current read(s):backhanded compliments by katie chandler progress: 22% fic(s) read today: none :(
➢ monday, march 23
current read(s):backhanded compliments by katie chandler progress: 26% fic(s) read today: none :(
➢ tuesday, march 24
current read(s):backhanded compliments by katie chandler progress: 32% fic(s) read today: cipher (by @thecrimsonfog) ⋆ house of cards (by @marcidstars)
the secret is simply: canva and pinterest. that's all a girly needs to graphic design to their heart's content. it takes some playing around with to figure out what fits your aesthetic, and i'm still learning the ins and outs of canva itself, but i thoroughly enjoy fiddling around with the settings, and having fun makes it so much more worthwhile to spend time on there :3
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
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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 ♥️
summary: a power outage strands you and reid in the basement records room. his flashlight is useless, your lighter keeps flickering out, and you're pretty sure you said too much - but somehow, he never makes you regret it.
tags/warnings: reader is elle’s sister, discussion of canon-typical case/violence, post-case trauma, banter and bickering, mild emotional intimacy, power outage, trapped in a basement but not in a dangerous/claustrophobic way, nerdy dinosaur talk, bonding via playing 20 questions, one mention of spencer wearing glasses, no use of y/n
a/n: yayyyy i’m back from vacay which means greenaway!reader is back too! I love her so bad (even though she scares me). reminder that requests for greenaway!reader are open, so feel free to swing by my asks with any ideas you have or if you just wanna chat about her/anything in general 💋
greenaway!reader masterlist 🥀
You’ve been at the BAU for three and a half weeks now. Long enough for the coffee to taste familiar. Long enough to know which elevator buttons stick, which desks squeak, which doors slam even when you close them gently.
Not long enough for anyone to really know you, which is how you like it.
You clock the way the team watches you — not openly, not cruelly, but like they’re still waiting for you to become something — or someone — they recognize. They don’t ask many questions. By now, they’ve figured out you’re not the friendly type. But you hear your name sometimes in the pauses between things, see the way conversations tighten when you walk into a room, notice the way their eyes linger for a second too long as you board the jet.
Not Reid, though. Spencer Reid stopped looking at you like a shadow about a week in. These days, he just… looks.
You’ve shared a few words with him — sharp-edged observations during briefings, a quiet comment here and there in the field, small exchanges in the hall about cases you’d both lost sleep over.
And sometimes, without a word, he brings you coffee when you’re the last two still at your desks in the bullpen after hours. Always from a fresh pot, always brewed just the way you like it.
You haven’t decided yet if that’s comforting or creepy.
—
Today, you needed quiet — not the white-noise hum of the office, but the real kind. The kind you can only find in dead-end hallways no one visits unless they’re looking for something that doesn’t exist in digital form.
The records room in the Quantico basement is freezing and smells like dust, but it does the job. An isolated place to be alone for a few moments before returning to the buzz of the BAU bullpen.
You lean your head back against the side of a shelving unit and suck in a sharp, calming breath. Your mind begins to wander — to New York, to Elle, to the life you’ve never had, when suddenly:
The fluorescent lights flicker once — just long enough to register it — and then cut out completely. A half-second later, something behind the wall pops. Sharp, metallic. Like a breaker flipping or a fuse blowing. Then silence.
Not just lights-out silence.
Blackout silence.
A deep, swallowing pitch. No glow from the overheads. No buzz from the air vent. Just the low creak of something shifting behind the walls — structural, maybe. Or not.
You stay very still.
Somewhere to your left, you hear a quiet voice. Spencer’s voice.
“Okay,” he says. “That’s… probably not great.”
You exhale slowly through your nose to stifle your startle at realizing you are, unfortunately, not alone like you’d thought. “No shit, Reid.”
A soft rustling sound breaks through the silence as Spencer fishes something out of his pants pocket. Moments later, a comically dim, shaky beam of light flickers to life. It’s coming from one of those dinky little keychain flashlights — the kind with just enough power to showcase just how little it actually illuminates. You can’t help but snort.
He huffs out an embarrassed breath of a laugh through his nose as he clicks the flashlight on and off a few times.
“It’s, uh, not meant to be tactical. I got it at the Air & Space Museum gift shop. But it’s better than nothing, right?” he asks with a shadowy grin.
You reach into your back pocket and thumb for the vintage lighter you always keep on hand. Your thumb clicks it once, twice, and an orange flame flares to life and casts a flickering glow across the front of the shelves. The scent of butane burns faint in the stale air.
“You really carry that thing around?”
You arch a brow, not that he can really see it. “You followed me down here with a flashlight the size of a ChapStick tube, and you’re judging me?”
He’s quiet for a beat. Then, softly: “I didn’t follow you.”
Another beat. You flick the lighter again.
“So you just happened to be two yards behind me in the basement for absolutely no reason?”
More silence. Then a rustle, the shift of his shoes on the concrete floor.
He shifts his weight. “I just… needed a file. Down here. At the same time as you.”
You arch a brow, even though he probably can’t see it. “Sure you did.”
You walk up to the door and give it a useless pull, then another, and another, before releasing a loud, frustrated sigh. “Why isn’t it opening?”
“Electronic lock,” he says, frowning. “Most of the storage room access doors were updated last year. If the power’s down, we’re essentially locked in until the backup generator kicks on or the power comes back.”
You sigh. “So we’re trapped.”
“Temporarily.”
You lean against the metal shelving again and click the lighter off. “Don’t suppose you carry around a crowbar in that messenger bag, do you?”
Spencer shakes his head. “Just books, mostly.”
“Of course.”
He adjusts the beam of the flashlight so it lands between you — not in your eyes, not in his — and sits down slowly, his back against one of the cabinets.
The quiet stretches again, this time not quite as heavy — but not comfortable either. Your stomach tightens.
It’s not that you mind the silence. You like silence. You seek it out. But this kind — shared, suspended, crackling like the pause between two lines of dialogue — it makes your skin prickle.
Of all people to get stuck in a dark room with.
“Does this sort of thing happen a lot around here?” you ask finally.
“No,” Spencer says. “But you’ve probably noticed, it’s not exactly a boring place to work.”
You hum, noncommittal. Another click of your lighter.
The flame doesn’t settle this time — it flickers, gasps against the still air, and dies.
You click it again.
Nothing.
“Out of fuel?” Spencer asks.
You shake it once out of spite. “It’s moody.”
He offers the tiniest smile. “Sounds like someone I know.”
You glance over at him. His flashlight is still on, but dimmer now. The beam trembles a little.
“Batteries dying?”
“No,” he says quickly, a little too quickly. “I replaced them recently. It’s… uh, a hand tremor, I guess.”
You pause. He’s not looking at you anymore. Just straight ahead, unfocused. He’s blinking a little more than usual.
“You’re scared of the dark, aren’t you?” you ask. Your tone isn’t quite teasing, but it isn’t neutral, either.
“I’m fine,” he says automatically. Then, more honestly: “It’s… not the dark itself. It’s the sensory deprivation. The inherent absence of light. The lack of orientation. Spatial disconnection. Never really been a fan.”
You stare at him for a moment, then lower yourself slowly into a crouch against the opposite shelf.
You tilt your head. “You worried there are monsters hiding in the darkness?”
He huffs a laugh. “More like unquantifiable variables. Also, spiders.”
You snort. “So… monsters.”
He shrugs, the motion a shadow. “I’m better at handling human monsters. The kind you can profile.”
You settle deeper into your spot against the shelving. “You ever profile yourself?”
“All the time.”
“And?” you pry.
“And I’m a statistical anomaly with a genius-level IQ, mild social aversion and germaphobia, and a rational but persistent fear of the dark. I also have an unhealthy relationship with caffeine.”
You huff. “Charming.”
Spencer’s mouth twitches. “You’re probably harder to pin down.”
You glance at him, eyebrow arched. “You think you could profile me?”
“I think you’d hurt me if I tried.”
You don’t respond to that, and he doesn’t push.
You click your lighter again. Nothing. Just the sharp metal scrape, like flint against bone.
“I used to hate the dark, too,” you say, voice quieter now. “But for different reasons.”
He tilts his head, barely perceptible.
You don’t let yourself look at him. You just speak, eyes on the far wall.
“There was a case in New York about six months ago. Teenage girl, fifteen years old. Last seen leaving school, walking home. Broad daylight. Two blocks from her family’s apartment building.”
Spencer doesn’t speak.
“Everyone thought she ran away at first.”
Your voice is steady, but your throat feels tight. “She was gone for three days before we got a real lead. And even then, it wasn’t from a tip or surveillance footage — it was a kid. Some high school sophomore who recognized her picture and said he saw her get pulled into a van.”
You shift your weight. The concrete feels colder now.
“I followed it up. Connected the description the kid gave to a company work van, then the van to a name, then the name to a warehouse on Staten Island. Private property.”
A beat passes. Spencer still doesn’t interrupt.
“I didn’t wait for a warrant. I broke the lock with a tire iron I found in the parking lot and went in alone. Found her in a freezer.”
You stop there and let the weight of it settle into the dark for a moment before continuing.
“She’d been dead for maybe a day by the time I got there,” you say quietly. “She’d clawed at the inside of the door. There were scratch marks all over and metal under her nails. She was alive when he left her in there. And I was too late.”
You drag your thumb across your knuckles, grounding yourself.
“I found him that night — the unsub. Waited for him to come back to the warehouse and admire his handwork, just like I knew he would. The sick bastard. He smiled when I cuffed him. I didn’t let that slide.”
Spencer’s voice is barely a whisper. “What did you do?”
“I… kind of put him through a wall.”
Another silence.
“He was fine,” you add, sharper now. “I mean, bruised and battered, but fine. I could’ve done much worse — and believe me, I wanted to. But afterwards, my unit chief said I was compromised. Too emotional. Too unstable to follow protocol. They wanted me gone after that.”
Spencer shifts beside you, just the slightest bit closer. “So you requested a transfer before they could force you out?”
You nod.
He narrows his eyes in the dark. “And you chose to come here.”
You hesitate. Briefly, you consider telling him you chose the BAU to try and better understand what happened to Elle, but the desire to be honest flickers out just as fast as your lighter did. Instead, you say simply: “I saw an opportunity.”
He shifts his weight and rests his arms loosely over his knees.
“You’re a good profiler,” he says.
You snort. “There wasn’t much profiling involved in that case. That was instinct and rage and probably dumb luck.”
“No,” he says. “It was pattern recognition. Risk tolerance. Behavioral intuition. And yeah — maybe some rage. That doesn’t make your skills less valid.”
You let the words hang in the dark.
“You’re not the first person to break protocol,” he adds. “And you’re definitely not the first to get punished for being right.”
You watch him for a long moment.
“I don’t need you to understand,” you say tightly.
“I know you don’t need it,” he replies. “But I do. I get it.”
And somehow, that hits harder than if he hadn’t. You feel it like pressure behind your ribs — something unfamiliar and unwelcome.
Spencer moves again. His shoulder bumps a cabinet. The flashlight beam skitters briefly across your face before angling back down.
You don’t move.
But you say, softer this time: “So yeah. That’s why I left New York.”
He lets the silence settle.
Then, out of nowhere, he says: “You know, prolonged darkness can induce low-level sensory deprivation. Some studies show it heightens tactile sensitivity.”
You glance over. “Is that your roundabout way of asking if I want to hold hands, Reid?”
Spencer sputters. “What? No. No, I meant— I wasn’t— That’s not— I just meant, uh, scientifically—”
You smirk. “Relax. I’m joking. And I'm not offering anyways.”
He clears his throat and tries again. “I was actually going to suggest playing twenty questions.”
You arch a brow. “Isn’t that a middle school sleepover activity?”
“I never went to any middle school sleepovers,” he says earnestly. “So I wouldn’t know.”
That almost makes you smile. Almost.
He lifts a hand in a non-threatening little gesture. “Just an idea to pass the time. We don’t have to.”
You sigh like you’re annoyed, but you nod in the dark, and his lips curl up before he speaks.
“Question one: favorite color?”
“Black,” you say. Then, after a beat: “Or dark red. Can’t decide.”
He hums thoughtfully. “That tracks.”
“You say that like you’ve thought about it before.”
“I haven’t,” he says. “I just mean I’d be, uh, somewhat surprised if you said something like… lavender, for example.”
You huff. “I don’t dislike lavender, you know.”
“No?”
You think about it. “No. Purple’s kind of nice, actually. But I hate yellow.”
Spencer tilts his head. “Any particular shade?”
“The darker ones,” you say. “Light buttery yellows aren’t really my thing either, but I really hate the more golden or grayish shades. They remind me of rotting sunflowers. Or a nicotine stain. Or cat piss.”
He doesn’t say anything to that.
“Next question,” you murmur.
Spencer lifts the tiny flashlight a little. The weak beam throws a jittery shape across the floor. “When you were a kid, what did you want to be when you grew up?”
You sigh. “A writer, I think. Or a spy. I liked the idea of knowing things other people didn’t.”
“That makes sense,” he says, and somehow it doesn’t feel like a compliment or an insult — just an observation.
Your eyes flick to him in the dark. “You?”
“A physicist. Then a chemist. Then a statistician. Then a professor. Also a writer, for a short time, too. Then when I was 8, I decided I just kind of wanted to do a little bit of everything.”
You shake your head. “Overachiever.”
“Guilty as charged.”
You tilt your head against the shelf. “Okay, my turn.”
He looks almost startled. “You get questions too?”
“I’m not playing if I don’t,” you say.
“Fair,” he concedes.
You think for a second. “What’s the worst advice you’ve ever gotten?”
He actually smiles at that. “Someone once told me I should try being less myself.”
Your laugh is low. “Did you?”
“I tried.” He shrugs. “It didn’t really take.”
“Good,” you say before you can stop yourself.
He raises an eyebrow. “Good?”
You roll your eyes. “Don’t make it a thing, Reid.”
He chews the inside of his cheek like he’s literally biting back another smile.
You stretch out your legs a little in front of you. “Alright, hit me.”
He considers for a moment before speaking. “What’s something people assume about you that’s completely wrong?”
You pause for a tentative second before deciding what to say. “That I’m heartless.”
You half expect him to ask a follow up question, or to come to your defense that the accusation is baseless, but he doesn’t. You pretend that doesn’t sting.
You glance sideways. “You think I’m heartless, don’t you?”
“No,” he says immediately. “I never thought that. Promise. I actually believe that you care much more than most people do. You just don’t advertise it very loudly.”
You look away so fast that he wouldn’t be able to read your face even if the light were better.
“I don’t like assumptions,” you mutter.
“Okay. Got it. No more assumptions.”
You don’t say anything else for a while, and neither does he. The silence feels different now — a little looser around the edges. The kind that settles in when something’s been said that can’t be unsaid, but you’re both pretending it wasn’t a big deal.
Spencer clears his throat softly. “Next question.”
You hum. “You’re still going?”
“It’s only fair. This is twenty questions, isn’t it?”
You huff dramatically, and he almost laughs.
“Favorite dinosaur?”
“You can’t be serious,” you bemoan with an eye roll.
“What? I think that answer can say a lot about a person.”
“Mm,” you murmur. “Let me guess. You were a triceratops kid.”
“Excuse me,” he says, mock-affronted. “I was actually a parasaurolophus kid. You know, complex communication, cranial resonance chambers—”
“Oh my god, Reid.”
He shrugs. “You asked. Your turn now.”
You think for a moment. “Ankylosaurus. All armor, no bite.”
He glances at you. “That… tracks.”
You smile, just barely. “Shut up.”
Before he can fire off another question, a low hum stirs somewhere deep in the walls. Then — with a stuttering flicker — the fluorescent lights overhead buzz back to life, one by one, casting the shelves and floor in that familiar washed-out glow.
You both freeze.
You blink once, twice, and rub your eyes against the sharpness of it. Spencer frowns up at the nearest fixture, glasses slightly crooked as they slide down his nose.
“Well,” you mutter, breaking the quiet. “Guess the universe decided we’ve bonded enough for one afternoon.”
He exhales a soft laugh. “Or the backup generator finally kicked in.”
You shake your head. “How romantic,” you deadpan. You hear him gulp at that.
He stands slowly, brushing dust from his pants as he tucks the flashlight back into his pocket. You do the same with your lighter before walking to the door. This time, it opens without a fight.
You should walk out.
But you don’t.
Not yet.
Instead, you say — quieter than you mean to — “What happened in New York isn’t the only reason I came here.”
Spencer turns toward you, gentle and still. He doesn’t press — just listens.
“Elle never talked much about this place. But I know something here broke her open. And I guess—” You hesitate. “I guess I just… wanted to see what it was.”
There’s no judgment in his expression. Rather, there’s something quieter. Something like understanding.
“Is that why you’re keeping your distance?” he asks. “Waiting to see if the BAU breaks you, too?”
You don’t answer that. You can’t.
Instead, you say, “Let’s just say I’m not really in the habit of becoming friends with my colleagues. Personal policy.”
He nods once, like he gets it. He doesn’t — not really — but for some reason, he still wants you to feel understood. So he nods.
The two of you step out into the hallway, and the door swings closed behind you with a quiet click.
You’re halfway down the corridor when Spencer speaks again.
“For the record,” he says, without looking at you, “I don’t bring coffee to anyone else.”
You glance up at him, your heartbeat momentarily betraying the stoicism you work so hard to wear. “Why are you telling me that?”
He shrugs, a little sheepish. “I don’t know. In case you were wondering, I guess.”
You’re not sure what to say, so you don’t say anything in direct response at all. But your voice is softer than it should be when you mutter:
“Don’t get used to this, Reid.”
This — as in the unexpected detour from your usual cold detachment. The flicker of something almost like camaraderie. The way you didn’t entirely shut him out today. And by the look on his face, you can tell he knows exactly what you meant when you said “this.”
“Too late. I already have,” he says with a shy, crooked smile.
The lights hum above you, sterile and bright, and suddenly, part of you misses the dark — the quiet it offered, the cover it gave.
At least amid a blackout, no one could see you letting your guard down.
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 ♥️
── .✦ i am nothing if not a List Maker, so i thought it might be fun (mostly for my own entertainment tbh) to create a digital reading journal! this will basically serve as a goodreads page, but cooler, because it's tumblr. plus, i'm including fics. if this is of interest to you, enjoy!
➢ wednesday, march 18
current read(s): a court of wings and ruin by sarah j. maas
progress: 83%
fic(s) read today: cipher (by @thecrimsonfog) ⋆ greenaway!reader (by @whisperedmeg)
➢ thursday, march 19
current read(s): a court of wings and ruin by sarah j. maas
progress: 83%
fic(s) read today: cipher (by @thecrimsonfog) ⋆ house of cards (by @marcidstars)
➢ friday, march 20
current read(s): a court of wings and ruin by sarah j. maas
progress: 90%
fic(s) read today: none :(
➢ saturday, march 21
current read(s): a court of wings and ruin by sarah j. maas, backhanded compliments by katie chandler
progress: complete!, 9%
fic(s) read today: none :(
i am a BIG series/universe fan. the more time to get to know a reader or OC, the better! of course, each chapter of the series may fall into different genres, but i'll leave all the tagging and content warnings up to the authors. here are some of my favs!
I’M SO MUCH WORSE ⟢ spencer reid x greenaway!reader
summary: elle greenaway left the BAU without saying goodbye. a year later, you, her little sister, walk in without saying hello. you wear burgundy lipstick, leather boots, and emotional armor. you won’t let anyone get close. or… will you?
genre: angst (i guess? nothing bad happens tho. maybe a bit of fluff if you squint. hard to classify as a genre tbh) | w/c: 2.7k
tags/warnings: reader is elle greenaway’s sister, reader is new to the BAU, emotional repression, estranged sibling relationship, grieving someone still alive, reader trusts no one, canon-typical case, extremelyyy subtle mutual attraction/interest (just trust me ok. it’s there), no use of y/n
a/n: welcome to the world, greenaway!reader!!! to all who mourn never getting canon spencelle, this is the start of a slow-burn journey to seeing a different version of reidaway™ come to fruition. honestly this is more of a moody character study/intro than a full-on fic, but there will be more coming soon with actual plotlines I promise.
greenaway!reader masterlist
First impressions never really mattered to you. If you’ve learned anything from your older sister, it was that people only remember the last thing you did — or the worst.
The elevator dings, and you step off onto the sixth floor and into Quantico’s Behavioral Analysis Unit, adjusting the lapel of your blazer as you go. Somehow, no matter what you do, there’s always a touch of dishevel clinging to you like smoke when you try to dress in anything resembling business casual.
Your heavy lug sole boots echo across the linoleum floors as you make your way in. They’re scuffed from years of use, but you can’t bring yourself to part with them. You wear them like armor.
You head to the empty desk you’ve been assigned and set your bag down. No one says hello right away. That’s fine — you’re not here to make friends. You’re here to do your goddamn job. Still, the silence makes you itch.
And then:
“Greenaway?” a voice calls, clipped and neutral. You turn and see your new boss, Aaron Hotchner, standing outside his office. “You’re early.”
There’s a flicker of something on his face — not quite amusement, though. You get the sense already that Aaron Hotchner is not a man who shows signs of amusement often. He steps forward, eyes skimming over you like he’s trying to x-ray your secrets.
One by one, the rest of the team trickle in as you get acquainted with your new boss. You discreetly observe them over his shoulder as they settle into their desks before Hotch clears his throat to gather their attention.
“This is our newest team member, SSA Greenaway,” he says, and now everyone’s watching. “She’s just transferred in from the New York City field office. Specializes in victimology and interrogation tactics.”
“Greenaway?” another voice cuts in, laced with surprise and confusion. You follow the sound and land on a solid wall of muscle with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth and a whole lot of swagger behind it. “Like… Greenaway Greenaway?”
You could lie. You could laugh. You could throat-punch him. But you don’t.
Instead, you slide your hands into your pockets and tilt your head just enough to make it look like you might bite. “That’s my name. Don’t wear it out.”
The man blinks.
“Elle’s my sister,” you clarify sharply. Your tone makes it clear that that’s all you have to say on the matter.
“Easy tiger, I didn’t mean anything by it,” he says, raising his hands. “Elle was a friend. It’s just been a while since I heard that name aloud in this room.”
You nod once. “Yeah. I’m sure it has.”
That shuts everyone up for a beat, and you know what they’re thinking — Elle Greenaway ghosted this team and let the door slam behind her. You wonder if they expect you to do the same.
Hotch clears his throat. “We’re reviewing a case soon. Everyone, meet in the roundtable room in thirty.”
You take a seat at your new desk like a throne and cross your legs like a warning. Better to look like a threat than a question no one wants to answer.
You can feel it already, the way they’re watching you with the wrong kind of curiosity. Spencer Reid — you clocked his name from the nameplate on his desk — keeps sneaking glances over the top of whatever file he’s pretending to read. There’s something hesitant in the way he looks at you, like he’s trying to work out a complicated equation and keeps forgetting the variables. You can’t tell if it bothers you or not — being so clearly seen by someone who doesn’t even know what he’s looking at yet.
You don’t know much about him, but you know enough. Elle mentioned his name a few times in those rare late-night calls back when she still picked up the phone. Said he was smart, sweet, young. Said he sometimes reminded her of a cat who didn’t know whether or not to run from thunder.
But you’re not thunder — you’re lightning.
And this office? This whole team? They’re about to find out just how fast you strike.
—
They don’t give you long to settle in.
And that's fine. You’ve never liked the quiet that comes with waiting — too much room for doubt, too much space for ghosts. The bullpen is already humming with life, papers rustling and phones chirping and chairs squeaking under the weight of people trying not to stare. You keep your head down and rifle through the folder Hotch left on your desk.
And then he calls for the briefing, ten minutes earlier than he’d originally stated.
The roundtable room is glass-walled on one side — ironic, considering no one here seems particularly transparent. You take a seat at the end of the table furthest from the door and resist the urge to cross your arms. It would look defensive, like you’re bracing for a hit.
They don’t know you yet. Not really. But you know how this goes. There’s always a script, even if no one admits to writing it:
1. they doubt you,
2. they test you,
3. they pretend like they always believed in you.
You’ve seen it before. You’re not falling for it again. Still, a small, buried part of you hopes they see you for what you are before they decide who you’re supposed to be.
“Three missing women, all under the age of twenty-five, taken from their homes along the I-81 corridor in Pennsylvania,” Hotch begins. “Two confirmed dead. The third’s been missing for forty-eight hours.”
He clicks the remote. Crime scene photos flicker across the screen like a grim slideshow.
You tilt your head. “No forced entry?”
“Correct,” JJ answers. “No signs of struggle. No witnesses.”
Rossi glances at you. “You see something, Greenaway?”
You lean forward, tap the edge of the first photo with your fingernail. “He watches. Long enough to know the routines. Long enough to know when they’re alone.”
Morgan shifts in his chair. “You think he knew them?”
“Not personally,” you say. “But intimately. They weren’t random. The unsub spent time studying their routines so he could anticipate their windows of vulnerability.”
There’s a pause, and you know that silence: it's what people do when they’re adjusting their expectations.
Prentiss chimes in: “Could be someone with casual access. Delivery. Maintenance. Landlord.”
Spencer opens his mouth like he’s about to speak, then closes it again.
You glance at him, just for a second.
Hotch continues assigning roles: JJ will handle the press and family outreach. Morgan and Rossi will check out the crime scenes. Prentiss and Reid are on geographic profiling.
Then Hotch turns to you.
“Greenaway: Victimology. Coordinate with Garcia to gather intel, and if the third victim’s family agrees to talk—”
“I’ll lead the interview,” you finish.
He nods once. “Good.”
When the chairs scrape and everyone rises, Reid lingers by the table. You catch him looking again — not quite at your face, but at your hands, like maybe they’re saying something your mouth won’t.
“You’re right about it not being random,” he says. “And about the timeline. This took planning.”
You glance back at him. He’s fidgeting with the corner of a folder, eyes darting but not nervous — just observant. You wonder how long it’ll take before he stops looking at you like he’s seen a ghost.
As you turn to leave, you catch the edge of your own reflection in the glass. For a second, the angle’s just wrong enough for you to look like her.
You blink, and the ghost vanishes.
—
You hit the ground in Pennsylvania before noon. The sky above is low and gray, the kind of color that makes everything feel depressing.
You drive with JJ to the home of the third victim’s sister. The woman is pale, clenched, shrunken in on herself in the way only grief and panic can collapse a person. Her kitchen smells like burnt toast and antibacterial wipes. You lead the interview, voice even, eyes sharp. You know when to press and when to pull back.
Halfway through, the woman says, “She told me she thought someone was watching her, but I didn’t believe her. I thought she was just being overly paranoid and anxious like always was.”
You nod. “Most people are, when they’ve got a reason to be.”
—
Back at the precinct, JJ murmurs something to Hotch about how well you handled the sister. You don’t linger to hear the rest.
Instead, you duck into the breakroom to rinse your hands, and that’s when you feel it — a presence behind you, quiet and unassuming, but distinctly there.
Reid.
You finally turn. He’s standing near the doorway, lanky and uncomfortable, like he hasn’t quite grown into his own limbs — which is absurd, considering how tall he is. His tie is slightly crooked. He’s holding a file he’s not reading.
“You’re really observant,” he says. “And I meant what I said earlier — you were right.”
You arch an eyebrow. “You say that like you’re surprised.”
“I’m not,” he replies quickly. “I just—” He hesitates. “I hadn’t really… considered what it would be like to work with someone who knows her.”
You stiffen. “Elle?”
He nods.
“I don’t talk about her,” you mutter.
“I didn’t ask you to. And honestly, no one really ever does,” Spencer says after a beat. “Not anymore. It’s like… if we don’t say her name, what happened never has to make sense.”
There’s a beat.
Then you say, “You were staring earlier.”
He looks mortified. “I—I wasn’t trying to.”
You shrug, tilting your head. “You just do that with everyone, or just people who look like ghosts?”
That lands harder than you meant it to. He takes a slow breath.
“Elle was my friend,” he confesses.
You nod. “You were her friend, too, Reid,” you tell him quietly.
You leave before he can reply.
—
In the end, you were the one who found her.
You saw the pattern — the quiet overlaps in building permits, the odd timing of maintenance requests, the proximity to each victim’s home. One man, always lingering at the edges. Never close enough to stand out, but not far enough to be clean, either.
The missing woman was discovered bound and barely conscious in a crawlspace behind a water heater — dazed, dehydrated, but alive. You rode with her in the back of the ambulance, silent except for the sound of her shaky breathing as it steadied. When her eyes finally met yours — wide, grateful, terrified — you held her gaze and nodded in soft reassurance. You’re safe now. It’s over.
No one congratulates you on the jet ride home for making the connection, but the silence feels different now. Less loaded with suspicion. More… earned.
—
Back at Quantico, the team scatters — paperwork, debriefs, whatever’s next. Eventually everyone heads home, but you stay in the bullpen, light from your desk lamp haloing the clutter you haven’t sorted yet. Your case notes are open, but you haven’t written anything in twenty minutes.
You don’t hear him approach, but suddenly there’s a paper cup sliding into view beside your keyboard. You glance up to find Spencer Reid standing there, hands tucked in the pockets of his cardigan, expression unreadable.
“You’re still here.”
“Wow, look at all those PhDs at work,” you deadpan.
He offers the smallest quirk of a smile and nods to the cup he slid in front of you. “Black. No sugar,” he says. “I remembered.”
You raise an eyebrow. “I don’t recall telling you.”
“You didn’t. But you left the sugar packets untouched at the precinct.”
You blink at him, then at the cup, then back at him again. “Watching me? Creepy.”
His smile falters, just slightly.
You sigh. “I’m kidding, Reid. Relax.”
There’s a beat of silence. He doesn’t sit, but he doesn’t leave either.
“Elle used to stay late, too. After cases. Especially the bad ones.”
You tilt your head. “That supposed to mean something to me?”
“No,” he says quickly. “But I thought you might want to know.”
That throws you off more than it should. You sit back in your chair, legs still crossed, fingers tightening around the coffee cup like it’s suddenly fragile.
You don’t do this — the soft thing. The human thing. You are, for lack of a better way to say it, bad at it.
“I’m not her, Reid.”
“I know,” he says without missing a beat. “You’re not.”
You study him for a long moment — the way he’s just standing there, like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, like he’s waiting for you to pull a knife or a truth from under your sleeve.
“I, uh—” he starts, then falters. “I just didn’t know if maybe you’d want to talk about her.”
You don’t flinch, but something behind your ribs pulls taut.
“What makes you think I’d want to talk about anything?”
He considers this. “I don’t. Not really. But sometimes people say they don’t and… mean the opposite.”
You snort softly. “Let me guess. You read that in a book?”
“Actually, it’s an observation based on years of empirical experience—” He stops himself. Smiles, sheepish. “But yes. Also a book.”
There’s a long pause.
Then he says, quieter, “When it started getting bad for her, I tried to help. I went to her room the night before…” he trails off, clearing his throat before finishing, “The night before it happened. I thought… I don’t know, maybe if I gave her the opportunity, she’d start talking.”
You sip the coffee. It’s strong and bitter, just how you like it. It’s obvious he made a fresh pot for you, and you refuse to let yourself linger on that thought for longer than a second.
“She didn’t,” he adds quietly. “Talk, I mean.”
You swirl your cup. “She isn’t really the kind of person who lets herself be helped.”
He nods. “And you?”
You give him a crooked smile. “Oh, I’m so much worse.”
It’s meant to deflect. He knows that. You know he knows that. But he doesn’t flinch. Instead, the corners of his lips quirk up in the tiniest whisper of a smile, and he holds your gaze a little longer than expected, like he’s collecting data. He’s watching you the way people watch thunderstorms — from a distance, half in awe, half afraid. You should tell him to leave.
Instead, you say, “You’re not really what I expected, Dr. Reid.”
He blinks. “Is that… a good thing?”
You shrug. “It’s not a bad thing.”
“You were great out there,” he tells you quietly. “If it weren’t for that detail you noticed with the maintenance requests… we might not have found her in time.”
You hate compliments — especially the true ones. So you shrug it off again, sharp and practiced. “Guess I’m good for something, then.”
You glance over at him, study the slope of his jaw, the twitch in his left hand where his fingers tap a rhythm against his. You could cut him down with another quip. That would be easier. You’re good at sharpness — good at being unreadable, untouchable. But instead, you tilt your head.
“Thanks for the coffee,” you say, quieter than before. “It doesn’t suck.”
He smiles at that. “I’ll add pouring coffee from the pot into a cup to my list of core competencies.”
You take another sip and go back to staring at the same line in your report. Spencer calls your name as he walks out a few minutes later, hand held up in an awkward wave before he disappears through the bullpen doors.
Great. You really shouldn’t have said anything nice. Now he’s going to try to talk to you again tomorrow.
And you really shouldn’t want him to. But for some unknown, inexplicable reason… you do.
God help you, you do.
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 ♥️
Hii I was wondering if you can do a Spencer Reid x reader one shot where reader gets in a argument with one of the bau members (you can choose which) and so reader storms off but as she does she says “Spencer let’s go” and then he gets up and follows her! I hope that made sense I love you!!
౨ৎ⋆˚࿔ IN WHICH spencer is the epitome of a puppy boyfriend
you were absolutely fuming.
standing in the middle of the bullpen, for everyone to see, with your arms crossed defiantly as you talked back to your unit chief. not a very smart decision, you thought, because after years working at the bureau within the BAU, you knew one thing.
do not mess with aaron hotchner.
over time, hotch had become more than just your supervisor. you’d grown fond of his cold puns and rare smiles, that only you knew how to get out of him. words would probably not be enough to describe the relationship you two shared. but he was protective of you, his young protegee with a viper tongue and an outstanding ability to make anyone around feel small - except him, of course.
and you, well… you respected him, with his stoic behaviour and self destructive tendencies when it came to work.
but right now, none of that mattered. your brain was practically boiling and it showed, in the way your knuckles tightened around your profiler badge, and a shade of crimson tinted your face.
usually, spencer liked that color. not that red was his favourite, really, but because when your cheeks blushed, it was his work. the first time you’d kissed, a soft, stolen brush of your lips against his in the file room, the burgundy shirt you wore almost matched the color of your cheeks.
and he loved that.
however, he loathed the situation you were putting yourself into right now. like the feeling of nails on a chalkboard, your voice, usually so sweet and honey-like, made him wince.
“i cannot believe you would let me go in there without a warning !” you shouted, throwing your hands up in the air in frustration, as if you weren’t making fool out of yourself already. “we’re a team. okay ? a team. what kind of unit chief lets their agent do that ?”
hotch didn’t move, didn’t blink. practically unimpressed, his dark eyes looked at you in a way that made you feel small. you felt yourself visibly shrinking back into the little girl whose biggest fear was disappointment, and hated every second of it.
but that didn’t stop you from keeping the show going.
you couldn’t stop the words from coming out. like knives that had been sharpened for years, it felt good to finally attack and use them. but when silence met you in return, you were quick to change your mind.
hotch wasn’t going to crumble down like you did, he was better than that. he’d probably just raise a brow and ask “are you done ?” in a dismissive tone, and you couldn’t handle that. it would be too embarrassing.
so, you turned around and found your boyfriend’s gaze, like an anchor in your surging sea of anger. spencer was an extension of you, your other half. and you couldn’t drag him down like this. embarrassing yourself was enough.
“spencer,“ you called out, your voice still coming out a bit too loud from the outburst. “let’s go”
he perked up, automatically turning around you and trying to ignore the fact that all eyes were on him now.
right then, he was up and following you as you pushed the door of the bullpen open. you shut it a little too forcefully behind the two of you, a last statement that would hopefully hit hotch in some sort of way.
“hey, love,” spencer exhaled, out of breath as he ran after you.
you didn’t say anything, too overwhelmed to get anything out at this point. the empty hallways of the building were cold, and you slowed down to allow him to catch up with you.
with a warm, comforting hand against the small of your back, he walked along in silence. because no matter what happened, spencer would follow you.
i am only able to fit a small portion of authors here, but here are some writers here on tumblr that i especially love! i am also mentioning some unique highlights of each page as well as a personal favorite work of theirs, though it's hard to choose just one of them when everyone is so so talented ^.^
AUTHOR LIST (ALPHABETICAL)
@girllblogging777 (mon) જ⁀➴ headcanons, blurbs, *and* fics??? what's not to love??? mon is super sweet and responsive to requests, in addition to having the *cutest* aesthetic. have you read?: puppy love
@whisperedmeg (meg) જ⁀➴ the CEO of the classic character archetype series. her writing is incredibly vivid and each piece is simply a staple to the cm fandom! have you read?: the tooth fairy dilemma
in my opinion, hurt/comfort is the most underrated genre. it's usually just tagged as a sidekick to fluff or angst, but it's SO fun! here are some works in which our fave genius is the gentle, man-written-by-woman we all know and love.
there is NOTHINGGG better than kicking my feet and giggling while reading some good romance. if you are looking for spice, look no further. it's down below. (unless you're a minor. in that case, LOOK AWAY!)
sometimes, i just need a good cry. i'm HONESTLY the biggest fan of fluff out there, but even i love a good emotional rollercoaster from time to time. here are my favorite gut-wrenching stories!
my FAVORITE genre for spencer. he is just the most deserving of happiness, and i love to read fluff when i'm in need of a pick me up or already in a delusional, giddy mindset. here are my favorite escapes from reality!
WORKS (ALPHABETICAL)
puppy love જ⁀➴ a short fic in which you walk him like a dog (by @girllblogging777)
── .✦ seen some posts recently about character ai and wanted to take a moment to shout out my absolute favorite fanfic writers and their beautiful works! as someone who used to write bots, i am SO happy that i transitioned to writing fics here instead once i learned about the environmental impact of generative ai. support fanfic writers, y'all. also, remember to reblog! xx
thinking about spencer reid's child clearly being gifted enough to start school early but him refusing to enroll them at a young age in hopes that maybe, just maybe, he can protect them from the same bullying he endured
janainaart
prguitarman
stormborns
pixelskylines
romaincrisis
tangentwithtanner
kianamaiart
