🤨😧?? i cannot describe the girlish sound I made when I saw this scene. i had to do laps around my room to calm down i feel like i need shock treatment everytime i see him this is excruciating
summary: ever since he showed up at your apartment (and ever since that fever dream you’re pretending didn’t happen), you’ve avoided being alone with reid. unfortunately, hotch has another plan: assigning the two of you to an overnight stakeout.
genre: fluff, angst (sorta?)
tags/warnings: reader is elle's sister, one bed trope but make it one car trope, they’re like really bad at the actual surveillance part of this but we’re gonna ignore that, emotional vulnerability, romantic/physical tension, mutual pining, comparing hand sizes i repeat COMPARING HAND SIZES, sex dream briefly mentioned, nerdy rambling spencer, slow burn is def burning, coffee as a looove language, no use of y/n
a/n: inspired by this request from @oh-yourloveis-sunlight | deleted and rewrote this twice and i can’t stand staring at it any longer so I am releasing it into the world to stop myself from a third rewrite lol. i prooomise the slow burn will be worth it, don’t hate me for dragging it out a lil 🥺 hope you enjoy xo
greenaway!reader masterlist 🥀
You haven’t been avoiding Spencer.
Not really.
You still talk to him during briefings. Still glance at him across the conference room table when someone says something idiotic. Still tolerate his commentary on geographic profiles without rolling your eyes — most of the time.
So no. Not avoiding. You’re just… adjusting your behavior. Sitting two chairs away. Declining too-private elevator rides. Waiting until he’s vacated the kitchenette to grab your coffee.
Totally reasonable things.
And it definitely has nothing to do with the unsolicited fever dream your brain cooked up last week where he fucked you slow and deep and said things like he meant them, and then you woke up sweaty and humiliated and half-convinced your pillow smelled like him.
(It didn’t. You checked. Twice.)
Still. Ever since that dream — and ever since real-life, not-naked Spencer stood in your apartment doorway with soup and concern and those stupid, sweet eyes — something’s felt off-kilter. Like gravity’s shifted. Like you’re walking around at a slight tilt and pretending it’s just because your combat boots need to be resoled.
Which is why you’re now standing in front of the case board, arms crossed, staring at a grainy crime scene photo like it holds the answers to fixing whatever the hell has been wrong with you lately.
You sense him before you see him.
That’s another thing you hate — the way your body now reacts to Spencer’s presence. That subtle tension in your shoulders. That flick of awareness down your spine.
You don’t look up when he stops beside you, just shy of your bubble.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “Did you cross-reference the property tax records on the second address? The one the victim’s sister mentioned?”
You nod, still not meeting his eyes. “Already did. Landlord’s been using an LLC. Trail goes cold in Wyoming.”
“Shell company?”
“Looks like it.”
He hums — that soft, thoughtful noise he makes when he’s filing something away. You’ve grown used to it. You even like it, not that you’ll ever admit that out loud.
“Thanks,” he says after a beat.
You nod again. No eye contact. No acknowledgment of the way your palms feel weirdly warm or how the air between you feels too thick.
Out of the corner of your eye, you catch him hesitate, as if he might say something else.
But then Hotch steps into the room.
“Reid. Greenaway. You’re on overnight surveillance. Suspect’s apartment.”
You turn your head. Blink. “Both of us?”
Hotch nods in confirmation. “Try to keep each other awake.”
You stay still, eyes fixed on the board, pretending like your body didn’t just short-circuit at the idea of being trapped in a car with Reid on a stakeout until sunrise.
You hear him shift beside you, and you can feel the way he’s holding back now. It’s obvious — he wants to say something about your distance, and your weird avoidance, and how you’ve been acting like you’re allergic to his existence.
But he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t.
He just lingers there — not close enough to touch, but close enough to make your skin buzz — and then walks away.
You don’t watch him go.
But you do exhale a little too hard once he’s gone.
—
You’re thirty-seven minutes into the stakeout and no one’s said a word.
Which wouldn’t be weird — silence is comfortable for you — except this one is intentional. Thick. Like fog that hasn’t cleared. You can feel it sitting between you like an uninvited third person in the front seat.
You’re slouched low on the passenger side, arms crossed. Outside, the suburban street is dead quiet. A porch light flickering. One curtain twitching. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks.
Spencer shifts beside you. You hear the rustle of his coat, the faint creak of the faux-leather seat under his elbow. He hasn’t looked at you once since you got in the car.
He cleared his throat fifteen minutes ago. That’s it.
You haven’t moved.
You know what this is. This is the cold front rolling in after something that didn’t happen. The consequences of a thing you’ve both silently decided not to acknowledge.
The worst part? You don’t even know what you’d say if he did bring the weirdness up.
Hey, yeah, sorry I’ve been weird! I had an incredibly visceral sex dream about you and me and then woke up to you at my door to take care of me when I was sick and so naturally I’ve decided to treat you like you’re the one who’s contagious?
Yeah. No. Can’t say that. Best to just keep your mouth shut.
He exhales beside you, and you brace for him to speak.
“Did you know some species of birds fake injuries to lure predators away from their nests?”
You blink. Look at him out of the corner of your eye.
He’s staring straight ahead at the house across the street, face unreadable.
You raise an eyebrow. “Is that supposed to be a metaphor for something?”
He huffs a short laugh. “No. Just… filling the silence.”
You don’t answer — and you don’t have to, because he keeps going.
“It’s called a broken-wing display. It’s usually exhibited by ground-nesting birds — killdeer, plovers, that kind of thing. They’ll limp away from the nest, dragging one wing like it’s injured, to lure a predator off course.”
You glance out the window. It’s still quiet on the street. No movement.
“And it works?” you ask eventually.
“Most of the time,” he says. “Until it doesn’t.”
Another stretch of silence.
You sip from the travel mug you brought — lukewarm and slightly too bitter. You make a face and set it down in the cupholder.
Spencer digs into his messenger bag and pulls out a granola bar. He holds it out to you without looking. You take it — warily — then check the label.
“Almond, honey, and flaxseed,” you read. “So… depression and dust flavored.”
He smiles to himself, and you unwrap it anyway. It is indeed dry as hell, but at least it gives your hands and mouth something to do.
For a moment, it almost feels normal. Two federal agents. A bad snack. A quiet night. No tension. No ghosts.
But then his elbow brushes yours on the center console — just barely — and you flinch like he burned you.
He notices, but he doesn’t say anything. Just clears his throat again and launches into a tangent about the statistical likelihood of suspect movement during an overnight watch, quoting a number with way too many decimal places.
You don’t listen to all of it. But you don’t interrupt him, either. You just sit there, chewing your sad granola bar and pretending your pulse isn’t picking up, letting his voice wash over you.
—
It’s after midnight now.
The street is dead quiet, and the suspect’s apartment is still dark. The car’s heater hums low. The windows have started fogging at the edges.
And Spencer’s still talking.
Nothing urgent. Just another slow roll of facts — half-muttered, half-directed into the void. You lost track somewhere around the history of various types of surveillance equipment, but you don’t mind the sound. It’s even. Calming. Distracting enough to keep you from spiraling into your own head.
You’ve never really noticed how steady his voice is.
Not just steady — gentle. No sharp corners. It’s like he’s rounding off every syllable so it doesn’t snag on anything. Like he’s afraid if he speaks too loud, something might break.
Like you might break.
You shift in your seat, stretch your legs a little. Your elbow brushes his on the center console again, but you don’t flinch this time. Neither does he.
“I think sometimes I talk just to stop myself from thinking,” he says suddenly, eyes still on the dark window across the street.
You glance over. “That’s ironic, considering the fact that I don’t think you’ve ever stopped thinking for even a second.”
He almost smiles. “Yeah.”
Another beat of silence.
“I know people expect me to be this… endless stream of logic. Statistics. Analysis. It’s what I’m good at. It’s who I am, right?”
You don’t answer.
He taps the side of his head twice, as if to reference his brain. “Sometimes I wonder who I’d be without it. If I wasn’t smart. If I wasn’t useful. Like… what part of me would still matter.”
Your stomach twists enough to remind you that you’re still capable of feeling things, no matter how hard you try not to.
You glance at him then say, “You know that’s bullshit, right?”
He blinks.
“You’re not useful,” you explain, deadpan. “You’re irreplaceable. There’s a difference, and it's way more annoying.”
That gets a laugh — real and surprised, the kind that breaks through the fog between you.
And then you add, because you’ve apparently lost all impulse control tonight:
“You know, some of us get handed a story before we’re old enough to decide whether or not we even want to be in it.”
He turns his head, just slightly. You can feel his eyes on you now.
“I mean, it’s always been that way for me at least. Elle’s sister. Even before the Bureau. She was the golden one. The one with the fire. And more recently, the one with the mistakes.”
You take a breath.
“I think I got good at what I do just to prove I’m not just a ‘substitute Greenaway’ or some sort of mediocre consolation prize.”
The words hang there between you, but not uncomfortably. Spencer doesn’t speak. Just listens, the way he always does — fully, quietly, like you’re saying something important even when you’re not sure you are.
“That’s not how I see you,” he says finally, stumbling over the statement like it surprised even him as it came out. “You were never a consolation prize. And you’re not your sister’s substitute, either. You’re…you. Completely, uniquely you.”
That shouldn’t hit as hard as it does.
You glance away — to the windshield, the fire hydrant, to anywhere but him — and groan under your breath like it’s no big deal.
“Sorry,” you mutter. “Don’t know why I said anything.”
“Because it matters,” he replies gently.
You blink once, hard. Your eyes catch on the dim lights across the street before you let them fall to the dash.
“It doesn’t,” you lie.
Spencer doesn’t argue. Just shifts in his seat, like he’s settling in for something that might take a while.
“You always do that,” he says after a moment.
“Do what?”
“Say something honest and then walk it back with a joke or a deflection.”
“Self-sabotage is cheaper than therapy,” you retort with a humorless laugh.
He nods. “Yeah. I know.”
You look at him this time, and he looks back.
And for some reason, that look — not the conversation, not the proximity, not the hour — is what makes your throat go tight. Just the way he’s looking at you. Calm. Direct. Soft. Like he’s already seen every jagged edge you’ve got and doesn't think any of them require running away from.
You’ve gotten so good at staying guarded, so good at keeping things boxed up behind clever retorts and strategic indifference. But here he is, sitting beside you in a parked car with fogged windows and bad coffee between you, and he’s not asking for anything. He’s not pressing. Not pulling.
He’s just… there.
And somehow, that’s worse.
You blink again then look away. “Why aren’t you saying anything weird right now? Like a fact about tarantulas or crime statistics for the 10 block radius around us?”
“I can,” he offers. “If you want.”
You don’t answer.
And still — he doesn’t retreat. He just starts talking again. Something about the psychology of repetition. The way people return to routines not because they’re comforting, but because they’re familiar. Even if they’re painful.
You should be panicking. You should be clawing your way back behind your armor, tossing out clever quips and sarcasm like smoke grenades.
But instead, you just… listen.
You sit like that for a long time, saying nothing, letting his words lap quietly against your softest parts.
And when he finally pauses — when he tilts his head like he might be waiting for a response — you say the only thing you can think of:
“You talk so much.”
Spencer smiles. It’s quiet, and crooked, and real.
“You like it,” he replies without missing a beat.
And the worst part is — he’s right.
—
You’re trying not to look at his hands.
Which is stupid, because you’ve had no problem looking at them before — when he’s jotting notes in his messy scrawl, or flipping through case files, or hastily pointing out points on a map.
But now you’ve spent the last six hours shoulder to shoulder in a car with him, and suddenly his hands feel like a problem.
Long fingers. Clean, short nails. That quiet strength to them — like he doesn’t know what he’s capable of.
You catch yourself staring and snap your gaze away.
Too late.
He looks over. “What?”
“Nothing.”
Spencer blinks, then glances at his own lap. “Were you staring at my hands?”
Your jaw tenses. “Paranoid much?”
“No, it’s just—” His hands fidget absentmindedly. “It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s said something about them.”
“Said what?” you ask with a laugh.
He hesitates. “That they’re… distracting.”
You nearly choke. “Who told you that?”
He shrugs, playing it off, but his ears go pink. “Garcia once, to tease me. And a woman at a conference a couple of years ago. I think she, uh, meant it as a compliment.”
You shake your head. “Do you keep a running tally of women who compliment your hands?”
He raises one for a moment, almost defensively, and stutters out his reply: “No, I—what? I’m just answering your question.” His fingers twitch again, as if he’s suddenly hyper-aware of their existence. “They’re just hands,” he mumbles.
You arch a brow. “They’re not just hands. They’re… abnormally large.”
He squints at you. “Statistically, they’re not.”
“Jesus Christ, don’t start.”
“I’m just saying—”
“Fine.” You roll your eyes and hold up your own. “Let’s compare. Settle the debate.”
He blinks, surprised — but lifts his hand anyway.
And when you press your palm to his, the temperature in the car shifts.
You’re both quiet.
His skin is warm. His fingers stretch well past yours, long enough to curl over the tips if he wanted to. Your thumb just barely grazes the base of his. His palm is so much larger than yours.
And for a second — just a second — you both forget to breathe.
He exhales first, barely a sound. “Huh.”
You don’t move.
Neither does he.
His pinky twitches as if he might lace it between yours if he had the guts. Like the impulse got as far as his fingertips before he was able to swallow it down. He shifts awkwardly, and for half a second your fingers do catch between his — it’s like the idea of intertwining them was so tempting, the universe tried it on your behalf.
The heat of him is steady, radiating across the small space between your bodies. You could close that distance. You could lean forward and—
But you don’t.
It’s not a romantic pose, not really. It’s just hands, after all. But somehow it feels like more. Like a metaphor for something much larger than what you’re willing to accept.
Your voice is low when it finally comes. “This… proves my point.”
Spencer nods with a gulp. “Yeah.”
“Your hands are huge.”
“Okay.” His voice cracks on the word.
You glance up with the intention to make a face, to deliver the sarcastic punchline forming behind your teeth — but then you see his expression.
Not smug. Not even flirtatious. Just wide-eyed, pink-cheeked nervousness. Like he doesn’t know what to do with the intimacy of the moment, or how long is too long to hold onto it. There’s almost a hint of something resembling anticipation in his face.
Something about that hits you harder than it should.
You pull away first, and he lets you.
You retreat to your side of the car, flexing your fingers like they’ve been stung. “I’m going to pretend that didn’t happen.”
“Okay,” he says again, voice thinner now.
You side-eye him. “Stop looking at me like that.”
“I’m not looking.”
“You are absolutely looking.”
He bites down a smile and turns to face the window, ears red to the tips.
You stare straight ahead, jaw clenched, pulse high, the warmth of his palm still lingering on yours.
You don’t talk for a while.
—
Sometime after 4am, the world narrows.
The street’s gone still. The porch lights across the way have blinked off one by one. No movement from the target’s apartment. The car is dark inside, save for the soft glow of the dashboard display.
You’re exhausted.
Not in the way that makes you want to sleep, but in the way that makes your limbs ache and your brain buzz. Your body’s caught in that weird limbo between fight and collapse, and neither side is winning.
Spencer hasn’t said anything in a while.
You don’t know if he’s tired or just trying not to make things worse. He’s curled into his side of the car, one leg tucked beneath him, hand resting near his jaw like he was about to speak and then thought better of it and covered his mouth.
You drift. Not fully asleep — just… untethered.
At some point, the air shifts.
You blink awake, groggy, and realize the heater’s been adjusted. It’s warmer now, and there’s something draped across your lap.
Spencer’s coat.
Of course it is.
You glance over. He’s dozed off, head tilted back, chin angled toward the ceiling. His mouth is parted slightly. His hands are loose in his lap.
He looks younger like this. Not boyish, not innocent — but unguarded. The tension he usually carries in his shoulders is gone. His brow is smooth. The soft rise and fall of his chest is slow and even.
It’s stupid, how soft you go at the sight.
Worse than stupid, actually — dangerous.
You shift too quickly, trying to face forward again, and your elbow bumps his.
He stirs. Blinks awake.
You straighten like you weren’t just cataloging the shape of his mouth. Like you weren’t thinking about what his lips might feel like slotted between yours, the dream still lingering in the back of your mind.
He yawns into his fist, voice rough. “Sorry. Did I fall asleep?”
“Only for like… fifteen seconds.”
He gives you a look. “Really?”
You shrug. “Okay, maybe longer.”
He runs a hand through his hair, trying to smooth it unsuccessfully. “You should’ve woken me.”
You glance at him. “Yeah, I considered it. But then I pictured you jerking awake and instinctively quoting Nietzsche or something, so I decided against it.”
He huffs a laugh. Quiet. “Not entirely an unrealistic scenario.”
A long silence settles again, but it’s different this time. Less like fog, more like mist. Lighter and less suffocating.
You close your eyes for a moment. Not to sleep — just to breathe.
And then, Spencer says:
“This is probably the safest we’ve been all week.”
You crack an eye open. “You think a stakeout is safe?”
He nods, still facing forward. “Relatively. We’re not chasing anyone. No one’s actively trying to shoot us. It’s warm. We have snacks.”
You glance at the sad remnants of the granola bar left in the wrapper on the dash. “Questionable use of the word ‘snack.’”
He smiles, small and sideways.
Another pause.
Then, soft as a confession: “You know, I like being around you.”
Your head turns before you can stop it.
He’s not looking at you — just fiddling with the cuff of his shirt like he didn’t just say something borderline catastrophic.
You say nothing.
So he keeps going, gentle and doomed.
“I mean it. Even when you’re doing your whole… terrifying thing. Or pretending not to care about anything when you obviously do.”
You narrow your eyes. “I don’t obviously do.”
He finally looks at you. “You obviously do.”
Your stomach flutters — not in a cute way, but in a stop-noticing-him kind of way. In a you’re-letting-him-get-to-you-again kind of way.
You scoff. “You need sleep.”
“I do,” he agrees. “But I also mean it.”
You don’t respond, because you’re dangerously close to saying something real again, and if you don’t reroute, you’re going to regret it.
So you shove his jacket off your lap and hand it back.
“It’s too warm,” you mutter. “You’re going to lull me into a coma.”
He takes it without argument and folds it over his own lap without looking at you. But you can feel the softness in him anyway — like he’s trying not to break whatever this is.
So you sit there, staring out the windshield, listening to him rambling on about nothing again.
—
By the time the sun starts to rise, your brain feels like it’s turned into jello.
You’re not sure when the darkness lifted, or when the silence settled back in. You just know the sky’s gone pale — that washed-out blue-gray shade that only happens at dawn.
Spencer stretches beside you. His shoulder cracks loud enough to make both of you wince.
“Still alive?” you ask, voice rough.
“Barely.” He blinks blearily. “My back’s going to file a worker’s comp complaint.”
You snort. “Tell it to get in line.”
There’s a long, comfortable pause. He rubs at his eyes. You pull your jacket tighter around you and glance out the window — still nothing at the suspect’s apartment. Still dead quiet.
Which means this whole stakeout was uneventful. Pointless, even. And yet, you still feel like you’ve just lived through something.
You tap your fingers against your leg. “So. We spent all night in a car and accomplished nothing.”
“I wouldn’t say nothing,” Spencer says, voice soft. You glance sideways at him, but he doesn’t elaborate. Just starts unplugging the surveillance gear and packing up files.
You follow suit. No more banter. No more tension. Just movement.
Your hands feel clumsy.
You tell yourself it’s from lack of sleep. That it has nothing to do with how he said wouldn’t say nothing like he was drawing a circle around the very thing you’re pretending not to feel.
You feel it anyway.
But you still pretend.
—
The drive back to the precinct is quiet. You lean your head against the window and watch the neighborhoods blur past.
Spencer’s hands stay at ten and two on the steering wheel. He doesn’t speak. But he doesn’t feel far away, either.
That’s the part you don’t know what to do with — that he still feels close. Even in silence. Even in broad daylight.
Like the night didn’t end.
You’re halfway to convincing yourself it was nothing — that it’ll fade with caffeine and paperwork and the much-needed distraction of other people — when he signals and turns off the main road suddenly.
You blink. “Where are we going?”
“Coffee,” he says.
You open your mouth to protest. To say you’re fine, or that you guys don’t have time, or that you don’t need him doing that thing again — the thoughtful gesture thing — but nothing comes out.
So you just lean back in your seat and let him pull into the gas station without a word.
He parks and gets out without asking what you want.
Because, of course, he already knows.
You stay in the car. It’s not a conscious decision, really — you just don’t follow him inside. The heat’s still running, the vents rattling against the early morning chill, and your eyes sting every time you blink.
Inside the convenience store, Spencer pays at the counter.
You watch him through the smudged windshield. Watch him grab napkins even though you never use them. Watch him put the lid on tight like he always does.
When the driver’s side door opens again, he slides back into his seat with that same soft, sleep-rumpled quiet he’s carried all night.
He doesn’t say anything, just hands you the cup.
It’s warm, and the coffee’s exactly how you like it — dark and strong and jumbo-sized.
But it’s the sleeve that stops you — a rushed sketch in Spencer’s familiar scrawl. Two outlined hands, not touching — just hovering there on the cardboard. Between them, a tiny speech bubble that reads, “hi!”
You stare at it as he shifts the car into drive, pulls out of the lot like nothing’s happened.
And you sit there — hands wrapped around a paper cup, heart doing something you refuse to name — and let him.
The cup will get tossed.
But the sleeve?
That, you’ll keep.
ᝰ.ᐟ
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this fic is part of the greenaway!reader universe/series! you can find more fics like it & read more about this pairing here ♥️
thinking about also hunter reader meeting sam at stanford. bloodied high-tops and the aftermath of killing something evil, the general aftermath of killing. sitting on the pavement and eating a granola bar. there's dirt stains on your arms and new rips in your jeans. a cut in your brow stinging everytime you make a face. then sam who said he wanted 'out' but still picks up nearby hunts when they pop up. still carries a bottle of holy water in his satchel. studies for a quiz on the way back to college on the bus. takes care of his own wounds and does an almost decent job. it won't scar, right? feels so out of place it's making him paranoid sometimes. it's obvious to both of you that you might have something in common. you are loudly reminded stanford is a place for people with showbiz parents and college funds. at first glance sam looks like any freshman with a troubled home life, a family that he will never be seen speaking to on the phone. why is he taking the folklore class? it has nothing to do with his major. after that you notice each other more. sam leaving the library, you just entering. two knives glancing at each other's sharpness.
when marlene adhd procrastinated too hard and got landed a bad barista job, lily and mary took turns pranking her for weeks on end. they'd go in and loudly order frappucinos and whatever that barely existed, insisting upon extra everything and then refusing some of the core ingredients. the other workers at the café began to get to know them and dubbed them "marlene's girls", immediately calling for her when one of them entered. mary went even further and did the most extra outfits known to mankind, looking like some snobby heiress every time she came and ordered.
gummygunk
blakekathryn
germansingergirl
