no use of y/n
a/n: inspired by this anon request | things are HAPPENING you guys. I tried to weave more of elle’s spunkiness into reader’s character this fic to show how she’s still sharp and sassy even when she’s letting her walls down and oooh I love her so bad. | GIF credit to @reidgif !
greenaway!reader masterlist 🥀
It starts with the unmistakable sound of heels.
Which would be unremarkable, except for the fact that they’re clicking with purpose — and the only person you know who makes that kind of entrance is Penelope Garcia, glitter incarnate. You don’t even look up from the incident report you’re writing.
“Absolutely not,” you say flatly before she even opens her mouth.
“Oh come on,” she whines, dragging out the syllables like it might wear you down. “I haven’t even asked yet!”
“You don’t have to. It’s Thursday. You’ve been talking about going out as a team all week. You’re wearing earrings so sparkly I was almost blinded by them earlier. I know what this is.”
Garcia gasps. “You noticed!”
You look up just in time to see her drop a too-colorful flyer on your desk like it’s a court summons. JJ and Emily are hovering just behind her, clearly serving as her accomplices.
You squint down at the flyer.
TRIVIA NIGHT – NYC History & 1990s Music Themed!
O’Keefe’s Bar | 8PM | Buy Two, Get One Free Tequila Shots!
You let out a quiet snort. “No way.”
“Pleeeeease,” Garcia begs, clasping her hands under her chin. “We need you. You’re from New York, and your playlists are full of 90s bands, and plus, it’ll be fun! Everyone’s going. Even Rossi and Hotch promised to make an appearance.”
You narrow your eyes. “I don’t hang out with coworkers outside of work.”
“That’s okay,” Garcia chirps. “You don’t have to act like we’re your BFFs, you just have to contribute your grungy brilliance. We need a ringer.”
“I’m not a ringer,” you say. “I’m a federal agent. And I have plans tonight.”
“Doing what? Staring at your ceiling alone and judging the drywall?” Emily asks. “Conducting a séance in the dark?”
“Yes,” you deadpan.
Before they can mount a second attack, Morgan strolls by with a file under one arm. He gives you a knowing smirk. “Come on, rookie. You afraid we’ll actually be fun?”
“I’m afraid of being forced into karaoke,” you shoot back.
“I’m afraid of your refusal to embrace joy,” Garcia pouts.
That’s when Hotch passes behind them all, not even slowing as he says, “It’s not optional, Greenaway.”
You stare at his retreating back. “Is that a direct order?”
He lifts a hand without turning around. “Interpret it how you want.”
You look over to the far side of the bullpen, where Spencer’s watching the chaos with that vaguely bemused expression he wears like a second skin. He hasn’t said anything to add onto the attack, but he hasn’t come to your defense, either. Traitor.
You exhale like this physically pains you. “Fine. I’ll stay for one drink. One trivia round. I’m not singing karaoke, I’m not taking shots, and I’m not playing any drinking games.”
Morgan grins. “Good enough for me, sugar.”
You flip him off without looking up. Garcia squeals in delight and Emily mentions pre-gaming with Rossi’s office liquor. JJ mutters something about needing to hydrate.
You rub your temples.
—
O’Keefe’s is louder than you’d like. It’s one of those dive bars with Christmas lights pretending to be ambiance and the faint smell of fryer oil clinging to every surface. Someone’s playing Mariah Carey on the jukebox. Someone else is yelling about baseball stats near the dartboards.
You already regret everything.
The team pours in like they own the place. Morgan leads the charge, claiming a long table near the trivia setup. Garcia’s practically vibrating in her retro-print dress, pointing out the score sheets and little buzzers. Emily heads straight for the bar with a mission: tequila. You linger behind them all, half-tempted to fake an urgent phone call and disappear.
Spencer hangs back, too. Not near enough to make it obvious, but close enough that you feel his presence.
He watches as you survey the place with your arms crossed and your expression unreadable. Your boots stick slightly on the laminate tiles near the entrance and you mutter something under your breath about the existential nightmare of sticky floors. He smiles at that.
“You okay?” he asks, gently.
You shrug, still scanning. “Just trying to map out the fastest route to every available exit.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “I think there’s another through the kitchen, though I’m pretty sure using it would be a health code violation.”
“I’m willing to take that risk if needed.”
When you approach the bar, the rest of the team is already ordering — beers and shots and colorful sugary things that make you want to vomit on sight.
“Double rye. Neat.”
Garcia stares as the bartender slides the whiskey in front of you. “You really do hate joy.”
You ignore her. She orders something blue and glittery. Spencer, beside you, clears his throat. “Ginger ale, please.”
You raise an eyebrow. “That your typical bar night go-to?”
He doesn’t flinch, but he doesn’t quite meet your eyes, either. “I don’t, uh, really drink much anymore.”
Something about the anymore pricks at you. You tuck it away for later. He notices.
“It’s… kind of a long story,” he says, and it almost sounds like an offering. Like an I’ll tell you later.
You nod once. “Noted.”
The drinks arrive and you make your way to the table. JJ’s waving you over, pointing to a plastic clipboard where the team name still reads TBD.
“Suggestions?” she asks, tapping the end of the pen.
“Don’t say Penelope’s Angels,” you mutter. “Garcia’s already pitched it three times.”
Garcia pouts. “It’s cute!”
Morgan suggests cheekily, “The Derek Morgan Fan Club.”
Emily throws a pretzel at him.
You lean forward, glance at Spencer. “Any ideas, Doc?”
He blinks, then shrugs. Then, out of nowhere, says, “E Pluribus Nerdum.”
Everyone turns.
“What?” Emily says, one brow raised.
Spencer blinks, the picture of sincerity. “It’s a pun. On E Pluribus Unum — ‘out of many, one.’ It’s the motto on the Great Seal of the United States, adopted by congress in 1782. Only—this is, you know, “Out of many nerds… us.””
Morgan shakes his head. “You’re such a weirdo, man.”
“But it’s better than your idea,” Emily teases. “I like it. Let the nerds have it.”
You snort into your drink. JJ scribbles it down as the too-perky trivia host starts calling for teams to check in.
The first category is New York City history, and you groan as JJ passes you the clipboard. The questions come fast: Who was the mayor of New York during the 2003 blackout? What was Times Square originally called? What band headlined the first concert in Central Park?
You answer two in a row without hesitation. Spencer looks impressed. Morgan hoots. Garcia says you’re officially forgiven for skipping happy hour two weeks ago.
Later, between rounds, Spencer leans a little closer.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he says, “but you’re a little scary when you’re having fun.”
You glance sideways. “You think this is me having fun?”
His mouth quirks. “Admit it, you are. And it’s terrifying.”
You pop a fry in your mouth. “It should be.”
But the thing is — you kind of are having fun, in your own, quietly hostile way. And Spencer, you realize, has barely taken his eyes off you all night.
You tell yourself it’s just because you’re a curiosity. Elle’s sister. The new girl who doesn’t smile much. The profiler who isn’t a genius yet still answered half the trivia questions before he could. Nothing more. But the way he’s looking at you — like he sees through all your armor — is starting to get under your skin.
A question about NYC subway planning comes up and Spencer answers it so fast you swear he must’ve been alive in 1904. When Garcia gapes, he shrugs. “I wrote a paper on metropolitan infrastructure patterns when I was eleven.”
You stare at him, baffled and slightly charmed and a little disarmed. “Of course you did.”
He shrugs again. But this time, there’s the ghost of a grin.
—
A few hours pass in a blur of secondhand smoke, ambient jukebox static, and rounds of questions you mostly pretend not to care about.
You order your second drink — a dirty gin martini this time, extra extra dirty — and watch as JJ giggles at something Emily said, Garcia arm-wrestles Morgan with frightening sincerity, and Rossi chats with a table of older gentlemen about cigars. Hotch left about an hour ago after muttering something about needing to get home to Jack.
It’s chaos. Friendly, stupid chaos. And somehow, you’re still here, not totally hating it.
“You want to get some air?” Spencer asks, voice low, like he’s afraid of interrupting the way you’ve been staring at the door for the past three and a half minutes.
You glance at him and nod. “Lead the way.”
The patio’s half-abandoned, just two guys smoking at the far end. Spencer leans against the wooden railing, ginger ale in hand, and you realize his hair looks different tonight — combed through, as if he attempted to style it in the Quantico bathroom after the night’s plans were made, but still sticking out messily in the back. The sleeves of his shirt are crookedly rolled and pushed up to his elbows. It’s like he tries so hard to look put-together but has to fight against the gravitational pull of the universe in order to make it halfway there. You tell yourself it’s not completely charming.
“I don’t usually stay this long,” you say after a beat. “At things like this.”
“I know.”
You turn your head. “You do?”
He shrugs. “You’ve kind of made it clear you aren’t into this sort of thing.”
You narrow your eyes, and he smiles into his glass.
“I’m not going to tell you that you need to try harder, you know,” he says.
That catches you off guard.
“I just mean, you don’t need to be more than who you are. If this is all you can give us, then it’s more than enough. You don’t have to try to be someone you’re not to fit in with this team. You already do.”
You scoff softly. “How very optimistic of you.”
He glances over. “It’s not optimism. Everyone wanted you here, and you’re here. You stayed. You didn’t fake a phone call and disappear out the kitchen door like you clearly considered when the night began. You’re even letting yourself have a little fun.”
You blink. “That’s quite the assumption.”
Spencer shrugs again, a shy grin curling at his lips. “I read somewhere once about this thing called “profiling.” Apparently it can be pretty accurate,” he jokes.
The corner of your mouth twitches.
“You ever think maybe I’m just waiting to find the right moment to make a break for it?”
He tips his glass at you. “I think if you were, you’d have found it already.”
You pause, watching him. Then, before you can talk yourself out of it, you reach out and gently ruffle the back of his hair where it sticks out unevenly. “Your grooming habits are a war crime, Reid.”
He startles. Actually startles, like you’d tased him.
“I—what?”
You smirk. “You missed a spot back there, Doctor.”
Spencer is frozen. You watch him try to recalibrate, blinking like a machine that just got fed the wrong code.
Because you don’t usually touch people. And he knows that. You know it, too. And the realization hits a beat too late.
Shit. What was that?
You pull your hand back like it burned you and take a step to the side, putting space between you again, pulling the drawbridge back up.
“It was bothering me,” you say flatly, walking it back. “So I fixed it. Don’t overthink it.”
“I… wasn’t going to,” he lies, and his voice is softer now. Almost confused.
A long silence falls between you.
Then, maybe to fill it, he says, “You asked me earlier about the ginger ale.”
“I did. But you don’t have to tell me,” you reply sincerely.
“I don’t mind.” He shifts slightly, the toe of his shoe dragging across the concrete. “I used to drink socially, but after last year, I mostly stopped.”
You glance over. He’s not fidgeting. Not avoiding your eyes.
“Yeah?” you ask, soft but not tentative.
He nods. “I got kidnapped during a case in Georgia. The unsub had dissociative identity disorder, and part of the kidnapping involved injecting me with a drug — Dilaudid.” He says it plainly, like he’s reciting a report, not his own history. “I was only gone a few days, but afterwards, it was… hard to stop. It’s been over a year now, and I’m clean, but I try to avoid anything that might make it easier to slip. Alcohol included.”
There’s a beat — not awkward, just still. You nod.
“I’ll still let myself have a drink once in a while,” he adds, almost as an afterthought. “But tonight didn’t feel like an occasion that warranted it.”
You look at him again, and something in your chest does that strange, stupid twist you’ve learned not to name. Because he didn’t have to tell you any of that. And he didn’t tell it like a performance, or a bid for sympathy. Just… like it mattered to him that you knew. It’s not lost on you that he told you even though you wouldn’t have asked about it again, or that it’s clear he doesn’t offer up this information to just anyone.
You clear your throat. “I’m really sorry that happened to you, Spencer.”
Spencer. The sound of your own voice echoes in your ears. Have you ever even used his first name before now?
Your unexpected softness seems to jar him, but before he can respond, Emily opens the door to the patio from inside and yells something about ordering loaded tater tots. You both wave her off.
Spencer shifts, then glances at you again.
“I don’t dance,” he says abruptly.
You look up at him quizzically. “O…kay? Thanks for the announcement?”
He chuckles. “I’m just putting that out there before Garcia inevitably tries to drag us inside for a conga line or impromptu salsa lesson. I caught a glimpse of her trying to make something like that happen inside before Emily closed the door.”
You smirk. “Well, I’m not going to dance either, so, strength in numbers.”
“Not unless the prom ends in arson. Or gallons of pig’s blood dropping from the ceiling.”
That makes him laugh.
You finish your martini and lean a hip against the railing beside him. “So you never dance?”
“Never,” he says with a shake of the head.
You reach out and poke him lightly in the chest with two fingers. “Come on, Reid. You’re telling me no one’s ever dragged you out to the floor for one song?”
He stares at the spot you touched like it was seared into him and blinks a few times before remembering he still needs to answer you.
“No one… who lived to tell the tale,” he mumbles with a quiet grin. Another joke, just for you. You laugh a little too hard before you catch yourself and step back again.
You glance through the window, using it like a mirror to steady yourself. Inside, the team is still going strong. Morgan’s doing impressions. JJ’s trying to win a dare against two losers at the pool tables. Emily’s grabbing another round of shots. Garcia’s dancing on a chair and sipping something bright pink with a paper umbrella hanging off the side.
“We should probably go save Garcia before she sprains something.”
Spencer nods, still blinking like he hasn’t recovered. “Only if you agree not to poke me again.”
You consider for a moment before murmuring, “No promises.”
You duck your head and lead the way inside.
And behind you, Spencer follows — slow, stunned, and still glancing down at the hand you’d touched him with.
—
Back inside, the lights seem a little warmer, the room a little blurrier at the edges. You’re not drunk, not exactly. But the martini fuzzed out some of the static in your head, and now the whiskey in your hand — your final drink, you’ve decided — hums a low current under your skin. You stretch your spine, blink twice, and feel something that almost resembles comfort.
Garcia intercepts you with a plastic tiara and a plea to sing backup on “Like a Virgin.” You stare her down in silence for a full five seconds until she shrugs in defeat and says, “Your loss, babe,” then grabs JJ instead and twirls her toward the mic. Morgan’s trying to scam a free drink from the female bartender using nothing but charm and biceps. Emily is now crushing one of the pool guys in a game of beer pong. Rossi has vanished entirely.
You slide back into your seat and sip the whiskey slowly. Spencer’s beside you again. He nods at your glass. “Second or third?”
“Third. And final,” you say. “Probably.”
He smiles, then observes as you dip a hand into your black leather purse and grab a tube of lipstick, flicking the lid off with practiced ease. You swipe the dark red across your bottom lip, then the top, then smack them together. Your hands are steady. You’ve always been good at precision under pressure.
Spencer watches the whole thing like it’s a card trick.
“That was… impressive,” he says quietly.
You glance at him sideways. “What, my lipstick application?”
“Doing it without a mirror,” he clarifies. “That can’t be something most people are successful at.”
You hum. “I’m not most people.”
“No,” he says quietly. “You’re really not.”
It’s not the words themselves, but the way he says them — like they’re some truth he’s just now understanding. You look away, steadying your glass against your lip before you speak again.
“That sounded dangerously like flirting,” you say, flicking your gaze back to him.
He startles, blinking. “Did it?”
You shrug. “Don’t worry. I’m not gonna report you to HR.”
His laugh is soft and awkward, and the tips of his ears go pink. You wonder how many women have ever flustered him like this, wonder what it would feel like to do it on purpose.
You won’t. But you could.
Because the thing is, he sees you. Not just the scowl and the eyeliner and the strategic disinterest — but the rest. The quieter ache you feel beneath it all. And worse, he doesn’t seem scared off by any of it.
Spencer points toward the dartboards hanging on the wall towards the back of the bar. “You any good?”
“At darts?” you reply, eyes sharp, already getting up and making your way towards the boards. “Are you seriously asking me that? Me, sharp objects, and schooling drunk men in bars?” He blinks at you blankly. “Of course I'm good at darts, Reid.”
The battered wood frame is splintered in one corner, one sad dart dangling by the tip. You pull it loose and twirl it once between your fingers.
“Used to hustle college guys,” you say casually. “They always assumed the girl in fishnets couldn’t aim.”
“Did you… wear fishnets to bars specifically to fluster and hustle men?” Spencer asks, half-scandalized, half-impressed.
You throw the dart — bullseye. “What do you think?”
He laughs again, boyish and quiet and a little breathless, then carefully tosses one of his own. It surprisingly lands just left of center.
You raise a brow. “So you’re pretty good, too.”
“It’s mostly just physics,” he says with a shrug.
You roll your eyes with a quiet laugh and take another sip of your drink. The whiskey burns a little now — a reminder to slow down. You’re dangerously close to enjoying yourself, and that’s always when you make the worst mistakes.
You don’t talk for a while. Just throw. Sip. Throw again, before you and Spencer dive back into conversation about nothing and everything at the same time. The bar’s gone quieter now, the buzz of trivia long since faded into background music and clinking glasses. You throw again, then lean against the wall.
You glance past him, back toward the table — now deserted except for Garcia’s tiara and a few empty glasses. The rest of the team is gone, and you didn’t even notice them leave. You glance up at the clock and realize it’s after 1am.
“Guess we closed the place down,” you murmur.
Spencer nods. “Guess so.”
You exhale slowly, feeling the weight of the night settle in your chest. The comfort of it. The danger of it.
Spencer shifts. “This, um… this was nice.”
You glance at him. “You mean the darts, or the part where I threatened to stab Morgan during trivia?”
He smiles faintly. “Both. All of it.”
You grab your jacket and tip your head toward the door. “Come on. Let’s go before Garcia shows back up with a second wind and tries to make us sing karaoke.”
Spencer nods but doesn’t move — just watches you with that weird, quiet intensity he has, like he’s trying to memorize something without being obvious about it.
And suddenly, you’re hyper-aware of the heat behind your knees. The weight of your hair. The way your pulse seems to catch when he looks at you too long. The fact your eyes just lingered on his perfectly pink bottom lip for half a second too long.
You clear your throat. “You’re kind of a strange guy, Reid.”
“You’re kind of a terrifying girl, Greenaway.”
That makes your mouth twitch into a lopsided smirk. But as you both head for the door, you feel it in your bones: a low, unspoken shift in gravity. Like something’s started, and you’re pretending not to notice. Like maybe he’s pretending, too.
The sidewalk outside is slick with a misting of rain, air thick with the smell of beer and city heat. You step up to the curb and wait for one of the cabs down the block to notice you. Spencer’s beside you, not saying anything. He doesn’t fidget, but he rocks slightly on his heels like he’s working something out in his head. Hands tucked in his pockets. Shoulders a little hunched.
“I’m fine, you know,” you say. “You don’t have to stand there doing your best impression of a security camera.”
That earns a small laugh. “I wasn’t.”
“You were. You’ve got that face.”
He squints. “What face?”
“The one that looks like you’re about to quote a peer-reviewed study on post-midnight cab safety for single women in urban areas.”
He huffs, ducking his head. “There is a study, actually."
“Of course there is.”
A cab pulls up with a low whir and a flash of headlights. You open the door but hesitate before climbing inside, one hand still on the frame.
“Night, Reid.”
You half expect him to fumble a goodbye, or spurt out some awkward fact about the history of taxis. But he just watches you go. You slide into the backseat, and for one strange, fleeting microsecond, you wonder what would’ve happened if you’d asked him to come with you.
The driver merges into the street, and you twist in your seat, just once, to glance back.
Spencer’s still there. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders hunched. Watching the cab pull away like he wasn’t quite ready for the night to end.
—
Your head doesn’t hurt, exactly — more like someone turned the contrast up on the entire world. The overhead lights are too sharp, the elevator ding too shrill, the bullpen voices too loud.
Okay fine, it does hurt. Still, you’ve had worse mornings.
You make it to your desk on time, which is more than you can say for most of the team. Once they do start to filter in, Garcia, clad in sunglasses indoors and clutching a jumbo-sized neon green Gatorade, perches herself dramatically on the arm of Prentiss’s chair, both of them visibly suffering.
You’re just starting to get your files open when you notice it: A to-go coffee cup, neatly placed on the corner of your desk. Not the usual break-room sludge you’ve grown accustomed to. No — this is from that little hipster café three blocks down, the one with indie playlists and criminally overpriced lattes. The logo’s inked in soft black on the side. Your name is scribbled in messy letters across the cardboard sleeve. Underneath it:
Bullseye. –S.R.
You stare at it for a second too long. The coffee’s still hot, and it’s just how you take it on your worst mornings — dark roast, black, with an added shot of espresso. Strong enough to punch you in the chest. You close your eyes on the first sip, and it’s exactly what you need to undo that third drink from last night.
“Well, well, well.”
You don’t have to look up to know where that’s coming from, or why. Morgan’s voice is all grin and zero mercy.
“Looks like someone had a very interesting night.”
You open one eye. “Careful, Morgan. I have a headache and at least one knife in my bag.”
He chuckles. “I’m just saying. Last I checked, you and Reid were still at the bar long after the rest of us called it.”
Garcia gasps from across the room. “You closed the bar down? Without me?!”
You arch a brow and sip your coffee. “We were playing darts in the back. No one told us the party was over.”
Morgan wiggles his eyebrows. “Darts, huh? Is that what we’re calling it now?”
You snort. “Jesus, Morgan. You’re worse than a high school rumor mill.”
He grins, watching you like he’s trying to catch a tell. “You’re not denying it. You two end up in the same cab home?” he asks with a wink.
You lean back in your chair and pause for a beat, queuing up your retort. “Oh please. If I’d gone home with him, I’d look a lot more exhausted than I do right now,” you say matter-of-factly.
Clearly, that’s not the type of euphemized denial anyone expected to hear. It gets a choked laugh out of Garcia and an impressed little “damn” from Emily.
Morgan smirks, then raises his hands in mock defeat and whistles. “Alright, alright. Point taken. Nothing happened. But if you’re talking like that, then pretty boy’s got more game than I expected.”
You return to your coffee and pretend not to notice how Spencer’s been listening from the far corner of the bullpen this entire time, head buried in a file until he lifts his eyes to meet yours. You don’t look away. Not immediately.
You tilt your coffee cup towards him in silent thanks, and he nods.
Something about the way he ducks his head — the way his fingers twitch faintly on the edge of his folder — tells you he’s thinking about last night, too. And about what you just said.
You let yourself imagine it for one second too long.
Bullseye.
If he wants to make another shot, you might just let him.
ᝰ.ᐟ
PSA: likes do very little for promoting posts on tumblr! if you'd like to support a fic, please reblog!
this fic is part of the greenaway!reader universe/series! you can find more fics like it & read more about this pairing here ♥️
katniss: everyone’s so focused on protecting peeta because they too know how pure hearted he is and believe that he—a boy they’ve never even met before—deserves to survive over them and their friends of literal decades
finnick, to literally everyone else: okay if peeta dies she’s gonna kill all of us and then herself, so hands in, protect bread boy on three-
I imagine young Dean loved riding shotgun, talking hunts and cars with his dad, feeling all grownup and whatnot. But some days he'd let Sammy have the front seat, would cramp himself into the back, listen to that Led Zeppelin album and watch nature go by :>
the hunger games (all books, and all movies) are, in its core, orpheus and eurydice's tale in different variations. the way the characters go through the hunger games (literally hell) for the sake of the people that they love, and even when they win its not enough to save anyone. because its the things that we love that destroys us, right? its the way that they are always looking back that condemn them.
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