summary: you wake half-convinced that yesterday was a dream, but spencer reid and his shiny new wedding ring are quick to reassure you that it was all real—and forever has never looked so good.
genre: fluff | word count: 1.2k
tags: fem!reader, husband!spencer, newlyweds, just straight fluff, spencer is a wife guy, he's so in love it's disgusting, cuddling, title from a noah kahan song (duh), not proofread
notes: i don't usually write wedding/marriage fics, but i make an exception for spencer reid. he'd be such a whimsical little wife guy oh my god i hate him.
"And the edges of your soul, I haven't seen yet. Now I'm glad I get forever to see where you end." — Noah Kahan, Forever
For a moment, you aren’t sure where you are.
A bed, obviously. You can feel the plush of the mattress hugging your hip. The covers, freshly washed, covering your sleep-leaden limbs. Something’s thumping, steady, under your head. A heartbeat murmuring sweet nothings in your ear. A pair of strong lungs. Inhaling, exhaling. An arm around your waist. A hand on your shoulder.
Your eyelids fight against the last dregs of sleep, and you squint in the unwelcome face of the sun. It spills into the room through the sheer curtains, soaking you in its warmth and blinding you with its light. You shift, stiff joints groaning in protest, and press your face into his chest.
Bells. You remember bells. Confetti; the environmentally friendly kind. A bouquet of purple flowers, frozen mid-air in a hazy memory, landing in the reluctant hands of Emily Prentiss in another.
Something moves. His fingers are in your hair now, brushing through the strands with such painful gentleness it doesn’t even feel real. This is just another later of a dream, more warm and fuzzy scenarios created by your unconscious. It has to be, because nothing that is real could possibly feel so…sacred. It’s too perfect. You feel as though you’re floating, lighter than air.
Until the ache sets in. It’s in your head, dull and heavy, dragging you back down to earth, clouding your mind with a fog that extends beyond simple drowsiness. And with it comes a sore throat. A dry mouth. Can you be hungover in a dream? Surely not, that would just be cruel.
You groan. The sound reverberates in his chest, rattles his tender heart. You hear him chuckle.
“Ugh…time?” you mumble, voice hoarse.
“Ten thirty-two— no, thirty-three,” he says in a whisper, keeping his words soft, inoffensive, like he knows your condition without you needing to complain about it. He sounds awake, and he’s smiling—you can hear it.
With great effort, you raise your head, wincing as the light hits your face. His hand reaches out, casts a shadow over your eyes.
He isn’t smiling. He’s grinning.
“…hey.”
“Hey.” He tucks some of your hair behind your ear, brown eyes turned to gold in the sunlight; honey, like his voice. “How are you feeling?”
You lean into his touch, expression melting into a lazy smile. With a gentle sigh, you let your head sink back against his chest as you murmur, “’m good.”
Spencer’s arms wrap around you, holding you tight as he presses his nose to your hair. “Just good?”
“Great,” you correct, shaking your head. “Happy. The happiest.”
“That’s better.” He kisses the top of your head. “I’d feel like a failure if my wife weren’t the happiest the morning after the ceremony.”
His wife. You swear you feel the world tilt.
“I’d have to find a way to fix that,” he adds, letting his fingers trail down your spine.
“Oh yeah?”
“Oh yeah,” he says. He’s trying to sound serious, and he isn’t doing a very good job. “That’s what Morgan kept telling me yesterday: happy wife, happy life.”
You huff out a short, breathy laugh. “And you’d take advice from Morgan?”
“Is it not true?”
“Oh, it’s true. Just…right message, wrong messenger, I guess.” You lift your head, meeting his gaze with a smile. “But I’m plenty happy. You’ve nothing to worry about there.”
“Good.” He fixes your hair again, smoothing any flyaways as he studies you with this look of intense focus, almost frowning, like he’s struggling to believe what he’s seeing, committing your every feature to memory in case you disappear. “And Morgan’s had some successful relationships.”
You hum. “Define successful for me, hon.”
“Having a favourable or desired outcome,” he says, not missing a beat. “Success is subjective, my love.”
“Mhm.” You nod slowly. “And Morgan’s idea of success is…”
“Intense, short-term relationships.”
“Right, of course. So, naturally, he’s the guy you’d go to for marriage advice.”
“I never said I sought him out,” he says, frowning. “I actually told him I wasn’t interested in any advice, or…pep talks. But he kept badgering me as I was getting ready.”
“That’s what the best man is for,” you muse with a solemn smile, “spewing unsolicited advice as he mops the sweat from your forehead.”
Spencer scoffs. “I wasn’t sweating.”
“You so were.”
“It was hot.”
“You were shitting yourself,” you say, brows raised. “Don’t lie to me, Doctor Reid.”
“Fine, Mrs Reid,” he concedes with a huff. “I may have been…shitting myself. A little bit. Figuratively.”
Mrs Reid. He’s trying to kill you.
You bite your lip, roll your eyes at the sight of his smug little smirk before trailing your fingers down his chest. Your wedding ring glimmers in the light as you draw lazy patterns along his skin. “I was shitting myself, too. Figuratively.”
“I didn’t notice,” he says. When you frown, he quickly adds, “I’m serious.”
“You’re a profiler,” you say.
“And you’re beautiful.”
He says it like it’s a fact. Concrete. Unchangeable.
You laugh. You have to; you might cry if you don’t. “And beauty is enough to render your years of profiling experience useless?”
“Only yours.”
Yup, definitely trying to kill you.
“You…” you shake your head, feeling your smile falter. It shifts into something raw, something fragile.
Spencer cups your cheek, holds you steady. Murmurs “I love you” in this agonisingly tender tone that only breaks you further.
You lean into him, closing your eyes as you admit in this small, quiet voice, “I thought it was a dream.”
“The wedding?”
“Mhm.”
“The whole thing?” he asks, amusement seeping into his tone. “Even the staff threatening to kick Morgan and Garcia out for indecency?”
“I have a…vivid imagination,” you say. You fall silent for a moment, pursing your lips, before adding, “But…I doubt I’d have been able to come up with those, um, vows of yours. You’d have made a fucking incredible renaissance poet. Proper…dramatic.”
He’s grinning again, pride swelling in his chest. “You wanna hear them again?”
“Do you want to make your wife cry?” you ask.
“Only if they’re happy wife tears.”
“Sadist.”
“I said happy tears. Come here.” He grabs your waist, shifts you so you’re lying on top of him, chest to chest. “Let me recite my vows, please.”
You glare at him, barely able to contain your smile. “You just want to show off.”
“Pshh, no.” He shakes his head adamantly. “I just want to make sure that you know just how grateful I am…that I get to be the one to spend forever with you. It’s an honour.”
The way his voice softens with each word has you closing your eyes, fighting back the stupid tears that threaten to spill if you keep looking at him. He brushes his thumb against your cheek, touch so light it feels almost reverent.
“And I want to show off, just a little.”
He laughs as you swat his hand away, hisses like you’ve hurt him. You shake your head, try to speak but your voice comes out all wobbly, so you hide your face in the crook of his neck, and you sniffle when he hugs you.
prompt list “what part of ‘I want you, and only you’ do you not understand?”
The BAU Christmas party was Penelope Garcia’s masterpiece and everyone knew it.
She’d commandeered the bullpen by four o’clock, strung lights along every cubicle partition, and enforced a strict no-work-talk policy with the kind of cheerful authority that even Hotch didn’t argue with. There was a playlist. There was a punch bowl that Rossi had contributed to with something from his private collection and then immediately warned everyone under thirty about. There were paper snowflakes taped to the glass of the conference room that Morgan claimed he hadn’t helped make and Garcia had photographic evidence proving otherwise.
It was loud and warm and smelled like cinnamon and cheap wine, and you had been doing fine.
You had been doing perfectly fine for approximately two hours.
The problem was the corner of the room near the window.
Quieter there. Less elbow-to-elbow. You’d drifted toward it somewhere around the second hour when the noise started compressing against your skull, cup of Rossi’s punch held in both hands like a prop, watching the rest of the team from a comfortable distance.
You didn’t notice Spencer drift over until he was already next to you.
“Hiding?” he asked.
“Observing.”
He made a considering sound and settled beside you, shoulder a few inches from yours, and looked out at the room the same way you were looking at it. That was something you’d learned about Spencer over two years of working alongside him — he was comfortable with parallel silence in a way most people weren’t. He didn’t fill space just to fill it.
You stood there together for a few minutes and said nothing, and it was easy.
That should have been your first warning.
The second warning came when Morgan tried to rope everyone into some kind of white elephant situation involving a gift that JJ had wrapped so aggressively no one could identify its shape, and the noise level spiked, and someone jostled you from behind hard enough that you stepped sideways directly into Spencer’s side.
He caught your elbow. Steadied you.
“Sorry,” you said automatically.
“You didn’t do anything.” He didn’t let go right away.
The room kept being loud. Garcia shrieked with laughter about something. Rossi looked long-suffering in the corner. Spencer’s hand dropped from your arm, but he stayed close, and somewhere in the reshuffling of the crowd you’d ended up even nearer to him than before without either of you technically moving.
You looked up to say something — something light, something easy — and found him already looking at you.
That happened sometimes. You’d gotten practiced at not reacting to it.
“What?” you said.
“Nothing.” He looked back at the room.
You looked back at the room.
The playlist shifted to something slower. Garcia was attempting to get Hotch to dance and he was declining with the expression of a man who respected her deeply and was not going to do that.
The third warning was the noise.
Somewhere around the two and a half hour mark the volume climbed again — Morgan had apparently won whatever the white elephant dispute was about and was celebrating loudly — and you’d leaned slightly toward Spencer just to be heard.
“I’m losing my mind a little bit,” you admitted.
He ducked his head toward yours to catch it. “Do you want to leave?”
“I can’t leave before Garcia does the toast. She’ll never forgive me.”
“Fifteen minutes, probably.” His voice was close, low, pitched just for you under the noise. “I’ll time it.”
You laughed, and he smiled, and the party crashed on around you, and none of that was the problem.
The problem was what happened after.
The toast came and went — Garcia cried a little, Morgan put his arm around her, Hotch looked quietly fond in the way he reserved for moments he’d never admit mattered to him. You clapped. You meant it. And then the music came back up and people started dispersing and you turned to Spencer to say something ordinary, something like good party or see you Monday, and he was already looking at you with that expression again.
Not unreadable. You’d told yourself for months that it was unreadable. It wasn’t.
“Can I tell you something?” he said.
The noise of the room seemed to pull back slightly, the way it does when something shifts in the atmosphere and your body registers it before your brain does.
“Sure,” you said, like it was nothing.
He looked at you for a moment — not hesitating, you realized. Deciding. There was a difference, with Spencer. Hesitation was when he second-guessed. This was something he’d already made up his mind about and was simply choosing when to say.
“I’m in love with you.”
The party kept going. Someone laughed across the room. The playlist didn’t care.
You stared at him.
“I don’t say that to make things strange,” he continued, quiet and even, like he’d thought about the phrasing. “I’m not expecting anything. I just — I’ve been carrying it around for a long time and I think you deserve to know, because you’re perceptive and I think some part of you has noticed and I’d rather you hear it plainly than keep trying to figure out what I mean.” A small pause. “So. That’s what I mean.”
You opened your mouth.
Nothing came out.
Spencer held your gaze for one more moment, and then he did something that completely undid you — he nodded, just once, like you’d said something reasonable, like your silence was an acceptable response he’d already accounted for, and then he stepped back gently into the noise of the party and let you breathe.
Emily materialized at your elbow approximately four seconds later with the timing of someone who had absolutely been watching from across the room.
“So,” she said.
“Not a word,” you said.
She held up both hands, expression perfectly neutral, and ruined it completely by smiling into her drink.
You didn’t talk to Spencer again for the rest of the party.
Not because it was awkward — or not only because of that — but because every time you looked at him he was already settled somewhere else, talking to Rossi about something, laughing at whatever Morgan had said, and he looked completely normal, completely himself, and you couldn’t reconcile the person who had just said I’m in love with you with the same steady, unbothered calm.
You left early. Said your goodbyes to Garcia, who hugged you for slightly too long and said nothing suspicious whatsoever.
In the lobby you stood very still for a moment.
I’ve been carrying it around for a long time, he’d said. Plainly. Like it was simply true.
You looked at the ceiling.
Oh, you thought. Oh, that’s a problem.
___________
You took the stairs for three days.
On the first day you told yourself you needed the exercise.
On the second day you didn’t bother with an excuse.
On the third day Spencer was already at his desk when you came in, and he looked up, and you looked away first, and you thought: you are being a coward, and went to make coffee.
The breakroom was empty except for the two of you, a few minutes later.
Which felt like either perfect timing or the worst possible luck — you hadn’t decided yet.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said.
“I’ve been busy.”
“You took the stairs this morning specifically so you wouldn’t share the elevator with me.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it. “The elevator was crowded.”
“There was one other person in it.” A beat. “Morgan. Who would have been delighted to witness whatever you were afraid was going to happen.”
“Spencer—”
“I meant it.” His voice was quiet, but there was nothing uncertain about it. “What I said at the party. I meant all of it.”
There it was. Out in the open now, no ambient noise to hide behind, no crowd to dissolve into. Just the hum of the refrigerator and Spencer’s eyes, which had always been too perceptive for your comfort.
“You don’t have to—” you started.
“I’m not doing it out of obligation.”
“I just mean—” You pressed your fingers to your temple. “Spencer, you could have anyone. You know that, right? You’re — you’re brilliant, and you’re kind, and you’re—”
“I don’t want anyone.” He said it plainly, like a fact he’d already proven. “I want you.”
The words landed somewhere behind your sternum and stayed there.
“You haven’t thought it through,” you said, and you hated how thin your voice sounded. “We work together. If it went wrong—”
“I’ve thought about very little else for eight months.”
That stopped you.
“Eight—” You stared at him. “Eight months?”
“Approximately.” He shifted his weight slightly. “I can give you a more precise figure if that would help or hurt your case, I’m not sure which.”
“Spencer.” You exhaled through your nose. “I’m not — I’m not an easy person. I’m guarded, and I get in my own head, and I’ve walked away from things before they could fall apart because it felt smarter than—”
“I know.” He took a step toward you, and you didn’t move back. “I’ve noticed. I’ve been watching you for eight months, remember?”
Something about the way he said it — not possessive, not unsettling, just honest, the way Spencer always was when he stopped filtering himself — made your chest ache.
“You’re going to catalog all my worst habits,” you said quietly.
“I already have.” The corner of his mouth shifted. “I find most of them endearing.”
“Most.”
“You’re terrible at accepting help. That one frustrates me a little.”
A surprised breath left you — almost a laugh. You pressed your lips together. Spencer watched it happen with something careful and warm in his expression, like he was filing it away.
“What if it ruins us?” you asked. It came out smaller than you intended.
He was quiet for a moment. Not the deflecting kind of quiet — the kind where he was actually weighing it, taking your fear seriously instead of brushing past it.
“What if it doesn’t?” he said.
Simple. No guarantee, no statistical reassurance, no empirical argument. Just that. What if it doesn’t.
“That’s not a real answer,” you said.
“It’s the only honest one I have.” He held your gaze. “I’m not going to promise you nothing goes wrong. I can’t. But I can tell you that I meant what I said at that party, and I’ve meant it every day since, and I’ll keep meaning it.” A pause. “What part of I want you, and only you do you not understand?”
The question wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t frustrated. It was almost — bewildered. Like your resistance was the one variable in his equation that genuinely didn’t compute.
And something in that — in the soft bafflement of it, in the fact that he was baffled, that your hesitation read to him as a genuine mystery rather than a reasonable verdict — cracked something open in you that you’d been holding very carefully shut.
“All of it,” you admitted. “Honestly? All of it.”
He nodded slowly. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“I have time.” He reached past you for his forgotten coffee, close enough that you could have closed the distance without trying. He didn’t close it for you. He just stood there, cup in hand, watching you with those eyes that had always noticed too much. “I’ll keep being clearer, if that helps.”
“You’re very annoying,” you told him.
“I know.” A pause. “Is that a yes?”
You looked at him. Really looked — at the hopeful, careful, slightly-terrified set of his expression under all that composed patience. At eight months of something he’d been carrying without a word. At a Christmas party confession you’d spent three days running from, and a man who had simply waited.
“It’s a not a no,” you said. “Which is — significant. For me.”
Spencer Reid smiled. It was a small one, the kind he didn’t hand out freely, and it hit you somewhere low and warm.
Summary: You came in to work every day with a fun fact, determined to catch the BAU's genius with one that he wouldn't know (friends to lovers, co-workers to lovers, mutual feelings, fluff, confession)
Note: my spencer reid debut fic <3 sorry if there are any inaccuracy, just started rewatching after 3 years
Word count: 10.9k (sorry)
“Small facts lead to great knowing” - Patrick Rothfuss (2011)
“I can’t believe anybody would do something like this,” you commented whilst looking down at the two documents in your hands—your thoroughly highlighted case dossier and your finished report. Every new case always exhibits unimaginable horror and unfortunately, there will always be something worse than your current worst.
You turned to Spencer whilst perched cross-legged on the edge of his table.
The corner of the genius’s mouth curled at your words. They were the very same ones that sprouted daily despite the nature of your job. But to Spencer, there was a strange comfort in such small repetitive murmurs of disbelief.
“I gotta agree with Rossi. This job really includes some of the worst lunatics out there.” You sighed before straightening up at a sudden thought. “Actually, fun fact…” You noticed the way your words peeled Spencer’s attention from his report. He finally glanced up, eager for the second half of that sentence.
“The word lunatic was invented based on the belief that mental illnesses were affected by moon phases.” You beamed at the idea of potentially providing your genius friend with new knowledge.
“Yeah, and it actually originated from the Latin word ‘lunaticus,’ which means moonstruck or influenced by the moon. The word was first used for conditions like epilepsy or overall just madness,” Spencer replied, perking up at the thought of a potential conversation about this.
The excited smile on your face instantly faltered and you groaned in feigned annoyance. Perhaps you should have known better than to think you could out-fact Spencer and say something he had not already known.
“Is there anything you don’t know, Spence?” you glowered jokingly.
“Well, it’s hard when you’re a child prodigy and genius.” You let out a scoff-like laugh at Spencer’s cocky admission, but you knew he was joking. Despite his IQ of 187, Spencer rarely ever announced himself a genius. It was a title dubbed by those around him. You knew if you had Spencer’s brain, though, you would hardly ever stay as humble as him.
“I’ll get you someday.”
Your declaration drew a snort from another work desk and you twisted around to face the source of such a faithless sound.
“You don’t believe in me, Derek?” You arched a brow, your competitiveness rising to the surface.
“Sweet girl, I believe in you for many things, but this is just not one of them.”
“But surely there is one single fact out there that Spencer doesn’t know about.” Penelope piped up from next to Derek, defending you.
“We’re talking about the same Spencer, right? Spencer Reid? Three PhDs and an IQ of Einstein?” JJ spoke as she made her way down the bullpen.
“Actually, there is no way of measuring Einstein’s IQ as he never took the test, so to say that—” Derek quickly interrupted Spencer.
“Come on, pretty boy. She’s backing you up.”
“Sounds like grounds to start a betting pool going,” Rossi spoke up as he approached the whole group, briefcase in one hand, car keys in the other. “$20 says she’ll do it within four months.”
“I think she can do it within three months.” Emily chimed up from her desk.
“I’m placing my bet on eight months,” Penelope added confidently.
“Alright, and if she can’t do it within one year, JJ and I will split the win,” Derek announced before directing his next words to you, “Stakes are on, sweetheart.” He winked.
“Yeah, yeah. I got it.” You rolled your eyes before turning towards Spencer, declaring to him with exaggerated cockiness, “I’m gonna get you real soon, just wait.”
“You’re welcome to try.” The challenging glint in Spencer’s eyes met your own. Again, you knew better than to think that you would know something Spencer did not already know. He was practically the master of facts. But, unfortunately, you were incredibly bad at quitting.
So, let the challenge begin.
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“Did you know that Australia is wider than the moon?” you questioned the second you saw Spencer enter the office the next morning. “Fun fact.”
“Yes, diameter-wise. Australia is almost 4,000 kilometres wide, while the moon’s diameter is nearly 3,500 kilometres. However, in terms of their masses, the moon is still larger.” You sighed dramatically at Spencer’s reply before spinning your chair towards your computer, turning the device on.
“And day one status: unsuccessful,” you grunted to yourself, catching Spencer’s grin from your peripheral vision.
“Oh? It’s gonna be daily?”
“You bet your ass it’s gonna be. There’s a betting pool and I’m unfortunately too competitive for my own good.” You caught the amusement dancing in Spencer’s gaze.
“Well then, good luck.”
“Won’t need it.”
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“Did you know a cloud can weigh like a million pounds?” You crossed your arms while peering at the cotton candy-like objects floating amidst the bright blue summer sky. “Fun fact.”
Both of you had your bulletproof vests on, leaning against a car while waiting for JJ to finish speaking to the press before driving back to the precinct. Another case wrapped. Another unsub locked up.
Under the nice weather, you had your cap and Spencer’s sunglasses on, having forgotten yours. He had heavily insisted so, even after you had declined a handful of times.
You turned and looked at Spencer briefly. Though, for a split second, your body stilled as the sun played in his favor, casting nice highlights to his woodsy colored locks. The light crinkle of his nose and his squinting eyes made your lips curl, cause once again, it showcased just how self-sacrificing Spencer can be when it came to the people close to him.
“Yeah, because they contain different states of matter like trillions of condensed water droplets and ice crystals. Its weight is equivalent to the world’s largest aircraft working at full capacity. Though despite its heaviness, clouds have lower density in comparison to the dry air around them, enabling them to float in the same way as oil floats on water.” Spencer tried to maintain eye contact with you despite the blaring sun shining into his eyes.
“Hmm…” you pursed your lips before removing your navy blue cap and placing it on your friend’s head. This cast a shadow over his eyes, blocking the harsh sun from blinding his vision. “Beautiful weather to fail at winning this fun fact thing again.”
Spencer didn’t reject the clothing item.
Some time in the history of human beings, the act of sporting others’ clothing items—especially of the opposite gender—had been made to seem important. Spencer has never understood the significance in such a small exchange. But as your hat landed on his head, Spencer felt an added weight that was beyond the small clothing item.
Neither did he have it in him to adjust how you had left the cap on him, even if it didn’t sit on his head perfectly.
“I still have time to get you,” you continued after a moment of silence.
“359 days left.”
“More than enough.”
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
The clock was close to hitting 11pm. The whole team was taking a short break for a fresh perspective. Most were on their phones or taking a quick nap, but Spencer and you were playing a round of cards.
“Did you know ketchup used to be medicine? Fun fact.”
Both Emily’s and Derek’s watchful gaze panned from you to Spencer, anticipating his reaction to your daily shot at winning the bet.
“Around the 1830s, yeah. They marketed it as a cure for various ailments such as indigestion and diarrhea.”
Emily instantly groaned at Spencer’s reply while Derek snickered. Once again, Spencer already knew the information you provided, just like the 13 previous times.
“See? Not a single thing he doesn’t know,” Derek chirped up, earning him a glare from the co-worker beside him.
You finally placed your next card down, instantly eying Spencer, wanting a read of his reaction to your play. There was a distant look in his eyes, a clear indication that he was taking this game just as seriously as you were.
Your eyes swept over the rest of your opponent. The un-neat edges in his usually tidy work attire and the way his hair stuck in different directions had your lips curling. They were details that only unveil during late work hours after a long day. But strangely enough, there was something endearing about the slight tiredness in his eyes and the way his cardigan hung disheveledly on him.
“I won.”
Your eyes snapped to the pile of cards on the table at Spencer’s declaration.
“What?! No way. You must have cheated.”
“Now, now, don’t be a sore loser just because pretty boy over here won,” Derek teased you, despite also highly suspecting that Reid had cheated.
“Are we talking about the same pretty boy who is banned from many Vegas casinos because of his expert skill in counting cards?” JJ countered, placing her phone down.
Your co-workers’ discourse began fading out of your focus as Spencer took out a ticket from his bag and handed it to you with a cheeky grin. With hesitation, you took the paper begrudgingly. You knew you had to hold your end of the deal. You had lost, after all.
You glanced back at the winner of the card game, catching his toothy grin at your sulking manners. Against all maturity, you poked your tongue out in petulance, but such childish action had Spencer laughing quietly in his spot, eyes gleaming with fondness.
“Sore loser.”
“Cheater.”
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
Hotch halted in his tracks upon spotting you and Reid in the break room.
Both of your heads were side by side, just a hair short from touching, fighting to have adequate sight of the newspaper that the two of you were sharing. Each of you also sported a pen in hand, scribbling hastily onto the delicate paper with vigorous competitiveness.
The unit chief entered to refill his coffee, though his eyes continued investigating you two. In the narrow gap between your heads, Hotch caught sight of Spencer rapidly filling out a crossword puzzle. Meanwhile, just as fast, you were solving a Sudoku piece that resided on the same page.
“Did you know, like fingerprints, people also have unique tongue prints?” you murmured, eyes still glued onto the puzzle in front of you. “Fun fact.”
“Yeah, humans have unique color, tongue shape, and textural features, therefore making it a great form of identification. However, we currently do not have the suitable technology to capture intricate surface details of tongue prints. Also, switching costs are high partially because the idea of having to stick one's tongue out in public for authentication can be seen as rather awkward, unhygienic, and undignifying.”
You pursed your lips at another unsuccessful day. But such expression vanished when you dropped your pen on the table and declared with unadulterated joy:
“Done!”
Your victory drew a defeated noise from Spencer.
“Imagine though, having to stick your tongue out at airport immigration and place it onto a public scanner or something like that.” You cackled at Spencer's grimace and the way his body slightly shivered from such a mental image. Eventually though, your laugh reduced to a teasing smile.
Spencer’s gaze lowered to the little crinkle that appeared around your eyes as you smiled, before holding eye contact with you. Spencer knew there was no such thing as “eyes twinkling,” but you had him doubting that scientifically established truth for a second. It was lighting and he knew that, but he had to admit that he could finally somewhat understand why poets and writers were so obsessed with dedicating lines towards such a tiny detail.
Because even though there was no reason for him to, his own lips began to curl, mirroring the smile on your face.
From behind you both, Aaron Hotchner took a sip of his coffee before departing the room. Though on his way out, his eyes glinted a knowing look, while his lips lifted just the slightest bit before schooling back to a neutral expression again.
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“Did you know that back then, when raising a toast, people would literally drop a piece of toast into their wine?” you blurted out the second you slid yourself into the empty seat opposite Spencer at his breakfast table. Never have you ever skipped free hotel breakfast and today was no exception.
“Well, hello to you too.” Spencer grinned at your straight-to-business behavior.
He carefully placed the coffee he made for you into your hand—a casual daily routine. You took a good whiff of the comforting aroma before humming at the first taste. It was exactly how you liked it: a dash of milk along with two and a quarter teaspoon of sugar.
To date, Spencer has never asked how you liked your coffee.
He simply has always gotten it right.
It was not hard to guess that he had learnt your preferences from watching you make your coffee in the past. But you could not help but wonder if he took mental notes on others the same way he did with you. However, like every other time, you dismissed it as an occupational habit. Every member has been trained to be observant and notice little details. Spencer probably knew everybody’s coffee preferences.
“It actually originated from Ancient Rome, and back then, toast was an act to honor the gods and people would pour wine onto the floor. However, the custom evolved in many ways over time, depending on geographic regions. Around the 1600s, it became a common custom in England and this is where people would put a piece of spiced toast into their wine. They did it to improve the flavor of their beverage and also to “toast” to good health.”
Spencer caught your hum of satisfaction at the coffee and instantly felt pleased.
Science has long documented humans as naturally validation-seeking creatures. Your existence often humbled him from thinking he was not a recurring participant in that particular human instinct.
His eyes fell from you to your coffee—a particular mix that has ingrained itself into his memory since your first meeting. Funny that some time since then, he could no longer look at the beverage without ever thinking of you.
Neither could Spencer for the life of him recite the coffee order of anybody else at the BAU.
“36 days down…” you murmured, already picturing yourself rummaging the internet for more fun facts tonight.
“Maybe tomorrow.” The words came out softly, almost encouragingly. You hummed before matching his tone.
“Maybe.”
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“Flies rub their hands as a sanitizing act, rather clean for an insect commonly associated with dirty places, no?” you murmured before peering up from your book whilst curled up in your seat on the BAU’s jet.
“Yes, it’s a self-grooming act. They do this primarily for two reasons. First and foremost, it’s because their legs are their flavour receptors, so they rub their front legs to ensure they can taste when eating. The other motivation is to remove dust and debris, therefore, ensuring survival.”
Your bottom lip jutted out slightly at another unsuccessful attempt.
“I’ll get you tomorrow…” you murmured with a teasing smile before re-immersing yourself in the fantasy world of your current novel.
Reading has become your escapism and method of self-grounding prior to any case. You tried to plunge into fictional worlds while flying to prepare yourself for the terrible realities that accompanied upcoming cases. Though at one point, Spencer started joining in. But instead of having his own book, he would lean over and scan your current page with unrealistic speed while you leisurely let each letter sink in. It became a routine that occupied your journey from Quantico, whereas on the way back, Spencer and you maintained your tradition of engaging in chess matches.
Spencer spotted your finger flipping the page once more and his eyes instantly swept over the printed words hastily.
Twenty thousand words per minute. That was Spencer’s known reading speed, which meant in merely two seconds or three, he was already done with the two pages in front of you both. As always, you were still reading at your own pace, unhurried. He knew he could adopt a slower speed to enjoy your chosen fictional literature. But lately, he found himself in a hurry, rushing himself to finish pages in a way that made him think maybe he was now above his previously established reading speed.
Why?
His gaze flicked over to you, mulling over the familiar details that made you, you. He studied the way your fingers trace the fore-edge of the book mindlessly, lingering on the way you tease your lips with your teeth as you registered the adventure that the story was taking you on. Spencer caught the slight shift in the space between your eyebrows and how they slightly twitch according to plot progression, displaying your commitment to your reading content.
Spencer would not classify himself as a people watcher, despite his necessary observant and analytical traits as a profiler. Yet, somehow, watching you had become one of his favorite quiet activities. In your little habits were his comfort. In moments when cases were overwhelming, his eyes have made a tendency to land on you. The spike in his heartbeat would normalize, whilst rapid thoughts would regulate. It was only in moments when Spencer would get caught by you that he would tear his gaze away sheepishly, before attempting to pretend that he was looking elsewhere instead.
The sound of paper rustling pulled Spencer out of his mind, and he instantly plunged himself into the same self-established cycle again.
And despite his fondness for literature, for once, it did not hold a candle in his eyes.
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“Cows have best friends, how great is that?”
Spencer stopped eating his ice cream the second he spotted someone passing the two of you in a cow onesie, giving away why you decided on that particular fun fact. His eyes fell back on you, glimmering with amusement.
“Yes, cows do have a ‘best friend’ who they tend to share spaces and rest side by side with. Research shows that when separated, these cows would show signs of stress and anxiety with higher heart rates.”
You hummed at that. By now, you were used to his immediate expansion on your facts, no longer surprised or disappointed every time he added onto your words.
In fact, you fondly looked forward to hearing what he had to say about whatever fact you would sprout. There was a deep sense of appreciation that you have grown for this challenge. You felt like, intellectually, your general knowledge had expanded immensely, both from researching fun facts to tell Spencer and also from the informative responses that you would receive from him.
“You know, cows also can develop what some may refer to as ‘accents.’ Research observed variations in their moos based on different regions and herds.” Spencer leaned closer to you before adding cheekily, “Fun fact.”
“Nuh uh, don’t go stealing my line. You’re not allowed to put me out of business.”
This tore a laugh out of Spencer, and you immediately bit back a smile at such a sound.
If humans have the ability to bottle noises for keepsake, you know now what sound you would try to capture.
Surprisingly, this was only the second time that Spencer and you had spent time together one-on-one out of work.
With the working hours at the BAU that forced you and all your co-workers to be in close proximity for an extensive amount of time, you tend to allocate your scarce free time to those who were outside of your work circle. But something about spending time with Spencer today had struck you with an epiphany:
You really, really wanted to see Spencer outside of work more often.
Both your phones started ringing at the same time.
“Penelope, is everything okay?” you answered quietly.
“Emily?” Spencer whispered at the same time into his phone.
After a few seconds, you both ended your respective phone calls before slowly turning to face each other again. You scanned yours and Spencer’s outfit before sighing.
“There’s not enough time to go home and change.” The devastation in your voice was imminent.
“I know.”
A few minutes later, both of you entered the office, and almost instantly, the noise level declined significantly as the whole team paused their actions. You winced, knowing immediately that you two were about to be the butt of many incoming jokes.
“Whoa, what time period did you guys travel back from?” Emily teased.
“We were at a convention, okay?” You huffed, picking up your go-bag from under your desk for a change of clothes.
“And you two are dressed up as…?” Rossi crossed his arms, undoubtedly amused.
The team scanned over both of your outfits. Spencer was wearing a brown fedora hat, an oxblood colored corduroy jacket, and grey pants. Despite the only semi-chilly weather, he also sported a colorful striped knitted scarf around his neck. As for you, you were in an all pink attire, but what stood out was your long pink coat, high pink boots, and long white scarf.
“The fourth doctor and Romana II, from Doctor Who,” Spencer answered, grabbing his go bag.
Derek’s eyes comedically bulged out at that, and he immediately spun his chair towards you. “Blink twice if Reid is blackmailing you with something to make you go to this convention with him.” You laughed at his remark.
“Listen, remember the card game I lost two months ago? That’s why I had to go, but when I actually started the show, I really enjoyed it.” You raised your hands in surrender.
“Oh, we lost another one. She got Reid-ified,” Derek exclaimed dramatically before placing a hand on his chest in jest heartbreak, grinning at your eye roll.
By now, Spencer had returned to your side with his go-bag. Though just as you two turned around to head off and change, an abrupt flash halted you both in your steps. Blinking away the after-effect of the blinding light, you saw Penelope with her phone facing you two and a cheeky grin on her face.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Delete that,” you immediately instructed, hands on your hips while your brows furrowed in fussiness. You then sucked in a deep breath and used your hand to comb through your hair before a smile broke your feigned annoyed expression. “I was not ready.”
Then, with dramatic flair, you posed properly for the camera, grabbing Spencer’s scarf exaggeratedly with both hands while tugging him lightly.
Spencer was unsure if his knees had buckled due to a slight loss of balance or from your proximity. He glanced at the camera, face slightly flushed, before witnessing another flash go off, evidencing his blush and putting it on record.
Your hands were gone from his scarf like a breeze.
“Alright, I’m gonna go change now.” By the time Spencer registered your words, you were already gone. All that was left at the spot you previously occupied was his attention. Spencer's eyes eventually moved when he heard a quiet giggle from Penelope, who was indescribably entertained by the dazed look on his face.
The tech expert slowly angled her phone towards Spencer to show what she had captured, and she carefully observed Spencer’s contemplative gaze. His eyes landed on you first, and they softened at the sight of your beaming face. They then traced the slope of your smile and the crinkle of your eyes before reluctantly trailing down to your hands and the way they bossily clung onto his scarf.
The sentiment of pictures has always been just a concept to Spencer Reid. He does understand the logic behind people’s attachment to colored captures of moments and why people have ‘important’ photos in their wallets or have framed physical copies. But personally, he rarely ever practiced it. Yet, in this precise moment, he suddenly wanted to begin.
Without even looking at himself in the photo, Spencer murmured to Penelope:
“Can you send that to me, please? Thank you.”
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“Where is she?” Derek’s gaze darted up to his friend. One glance at Spencer and the man already knew who he was referring to.
“Garcia said she called in sick this morning. Why?”
“Nothing.”
Derek scanned over Spencer from head to toe properly this time. Realisation flashed through his eyes before the man smirked as he looked back down at his work.
Ah, the perks of being a profiler.
“Sure, pretty boy.”
“What was that loo—”
The sound of Spencer’s phone ringing interrupted his question. He took the device out of his pocket, and the phone almost flew out of his hand when he saw your name flashing on the screen. He immediately picked up and placed the device beside his ear, breathing out your name in greeting.
Instead of your usual cheery tone, Spencer was met with a muffled voice and snifflings.
Immediately, his body stiffened.
“Are you okay?” He was by his desk within seconds. His fingers grazed over his jacket, as if prepared to scoop the clothing up and dash out of the office if your answer indicated any distress.
“My nose is blocked. Both sides. It’s horrendous,” then came a dramatic sigh, “I’m becoming a mouth breather, Spence.”
Your melodrama tore a laugh from Spencer’s throat.
Derek’s lips curled discreetly at the noise.
“Anyway, don’t think you can escape your daily fun fact just because I’m not physically in the office.” Spencer was glad you were not physically with him, because if you were, you would have seen the idiotic grin stretching his face. But how could he not smile at your stubborn resilience, and the cute sound of your nasally voice that was slightly more high-pitched than normal.
“You’re sick, and you took a day off work, but not off the fun fact thing?”
“In sickness and in health, as they say.”
Spencer accidentally snorted at your words and immediately cleared his throat in an attempt to cover it.
Derek’s brows scrunched at that.
“Apparently, while wired to specific scientific machines and whatnot, two lucid dreamers can have two-way communication in real time. How cool is that?” Spencer hummed fondly at your words before sitting down, his plan to flee from office hours long gone.
“That’s quite a recent fun fact. The study was recently concluded just about two years ago,” his voice came out soft as he focused on any sound that the technological device beside his ear could carry over from your end.
He caught your hum, though the sound resembled the same one you always did while sitting next to him on the jet as the team flew back to Quantico. The noise that often preceded the soft landing of your head on his shoulder and the way he’d sit straighter up to accommodate you entirely despite his germaphobia-led touch aversion.
“You should sleep and rest,” he whispered, despite wanting to hear your voice for longer. But selflessness came easy when you were in consideration.
Spencer carefully began listing all the things you ought to do later to get better. But halfway through, he noticed the lack of noise from the other end, except for your rhythmic breathing, signaling your sound asleep state. Spencer sighed before removing the phone from his ear. He stared at the device in long contemplation before clicking the end call button.
Finally placing down the device that signified his only contact with you today, Spencer flipped open today’s case dossier. However, he found himself re-reading the first sentence over and over again. His eyes kept scanning over the same words, and he felt the way they slid past his comprehension the same way small external details occasionally would escape his notice whenever he spent time with you.
Spencer’s mind kept trailing back to the phone call and to you.
It’s familiarity—he tried to tell himself. Humans were, afterall, creatures of habit, and considering you have been swirled into his daily routine like a necessity, it made sense that the lack of your presence had set him off balance.
Eventually, Spencer got up and went to the break room for coffee. But the second he opened the cupboard and his eyes landed on your mug, he felt his mouth run dry.
For the past one and a half years, he has always made two cups of coffee instead of one at the start of each day.
His eyes darted to his mug right next to yours. The idea of separating them sent some sort of ache in his heart, even if logically they were just ceramic vessels.
Perhaps he had mislabeled what missing someone meant all along, because your absence was bringing a hollowness that nobody had managed to carve out of him before. It was the kind of emptiness that made him feel incomplete, as if a piece of himself was not with him. Yet, as opposed to the expected numbness that often accompanied such a feeling, Spencer felt every second of your absence with a constant stinging ache that felt too akin to withdrawal symptoms.
Eventually, Spencer shut the cupboard and returned to his desk, coffee-less.
That evening after work, Spencer made a detour instead of going straight home, missing the way his friends huddled together, exchanging hushed whispers about his departure.
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
Twenty two hours, forty eight minutes, and thirty one seconds.
Spencer witnessed as time quietly slipped through the cracks of his remaining strength.
The whole bullpen lacked the life his work family usually colored in. The janitor had long shut off the main lights, so the only thing illuminating the space near Spencer was his desk lamp. Everybody else had gone home except for Hotch, but the unit chief was in his office, leaving Spencer as the last man standing in the bullpen.
After a few more ticks, Spencer finally tore his gaze from the timing instrument and glided his vision back down to the pen in his hand, forcing it to ink his unfinished report, but words refused to string together.
Spencer’s free hand began tapping his desk rhythmically in a pathetic attempt to comfort himself.
Twenty two hours, fifty one minutes, and twenty one seconds.
Spencer wanted to say that it didn’t matter. Why should it? But he knew damn well that the answer was because the team mattered to him.
However, perspective was truly a funny thing. Someone could be your number one priority, and you barely just made it in their list.
Spencer averted his gaze from the unfinished report to the brand new photo frame on his desk, where a captured version of the recent memory of you two as Doctor Who characters resided.
It did not take a genius to see that you two were closer to one another than with others on the team. However, the fun fact challenge had truly unlocked another level of bond. It was the kind of connection that meant he had started placing you above the others, a position that implied he also expected more from you, cause perhaps he thought you had also valued him just as much as he treasured you in his mind.
So as much as the whole team was the source of his dismay, there was a spotlight reserved for your absence, one that was beyond glaring and punched his guts in ways that others could not.
His eyes traced your face in the photograph again, like they had done every morning since he had gotten the picture framed.
Oftentimes, you could never be absolutely sure where you stand in someone’s life.
Twenty two hours, fifty nine minutes, and ten seconds.
A resigned breath escaped the narrow gap between his lips.
With more effort than it usually took, Spencer got on his feet, hoping that another cup of coffee would be the cure for his inefficiency. He slowly placed more weight on one side of his body to turn around. At the same time, Spencer began rubbing his face in hopes that exhaustion and melancholy would push themselves aside for a brief moment so that he could finish this impending task.
When Spencer finally reopened his eyes to navigate the darkness, he froze at the sight that was once behind him.
Eight steps away was you, looking like a deer caught in headlights.
Then came your escaped nervous laughter, like you were scared of screwing up, but that was only because you were unaware that you could almost never do wrong in Spencer’s eyes. His heart—which Spencer’s brain has been having a harder time controlling lately—provided you with a much larger margin for error than anybody else.
Your gentle tone filled the fragile silence that was intertwined with suspense.
“Fun fact, birthday cakes are traditionally round as an Ancient Greek tradition to resemble the moon for the goddess Artemis.” Your eyes crinkled as your lips curled into that familiar smile that had previously held Spencer powerless on numerous occasions. “Happy Birthday, Spence.”
There you were, cake in hand after a long day of work on a gruesome case.
There you were, with a homemade cake after a long day of him thinking everybody had forgotten his birthday, or more importantly, that you had forgotten.
But maybe his probability was not entirely against him.
“I know I’m quite late, but trust me, there’s an explanation. When I got to the office this morning, I realized that I had forgotten your cake at home. I was planning to grab it after work, but the case kept us all back so late, and then traffic was super bad because of a concert today. But hey, I got the cake now, and I really hope you like it.”
You peered down at your own baking product and the slightly wonky penmanship before turning your eyes back onto Spencer.
“Also, since it’s your birthday, I’ll give you a bonus fun fact. There are roughly 30,000 people who have their birthdays on October 12th in the States, but…”
Your voice fell quiet as your eyes diverted back to the cake again.
“You’re my favorite October 12th.”
And right at that second, all of Spencer’s previous attempts at rationalising his feelings via scientific explanations collapsed. For once, science could no longer shield him, because as much as it was a field built on facts of concrete evidence, there was also an undeniable truth: he liked you.
It might not be rational, but it was still a fact, and that alone terrified Spencer.
And while he was your favorite October 12th, you were his favorite every day.
Spencer glanced down at the handmade cake and the singular purple candle pierced in the center. The tiny flame provided just enough light for the space between you both. His eyes then flicked back onto you, and they softened.
God, you were so clueless about the effect your actions have on him and his whole world.
One breath extinguished the fire, and grey smoke fluttered into the air.
Then, for the first time since he saw you five minutes ago, Spencer managed to form the only words he felt were worthy enough of your time.
“Thank you.”
Even if the significance behind those words didn’t reach you today, it was okay. But they carry the weight of his whole heart and every unspoken reason behind his gratefulness.
Thank you for not forgetting about him today. Thank you for always being so kind and paying attention to the details about him. Thank you for being such an important part of his life. Thank you for choosing the exact career path that you did to lead you to him. Thank you for existing.
And someday, maybe Spencer Reid will gather enough courage to tell you all of this.
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
You halted in your step, and almost immediately Spencer followed suit. His eyesight followed yours, and he instantly knew what you were gonna ask from him.
“Come on, can you play for me? Please?” you urged, and it didn’t take more than your pleading face to make him approach the instrument that lay abandoned in the corner of the hotel where the whole team was staying.
Saying “no” became a significantly harder task for Spencer ever since he realised what kind of position his feelings were in when it came to you. It especially felt like an impossible task when your words came in that pleading tone and the smile that had him wishing stopping time was one of his abilities.
You followed Spencer and leaned against the instrument eagerly. You observed as he lightly cracked his knuckles, eying the mixture of ivory and ink-dark keys with a calculative gaze before placing his fingers delicately on them while his foot pressed gently on one of the pedals at the base.
For a moment, you wondered what Spencer would play. Maybe one of the classical pieces he liked a lot. Perhaps Bach? Or—
A familiar tune overtook the pleasant quietness in the empty hotel lobby, and recognition struck you with every flawless execution of each note.
First off, you knew he was a liar, saying he only dabbled in piano. But what caught you off-guard was hearing the piano version of your favorite song.
It was things like this that made you conclude that Spencer Reid was one of the sweetest individuals you have ever had the privilege to know. From making you coffee daily to hunting down first editions of your favorite books (the most recent one in which he handed over along with soup the day you got sick and were off work). Now, he was learning your favorite song on the piano.
Lucky felt like an inadequate word to describe your position in life when Spencer was in the equation.
Only when he finished the very modern composition did you speak up.
“I thought you only listened to classical?”
“I…did,” was all that came out of Spencer’s mouth, but it was enough for you to catch his implication that he had learnt this song specifically on the piano for you.
Spencer sniffled, diverting his gaze from you shyly as he inspected the keys in front of him again.
Ever since his birthday, Spencer could constantly feel the urge to confess right on the tip of his tongue while his lips trembled in self-control to keep them to himself for now. According to the internet and its various articles, he should try to ‘woo’ you first, and hence these actions instead of confessing right away. He wondered if you got his message. He wondered if you could tell this was his version of flirting. However, Spencer also knew that he had accidentally portrayed himself as an extremely sweet friend from your perspective, so thoughtful actions with the aim of impressing you romantically were most likely ruled as platonic gestures.
You began toying with the ring on your middle finger, the flattery from his sweet action manifested itself through the heat beneath your cheeks. For the first time in your almost three years of friendship with Spencer, you were struck by a minor nerve-wracking sensation. There was also a fleeting stutter in your chest that you decisively ignored.
You moved on with a quiet murmur.
“You know, humans owe squirrels a lot. They have planted at least thousands of trees.” You gave him a soft smile when his eyes met yours again. “It’s accidental, but no less a noble act contributing to the environment.”
“Yeah, they would bury nuts for later usage, but forget their locations. Many forgotten nuts can grow into trees, therefore, contributing to forest regeneration.”
“Anddd another fun fact failure.” You groaned, though your expression melted into a smile when you heard Spencer chuckle at that.
“We should head up. It’s getting late.”
You nodded in agreement and began walking, but looked back briefly at Spencer. “But it’s not too late for an episode of Doctor Who, right?”
An outstretched grin spread across Spencer’s face at your words.
“Never.”
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“No way.” You were speechless as you made way out of Spencer’s car, staring at the building in front of you in disbelief. “Don’t tell me…”
“Yeah, it’s for your favorite film,” Spencer confirmed your suspicion.
“So, it didn’t matter that I had lost, huh?”
Shortly after your Doctor Who convention together, Spencer had invited you to this event that was two and a half months after. Though he insisted on keeping the details a secret, relaying only the dress code—smart casual, but whatever you were most comfortable with.
The secretive factor of the whole ordeal had you guessing in suspense for the entire two months, but now that you were here, you fully understood why.
This was the event that you both would have gone to instead of the Doctor Who convention if you had won that game of cards.
An orchestra movie concert of your favourite movie.
Spencer sucked in a deep breath, fingers toying with the loose threads of his cardigan. There he went again, attempting to present to you that he was an option—the best one, at that—and giving signals that he was pursuing you. He has read at least five hundred online articles on the art of flirting in the past week alone. If Derek ever found his online searching history, Reid would never live it down.
“God, this is the best thing ever.” Seeing how pleased you were with his action made Spencer want to physically preen with pride.
Once you two had settled down inside, you took a couple of photos and observed your surroundings. You looked around at your neighboring audiences before averting your gaze to the empty chairs that were soon to be filled by instrumental experts. Your body was flooded with excitement at the prospect of finally being at this event.
You decided to chime in with your daily fun fact just minutes before the concert was due to start.
“Did you know that there’s a planet that is ⅓ made of diamonds?” you whispered.
“55 Cancri e, right?” he matched your volume, shifting in the chair beside you to make himself comfortable.
“Yeah, that one,” you confirmed, turning your head back to him. “Go on, I know you have details on it.” You encouraged, shifting yourself into a comfortable position as well.
“55 Cancri e is a super-Earth exoplanet, approximately twice the size of Earth, though roughly eight times heavier in terms of mass. First sighted and discovered in 2004, scientists have found that it is a very hot and rocky planet with a molten lava ocean surface due to its incredibly close orbit to its star…”
You were leaning into your palm while listening to him, clinging onto every word as they absorbed into your brain. The space you left in between you both out of consideration for Spencer gradually lessened as he leaned in closer the more he talked. His tone, too, grew more quiet as he went on, as if the information he was telling you did not exist in some cyclopaedia, but a secret passed in full trust.
The corners of your lips curled at the twinkle in Spencer’s eyes as he detailed out knowledge that previously sat in the corner of his brain, collecting dust.
Spencer’s intellectual rambling will always be one of your favorite things about him. You loved hearing him talk and the way he enunciated each syllable so clearly, as well as his wordings and his tonal patterns. You should have gotten used to it by now, but it marvelled you every single time that you had the chance to listen to him talk about things you would rely on an internet search to know. Just like usual, today was no different.
Spencer Reid was remarkable. It was almost impossible to take your eyes off him when he talked. He was a bundle of many things that made him an individual worth a lifetime of getting to know.
You wondered if you were looking at him a little bit too fondly right now. But how could you not when he was whispering sweet facts to you as if he only wanted you to know of it? It felt almost as if this fun fact challenge had turned into a sacred tradition between you two.
“Even though it is widely said that the planet is ⅓ of diamond, this is actually still only a theory and yet to be proven. So, to dub it the Diamond Planet when they’re not even sure if there are diamonds on the planet itself is like…suspecting you are a quarter or half French and then introducing yourself as French to people anyway.”
Your laughter burst out unfiltered, and you instantly grounded yourself by clearing your throat and pulling yourself away from Spencer slightly, putting yourself on timeout.
That was kind of embarrassing.
The joke was slightly funny, but nowhere close to warranting that kind of laughter.
It sort of reminded you of the videos you have seen on the internet about the kind of laugh that people would let out in reaction to their crush’s jok—
Oh.
You subtly slid deeper into your chair as thoughts shot in your mind at a hundred miles per second. Your fingers immediately curled into your palms to dig at it. You could not look back at Spencer in fear that he would notice that something was wrong.
Oh God.
But were you really surprised though?
A part of you had seen it coming, because as much as you adore all your co-workers, you knew in the bottom of your heart that Spencer was the only one you were willing to lessen your sleeping hours to prolong hanging out and conversing with. Also, to be immune to such sweet actions, you would have to be some statue made of stone. For years now, Spencer had intently taken time to know you and go out of his way just to make you happy. If anything, you were grateful that your heart had picked someone so kind and worthy to give itself away to.
You glanced at Spencer from the corner of your eyes, and just the sight of him alone had your heart hiccupping in a way that you had become familiar with for the past month. It was the kind of stutter that you had outright been trying to ignore and written off as nothing. But unlike all the previous times, you knew you could no longer deny that man next to you was the reason for such palpitations.
And maybe it was also time to face it: you like Spencer Reid, your genius of a friend and very much also a profiler.
Your eyes snapped away from him the moment you realized the significance of playing it cool. You could not have him picking up the signs and figuring out that you have feelings for him. But then again, you have seen how clueless he was around women who were hitting on him and failing to pick up their signals. So, maybe he would not notice your current body language either.
Before you could think more on the matter, the lights dimmed and instruments began stringing together in a well-rehearsed manner. It was only then that you began breathing again, relieved that you had two hours to collect your thoughts and come to terms with the newly attained knowledge about yourself.
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“Alright, what’s the fun fact of today?” you heard Spencer’s voice before peering up and seeing him behind your chair, hands on the back of the furniture, looking down at you with a shy smile. The sight of his adorable expression made your cheeks heat up, and you had to avert your gaze to prevent him from spotting signs of your flustered state.
The other members just boarded the jet as well, settling into their own spots after a tiring case. You were much less the same, sporting the now more noticeable eye bags that matched Spencer’s. Yet, that does not deter his gaze from the warmth they hold.
You gestured to Spencer’s usual seat right next to you. Once he had settled down, you made your next move on his chessboard, resuming your current ongoing match with him. You could see the instant way the cogs in his brain started spinning. At that, you provided your fun fact of the day, hoping it would serve as a distraction.
“You know, I read that there are more possible variations of chess games than the number of atoms in the universe.”
“Yeah, it’s known as the Shannon number—the number of possible chess games, I mean, which is 10120. Meanwhile, the estimated number of atoms in the observable universe is 1080to 1082.”
He made his move, catching your discreet yawn in the corner of his eyes.
“Fascinating, isn’t it?” The weight behind your eyes turned them half-lidded. They landed on the chessboard, trying to formulate the next best move, but your brain refused to cooperate as a fog of sleepiness overclouded your judgments.
“You don’t have to play now, you know. We can just play next time.”
“No, no. Give me a second, I’ll make my move.”
“You’re tired.”
You slowly turned your head towards Spencer, and there it was again. You caught the concern leaking from his gaze, and it instantly reminded you just how caring Spencer was to those in his life and especially you. Your mouth formed a tired yet grateful smile at his expressed worry.
You felt sorry for those who have never had the opportunity to be the subject of his affections.
For a split second, you pondered the kind of doting that Spencer would do if he were pursuing someone romantically. You have never seen him express interest in any woman during your time at the BAU, despite the advances he has gotten from various good-looking women. But if he was already this sweet platonically, you were fairly certain your heart would give out at what he had in mind as romance.
Your shoulders finally slumped before a truthful sigh escaped from you. “Yeah.”
Unlike usual, where you would fall asleep and land on his shoulder while you were knocked out, he outright shifted to sit up straighter for you, offering his shoulder.
Spencer never admitted it out loud, but he had foolishly started wanting the friction of your skin against his or the fabric of his belongings. It was an impossible he thought would never occur, but here he was, anticipating the next rare moment of physical touch beside the one where his shoulder would become your pillow.
Of course, he had noticed it—your lack of touch when it came to him. He was devastatingly aware of your mindfulness of his germaphobia, and Spencer was grateful, he really was. However, your reservation to accommodate his tendencies had begun feeling like deprivation. In fact, Spencer could count on one hand the amount of times you had ever touched him deliberately, with the last one being one hundred and sixty three days ago.
But it was that particular initiative factor that Spencer deeply yearned for. He craved and awaited for a touch made with purpose.
He wanted you to mean it.
You stilled at such a small action, gaze stopping on his shoulder. You did not want to over-interpret such a simple movement, but knowing Spencer, there were implications and significance in that little offering.
You knew it had become a recurring thing. As embarrassed as you were, you could not help the fact that you were the type to move around a lot in your sleep. You had tried using an airplane pillow, leaning against the wall, and so many other methods. However, most of the time, you would still wake up on Spencer’s shoulder before instantly jolting up and freeing him from the physical touch.
But the certainty on Spencer’s face left your rejection stuck in your throat.
Hesitantly, you began shifting closer, giving Spencer just enough time to retract the offer if he wanted to. But he stayed confidently still as your head started leaning down before finally landing on his shoulder.
One single small action had Spencer questioning how much longer he could go on like this. How much longer could he keep these feelings tightly locked and concealed? Because Spencer was utterly gone for you. Gone in the kind of way where one casual compliment from you about the cardigan he was wearing had him immediately putting the item into his clothing rotation a lot more frequently.
“I’m gonna get you some day, Spence…” Spencer watched as you drifted to sleep before closing his own eyes, all while he wished the flight back would last forever.
Unbeknownst to you both, the team exchanged knowing looks and discreet smiles at the sight they were witnessing. There had been nothing more obvious to them than this, but instead of intervening, they decided to let things play its course.
Because, despite the uncertain nature surrounding the occurrence of events in life, this was the one thing everybody was sure was inevitable.
﹏ ﹏ ﹏
The jet finally arrived back at Quantico around 11pm. Spencer had finished his report a few minutes before you did, but lingered behind as usual to wait for you. About two weeks ago, he had established a new routine between you both.
“Ready?” Spencer carefully peeled your bag from your hand, checking his watch to see that it was already past midnight, marking a new day.
“Yeah…” you breathed out tiredly, eager to collapse in bed. “More than ready.”
You like to think you have kept it cool well, in general. But Spencer’s new routine of walking you to your car after work had you a nail tip away from laying all your cards bare and revealing your feelings. Even on days when you finished your report first, he would walk you to your car before returning to the office. But the thing was:
Spencer Reid rarely ever drove to work, which meant he was going to the employee parking lot every day with you for no reason.
Well, for no reason but you.
The elevator began making its descent from the sixth floor with both of you inside. You were listening carefully as Spencer discussed an academic paper he had read last night. The doors soon jerked open, revealing the fairly empty parking lot. At the sight of your car, you subtly began slowing down your steps, biting back a smile when you noticed him mirroring your change of pace.
You observed as he animatedly gushed about the methodology of the research paper, paying particular attention to the tiny detail of his body language. The way his hands were passionately waving around, exaggerating certain points Spencer was trying to make. The flutter of his eyelashes as he blinked a bit faster than he usually would—a habit that often occurs when he speaks quickly, as you have learned. The smooth movements of his lips as his mouth tried to rush out words to match the pace of his incredibly brilliant brain.
Now that you were looking at his lips, you have to admit that it was kind of hard to look away.
Suddenly, an idea brewed in your mind, and it felt like the holy grail had finally landed in your lap. Who would have known that a random Thursday would be the day you ought to finally win this challenge and put Spencer in checkmate.
“Spence?” Your lips curled mischievously, observing the way Spencer halted in his steps at your tone.
God, despite being subjected to harsh and unflattering parking lot lights, Spencer still had the audacity to look good in a way that tugged at your heartstrings. The sight had you questioning if he was capable of ever looking bad. His warm eyes colored with interest as he eagerly awaited your next words. You took a couple more steps forward, wanting to hide the plotting expression on your face.
“Fun fact…” You paused before peering back at him. At those two words, you instantly caught the anticipation rolling off him. There was also a subtle confidence from him that signalled he was sure he already knew whatever you were planning to tell him. But you knew that this time, things would be different.
With a competitive glint in your eyes, you finally divulged today’s fun fact, your voice calm and stable.
“I like you.”
Just as you predicted, Spencer froze while his mouth fell agape. No words fell out of those talkative lips, a stark contrast to how fast he was speaking a couple of seconds ago. You practically beamed in victory at such a reaction. You wanted to celebrate, you really did. But you decided not to gloat about your win yet. Instead, you prioritised the better option: teasing your friend.
“I recalled you mentioning once that kissing spreads fewer germs than shaking hands?” You winked playfully, expecting nothing from it. It was simply a joke to make Spencer flustered for your entertainment, and there was zero expectation that he would somehow miraculously confess that he had been secretly liking you too and would actually kiss you at your workplace’s parking lot at 1am.
Because there was no way Doctor Spencer Reid liked you, right?
You observed as his lips slowly curled up in amusement as your words sunk in, and that partially made your shoulders relaxed. Well, at least your joke landed, and your friendship would make it out intact despite your confession.
But then, out of nowhere, that closed-mouth smile stretched into a full-on grin before a chuckle of disbelief escaped from Spencer.
Now, you were on alert. Instantly, you tried to read his reaction—was he in disbelief that he was finally stumped by a fact he had not yet known of? Was he amused by your clever trick of using your own feelings as a fun fact? But the elation on his face and the awestruck look in his eyes hardly aligned with someone who had just lost a long-term challenge.
Your lips parted as you continued assessing the man, but you caught the way his eyes flickered down at that small movement before he sucked in a deep breath.
Oh…?
Suspicion crept in, but confirmation came quicker.
In the blink of an eye, Spencer had completely eliminated the two steps between you both, sealing you two in a proximity that was closer than you had ever been with him. His palms found your face, and they cupped your cheeks in a careful yet certain way.
Spencer’s eyes darted all over your face, searching for all the clues that you were okay with what he had next in mind. He could see that your pupils were slightly dilated, as well as feel the way you were leaning into his touch and the heat that was transferring from your cheeks to his hands. Though it was only when you did not pull away and instead, had your tongue dart out to wet your lips, did Spencer kill the remaining space between your faces.
His lips slanted against yours in a desperate manner that outmatched his need for oxygen, kissing you like it was long overdue. He swallowed the gasp escaping your throat and the surprised noise that followed. There was an urgency he could not hide as his straining self-control snapped from your green light.
You began kissing him back just a second or two after, and almost instantly, you heard a sigh of relief. Your lips curled, but any trace of smugness vanished when his thumb began rubbing your cheek fondly. Suddenly, you were aware of just how close you two were. Every point of contact was sending a searing heat through your body, because despite his fears of germs, Spencer was touching your skin like it was a need, rather than an obligation for moments like these.
You pressed your lips harder against his.
Good lord, Spencer could do this forever.
He might have been able to count the number of times you have touched him on one hand, but even with the whole team, there were not enough fingers to account for the number of times he had glanced at your lips this week alone.
Your own hands touched the sides of his waist, and you instantly caught the longing noise that escaped from Spencer’s throat, echoing onto your lips. At such an encouraging sound, you curled your hands to the back of his body and snaked them up his back. Your lips smirked against his at the way he arched into your touch.
One hundred and sixty three days—Spencer reminded himself again, humming in utter satisfaction at the way those numbers spun down to zero. Finally, you were touching him on purpose and with purpose. He practically melted at the way your hands roamed so confidently without any trace of guilt that he was uncomfortable, because he was far from that.
In fact, he eagerly wanted to keep the number of days since the last time you touched him at zero permanently.
You picked that precise moment to pull away, documenting the way his eyes fluttered open and dawned into existence the unadulterated glimmer of yearning in them.
You have always thought he was gorgeous, but how he looked right then rendered the word inadequate. It was a vision exceeding all your daydreams, and to be the reason behind the look made you feel like you were an award winning fashion designer who had just invented a magnificent masterpiece. But unlike most, you had no intention of sharing this artwork with the world or with anybody else.
Spencer felt his heart squeeze at the sight of you again. Was it possible to miss someone so badly from not having a visual on them for approximately a minute? Maybe he was more screwed than he thought.
Breathlessly, he finally whispered the confession that he had long to say for a month.
“Despite all the facts I already know and have learnt during my whole entire life, you’re my favorite thing to study and know more about, and have been since you stepped into my life. Nothing I learnt after felt like it could outrank anything I learnt about you.” It was true. Every speck of information about you gets the forefront of his memory’s line-up, taking priority over every other knowledge. Spencer licked his own lips for remnants of you before continuing, “You’re my favorite fun fact, you know that?”
Your heart tugged at his words. You had no idea how you managed to compete with the vast amount of interesting information that existed in the world, but under Spencer’s stare, you truly could see he meant every word.
“But…” The smile on your face instantly dropped at that single word from Spencer. Good rarely ever followed that three-letter conjunction.
“But?”
“I do have to admit that, uhm…” The familiar sheepish glint in his eyes had one of your eyebrows shooting up. “I kinda already know that fun fact already, that you liked me.” Your hands on him stilled their movement before falling onto your sides in disbelief.
“Oh, come on. You can’t be serious.” He resisted the urge to whine at the lack of physical touch from you. “But you looked shocked.”
“I was shocked you actually said it. I didn't think you’d do it today…or tomorrow…or maybe ever–” You slapped his arm, but he gladly welcomed that contact. Anything was better than nothing.
“I thought you’re like highly oblivious to romantic signals? I’ve seen you being completely clueless and not picking up on the fact that women were flirting with you.”
“I think I wasn’t clueless when it came to you because my eyes were always on you.” Those words came out shamelessly. In fact, Spencer almost sounded proud of himself. You tried not to let his words make you flustered.
“When did you figure it out?”
“That you like me? At the orchestra.”
“How? I barely figured it out myself that I liked you then.”
“Yeah, I could tell.” Your huff drew a chuckle from him.
You finally peeled yourself completely away from Spencer, grabbing your bag from his hand before making your way to your car. As you unlocked the vehicle and swung the driver’s door open, you could hear his footsteps following. You crouched to lean into your car and place your bag onto the passenger seat. You could feel Spencer’s presence stopping just behind you, standing much closer than he had ever before tonight.
As you bent back up and leaned against your car, you didn't miss the way Spencer’s fingers twitched, giving away his urges for physical contact. You crossed your arms before tilting your head back teasingly.
“I’m still gonna get you someday.”
Spencer’s gaze melted to an even softer look than before at your declaration. There was a freeing component in his eyes, showcasing the joy from being able to openly look at you in the way he had really wanted to for a while. His voice lowered to a sweet, promising whisper.
“I’m counting on that.”
With that, Spencer leaned in again, wanting a second run of things before the two of you had to part ways for the night.
You grinned into the kiss and quickly wrapped your arms around him again. Quietly, your mind logged in today’s score.
Day 187 status: unsuccessful.
But it hardly matters when you think you’ve already won something a lot better.
・┈・┈・┈・┈・┈・
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spencer has never showered with anyone before and when bau!reader suggests it, he doesn’t quite understand, “together? like at the same time? in the same shower?”
“yeah, babe, i think you’ll like it.”
she don’t know if his touchiness is because their relationship is relatively new, or if it’s because relationships as a whole are new to him, but he’s so clingy and desperate for her to be near him at all times. she ravishes in the feeling. when they're away on cases it's hard on both of them to not be able to touch each other, but it's especially hard on him. as the days progress, he cares less and less about minimizing pda for the sake of 'professionalism'.
it's not like they're hiding their relationship from anyone, it's just so new that they want to keep it to themselves for as long as possible. they're private about it, not secret. disregarding that their coworkers are some of they best profilers in the world, even a blind man could see the love that they have for each other.
they get each other coffee, sit shoulder-to-shoulder over the same case file (which is completely unnecessary, there's always enough for each of them), he drapes his cardigans over her arms during late nights in the precincts, and they help each other put on their kevlar vests (which is also unnecessary).
one glance under the table would show their pinkies and ankles linked together. sometimes it would show a mismatched pair of his socks peeking out of her shoes: bright and patterned and unmistakably his.
they gravitate towards each other without even realizing it.
they’ve just gotten back to his apartment from a case, they spent a whole week in a shitty motel with questionable bedding and an even more questionable shower situation, not to mention the dirty feeling on their skin after being on a plane for hours.
he has a thing about getting in bed or on the couch without being clean typically, but he especially does after getting back from a case. this, plus his adherence to her body has her suggesting it.
he has his arms wrapped around her from behind as they enter his apartment, both of them are giggling at the awkward walk/waddle they have to do to be able to move. she turns around in his arms and places her hands on his chest, gently caressing him with her thumbs.
“if you don’t want to then that’s okay! you can go first and i’ll go after you.” she’s so kind to him and has been so delicate when it comes to his ‘firsts’.
“no! i definitely want to, definitely.” he rushes out, the thought of getting to see her naked and soapy within his arms reach has his mind reeling.
he’s fantasized about it before, especially before they started dating and he’d be jerking himself off in the shower. he never allowed himself to picture her in the shower with him, but he’d imagine what she would look like through glass: wet hair cascading down her back, breasts and ass covered in soap bubbles, her hands traveling all over her body.
he always felt so dirty and guilty after thinking about it, despite always doing it in the shower. he rarely allowed himself the fantasy, since he could barely meet her eyes at work the next time he saw her after doing it.
he wonders if he should tell her about his steamy fantasies, or if she'd be freaked out by it.
eventually, his database of a brain locates relevant information for the situation: “did you know that the studies show that couples who shower together experience increased emotional intimacy and reduced stress? it’s because the release of oxytocin, known as the ‘love’ hormone, can be triggered by the warm water and physical touch.” his brain always does this when he’s nervous, it’s like it has a priority path to his mouth and he barely has any control over what comes out of it. he has barely realized that he said the L word when she gently giggles at him.
“aw, that’s lovely, spence.” oh my god she (sort of) said the L word back to him! he’s so giddy and his heart is pounding, if he didn’t know any better he’d be concerned that it would pump right out of his chest.
she kisses his cheek before holding his hand and gently leading him towards the bathroom. he just follows her like a lost puppy, even though this is his apartment. he realizes that he would follow her anywhere, even into a burning building, if it meant that he could be close to her.
he’s fidgeting with his fingers as she starts the water and reaches into her hair to start pulling pins out of it. all he can do is watch. he feels separate from his body, like he’s watching both her and himself exist in the confined space of the room. his nervous system is pulling in two separate directions: one that knows that she equals safety, and one that is nervous about doing something new that he has limited data for.
“babe, really, if you’re uncomfortable we don’t have to do it, no worries.” she notices how small and frightened he looks. he can't stop replaying his debauched memories of his fantasies and he's never been so relieved that true mindreading is a myth. however, he's prided himself on having decent morals, and he feels uneasy about keeping anything from her.
“i have to tell you something.” he spits out, and she tries her best to not find that sentence anxiety-inducing.
“okay, you can tell me anything.” she's looking at him through the mirror. she has a makeup cloth in one hand and she grips the edge of the counter with the other.
“i’ve thought about this before.” his eyes are round and wide and if her chest wasn't still feeling tight at his abrupt words, she'd want to coo at him and tell him how adorable he is.
“about showering together?” she slightly tilts her head in question and he finds her so painfully endearing.
he slightly shakes his head ‘no’. “i’ve thought about you in the shower before. i’ve pictured you naked. in the shower. before.” he wants to disappear, he doesn’t even know why he’s admitting this to her, anymore.
“that’s okay, honey. i’ve thought about you in the same way.” he’s sure he looks like a dragonfly with how large his eyes widen, he didn’t consider this response from her.
she gently smiles at him and he allows himself to feel the comfort radiating from it. she turns around to face him and grabs his hands. “especially after i saw you naked for the first time, i wondered how you’d look in such a private space.”
her comforting glances and touches are no use against the guilt that bubbles up in his stomach. of course she only pictured it after seeing all of him for the first time, he thinks that he’s so strange for thinking about her in that way before even getting to hold her hand.
“what if… i thought about it before i saw your body for the first time.” he’s so nervous that she can almost feel it radiating from him.
“then that’s totally fine, honey. i’m not here to thought-crime you. what you think about in there is yours to keep. you can tell me any and everything, but you don’t have to, and i don’t want you to feel guilty for things that cross your mind.”
he knows this, especially after years in such a dark job, that things cross his mind at inopportune times and that he has to just redirect the thought back to the right file cabinet in his brain. everything just feels different with her. he doesn’t know the rules and he doesn’t want to break them, especially without even knowing what they are. he finds himself lacking his usual control around her, which would be terrifying if it wasn't so relieving to not have to be constantly on-guard.
he decides to leave the conversation at that, which he’s proud of himself for. she can tell that his anxiety is dwindling, so she squeezes his hands before returning to the mirror. the shower has been running for long enough to fog it up at this point, so she does her best to remove any makeup that lingers on her skin.
she then starts removing her clothes, and he takes that as a signal to remove his too. he loosens his belt and removes his pants, boxers, and tie with minimal issues. his fingers are trembling as he tries to unbutton his dress-shirt, though. he’s still working at it even as she stands completely naked before him. the sight of her does not help his struggle, so she reaches out to help him.
“sorry, i’m a little nervous, i guess.” he whispers.
“that’s okay, just tell me if you change your mind, okay?”
“i won’t.” she tilts her head at him again and his cheeks pinken as he realizes how it sounded. “i mean, i won’t change my mind.”
soon enough his dress shirt is wide open and he feels so vulnerable as she gently pushes it off his shoulders. he’s not really self-conscious about his body, but the stark lighting in the bathroom is making him feel so exposed. he realizes that his dick is soft, and he doesn’t know if she’s seen him that way before, so he brings his hands down to cover himself.
“you don’t have to do that, honey.” she wraps her soft fingers around his forearms and he's flushed down to his chest as he nods and pulls them away.
she tangles their fingers together with one hand and reaches around the shower curtain to feel the temperature of the water with the other. he feels so loved and cared for. he knows that he loves her and he’s fairly certain that she might feel the same, but he’s afraid it’s too soon to say so. regardless, he allows himself the luxury of feeling loved by her.
she’s soon stepping over the edge of the tub and he has to focus on following her without tripping. she untangles their fingers to quickly wet her hair as he stands at the edge of the tub, slowly getting cold, but not wanting to rush her.
“c’mere,” she murmurs, gently pulling him towards her and the water stream.
the warmth of the water cascading around them and the softness of her skin pressed against his is the most soothing thing he has ever felt. he wraps his arms around her waist and lowers his head to rest on her shoulder. “oh, this is really nice,” he tells her and she hums in agreement as her hands run up and down his back.
“i thought you’d enjoy it. now we can get all clean together and we’re probably saving water this way, right?” she giggles in his ear and he can feel goosebumps bloom on his neck.
he doesn’t really agree with her hypothesis, since he rarely spends this much time under the water stream without the purpose of actually showering, but he doesn’t say so. he's too captivated by this entire experience to do anything other than hum and slightly nod his head.
she slowly grazes one hand up to the back of his head, intertwining her fingers with the wet, but soft strands. she guides him back up until their foreheads are pressed together and they can feel each other's breath on their faces. the way she's looking at him is making it hard to breathe. the way he's looking at her warms her from the inside-out.
slowly, she presses her lips to his. his hands skim up the side of her torso to rest against her neck. his thumbs rub soothingly on her cheeks as she plays with the hair at the nape of his neck. her deft fingers cause his mouth to open ever so slightly, and the kiss deepens. their tongues move together, in tandem, so so slowly. the kiss is full of devotion.
eventually, she slowly rotates them so that he’s positioned directly under the shower head and she runs her fingers through his hair to help him wet it. he tips his head back to help her and she places a soft kiss on his chest. he lets his eyes flutter closed and he can’t fathom how he got here. he can feel warmth growing behind his eyelids and for the first time in his life it’s not because he’s sad. he’s so unbelievably thankful to have her in his life at all, but the fact that she’s his and he’s hers is so wonderfully overwhelming to him at this moment.
“do you want me to wash your hair for you, baby?”
oh my god he thinks his knees might give out from under him.
“that would be really nice of you, but you don’t have to.” his voice is light and airy, as it always is when he speaks to her.
the other men she's been with had booming voices that reverberated in small places like bathrooms and in her ribcage. spencer's voice is always so gentle with her, light and airy enough to intertwine with the thick steam in the room. others' voices were obtrusive enough to shatter any moment, but not his, never his. she doesn't consciously compare him to her previous partners, but the differences are so palpable that they're impossible to ignore.
“i know i don’t have to, i want to.”
“can i do yours too?”
“yeah, i would like that.”
he opens his eyes to see her lathering his shampoo in her hands. as she works it through his hair he allows himself to really take in the moment. he watches as beads of water catch in her eyelashes and trail down her skin. when she starts lightly scratching at his scalp, a small moan falls from his lips and he’s clears his throat afterward in hopes of hiding it.
“has anyone ever done this for you before?” she warmly asks, not judgmentally, just curiously.
“um, not really, except at the hairdresser i suppose.” his nose slightly scrunches as he tries to focus on responding and she’s so enamored by him. everything he does is so captivating, she hopes she can spend forever drinking in his features.
“thank you, by the way, you’re really good at it. way better than the hairdresser.”
she slightly tips his head back to rinse his hair of the shampoo and she chuckles at his admission.
“well, i would hope that you don’t find yourself in this position with your hairdresser,” she teases.
the rest of the shower goes slowly, yet purposefully. they carefully clean and take care of each other so delicately. for a while it feels like it’s just the two of them in the world. they can’t hear any of the usual city noises and nothing else is on their minds except for the other. it feels like magic: actual, true magic, not silly card tricks and disappearing coins.
she forgets to grab her toiletry bag from her duffle, so she has to use his soaps to get clean. for a brief moment he’s disappointed that she won’t smell like herself when they emerge from the shower, until he realizes that she’ll smell like him instead, and he’s fighting back a grin at the thought.
he’s never been so naked and so exposed in front of anyone before and he’s so immensely grateful for her. it feels even more intimate than their first time together, somehow. they don’t even do anything sexual, even though he slightly chubs up at the sight of her all soaped up in front of him. they’re so gentle with each other.
he’s genuinely sad when the shower is over and she turns off the water. “can we do this again?” his eyes are so round and soft as he asks.
“definitely, honey, any time you want.”
he blushes at the endearment and then even more at the promise. he briefly thinks about the other things that they can do in the shower together and is elated to do anything and everything with her.
she reaches for the towel rack and he softly holds her hip as she extends herself. she wraps one of the towels around his body for him and he just holds it there as he watches her dry off.
he wants to tell her that he loves her. the words are just about to fall out of his mouth, but he refrains.
he dries himself off too and slips out of the bathroom to retrieve clothes for them, not wanting her to have to brave the cold air that resides outside the safe haven they've created in the bathroom. he’s smiling as he grabs one of his t-shirts and a pair of his boxers for her to wear. he still can’t believe that this is his life.
he slips back into the bathroom, very carefully as to not let the coldness seep inside, and she kisses him as he hands her the clothes, "thank you, baby."
he combs her hair for her, so so gently, and wraps his arms around her waist from behind her after he’s done. he softly kisses at her neck without any heat behind it, it's romantic in the purest sense.
later, as they’re curled up on the sofa together, her donned in his clothes, the sunset spills in through the windows. they ordered takeout and are absentmindedly watching a documentary on his tv.
he can’t stop looking at her. she looks so beautiful in the evening light, her hair is still slightly damp, and she’s holding a box of chinese food.
“i want to tell you something,” he mildly says from beside her and turns to face her directly. the similar words are the only thing that reminds her of what he said earlier, everything else about how he says it is completely different.
“what’s that?” she turns toward him, still actively chewing her noodles.
“i love you. a lot. you don’t have to say it back because i know we haven’t been together for very long, but i really wanted you to know that, that i love you.”
her eyes are wide but still soft, always so soft for him.
“i love you too, spence. a lot.”
he grins and launches across the couch to her, wrapping her up in his arms and just holding her. she's laughing and manages to place her food on the coffee table before he lands on her. they're wrapped up in each other as a tangle of limbs. his head is completely flush with her neck, and she would be worried for his airways if he didn't soon speak.
“thank you for being here.”
“there’s nowhere else i’d rather be.”
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a/n: hi friends this is my 2nd spencer fic ever! i'm more comfortable writing things like this than i am with smut, but eventually i will def write a steamy spencer shower sex scene lolz. i hope u liked! let me know if u did! pls don't hurt my feelings if u didn't! xoxo
summary: from the very beginning of your journey to find a new apartment, through the moment that caused you and spencer to get closer than your typical pair of flatmates. (you’re drunk and spencer yearns for emotional closeness.) genre: fluff tags/cw: intoxication, alcohol, no vomiting but it gets close, mentions of schizophrenia (diana reid), reader wears makeup and has hair long enough to tie back, no use of y/n w/c: 4.5k. a/n: part 2 of you make it easy… but it can be read as a standalone! takes place months before part 1. gif credits to @reidgif
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When you think back to the time you first decided to move in with Spencer Reid, it feels hard to believe that things worked out the way they did. To this day, you have a hard time fully acknowledging that by a droplet of bad luck and an ocean of good luck, you managed to find someone like him.
Living with your college best friend in a nice, two-bedroom apartment off-campus, which her parents bought for her, has been the highlight of your early twenties. It was friendship, freedom and no shitty landlords.
Until she decided you were all grown up now, and that meant it was about time she moved in with her boyfriend of three years.
It would be impossible not to be supportive of her – after years of being just a wall away from each other, you had no other choice but just be there. Even if that left you forced to look for a new place.
Unfortunately, after a short time of searching, you learned that the D.C. apartments – even the tiny, cramped studios with less natural light than a medieval dungeon – cost more than your freshly-graduated self could afford.
That was when you found Spencer.
Entering a coffee shop in a nice neighbourhood, not so far from your old one – almost completely hopeless after yet another failed meeting with a landlord from hell – you saw a flyer hanging on the filled-in bulletin board.
23-year-old male looking for a flatmate. No gender or age preference. Two bedrooms, a living room, a bathroom and a kitchen. He claimed to be neat, quiet and out of town often.
Sounds like a trap if you’ve ever seen one.
But he also promised to split the bills evenly every month, even if he’d be gone for most of it.
That’s what sold you.
And while living with a strange man didn’t seem like one of your brightest ideas, you had a good feeling about it. For some totally unexplained reason, that you still thank the universe for today, you had a good feeling about him.
So you’d called and scheduled to meet with him.
The apartment turned out to be lovely, and so did Spencer. In that awkward, dorky, completely harmless but also apparently FBI-trained (bonus points for safety) way.
And soon after your meeting, you moved into his spare room.
—
Spencer has always valued his solitude. Well, for the most part of his life, solitude was all he had, so he didn’t really have the ability to decide what he preferred more. But some time has passed, and he was no longer just a lonely kid. And he’s since learned to embrace his alone-time. Especially now that he’s a part of the BAU.
Meeting Jason Gideon and joining the FBI was life-changing in ways Spencer couldn’t even begin to explain. He finally found a place for himself, a way to use his mind to help people. He was content – his work was appreciated and, to his surprise, he actually managed to make friends. For the first time, he felt like he had a purpose – like he finally belonged somewhere.
And even though he appreciated his team and loved to spend time with them, the cases were draining. Sometimes, just consulting or going through paperwork left him so exhausted that by the time he’d come home from work, he wanted nothing more than to unwind in silence – with no one there but himself and a letter he’d write for his mom.
Joining the BAU, however, also made him realise that living alone, although mostly convenient, was far from ideal. After the first few months of working in the field, Spencer learned that with him being gone, in the winter, the apartment would get cold by the time he’d come back from cases, since he couldn’t just leave the heater running. And in the summer, the place would get stuffy with no one there to open the windows every now and then. Not even talking about all of the plants he’d killed by not watering them for unspecified amounts of time.
Those reasons were convincing enough for him to start thinking about finding a roommate. And, to his own surprise, he’d actually gone through with it.
—
The few months you’ve spent living together have proved to you both that you’d made the right choice.
You were living in a nice, cozy apartment (who would’ve thought that a guy could have such good taste in decor?) with a perfectly adequate roommate. His claims of being neat and quiet turned out to be true, he always did his chores and didn’t mind helping with yours, and he had an extensive library full of books on different topics and genres, which he didn’t mind sharing.
Perfectly adequate.
Spencer, on the other hand, had real plants, which you’d keep alive while he was gone, stable temperatures, and someone to come home to. He didn’t think he would come to enjoy this part so much, but it turned out that someone asking How was work? feels quite refreshing when the person doesn’t really know much about it.
And, overall, you’ve been getting along just fine.
Which is why, soon after moving in, you’d come to a mutual agreement to always let each other know when the other would be gone.
Spencer would tell you when he’d be going away on a case, and send you a text, saying he was coming back.
Considering the realities of his job, he was also more than aware of the dangers you face, so he’d feel calmer, knowing you were going out, and he had no reason to worry about your absence.
Still, it didn’t exactly work that way. His brain just wasn’t capable of not worrying when being told there was no need for it.
And today, you’d sent him a text – just before he left work – saying you would be meeting your friends. A little get together at one of their apartments – likely just wine and catching up – so you’d probably be back late, and he shouldn’t worry about staying up, waiting for you.
And while he realises you’re almost definitely completely safe with them, his mind can’t seem to rest, knowing you’re not in your bed, behind a door just next to his own.
It’s silly, and it’s unreasonable, but Spencer perks up at every louder sound coming from the street, the neighbours, the damn hallway, hoping it’s you – about to take out your keys and pull the doorknob as you walk in.
He begins to think his brain is turning delusional, possibly from the lack of sleep, because he should definitely already be sleeping – connecting any and every sound that he can hear to your absence and possible return – until the conversation coming from the hallway stops unmistakably at the front door and he can make out the jiggle of your keychains.
The dialogue doesn’t stop, and it’s only joined by a dull ring of stumbling, knocking things over, and things being picked up.
He’s trying hard not to let it get to him, but – as per usual – his curiosity gets the best of him, and he walks out of his bedroom just as the front door closes. Behind one of your friends, he supposes, who must have brought you back home.
That much is easy to deduce – the fact that someone was likely here to help you – because as he flicks the switch to turn on the light, he notices you, sitting with your back against the door and your head hanging low.
He wonders for a second if he should say anything. Decides it would be far too weird not to, since – even in your state of obvious, and severe, intoxication – you must have noticed his presence.
“Hey,” he begins as he walks farther into the room, cautiously making his way to you. “Is everything okay?”
“Yup. Just needed to take a breather before I go to my room,” You say and slowly start lifting your head to catch his eyes. It’s not easy, really, because the whole room spins and your every move brings your stomach up to your throat, and you’re sure that once you stand, you’ll spill your guts onto the floor of Spencer’s apartment. Which is something you just now promised yourself to never do. Probably wouldn’t leave too good an impression. Especially on someone as rational and put together as him. Well, that much might be debatable, but at least he’s never come home this drunk.
You start to feel ashamed of the state you’re in when he squats in front of you.
“Are you sure? I can help you if you need,” he says quietly, and his kindness only makes it all worse because you realise that, even though you don’t know him that well, Spencer is undoubtedly not the kind of person who would ever purposely give you any reason to feel ashamed.
He stares at your face – mascara just the tiniest bit smudged under your eyes, cheeks flushed, lips pink even though whatever lipstick you had on is clearly long gone.
“I’m fine, seriously. You should go to sleep, it’s late.”
“Let me help you up from the floor, at least. It can’t be comfortable.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised,” Your display of humor makes him smile, and his concern falters, just the tiniest bit, because you can’t be doing too bad if you’re still capable of joking around.
It comes right back as he lifts you from the floor, and you tightly grip his arm, letting out a meek Wait.
He does so, obediently, while you stay completely still in his arms, lowering your head onto his shoulder as your eyes fall shut.
“Are you okay?”
“No,” you whimper against him. “I feel sick.”
“Come on,” He leads you into the bathroom and only turns on the soft, warm light that sits next to the mirror. You’re infinitely grateful for that, because you’re already sensitive to pretty much every stimulus there is, and can imagine the harsh, bright light would only worsen your suffering. He probably knows that already, though. He knows everything.
Spencer helps you sit against the wall next to the toilet and walks out the door. You think he’s not going to come back for a second. Thank him for it, because the whole experience has already been humiliating enough, and you don’t need him to see you with your head down the toilet bowl on top of it. Still, you mourn his absence a little because he was warm and comforting, providing you with solace in what you currently believe to be the worst moments of your life.
You know it’s overly dramatic – you’ll probably wake up with a horrible hangover tomorrow, hate yourself for drinking this much, and for letting sweet Spencer see you like this – but otherwise you’ll be fine. That doesn’t take away the self-pity, which is the only thing you have left, since your self-respect clearly walked out the door the second you walked through it.
Until Spencer reappears, holding a tall glass of water in his large hand.
“Here, you need to drink some,” he offers as he sits in front of you with crossed legs, making himself at home on the bathroom floor.
“I can’t,” you groan, back with the dramatics. “I’m gonna puke.”
“This’ll make it better, I promise. Drink,” he orders and lifts the glass to your lips, tilting it back gently until you take a few hesitant sips. The relief doesn’t come immediately, but at least the water isn’t making it worse. You couldn’t handle any worse, you’re sure.
“Please, never let me mix wine with tequila. Ever.”
Your stern words make him chuckle as he promises not to let it happen, while putting the glass down.
You stare at him through blurry eyes and bring yourself to say what you’ve been thinking from the moment he made taking care of you his mission.
“You should go to sleep. Seriously, I can handle myself.”
It’s hard not to feel guilty for keeping him up, for making him babysit you on the bathroom floor, especially when you know he has a thing with germs. In the way that he’s painfully aware of them and tries to avoid contamination at all costs…
“I don’t mind, really. I’d rather stay here with you and make sure you’re okay. I probably wouldn’t be able to fall asleep anyway, knowing you’re here alone,” Just like how he couldn’t fall asleep while you were gone.
“Ugh. This is so embarrassing. Can I have some more water?”
“Here,” he says and lifts the glass to your lips again. You don’t really need him to feed it to you – you’re sure you’re capable of at least drinking by yourself – but you’re not going to complain. Spencer is painfully nice and attentive, and it feels good to be coddled a little. Especially by a guy as lovely as he is.
“And you shouldn’t be embarrassed. Happens to all of us,” His smile is gentle, honest as he says it, but you’re having a hard time believing his words since in the months you’ve lived with him, you’ve seen him go out for drinks a handful of times, and never come back like this.
“Does it? You never get this drunk.”
Spencer laughs quietly, his eyes reminiscent of the times he spent in the same position as you. There haven't been a lot of them – he’s a fast learner, after all – but they happened.
“Not anymore,” He drops his head with a chuckle. “I, uh… I was kind of a late bloomer. I graduated from high school at twelve, so I only had my first drink after joining the BAU. Morgan – my friend, he works with me – was very happy to know that. And to get me drunk.
“I didn’t really know when to say when yet, so I kind of overdid it… Yeah, I didn’t have a drink after that first time for months.”
You want to laugh at his story, at least a little, but you manage to contain it so as not to upset your head and stomach anymore. That doesn’t stop a soft smile from blossoming on your face.
“Twelve, seriously? You should’ve still been playing in the sandbox!”
“I never really liked sand, it’s a sensory nightmare when it sticks to the skin. And it’s dirty,” he says, but quickly scolds himself for being a weirdo in front of you. “But, uh, yeah. I went to college and got my PhD’s. And BA’s, but that was a little later.”
“It’s still insane to me,” you begin, leaning your head back as you continue holding his gaze. “How people like you really exist. I mean, it would be possible if it were, like, some professor or something. It’s totally bonkers when you’re just a guy, and you live with me.”
You’re funny in your drunkenness, but you don’t even realise how awfully nice it is to be described as just a guy. After living his whole life as nerd, and freak, loser, genius, Spencer stopped thinking of himself as just a guy. He stopped thinking anyone else would be able to perceive him this way, too.
It would be strange to thank you – even though Spencer is thankful – because it certainly wasn’t intended as a compliment, just a thing you say when your cognitive functions are slowed down by alcohol. And it’s probably the casualty of your words that makes them hit this hard.
He doesn’t get to say anything in reply, because next thing he knows, you’re leaning over the toilet bowl and mumbling a quick ‘Think ‘m gonna be sick’.
“It’s okay,” He gathers the hair out of your face, quickly taking the hair tie off your wrist so his hand can move to rub your back. “You’re okay. I’m here.”
“Okay. I’m fine now, I think. God, I hate my friends. Seriously, don’t let me go out with them again.”
“They can’t be that bad,” he laughs. You’re silly in your despair. “They brought you home in one piece, after all. I like them. It’s good to know they didn’t just send you home in a cab.”
“Yeah, they’d never do that,” You turn your head to look at him, your face as stern and serious as can be. “I love them.”
“Have some more water, silly girl.”
You finish the rest of the glass – Spencer is happy about that – and sit in silence for a few minutes. You switch between staring at each other, holding eye contact until it becomes so intense one of you has to look away, and focusing on anything but each other – the floor, wall, ceiling, anything.
“I wanna go to bed now.”
He helps you take off your makeup, even though you don’t ask him to. It’s fairly easy, since most of it is almost completely gone at this point, anyway. He waits just outside the door so you can change into the pajamas he brought you, then leads you into your bedroom and lets you fall under the covers, in a way that makes you look as if you never want to leave them again. You don’t.
“Are you sure you’re okay now? I can stay with you a little longer.”
The world is still spinning – possibly even worse than before, now that you’re horizontal – but at least you don’t feel sick anymore. Only a little nauseous.
“I’m sure, Spence. I don’t want to keep you up any longer.”
“I’m not going to fall asleep if I keep worrying about you, so maybe I should just…” he drifts off, gesturing toward your desk and the chair that’s sitting in front of it.
“There’s nothing for you to worry about, but since you’re going to stay anyway, at least get in the bed,” You begin to scoot to the side to make space for him, while Spencer remains standing, uncertain.
To his own surprise, he doesn’t think for too long before lying next to you.
He’s flat on his back, clearly not wanting to take up too much of the space you so kindly offered, even though he’s more than welcome to. After taking care of you, he should be able to take the whole bed. You can feel yourself sobering up as you stare at his side profile.
“Thank you for today. You didn’t have to do any of it, but it’s really nice that you did.”
“It’s nothing, seriously. I’m just glad you’re feeling better.”
“I am. Thanks.”
Spencer turns to the side, looking back into your eyes. It feels like a strange sleepover, even though he’s never been on one. He thinks that if this is how they are, he must have been missing out on more than he anticipated.
“You’re really good at this,” you say.
“Yeah, well, I have some practical experience,” His reply comes with a smile, though it’s weak. Sad and wobbly around the edges.
“With drunk people?”
“Uh, not exactly. My mom is sick. She has been since I was little,” His eyes drift low, staring at nothing in particular. “She’d go through a lot of different medications, they made her nauseous. Moody, sometimes.”
It’s awful to think that someone as kind and gentle as Spencer truly never had a real childhood. From starting high school, then college, at such an early age, to needing to take care of his mom, when it should have been him getting taken care of.
You promise yourself that once you’re in your right mind, you’ll do something so nice for him, even the angels will look down at you in wonder.
“She’s schizophrenic. I know you didn’t want to ask, to not seem rude, but it’s fine.”
Maybe it’s your vulnerability that forces him to open up – you just almost spilled your guts, literally, in front of him – either way, for some reason, he feels comfortable talking to you about his mom, and everything else that ever went wrong in his life. It’s an unfamiliar feeling. A dangerous one, he realises, as you grab his hand with yours.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. At least I knew what to do with you,” He laughs, and you laugh back, even though you don’t really feel like it. “You should sleep now. You must be exhausted.”
You don’t even think to fight him, because you are, and you know he is too.
So you nod your head before saying Goodnight, and silently thanking the universe that tomorrow is a Saturday, and you can both sleep in.
—
But since apparently your life is a joke to someone, that doesn’t happen.
You wake up far before you’re ready to start the day, and begin to stir before noticing Spencer’s sleeping figure.
Last night comes back in flashes, and you’re reminded of the way you embarrassed yourself in front of him. And how kind he was about all of it.
He still looks kind.
Well, he looks unconscious, most of all. He’s completely passed out, but when you decide to get out of bed, you do so cautiously, so as not to wake him. Just in case his sleep wasn’t really that deep at all.
It might not be, you think while moving around the bathroom, then the kitchen. He often has to wake up at late hours of the night or early mornings when called in for work. His routine is a rush then – getting ready as quickly as possible to get to where he’s needed.
You make it your mission to make this morning slow and enjoyable for him, even though it feels as if you just got back from hell.
—
Spencer, even on his days off, usually naturally gets up at the same time as he does for work. It’s like his brain is simply programmed this way – recognize patterns, follow them if possible.
Today is an exception, since last night was a late one for both of you. What wakes him this morning is the sound of metal hitting the kitchen tile, and a startled Ah, shit– cut off by the realisation of your volume.
It’s a bit strange, since it’s very rare for you to be up before him on a regular weekend. He would imagine it would be even rarer after the night you’ve had, but, well. What does he know? (Other than everything. He knows everything.)
Except, contrary to popular belief, he doesn’t. So he decides to investigate.
Walking into the kitchen, Spencer is greeted by the sight of you standing in front of the stove. You’re still wearing pajamas, though your hair is tied back, meaning you’ve already sorted yourself out a bit. Which is probably something he should have done before letting you see him, but won’t get to anymore, because you’re already turning to face him with a bright smile, and an overly chipper Morning, sunshine!
“Hey,” His reply comes out a little raspy, since it’s the first word to leave his throat this morning. “What are you doing?”
“I’m making you breakfast! Pancakes, but I made them with vanilla yogurt and cut up some fruit on the side, so if we sprinkle them with powdered sugar, they’ll be extra delicious–”
“No, I mean, why are you out of bed so early? You should be resting. How are you feeling?”
“Like shit,” you reply, smile not only overly bright, but also wildly sarcastic now. “But you voluntarily spent a ridiculous amount of time taking care of me last night, so I thought I’d do something to properly thank you.”
You lift up the spatula with one hand and a plate of pancakes with the other, though it’s quickly placed back on the counter, as they start to slip from the porcelain.
“Thank you, but it’s really not necessary,” he says and begins walking toward you, reaching to take the tools of your thankfulness away. “Sit down, I can finish the rest.”
You’re quick to make sure the spatula is far out of his reach as you push him back – gently – with your foot. “No, no, you sit down! I’m making you a delicious breakfast, and if you refuse me right now, I will be greatly offended.”
So he sits, obediently, at the kitchen table and waits for you to plate the food. You’re clearly overcompensating even though there’s no need. He can tell because the pancakes he’s been served are all perfect – golden and round, decorated with the freshest of the fruit you had sitting in the fridge, while you’ve taken the wonky, burned around the edges ones.
Spencer realises they’ll still be good either way, but he’d much rather you have the pretty ones. He also knows that it would be pointless to argue with you, as you’ve made clear by now, and bites into the best pancakes of his life.
“Thank you for last night, seriously. You didn’t have to do any of this for me,” you begin, looking into his eyes. “And… Thank you for telling me about your mom. I imagine it couldn’t have been easy for you, so it means a lot…”
You want to show him you’re grateful – that you can be supportive whenever he needs it, that he didn’t make a mistake when he chose to share that part of himself with you. You want him to know that, but you’re sure none of the words you possess carry enough value to accurately pass the message. They all feel insufficient now that you started speaking.
But Spencer still understands.
“It meant a lot to me, too. To tell you about her…”
A beat of silence passes with a hesitant glance and a playful smile.
“Do you want to rot on the couch with me for the rest of the day? Because honestly, I don’t think I’m capable of doing anything productive, and I’d feel too guilty watching you do chores while I’m being lazy.”
Spencer chuckles, slightly taken aback, though eager to spend more time with you, just hanging out. It’s been a long time since he’s had any friends outside of the BAU, and the prospect of making one causes a warm, tingly feeling to blossom in his chest. It’s also been a long time since he felt okay with not doing anything for a whole day, so he decides, why not?
“Sure.”
And so the day is spent on the couch, wrapped in thick blankets, with an order of takeout for dinner and not an ounce of productivity.
It wouldn’t be long before you’d start spending all of your free time together – getting groceries, doing laundry, cooking, eating, talking – being more like a married couple than just a pair of flatmates.
likes, reblogs and interactions of any kind are greatly appreciated!!!
summary: a late-night shower, an accidental scare, and Spencer quietly explaining the universe to Aurora unravel into one of those fragile, life-altering moments where love stops feeling hypothetical and starts feeling like home
includes: part 35, no use of y/n, postpartum recovery, newborn baby, talk of breastfeeding/nursing, exhausted new parents, domestic intimacy, emotional vulnerability, protective instincts, brief panic response, mention of firearm/gun ownership, soft humor, Spencer Reid being devastatingly tender, crying, discussions of safety/fear, fluff, found family, soft kisses
note: this is the last part I had planned! so... The End! but don't worry—if you want more, requests are open. So, while I won't be posting parts every week anymore, I'll still add on if anyone had any requests for The Donor Dilemma universe. Thank you all so much for reading. I know I've said it a lot but I am really so happy you guys loved this series 💖
The shower feels almost unreal.
Not because there’s anything extraordinary about it. It’s your shower. Your shampoo bottle tipped sideways in the corner. Your face wash balanced precariously near the sink because you keep forgetting to put it away properly. The same faint crack in the third tile from the drain you’ve noticed a hundred times before.
But tonight it feels sacred.
Steam curls thickly through the bathroom, fogging the mirror and softening the edges of everything until the world becomes water and warmth and white noise.
For the first time all day, you were able to lie Aurora down peacefully in her crib.
No tiny cries cutting through your nervous system like biological alarm bells.
Just heat pouring over your skin in endless steady sheets.
You stand beneath it with your eyes closed and let yourself exist for a second.
Actually exist.
The water loosens muscles you didn’t even realize had locked up. Your shoulders ache beneath it. Your back protests faintly. Every part of you feels overused in the deeply physical, deeply human aftermath of childbirth and exhaustion and loving something so much it rewired your entire body overnight.
Earlier, Aurora spit up down the front of your shirt.
A truly impressive amount, honestly.
You’d stared at it for a full five seconds before realizing you were too tired to care.
And then somehow the day just… kept happening around it.
Feeding her.
Holding her.
Trying to remember if you’d eaten.
By the time night arrived, you still smelled faintly like sour milk and baby lotion and exhaustion.
Now the water strips all of it away slowly.
Steam kisses against your skin. Shampoo lathers beneath your fingers. The scent blooms warm around you, familiar enough to feel grounding.
You tilt your face into the spray and exhale so deeply it almost hurts.
God.
You could live here.
No one warned you how much becoming a parent turns basic hygiene into a luxury experience. This isn’t a shower anymore. This is a spiritual retreat with plumbing.
You scrub carefully around the lingering soreness still threaded through your body, movements slow and thoughtful.
You rinse the last of the conditioner from your hair slowly, fingers combing through damp strands while water streams warm down your spine.
The monitor sits on the sink beside you.
Tiny.
Silent.
You’ve looked at it at least twelve times in the last five minutes.
Probably more.
Not because it’s made a sound. It hasn’t. The little screen is black, the sound signal is in the green, peaking slightly at the sound of the lullaby you left playing. But no cries.
And yet your eyes keep flicking toward it anyway, instinct dragging your attention back every few seconds like an invisible thread tied somewhere beneath your ribs.
The first few times, it made sense.
You were checking.
Now it’s become automatic.
Your body still hasn’t learned the difference between silence and danger.
You exhale slowly and lean your head back beneath the spray again.
The water drums softly against your skin.
You should get out.
You know you should.
The heat is making your skin pink at the edges, and your fingers are starting to wrinkle slightly from staying in too long.
But the second you think about stepping out, your entire body protests.
Because outside the shower, there are responsibilities again.
Laundry.
Bottles.
The constant low-level awareness of another tiny human existing in the next room.
In here, for ten stolen minutes, there’s only warmth.
Only steam and quiet and the strange suspended feeling of being no one’s immediate emergency.
You close your eyes again.
You would stay in here forever if your body would let you.
Honestly, if someone slid a sandwich through the curtain every few hours and promised the apartment wouldn’t collapse without you, you could probably evolve into some kind of aquatic cryptid and never leave.
But your breasts are starting to ache.
Not sharply yet. Just that deep, heavy pressure building beneath your skin, warm and insistent, your body already preparing for the next feeding before Aurora has even made a sound.
And she will wake up soon.
You know it with startling certainty now.
Not from the monitor.
From somewhere deeper.
Some new instinctive clock stitched directly into your nervous system.
You glance toward the sink again automatically.
Still quiet.
Still sleeping.
But probably not for long.
A small sigh leaves you, half resignation, half reluctant amusement.
“Alright,” you murmur softly to absolutely nobody. “Tiny dictator wins again.”
The water slips down your shoulders one last time as you reach reluctantly for the handle.
The second the spray stops, cool air rushes in around you.
Immediate betrayal.
You make a face at the universe.
The bathroom suddenly feels quieter without the constant rush of water filling it, every tiny sound sharper now. The drip from the showerhead. The faint lullaby crackling softly through the baby monitor. Your own exhausted breathing.
You pull the curtain aside, steam curling outward in thick clouds.
The mirror is completely fogged over now, your reflection reduced to a vague silhouette moving through white haze. For a second, you barely recognize yourself anyway.
Damp hair clinging to your shoulders.
Softness everywhere.
Healing everywhere.
Evidence.
The monitor remains quiet while you dry off slowly.
Too slowly, probably.
Because exhaustion has turned every task into interpretive dance performed underwater.
You manage moisturizer on autopilot. Brush your teeth with one eye half closed. Tug on one of Spencer’s old T-shirts and a pair of soft shorts because actual pajamas currently feel like a commitment you’re not emotionally prepared to make.
By the time you finish combing through your damp hair, your boobs hurt enough to become officially annoying.
“Yep,” you mutter at the ceiling. “She’s waking up soon.”
You reach for the bathroom door handle with the slow, automatic movement of someone running on borrowed energy and muscle memory alone.
Your hand wraps around it.
You twist. Push it open slightly.
And then you stop.
The house is still quiet. That same late-night hush, the kind that sits in corners and softens edges and makes every sound feel like it belongs to a different world. The hallway beyond the bathroom is dim, the faint glow from the living room barely reaching this far like a memory of light rather than light itself.
But down the hall—
Aurora’s room is glowing.
Not dark like you left it.
A soft lamp burns inside, warm amber spilling through the crack in the door like something has gently exhaled light into the room and forgotten to take it back.
Your stomach tightens instantly.
Slowly, you push the bathroom door open just a little more.
You stare.
For a second, your brain refuses to process it.
Because you know—viscerally, absolutely—you turned that lamp off.
You closed the door.
You remember the soft click of it.
The careful dark you left behind.
Your body reacts before your thoughts fully catch up, that same stitched-in instinct snapping taut beneath your ribs.
Aurora.
Your pulse shifts. You tense. For a second, your entire being forgets how to be anything except alert.
It’s not a thought so much as a snap of instinct.
Your gun.
It's in the safe on your dresser. You could grab it quietly and quickly. You could—
“…and in astrophysics, there’s a concept called gravitational time dilation, which basically means time passes slightly differently depending on how strong gravity is in a given place.”
It’s Spencer.
Soft. Sleep-warmed. Threaded with that familiar gentleness he only uses when he thinks the world is made of something fragile.
Your shoulders drop so fast it almost hurts.
The panic drains out of you in one clean, disorienting wave, leaving behind only exhaustion and the faint sting of adrenaline leaving your bloodstream like a departing storm.
You exhale once.
Slow.
Then again.
A breath that feels like coming back into your body.
Right.
You gave him a key.
Of course Spencer Reid would be in your baby’s room at what feels like an unreasonable hour explaining spacetime to a newborn like it’s a bedtime story and not one of the most incomprehensible forces in the universe.
You lean lightly against the wall for a second, eyes closing briefly. Then you move.
Quiet steps across the hallway carpet. Damp hair cooling against the back of your neck. One hand still loosely curled around the edge of your oversized shirt like your body hasn’t entirely caught up to the fact that the danger has already passed.
The closer you get, the clearer his voice becomes.
“…which sounds fake,” Spencer is murmuring softly, “but technically the astronauts on the International Space Station age very slightly differently than we do on Earth because of velocity and gravitational variance, so really, relativity is less of a theory and more of an aggressively proven inconvenience.”
His voice drops lower for a second, fond amusement threading through it.
“I know. Very rude of physics.”
You reach the door.
It’s cracked open just enough to let warm light spill into the hallway in a thin golden line.
And there he is.
Spencer sits in the rocking chair beside the crib, socked feet planted unevenly against the floorboards like he got here quickly and forgot to settle properly afterward. Aurora is tucked carefully against his chest, bundled in one of the pale yellow swaddles someone gifted you at the baby shower.
She’s awake.
Barely.
Tiny eyes heavy with sleep, one fist tucked near her cheek while Spencer supports her effortlessly against him, his long fingers spread protectively across the curve of her back.
The lamp beside him paints everything honey-soft.
His hair is a mess.
Not styled messy. Real messy. Flattened on one side from exhaustion, curling slightly at the ends. His glasses sit low on his nose, and there’s a faint crease across his T-shirt like he either slept in it or accidentally used it as a burp cloth sometime in the last hour.
Probably both.
You don’t interrupt.
You can’t.
Something about the scene in front of you feels too delicate to touch directly, like stepping closer too fast might scatter it into pieces before you’ve fully held it.
Spencer keeps rocking slowly, the old chair creaking softly beneath him in uneven little rhythms. Aurora rests against his chest with complete, unconscious trust, her tiny face tipped toward the sound of his voice like she already knows it belongs to safety.
Outside the nursery window, the world is dark blue and silver at the edges.
Inside, everything glows warm.
Spencer adjusts the blanket around her with absurd care before continuing in that quiet, thoughtful cadence of his, like he’s explaining the universe one piece at a time because he genuinely believes she deserves to know how astonishing it is.
“Technically,” he murmurs, “most of the atoms in your body were formed inside stars billions of years ago, which means you are, scientifically speaking, made of recycled cosmic debris.”
Aurora blinks slowly.
Spencer smiles faintly.
“I know,” he whispers. “Very dramatic.”
Your chest aches so hard it almost feels physical.
Because this is Spencer.
This is how he loves.
Not loudly. Not carelessly.
He offers people pieces of the universe wrapped carefully in his hands and trusts them not to break.
His thumb strokes lightly across Aurora’s back while he rocks her again, smaller this time.
“And before you get concerned,” he continues softly, “which I assume you will eventually because you’re biologically related to me now, space is mostly safer than people think it is.”
A tiny pause.
Then quieter:
“Still probably don’t become an astronaut.”
You bite down on a smile.
Spencer looks at Aurora for a long time. His finger runs gently across her little cheek, and something in his expression shifts then.
Softer somehow.
The edges of his humor fading into something deeper.
“You know,” he says quietly, “I spent a long time thinking the world was mostly something to survive.”
Spencer looks at Aurora like he’s trying to memorize her and understand her at the same time.
“And sometimes it is,” he admits. “Sometimes it’s loud and unfair and people leave or hurt you or disappear before they should.”
His voice stays calm, but there’s something beneath it now. Old bruises wrapped carefully in gentleness.
“But then…” He swallows once, eyes flicking over her tiny face. “Then there are moments like this.”
The rocking chair creaks softly.
“You.”
Your throat tightens instantly.
Spencer exhales through the smallest smile, disbelieving and tender all at once.
“And suddenly the entire universe feels different.”
Aurora squirms faintly in her sleepiness, one tiny hand escaping the blanket near her cheek.
Spencer immediately tucks it back in with careful fingers.
“I’m going to keep you safe,” he whispers.
The words are quiet. Certain.
Not dramatic promises made for comfort. Not impossible guarantees.
Just truth.
The kind spoken by someone who has already decided it with every part of himself.
“I’ll always keep you safe,” he murmurs.
That’s what does it.
The tears hit you so suddenly you barely have time to process them before your chest tightens and a tiny involuntary sniffle slips out into the quiet room.
Spencer’s head snaps toward the doorway immediately.
His entire body changes in an instant.
One second soft and thoughtful, the next alert with concern so immediate it’s almost violent in its intensity.
“Hey—”
He stands too fast.
The rocking chair bumps backward slightly from the sudden movement, and he catches Aurora instinctively against his chest before it can even shift her.
His eyes lock onto you.
Your damp hair. Your face. The tears gathering faster now that you’ve been caught.
“Why are you crying?” he asks immediately, voice tight with alarm. “Are you okay? Did something happen?”
You let out one helpless, watery laugh that absolutely does not help the situation.
His concern sharpens further.
“Oh god,” he says, already moving toward you. “Are you in pain? Do you need to sit down? Did you tear something? Should I call someone?”
“Spence—”
“Because you’re crying and there are several medically significant possibilities associated with postpartum recovery and I really need you to be specific right now—”
“I’m okay.”
He reaches you anyway, still visibly unconvinced.
Aurora stays tucked securely against his chest while his free hand comes immediately to your face, thumb brushing anxiously beneath your eye like he can physically check for danger there.
“You’re crying,” he says softly, bewildered by it.
“You were talking to her,” you whisper back.
“That’s…” He blinks once. “Yes?”
“About space.”
His expression somehow becomes even more confused.
“…Yes?”
“And then you told her you’d always keep her safe.”
Understanding hits him slowly. You watch it happen in real time. The panic easing first. Then confusion. Then something gentler.
His shoulders lower a fraction.
“Oh,” he says quietly.
You laugh again through another sniffle, wiping quickly beneath your eyes. “You sounded so serious.”
“I was serious.”
“I know,” you say, voice wobbling around the edges. “That’s why I’m crying.”
Spencer stares at you for a second like this information genuinely short-circuited him.
Then his entire expression softens into something unbearably tender.
The hand against your cheek slides more fully along your jaw.
“You’re crying because I love our daughter?” he asks carefully.
“You were giving her a physics lecture at two in the morning.”
“She seemed engaged.”
“She’s six pounds.”
“That’s not mutually exclusive.”
Another laugh escapes you before you can stop it, quieter this time.
Spencer watches you like each sound physically settles something inside him.
Then, very gently, he leans forward and presses a kiss to your forehead.
Spencer’s lips linger against your forehead for a second before he pulls back just enough to look at you properly again.
Close enough that you can still feel the warmth of his breath against your skin.
Aurora makes a tiny sleepy noise between you both, nestled securely against his chest like she’s already decided this is her preferred method of transportation.
You sniff once, rubbing quickly beneath your eyes again.
Then you narrow them at him a little.
“…You scared me,” you mumble.
Immediate guilt flashes across his face. “What?”
“I came out of the bathroom and her light was on.” You gesture vaguely toward the nursery behind him. “And you were just… in here. Existing ominously.”
“Ominously?” he repeats softly.
“You know what I mean.”
His expression crumples slightly with regret. “I’m sorry.”
“I almost went for my gun.”
That visibly alarms him. “You almost what?”
“You left the door cracked and I saw the light and my brain immediately went full Final Girl survival mode.”
Spencer looks genuinely horrified by this development.
“I should’ve texted you,” he says immediately.
“Yes.”
“I didn’t think.”
“You literally always think.”
“That’s fair.”
You cross your arms loosely over yourself, oversized shirt sleeves swallowing part of your hands. “Why didn’t you tell me you were here?”
His face softens again then, concern melting into something quieter.
“I knew Rory was going to wake up soon,” he says gently.
You smile. “Rory?”
“Oh, uh—” Spencer smiles sheepishly. “I thought maybe… a cute nickname. So… Rory. Do you not like it?”
Your expression softens instantly.
“No,” you say quietly. “I love it.”
The relief that crosses his face is small but immediate, like he’d been bracing for the possibility that you might hate it and had already prepared to retire it forever if you did.
“Yeah?” he asks.
“Yeah.” You glance down at Aurora, bundled against his chest. “Rory fits her.”
Spencer looks down at her too then, and something in him visibly melts all over again.
“She just…” He huffs a tiny laugh through his nose. “She feels like a Rory.”
“She does.”
Aurora makes a faint little sigh, entirely unaware that she’s currently being assigned lifelong emotional significance while unconscious.
Spencer’s thumb strokes gently across the blanket wrapped around her.
Then he looks back at you, softer now.
“I wanted to let you sleep,” he says quietly. “Or… shower. Relax for a little while without worrying she’d wake up.”
Your chest tightens again, though this time the ache comes wrapped in warmth instead of tears.
“You came all the way over here just so I could shower in peace?”
A faint flush creeps into his face like he’s embarrassed to have been caught being thoughtful.
“She started fussing about ten minutes after I got here,” he admits. “I figured if she cried loud enough for the monitor to pick it up, you’d get out early.”
You stare at him.
And there it is again.
That impossible tenderness that keeps sneaking up on you in ordinary moments and wrecking you from the inside out.
“So you just…” You gesture toward him vaguely. “Secret-agent babysat?”
“I had a key,” he says, like that explains everything.
“It does not explain the stealth.”
His mouth twitches faintly. “You sounded relaxed.”
You narrow your eyes at him suspiciously. “Were you listening to my shower?”
“No,” he says immediately.
A beat.
“…Not intentionally.”
You just look at him for a moment.
At the sleep-rumpled hair falling into his eyes. At the baby tucked carefully against his chest like she’s made of spun glass and starlight. At the lingering concern still softening the space between his eyebrows because you cried for thirty seconds and his nervous system apparently filed it as a national emergency.
You are catastrophically in love with this man.
Spencer’s still watching you carefully, probably trying to determine whether you’re about to cry again or accuse him of committing shower espionage.
Instead, you hear yourself say:
“Move in with me.”
Silence.
Complete silence.
Spencer blinks.
Once.
Then again.
Like his brain just fully unplugged from the wall.
You suddenly become very aware that perhaps this was not the smoothest delivery.
Your stomach flips immediately.
Because Spencer still hasn’t said anything.
He’s just staring at you with this utterly stunned expression, mouth parted slightly like every word he’s ever learned abandoned him at once.
And in the absence of a response, your brain does what exhausted brains do best.
Panic.
“I mean,” you say quickly, already talking over yourself, “obviously you don’t have to. I just thought maybe it made sense because you’re already here all the time anyway and half your stuff is basically migrated over through natural selection at this point, and you already have a key and technically you’ve slept here for like… four consecutive nights now.”
Spencer opens his mouth.
You keep going.
“And your apartment’s smaller and your shower pressure kind of sucks, respectfully, and also I just…” Your hands gesture vaguely between the two of you like your emotions are now operating entirely through exhausted charades. “I don’t know. We’re already doing all of this together and I love you and you love me and she’s ours and maybe I just want you here all the time instead of leaving eventually and—”
“Hey.”
His voice is soft.
Gentle enough to finally interrupt the spiral.
You stop mid-sentence.
Spencer’s looking at you now with something so openly overwhelmed it almost knocks the breath out of you again.
Not uncertainty.
Not hesitation.
Just pure emotional astonishment.
Like you handed him something fragile and impossible and he still hasn’t recovered from the weight of it.
“Oh,” you say quietly, immediate embarrassment creeping in now. “You don’t have to answer right away, I just kind of blurted it out and maybe postpartum hormones are staging a hostile takeover of my frontal lobe, so—”
He kisses you.
Completely cutting you off.
Aurora remains safely cradled between his chest and one arm while his free hand finds your waist instantly, pulling you gently into him like he physically couldn’t stay still another second.
The kiss is warm and immediate and full of something almost aching in its sincerity.
You make a small startled sound against his mouth before melting into it anyway.
Because Spencer kisses like he means everything.
Like every feeling arrives fully formed and honest.
When he finally pulls back, he’s smiling.
Not the small, shy smiles he sometimes tries to hide.
This one is bigger.
Brighter.
Disbelieving in the happiest possible way.
“I would love to move in with you,” he says softly.
Your entire body goes still.
“…Yeah?”
A breath of laughter escapes him, almost overwhelmed around the edges.
“Yes,” he says again, forehead falling lightly against yours. “God, yes.”
Something warm bursts through your chest so fast it feels almost liquid.
You laugh helplessly, relief and joy tangling together until neither feels separate anymore.
Spencer’s eyes crinkle softly as he looks at you.
“You thought I was unsure?” he asks quietly.
“You were silent for a really long time.”
“It was like… four seconds.”
“That’s a year in panic time.”
A tiny laugh slips out of him.
Then his expression softens again as he looks at you standing there in oversized clothes and damp hair and lingering exhaustion, eyes still slightly glassy from crying over astrophysics and fatherhood.
“You asked me to build a life with you,” he murmurs. “My brain needed a second to survive that.”
For a moment, neither of you moves.
The nursery light glows soft around the edges of him, turning everything warm. Gold on his skin. Gold in Aurora’s tiny blanket. Gold caught in the damp ends of your hair where they cling to your shoulders.
And Spencer is still smiling at you like you’ve just rewritten gravity in front of him.
Your chest feels too full for your body.
“You know,” you murmur, voice quieter now, “most people probably discuss moving in together under less emotionally unstable circumstances.”
“We can revisit it later if you want,” he says immediately. “I can prepare a pros and cons list. Or a timeline. I could make a spreadsheet.”
summary: You are roused from a nap and are greeted with a burnt dinner, an innocent lecture on periods, and lots of snuggles. AKA the typical evening for first time parents with a toddler.
contents: 1.5k words, FLUFF, fem!reader, girl dad!Spencer, r wears glasses, dysmenorrhea, technically prof!reader but works as a standalone
a/n: making an AU of my own universe? more likely than you think! i can't get the idea out of my head and i don't want to make a whole other series with a diff reader lol. dedicated to my love @whoswitchybabyanyway and all the mothers in the world, happy Mother's Day!!!
comments and reblogs are muuuch appreciated!
You wake up to panicked sounds of distress. Spencer's voice, two octaves higher than usual, speaking so fast your foggy, sleep-addled brain cannot comprehend anything he's saying. The world looks like it's been wrapped in film as you blink awake.
You don't remember taking your glasses off. Matter of fact, you don't even remember falling asleep. But you're on your side, with a blanket—that you also don't remember using—tucked around your figure.
It must've been the meds kicking in, lulled you to a nap, blunted your senses to this syrupy haze. The pain in your lower belly has dulled to a tolerable, constant ache rather than something sharp and crippling. When you sit up, the crocheted blanket—handmade and gifted by Penelope a few years ago—slips from your shoulders and pools over your waist.
Meanwhile, pandemonium seems to happening in your kitchen.
You can hear your daughter giggling wildly. Spencer's groans are muffled, and a suffocating, smoky scent finally wafts to the living room and reaches you from your position on the couch.
You squint at the clock on the far end of the room and huff when it stays blurry. And then, footsteps, light and quick, followed by a delighted gasp.
"Mommy wakey!" she announces loudly—probably for her father's sake.
Beatrice.
Your daughter hurls herself on your lap before you even see her, but your arms band around her tiny form in reflex. A soft oof leaves your lips from the impact. Somehow, some part of you still expects her to weigh the same as she did when she was still a crawling baby. Like the way she's growing hasn't registered completely, or perhaps it's the speed at which she's growing that's throwing you off.
She used to be so tiny.
Now, you're convinced she would have knocked your glasses off, had you been wearing them.
"Hi, honeybee," you press your nose into her halo of rumbled curls, the exact same texture as Spencer's. She smells like smoke and baby powder, "What have you been up to?"
"Cooking!" she says proudly, her hands resting on your chest. Right over your heart, which feels close to bursting when her face scrunches seriously, an expression that doesn't seem to fit her chubby-cheeked loveliness. "Mommy feel better?"
"Yes, mommy feels better now, thank you."
"No more blood?"
You wince, remembering her panic earlier when you'd bled through your dress after lunch. Her only conscious experiences with blood have so far been limited to skinned knees, so Beatrice had thought you'd gotten a scrape on your butt somehow.
"Well, there's still some blood. But mommy's better."
"Daddy says you—you peeing blood."
You have to bite your lip to stifle a laugh. "Did he now?"
"Yes," your daughter nods gravely, settling herself on your lap. She places a sticky hand to your cheek in a vaguely reassuring way. It's a gesture she'd learned from watching Spencer. "Daddy says you peeing blood and I have to be good so you rest."
Maybe it's her matter-of-fact tone, or the way the words stumble from her lips in her clear, lightly lisping voice, but your mouth finally curls into a grin. You tuck her to your chest so you can have a moment to silently giggle without her thinking she's being laughed at, and reach forward for your glasses.
They're sitting neatly on the coffee table, folded and completely free of any stains. Spencer must have cleaned them when you fell asleep, just as he'd covered you in the blanket.
"What else has daddy said?" you ask, slipping your glasses on.
The world sharpens into focus. The bookshelves lining the sage walls, now home to multiple children's books and framed pictures—you and Spencer had moved your joint collection in the newly refurbished basement not long after Beatrice had been born. There's a TV that rarely gets used, and an open chest of toys.
In the heart of it all, you and your daughter, on the couch, perfectly content.
"It's every… every month. And it hurt." Beatrice says, brows furrowing in focus as she recalls her own version of Spencer's explanation.
"I pee blood every month, huh?"
"I did not say you pee blood!" comes Spencer's flustered voice. He pads from the kitchen with his own glasses so low on his nose you're afraid they'll slip right off. Sweat gleams from his forehead, beading down his temples.
"Did too!" Beatrice exclaims.
You laugh, reaching a hand out to him. "It's okay, it's a pretty close approximation."
Spencer is pink as he holds your outstretched palm, though you're not sure if it's from the stress or from embarrassment. He settles on the couch beside you, tucking your hand to his chest.
"I'm sorry, I didn't really expect her to start asking about that and had to improvise."
Of course, neither of you had anticipated it. Beatrice is a little too young to be having the talk, but she's also… Beatrice. Daughter of two professors who, at their core, have lived for the pursuit of knowledge their whole lives. If anything, it's naive on you and Spencer's part to have been unprepared for this.
You're still grinning, holding Beatrice to your chest with one arm, cheek resting on the crown of her head. "You didn't expect our daughter, with our combined genes, to start asking questions?"
"You're right," Spencer admits with a sheepish laugh, "She's got the curious instincts of researchers and scholars."
"Exactly. This won't be the first she pursues a topic through rigorous questioning, right Bea?"
Beatrice nods, even though she looks a little lost from the adult conversation.
You smile and kiss her brow. "You're a smart girl, Bea."
She giggles, tickled by the compliment. "Like you?"
Spencer's free hand ruffles her hair. "Exactly. Smart, just like mommy."
The words land somewhere unexpectedly tender. It would've been so easy to claim that for himself; he's the genius between the two of you, after all. But he doesn't. Didn't even insert himself and say like mommy and daddy, which would have been objectively true.
You look up with the softest exhale, eyes misting. He grins, lifts your hand to brush his lips over your knuckles. A soft, warm look settles on his face, as reassuring as it is loving.
"You're feeling better now? Do you need more meds?" he asks, casual and sweet and perfect, as if he hadn't just undone you only moments ago.
"No, no, I'm all right." you scoot closer to him. Spencer lets go of your hand to wrap an arm over your shoulder, tugging you gently until you're tucked to his side. On your lap, Beatrice yawns and blinks at the two of you.
For a moment, it's silent. A perfect snapshot of peace. Your chest tightens a little more, some invisible force strangling your throat.
"You could've woken me up, you know, to help with dinner." you murmur.
"I can handle it."
Your brows raise, head tilting up so you can pin him with an incredulous glare. "It still smells burnt in here, Spence."
"It's not that bad."
"Really? What are we having, then? Char with a side of chicken?"
"Daddy burn the oven." Beatrice supplies seriously.
Spencer shakes with laughter. "No, the chicken just burned inside the oven, honeybee."
Beatrice pouts as she considers, dimples on her cheeks deepening. She's got your coloring, but the most noticeable features are Spencer's—messy curls, massive hazel eyes, a collection of dimples exactly in the same spots as his.
"But dinner," you say with a groan, "I'll go see—"
"You don't have to cook, darling," he interrupts, his arm around you tightening to prevent you from moving, "I've already ordered takeout. Lo mein for you, of course."
You swear you've lost the ability to breathe. It never quite settles, this realization that he knows you to the bone. Well enough to anticipate your needs, to provide without being asked. That he'll keep doing them without expectation or prompting.
"And extra wontons!" Beatrice adds enthusiastically, "because mommy likes them, even when she says she don't."
Oh. Now there's two of them.
You don't think the twisting in your chest will ever stop, but at least now you know it's not a bad feeling. It never was, even in those early days, before Beatrice, before building a life together.
You recognize it for what it is now.
You laugh. It's a thin, watery sound. Spencer pulls you even closer, warm lips pressed to your temple.
"You stay right here," he whispers, nosing a line down your cheek, "With us."
"Only if we keep getting snuggles."
Spencer squeezes his arms around the two of you playfully in response, tight enough that Beatrice is overcome with giggles, not loosening until you wheeze a laugh yourself.
In his arms, with your daughter in your lap, the period cramps feel like a distant memory.
more of them here!
Thank you deeply for reading, please reblog if you enjoyed!
summary: the team visits you at the hospital before you and spencer take your daughter home :)
includes: part 34, postpartum recovery after childbirth, hospital setting and medical discharge process, physical soreness and fatigue, emotional vulnerability and overwhelm, newborn care, breastfeeding (implied/not graphic), found family, kissing, fluff, domestic vibes
Morning arrives softly, like it’s been waiting outside the door all night and finally lets itself in.
The light is different now.
Not the sharp, focused brightness from yesterday. This is quieter. Gold at the edges. It spills through the blinds in thin, patient stripes, warming the room in pieces instead of all at once.
You’re awake before you mean to be.
Spencer is asleep beside you.
He’s half-sitting, half-slumped in the chair he refused to leave, one arm draped awkwardly across himself, his head tipped at an angle that is absolutely going to hurt later. His glasses are still on. One shoe is missing. The other is halfway unlaced like he started something and forgot to finish it.
He looks… peaceful.
Exhausted in a way that runs deeper than sleep can fix, but softer around the edges. Like something in him finally unclenched.
Morning doesn’t rush you.
It unfolds. Quiet as breath, soft as something that understands what your body has been through and refuses to demand anything more from it than it can give.
Aurora stirs first.
It’s small. Barely there. A shift where she lays in what you've been calling the baby aquarium. Your eyes open fully this time, instinct pulling you upright before thought has a chance to catch up.
You wince as you move.
It’s not sharp, not alarming, just… everywhere. A deep, echoing soreness that settles into your hips, your back, your shoulders like your body is taking inventory of everything it did yesterday and deciding it has opinions about it.
You swing your legs carefully over the side of the bed.
The floor feels farther away than it should.
For a second, you just sit there, hands braced against the mattress, letting your body catch up to the idea of vertical.
You push yourself up.
Slow.
Unsteady for half a breath.
The world tilts just enough to remind you that you did, in fact, do something monumental yesterday.
Behind you, there’s a shift.
Fabric rustling. A quiet inhale that sounds like it catches halfway between sleep and awareness.
“Hey—”
Spencer’s voice is rough, still tangled in whatever dream he just climbed out of.
You glance over your shoulder.
He’s blinking up at you, glasses slightly askew, hair flattened on one side in a way that would be ridiculous if it weren’t so endearing. His brain is clearly still buffering, but his attention locks onto you immediately like it always does.
“Do you need anything?” he asks, already pushing himself more upright, concern sharpening through the fog.
You shake your head lightly. “No, I’m okay. I just—”
You gesture vaguely toward the bathroom, like that explains everything.
He doesn’t even let you finish.
He’s already standing. Or… attempting to.
There’s a moment where he forgets about the one shoe situation and nearly trips over himself, catching the edge of the chair with a soft, muffled curse under his breath.
You blink at him. “Spence—”
“I’m fine,” he says quickly, like that’s the least important part of this equation, already closing the space between you.
His hands hover for half a second when he reaches you.
Not hesitant. Just careful. Like he’s still calibrating how much support you need versus how much you’ll tolerate.
“…Are you sure?” he asks, quieter now. “You looked a little unsteady.”
“I am a little unsteady,” you admit, voice dry around the edges. “But I’ve got it.”
He considers that.
Disagrees with it immediately. And then gently ignores you.
One hand comes to rest at your elbow, the other hovering just behind your back, not pushing, not directing. Just there. A safety net with a heartbeat.
You let out a small breath that might be a laugh. “You’re not subtle.”
“I’m not trying to be,” he replies.
You take a step.
Then another.
It’s slow going, your body protesting in quiet, persistent ways, but Spencer matches you without thinking about it. No rushing. No hovering commentary. Just steady presence, adjusting his pace to yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Halfway to the bathroom, you glance up at him.
You probably look… questionable.
Your hair is a mess. Not in a styled, intentional way. In a you just had a baby and slept for maybe two hours in a hospital bed way. Your face is bare, a little puffy from exhaustion, your body moving carefully like it’s still remembering its own shape.
You know what you look like.
And then you see the way he’s looking at you. And it doesn’t match any of that.
There’s no polite filtering. No effort to make it seem like something it isn’t.
He looks at you like—
Like you’re something rare.
Like he’s still trying to understand how he got to be here, standing this close to you, part of this life.
Like yesterday didn’t diminish you in any way, but expanded you into something he doesn’t quite have language for yet.
You squint at him faintly. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like I just—” you gesture vaguely at yourself, “—like I didn’t spend the last twenty-four hours crying, sweating, and threatening medical professionals.”
A flicker of something warm moves through his expression.
“You didn’t threaten anyone,” he says.
“I absolutely did.”
“It was more… assertive communication under extreme physiological stress.”
You huff a quiet laugh despite yourself. “That’s not better.”
“No,” he agrees. Then, softer, like it slipped out before he could overthink it, “You’re still the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.”
Your breath catches for half a second, something in your chest tightening in that quiet, unexpected way it’s been doing a lot lately.
“You’re biased,” you murmur.
“Yes,” he says. “But I'm also correct.”
You shake your head, but there’s no real argument in it.
You reach the bathroom.
You pause there for a second, one hand resting lightly against the doorframe, your body reminding you again that everything is still… tender.
“I think I’m going to take a shower,” you say, glancing back at him. “While she’s still asleep.”
Spencer nods immediately. “Of course.”
His hand slips away from your arm, but not abruptly. Like he’s making a conscious effort to let you go rather than losing contact by accident.
“Take your time,” he adds. “You deserve a nice relaxing shower.”
You study him for a second.
The sleep-creased face. The crooked glasses. The quiet, unwavering way he’s already oriented himself back toward the bassinet without even realizing he did it.
“…You should probably fix your shoe situation,” you say.
He looks down like this is brand new information.
“…Right,” he murmurs.
You smile, small and tired but real.
Then you slip into the bathroom, the door closing softly behind you, leaving him in the warm, quiet light of morning with your daughter and the kind of stillness that feels like the beginning of something rather than the end.
You glance up at him after a moment. “You can sit down, you know.”
“…Right,” he says, like the idea genuinely hadn’t occurred to him.
He settles onto the edge of the bed beside you, close enough that your knees brush lightly.
Aurora latches after a little adjusting, immediately calmer for it.
“There she goes,” you murmur softly.
Spencer watches with the same expression he had last night. That quiet awe he keeps trying and failing to organize into something manageable.
His hand drifts absently toward your damp hair where it hangs over your shoulder in tangled waves.
His fingers pause.
“…Can I?” he asks quietly.
You blink at him. “Can you what?”
“Brush your hair.”
The question catches you off guard in the gentlest way possible.
You look at him for a second, trying to figure out where it came from.
“…You want to brush my hair?”
A faint flush creeps up the back of his neck, barely visible above his collar. “It seems uncomfortable wet like that. And tangled.”
You stare at him another beat longer.
Then your entire expression softens.
“…Yeah,” you say quietly. “Okay.”
Relief flickers through him so quickly it’s almost funny.
He stands immediately, rummaging through the hospital bag with laser-focus until he finds your comb tucked near the side pocket.
When he comes back, he moves carefully behind you on the bed, one knee sinking lightly into the mattress for balance.
“Tell me if I hurt you,” he says.
“You say that like I’m a rescue dog.”
“You did have a traumatic medical event yesterday.”
“Fair.”
The comb moves through your hair slowly after that.
Not clumsy. Not overly careful in the way people get when they’re afraid to touch something fragile. Just attentive. Patient. He starts at the ends first without being told, working through the tangles in small sections while Aurora nurses sleepily against your chest.
You glance back at him once over your shoulder. “How do you know how to do that?”
Spencer looks mildly confused by the question. “I watched tutorials.”
Your eyebrows lift. “You watched tutorials?”
“You said once that brushing wet hair incorrectly can damage it.” He pauses briefly to ease another knot apart with his fingers before combing through it gently. “So I researched proper technique.”
There’s something so painfully sincere about the way he says it that your chest aches a little.
“You researched hair brushing.”
“Yes.”
“Of course you did.”
“I also learned that microfiber towels are preferable to standard terrycloth because they reduce friction on the hair cuticle.”
You stare at the wall for a second.
“…You are such a weird man.”
“You like me anyway.”
“Unfortunately, that’s true.”
The comb glides more easily now, the worst of the tangles gone. His fingers occasionally brush the back of your neck, featherlight and absentminded, sending small shivers down your spine that have nothing to do with the lingering dampness.
Aurora gives one small sleepy sigh against you, milk-drunk and warm.
“There,” he says quietly after a moment. “Done.”
You reach up automatically, fingers brushing through the now-smooth strands. Your hair falls softer around your shoulders, no longer tangled from sweat and sleep and hospital pillows.
“…That actually feels really nice,” you admit.
A tiny flicker of satisfaction crosses his face. Subtle, but unmistakable.
Before you can say anything else, there’s a knock at the door.
And then, without waiting for permission—
The door swings open.
“Where are my lovely nerds and my beautiful god daughter?"
Penelope enters like a weather event.
Bright scarf flying behind her, sunglasses still perched dramatically on top of her head despite the fact that it is very much indoors, arms already half-open before she’s fully processed the room.
You jolt slightly in surprise, instinctively pulling your shirt closed and fumbling the buttons one-handed while Aurora remains tucked sleepily against your chest.
“Jesus Christ,” Emily mutters from somewhere behind her. “Knocking is decorative to you, huh?”
“I knocked,” Penelope says immediately. “I just didn't wait for an answer.”
The rest of the team filters in behind her in varying stages of apology and amusement.
Morgan comes first, carrying the car seat carrier in one hand like it weighs absolutely nothing. JJ and Emily trail behind him, both armed with aggressively overstuffed gift bags and what appears to be at least one stuffed animal large enough to qualify as furniture. Rossi enters last, calm as ever, a sleek dark wine bottle tucked under one arm like he’s arriving at a dinner party instead of a maternity ward.
Spencer blinks once.
Then, with absolutely zero survival instinct, says:
“…I forgot to tell you Morgan called while you were in the shower.”
You just roll your eyes, fond if not a bit exasperated.
Penelope has stopped moving entirely.
Because she’s finally seen Aurora.
All the momentum leaves her body at once.
Her hands fly to her chest so dramatically it almost looks choreographed.
“Oh no,” she whispers.
Emily snorts softly. “There it is.”
“She’s tiny,” Penelope breathes, visibly emotional already. “Why is she so tiny? Why is her face like that? Why are her hands so little? Criminal. Absolutely criminal.”
“She’s a newborn,” JJ says fondly.
“That feels fake.”
Morgan steps closer to the bed, peering down at Aurora with open curiosity. “Okay, hold on,” he says. “That’s actually insane.”
You blink up at him. “What is?”
“She looks like Spencer.”
Spencer looks horrified. “That’s biologically improbable at this stage.”
“Nope,” Morgan says immediately. “Already nerd-shaped.”
Emily leans in next, arms folding as she studies the baby with narrowed eyes. “Actually… he’s right.”
Spencer looks deeply betrayed by this entire room.
“Why are you all like this? We just had the conversation yesterday,” Spencer says. “She’s been alive for less than twenty-four hours.”
JJ laughs softly, setting one of the gift bags carefully near the chair Spencer abandoned earlier. “She’s beautiful.”
That quiets the room for a second.
Because she is.
Wrapped up against your chest, warm and sleepy and impossibly small beneath the blanket, Aurora lets out a tiny sigh in her sleep like she’s entirely unconcerned with the emotional devastation she’s causing.
Penelope visibly melts another ten percent.
“Oh, I need to sit down,” she says weakly, already doing it without waiting for agreement. “This is too much. Tiny Baby Genius has entered the server.”
Rossi steps closer then, slower than the others did.
There’s something gentler in his expression when he looks at you. At Spencer. At the baby tucked between you like the physical manifestation of every impossible thing becoming possible anyway.
“Well,” he says softly, lifting the bottle slightly, “I brought this for when the doctors decide you’re allowed to remember civilization again.”
You squint at the label. “Rossi, is that wine older than me?”
“Possibly.”
“Jesus.”
“It felt like the occasion warranted it.”
“It did,” you admit.
“I need everyone to understand,” she says solemnly, pointing dramatically toward Aurora, “that I would now kill for this child.”
“Garcia,” Hotch says from the doorway.
Every head turns.
Nobody noticed him arrive.
Of course nobody noticed him arrive.
He stands there with one hand still lightly resting against the half-open door, expression composed in that familiar way that somehow still doesn’t hide the softness in his eyes as he looks toward the bed.
Penelope straightens immediately. “Metaphorically of course, sir.”
Hotch nods once. “I assumed.”
Then his gaze shifts to you.
To Spencer. To Aurora.
And something subtle but unmistakably warm settles into his expression.
“Congratulations,” he says quietly.
You smile softly. “Thank you.”
Penelope presses both hands to her chest again like she’s physically restraining herself from launching across the room.
“I can’t handle this any longer,” she announces.
Emily blinks. “We’ve been here for two minutes.”
“And those two minutes,” Penelope says gravely, “were agony without that little bundle of perfection in my arms.”
A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it.
Aurora stirs faintly against your chest at the sound, making one tiny disgruntled noise before settling again.
Penelope gasps softly. “She made a sound. I’m unwell.”
“She’s asleep,” Spencer says, though there’s a dangerous amount of fondness creeping into his voice now too.
“That’s worse somehow.”
You shake your head. “Do you want to hold her?”
“…I’m sorry,” Penelope says faintly. “Was that a real offer or did I hallucinate it?”
“It was real, Pen.”
“Oh my god.”
Morgan immediately steps in beside her. “Okay, sit down first before you pass out.”
“I am not going to pass out.”
“You cried at a yogurt commercial last week.”
“It was about family, Derek!”
Emily drags a chair closer with her foot. “Sit.”
Penelope sits.
Immediately.
Spencer is already moving beside you before you even adjust Aurora, instinctively hovering close like an anxious NICU nurse trapped inside a behavioral profiler’s body.
“I can take her if you’re uncomfortable,” he says quickly, though he’s clearly speaking more to the concept of risk than to Penelope specifically.
Penelope puts a hand dramatically over her heart again. “Spencer Reid, if you do not let her hand me that child right now, I will simply perish where I sit.”
“That seems unlikely,” he murmurs automatically.
“Don’t test me.”
You laugh softly again and carefully shift Aurora upward, supporting her head while Spencer instinctively moves in to help even though you very much know how to hold your own baby.
“Support her head,” you murmur as Penelope reaches out.
“I KNOW,” Penelope whisper-yells immediately, horrified you would think otherwise. “I watched seventeen videos and cried through all of them.”
Very gently, very carefully, you lower Aurora into her arms.
The transformation is immediate.
Penelope goes completely silent.
Not theatrically silent. Not performatively emotional.
Just… still.
Aurora barely stirs at the transition, making one tiny sleepy face before curling instinctively toward the warmth holding her.
Penelope’s entire expression crumples.
“Oh no,” she whispers again, but this time it sounds genuinely devastated. “She trusted me immediately.”
Morgan leans over her shoulder, grinning. “That’s because babies can’t detect danger yet.”
“Derek Morgan, I swear to god.”
Hotch, still near the doorway, exhales the faintest hint of amusement through his nose.
Emily notices instantly. “Was that a laugh?”
“No,” Hotch replies calmly.
“It absolutely was.”
JJ moves closer next, her smile softer now as she looks down at Aurora nestled against Penelope’s bright scarf like a tiny sleepy burrito.
“She’s so calm,” JJ says quietly.
“She just ate,” you explain. “Apparently that’s her primary hobby currently.”
“Relatable,” Rossi says.
Spencer remains beside the bed, eyes fixed entirely on Aurora even now that she’s safely in Penelope’s arms.
It’s almost unconscious, the way he tracks every tiny movement she makes.
Every breath.
Every twitch of her fingers.
Emily notices too, because of course she does.
“You know she’s okay over there, right?” she asks lightly.
Spencer blinks like he got caught doing something private. “I know.”
“…You’re staring at her like a Victorian father seeing a child for the first time.”
“I’ve seen her multiple times.”
Morgan points at him. “No, no, Emily’s right. You’ve got this whole ‘cherished heir to the kingdom’ thing happening.”
Spencer looks deeply offended. “I’m literally just observing her.”
“You're observing her so hard your head might explode ,” Emily replies.
Penelope looks up suddenly, scandalized. “Wait. Wait wait wait.” Her eyes narrow dramatically at Spencer. “Have you cried yet?”
The room goes quiet for exactly one second too long.
Morgan bursts into laughter first.
“Oh, he definitely cried.”
Spencer straightens slightly. “That is not—”
“He cried cutting the cord,” you say helpfully.
“I did not cry during the cord cutting.”
“You absolutely did.”
His ears go visibly pink. “My eyes watered.”
“From emotions,” Emily says.
“Which is crying,” JJ adds.
“That is not scientifically precise.”
Hotch finally steps closer then, saving Spencer from further public destruction.
His gaze settles briefly on Aurora, something unreadably gentle moving through his expression before he looks at you again.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
It’s asked the same way Diana asked it yesterday.
Not casually, carefully.
“Tired,” you admit. “Sore. Kind of emotional in a way that feels chemically suspicious.”
“That sounds accurate,” JJ says knowingly.
“And hungry,” you add. “I think I could eat drywall.”
Rossi nods immediately. “Excellent. Your appetite survived.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. Hospital food is unacceptable.” He reaches into one of the bags near his feet. “I brought pastries.”
Your eyes widen slightly. “Rossi.”
“What?”
“I might love you.”
“That’s a common side effect of good baking.”
Penelope gasps softly again as Aurora stretches one tiny hand free from the blanket.
“Oh my god, look at her little fingers.”
“Youre right." Morgan peers down. “Those are criminally small fingers.”
“She’s like a woodland creature,” Emily murmurs.
“The cutest little woodland creature,” JJ adds.
“My goodness,” Penelope says, and now tears are brimming her bottom lashes. “Little Rory. You are so loved.”
Aurora yawns.
The room collectively loses its mind.
The hospital room looks different once you’re leaving it.
Not emptier, exactly.
Just… shed.
The flowers have been gathered. The blankets folded. The little collection of disposable cups and snack wrappers and half-finished conversations cleared away piece by piece until all that’s left are the important things.
You.
Spencer.
Aurora.
And approximately fourteen thousand bags somehow acquired over the course of a forty-eight hour hospital stay.
“I still don’t understand where half of this came from,” Spencer mutters, staring at the pile near the door like it personally offended him.
Morgan snorts from across the room, already lifting two bags onto one shoulder with insulting ease. “Parents accumulate gear fast. It’s like y’all unlocked a DLC pack.”
“There are three blankets in here that aren’t ours,” Spencer says.
“Take them anyway,” you reply from the wheelchair. “We earned them.”
The nurse helping discharge you laughs quietly under her breath while adjusting the tiny straps across Aurora’s car seat.
Because apparently hospitals do not simply allow you to leave with a baby. They inspect you first like you’re smuggling home a very fragile government artifact.
Aurora sleeps through all of it.
Completely unaware that she has become the logistical center of the known universe.
Tiny hat on. Hands tucked beneath her chin. Mouth slightly open in the deeply committed sleep of someone who has eaten recently and intends to continue that streak professionally.
“She looks ridiculously small in that thing,” you murmur.
Spencer immediately crouches beside the carrier again.
For the seventh time in ten minutes.
“She’s positioned correctly,” he says, though he still checks the straps anyway. “The harness clip is aligned at axillary level and the insert is supporting her cervical posture appropriately.”
Morgan looks at you. “Has he blinked since breakfast?”
“No.”
“I’m adapting,” Spencer says defensively.
“You read the car seat manual twice,” Morgan replies.
“There were diagrams.”
“You have a perfect memory.”
“That's irrelevant.”
The nurse finishes her final checks and smiles warmly. “Alright,” she says. “You’re officially free.”
Free.
The word lands strangely.
Exciting.
Terrifying.
Real in a way the hospital somehow softened around the edges.
Because here, there were nurses. Buttons. Guidance. People quietly monitoring things in the background like safety nets disguised as hospital staff.
Home is different.
Home is yours.
Spencer stands slowly, one hand automatically finding the handle of Aurora’s car seat while the other reaches toward you without thinking.
You take it immediately.
His fingers tighten gently around yours.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
You look at him for a second.
At the exhaustion still lingering beneath his eyes. At the carefulness threaded through every movement he makes now. At the way he keeps glancing down at Aurora like his brain still hasn’t accepted she’s real and portable.
And despite the soreness. Despite the exhaustion. Despite the terrifying awareness that another human being is now legally your responsibility forever—
You smile.
“…Yeah,” you say quietly. “I think I am.”
Morgan grabs the last bag and nods toward the hallway. “Alright then. Let’s get this tiny citizen home.”
The walk out feels surreal.
Out here, the world is still happening.
Phones ring somewhere in the distance. Elevator doors open and close with muted chimes. Rubber soles squeak faintly against polished floors. Nurses pass in gentle currents of motion, carrying clipboards and coffee cups and entire lives forward one room at a time.
And in the middle of it—
You.
Being wheeled out of the hospital with your daughter.
The realization hits in strange little flashes instead of all at once.
The soft weight of the blanket over your legs.
The discharge papers tucked into the bag on your lap.
The tiny sounds Aurora makes in her sleep from where Spencer carries her beside you, one hand hooked securely through the car seat handle like he thinks gravity itself might try something if he loosens his grip.
Morgan walks ahead with most of the bags balanced across both shoulders.
The elevator arrives with a soft ding.
There’s a brief shuffle as everyone rearranges themselves into it like a clown car.
Morgan backs in first.
The nurse maneuvers you carefully inside.
Spencer enters last, still holding Aurora with absurd precision.
The elevator doors slide shut. And then it descends, floor by floor.
Yesterday, you came up here as one thing.
Now you’re leaving as another.
The thought settles over you slowly, warm and heavy and impossible to fully hold.
When the doors open again, cool air greets you almost immediately from the lobby entrance somewhere ahead.
Real air.
Outside air.
The nurse steers your wheelchair carefully through the lobby while Spencer walks close enough beside you that his knee occasionally brushes the wheel.
People glance over as you pass.
Some smile knowingly the second they spot the car seat.
Others don’t notice at all.
It feels strange that the world hasn’t stopped.
That strangers are still buying coffee and checking phones and talking about weekend plans while your entire universe has been split open and remade from the inside out.
The automatic doors slide open.
Sunlight spills across the pavement outside in wide golden sheets.
You blink against it instinctively.
It feels different than the light upstairs.
Bigger somehow.
Spring air brushes against your skin, cool enough to wake every exhausted cell in your body all at once. Somewhere nearby, birds are making an unreasonable amount of noise for creatures with no real responsibilities.
Morgan heads toward the car first.
“I call not installing the car seat,” he announces.
“Too late,” Spencer replies immediately. “I already installed it yesterday.”
Spencer carefully opens the back door.
Very carefully.
Like the car has become a sacred site.
He clicks Aurora’s carrier into the base with intense concentration.
The sound echoes louder than it should.
Click.
Secure.
Real.
Spencer freezes for half a second afterward, staring at her.
Then he exhales slowly.
“…Okay,” he whispers, mostly to himself.
You watch him standing there in the sunlight, hair still sleep-mussed, glasses crooked, exhaustion written into every line of him.
And yet he looks happier than you’ve ever seen him.
Terrified, too.
But happy in that deep, irreversible way that changes the architecture of a person.
He looks up and catches you watching him.
For a second neither of you says anything.
Then quietly, like he still can’t quite believe this belongs to him—
“We get to take her home.”
The drive home feels unreal in the quietest possible way.
Strange in the soft, dizzy sense of realizing the world kept moving while yours quietly became unrecognizable.
Spencer drives like someone transporting unstable plutonium.
Both hands on the wheel. Full attention locked onto the road. Every stop smoother than necessary, every turn taken with absurd caution like potholes are now a personal attack against his family.
You’ve never seen him so deeply offended by speed limits under forty.
Aurora sleeps through all of it.
Home feels unfamiliar for exactly three seconds.
Then it feels like everything.
The door opens with the same soft creak it always had. The hallway still smells faintly like laundry detergent and old books and the vanilla candle you burned two days ago. Your shoes are still by the entryway. Spencer’s cardigan is still draped over the back of the couch where he abandoned it sometime last week.
Everything is exactly where you left it.
And completely different.
Because now there’s a baby in it.
Spencer drops the bags by the door, and you both sigh.
And then—
Nothing.
No footsteps.
No visitors.
No nurses checking vitals or adjusting blankets or asking you to rate your pain on a scale that no longer feels quantifiable.
Just quiet.
Real quiet.
The kind that settles slowly into the corners of a home and stays there.
The late afternoon light spills gold across the living room floor in long stripes, catching on dust motes and the edge of Spencer’s glasses where he stands in the kitchen doorway like he’s still adjusting to the idea that this is his life now.
Home.
Family.
You.
Her.
Aurora makes a tiny snuffling sound from inside her carrier near the couch, stretching one impossibly small hand free from the blanket before immediately tucking it back against herself.
Your whole body feels heavy.
Not bad.
Just used.
Spencer seems to read that across your face in real time.
“You should sit down,” he says softly.
You huff a tired laugh. “You say that like I’m ninety.”
“You did recently perform a medically significant event.”
“That is the least sexy possible way to describe childbirth.”
“I can make it less clinical if you want.”
“You absolutely cannot.”
A tiny smile pulls at the corner of his mouth.
Then, after a brief hesitation, he asks quietly, “Are you hungry?”
“I can make dinner,” he says. “You should rest for a while.”
Your expression softens instantly.
Because he looks tired too.
Not casually tired. Deeply tired. The kind that sits beneath the skin.
And still, he’s offering you softness before himself without even thinking about it.
“You don’t have to,” you murmur.
“I want to.”
The answer comes too fast to be performative. Too honest.
Something warm unfurls quietly in your chest. You smile at him then. Small. Sleepy. Entirely real.
“…I’d really appreciate that.”
Relief flickers across his face so subtly most people probably wouldn’t notice it.
You do.
Always.
“Okay,” he says softly.
Then he steps toward you.
Slowly enough that you could stop him if you wanted to.
One hand settles carefully against your waist, mindful of soreness he can’t see but clearly remembers anyway. His other hand lifts to your face, thumb brushing lightly beneath your cheekbone.
There’s a pause there.
Tiny.
Breathing-distance close.
Like he still occasionally gets overwhelmed by the fact that he’s allowed to do this.
Then he kisses you.
Gentle at first.
Warm.
Tired in the same way the whole day feels tired.
But beneath that exhaustion is something deeper. Something full and aching and impossibly tender.
It isn’t dramatic. It isn’t desperate. It feels like gratitude.
Like standing in the wreckage of every bad thing either of you survived and finding something beautiful still alive there.
His lips linger against yours for half a second longer before he pulls back.
You can still feel the ghost of the kiss when he rests his forehead lightly against yours.
“I love you,” he says quietly.
The words settle into the room like they belong there.
Like they always will.
Your throat tightens a little.
“I love you too.”
You settle carefully onto the couch with Aurora tucked against your chest, one of the soft blankets draped loosely across your lap.
The cushions sink beneath you in a way the hospital bed never did.
Home cushions.
Home quiet.
Aurora stirs sleepily as you adjust her, tiny mouth searching instinctively before she latches with the same determined seriousness she seems to approach everything with.
You exhale slowly.
The apartment hums softly around you.
Cabinet doors opening.
The muted clink of pans.
Running water.
He’s humming under his breath in the kitchen.
Quietly at first, almost absentminded. A classical piece you recognize only vaguely, something warm and sweeping and old enough to feel immortal. The melody drifts through the apartment in fragments as he moves around the kitchen, interrupted occasionally by the sound of drawers opening or the soft hiss of the stove igniting.
A smile tugs at your mouth before you can stop it.
Because of course he hums classical music while cooking.
Of course your boyfriend sounds like a sleep-deprived Victorian composer making pasta.
Aurora makes one tiny snuffling noise against you, her little hand flexing once where it rests against your skin.
You glance down at her.
Her eyelashes are so small.
You stare at her longer than you mean to.
Time keeps doing that now.
Stretching strangely around her. Folding inward. Turning minutes into entire emotional eras without warning.
Aurora’s eyelashes rest like tiny commas against her cheeks. Her little hand remains curled loosely against your skin, fingers twitching every so often in unconscious newborn dreams that probably consist entirely of milk and vague confusion.
You trace one fingertip gently along the soft curve of her wrist.
So small.
It still doesn’t feel fully comprehensible that she was inside you yesterday.
That she exists now in the world where other people can hold her and hear her and fall in love with her independently of you.
The thought hits somewhere deep and tender.
You hear the soft clink of plates.
Then footsteps.
Spencer appears a moment later balancing two dishes carefully in his hands with the concentration of someone transporting priceless artifacts through hostile territory.
He pauses the second he sees you looking at Aurora.
And just… stops there for a second.
Watching.
There’s something about him in moments like this that still catches you off guard sometimes. The openness of it. Spencer has always felt deeply, but most of those feelings used to live tucked beneath layers of thought and caution and overanalysis.
Now they reach the surface easier.
Love looks startlingly natural on him.
You look up at him like the whole world has narrowed down to this one familiar doorway in your kitchen, this one soft silhouette holding dinner like it matters more than gravity.
“Can I have a kiss?” you ask quietly.
His expression shifts immediately.
Pure, unguarded joy, like you’ve just handed him a permission slip to something he already wanted but didn’t dare assume.
A small smile pulls at his mouth, soft and unsteady in the most human way.
“Yeah,” he says, like it’s obvious. Like it always should be.
Then, almost comically fast for someone who was just carefully plating dinner like a museum curator, he sets both dishes down on the counter with a soft clatter that feels entirely unimportant compared to you.
He crosses the space in a few steps.
No hesitation now.
Just certainty wrapped in exhaustion and warmth and the kind of love that doesn’t ask for clarification anymore.
When he reaches you, he doesn’t rush it.
One hand comes to the back of the couch behind your shoulder, the other lightly brushing your cheek like he’s checking that you’re really there, really solid, really home.
He leans in.
The kiss is gentle in a way that feels like it’s been built out of a thousand smaller ones you’ve already shared in passing moments. Morning confusion. Late-night worry. Quiet relief. All of it folding into this one simple return to each other.
Aurora gives a tiny sleepy sound between you both, unbothered, drifting.
Spencer smiles against your mouth for half a second, like even that small interruption is something he loves.
When he pulls back, it’s only enough to rest his forehead briefly against yours again.
Close enough that you’re sharing breath.
“I missed you,” he murmurs, even though you were never really apart.
You huff a quiet, tired laugh. “You saw me ten seconds ago.”
“That still counts,” he says, completely serious.
Dinner fades into quiet plates, quiet laughter, the kind of tired humor that only survives on borrowed energy and love held together with threadbare patience. Spencer cleans in slow, careful motions like the kitchen might shatter if he moves too quickly. You try to help and he gently redirects you with a look that says absolutely not, you are sitting down before I start a philosophical debate with your body.
Eventually, the world narrows again.
Just the two of you.
Just her.
Your bedroom is dim when you step in, lit only by a small lamp that turns everything honey-gold at the edges. Shadows feel less like absence and more like comfort here. The bassinet waits near the wall by your bed like a quiet promise.
Aurora sleeps in your arms, bundled and warm, her tiny face relaxed in that complete newborn surrender that still doesn’t feel real when you look too long.
Spencer walks beside you like he’s afraid even the floor might be loud.
You and Spencer move in that careful, synchronized quiet that comes from shared exhaustion and shared awe. Like the world has narrowed down to one fragile, breathing center of gravity and neither of you wants to disturb it.
You lower her first.
Slow.
Both hands supporting her head and body as you ease her into the bassinet, the blanket already wrapped just right around her tiny frame. She barely reacts, only a faint shift of her mouth, like she’s negotiating with a dream before deciding to stay inside it.
The moment you let go, your hands hover for a second longer than necessary.
Like you’re not entirely convinced she’ll stay.
She does.
Spencer leans in beside you, both of you bent over the bassinet now, shoulder to shoulder, looking down at her like she is something newly discovered and still not fully named by science or language or time.
For a while, neither of you speaks.
Just breathing.
Just watching her tiny chest rise and fall with a rhythm so steady it almost feels impossible given how new she is to everything.
A soft hum of the house settles around you. The distant refrigerator clicking on. A floorboard adjusting somewhere in the hallway. The world continuing, gently unconcerned with how completely yours has shifted.
Spencer’s hand finds the edge of the bassinet.
“I still can’t believe this is real,” he says finally.
His voice is quiet enough that it feels like it belongs more to the room than to him.
Like if he said it any louder, reality might correct itself.
You glance sideways at him.
He isn’t just tired.
He’s overwhelmed in that specific, beautiful way where emotion stops fitting neatly behind his eyes and starts slipping through instead.
There’s a sheen there now. Not quite tears falling, but close enough that the light catches differently when he blinks.
Like he’s trying very hard to keep the world from spilling over.
You turn more fully toward him.
He doesn’t look away. He doesn’t pretend not to be feeling it. He just stands there beside the bassinet, still watching her like she might disappear if he stops.
His breath is uneven in the smallest possible way.
“I keep expecting to wake up,” he admits, quieter now. “Or for someone to tell me that we missed something. That there’s been a mistake and she isn’t actually… here.”
A pause.
His gaze drops briefly to Aurora, then lifts again.
“And then I look at her,” he adds, almost helplessly, “and I just…”
He doesn’t finish the sentence.
He doesn’t need to.
Because you already understand the shape of it.
You step closer to him.
Close enough that your shoulder brushes his arm.
When you look up at him properly, his eyes are even softer than you expected. Shiny now, fully holding the weight of everything he’s been trying not to drop all day.
Love. Fear. Relief. Exhaustion. All braided together until none of them can tell where they begin.
He swallows once, like he’s trying to steady himself.
“I didn’t know it could feel like this,” he says.
Your hand finds his, fingers threading together without hesitation.
“Yeah,” you whisper.
A small pause.
Then, gentler, almost smiling through the ache of it:
“It’s real, Spence.”
That does it.
Something in his face breaks softly, not in a way that hurts, but in a way that finally lets something out instead of holding it in.
One tear slips free before he can stop it.
Then another, quieter.
He laughs under his breath once, disbelieving, almost embarrassed by the honesty of his own reaction, but doesn’t wipe them away immediately.
Just stands there with you.
Holding your hand.
Looking down at your daughter like she rearranged the entire meaning of existence without asking permission.
You lean your head lightly against his shoulder.
And for a while, neither of you moves.
Aurora sleeps between you and the world like a small, steady miracle that refuses to be anything but real.
synopsis: in which Spencer’s daughter is teaching her stuffed animal class and he is taking it very, very seriously
genre: fluffy
wc: 930ish
notes/tags: professor! spence, yes spencer named his childhood teddy bear after carl sagan, inspired by “reid, is your name samuel?”, space facts should be correct because i got them from NASA🤓☝️badger is named after badger from the wind in the willows his daughter isn’t just unimaginative
masterlist // if you enjoy pls reblog it helps promote the fic so much !!
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Spencer shifted where he sat cross-legged on the carpet, wedged between a small pink teddy bear and a large stuffed elephant. He clicked his glittery blue pen a couple more times, scribbling on his Disney princess-patterned paper again and watching as no ink came out. Sighing, he raised his hand in the air.
“Excuse me, Miss Reid?” He called out. Across the room small brown eyes much like his looked up from where they were helping Pebble the Penguin with his quiz. “May I have another pen, please?”
“Yes you may.” The little girl nodded seriously, rooting around her small pink desk before giving up, with all of her pens currently being sprawled across the floor in front of various stuffed animals. Instead, she opted for sneakily taking Pebble’s pen from beside his worksheet.
“Thank you very much.” Spencer said, taking his new sparkly purple pen from her warm hands before she promptly shoved them back into her pockets.
He watched her as she strolled across the room, reciting mostly-accurate bits and pieces from the astronomy book he’d caught her studying with a flashlight long past her bedtime the night before. Her little voice filled the room, her cadence rising and falling in a way all so familiar to him- a way that stood out to him even more so ever since he realised she was mimicking him. She paced up and down the room, the way he did in his classes, the way she’d seen him do a hundred times up and down the kitchen as he practiced his material. Spencer bit back a smile- having already been told off once for not taking her class seriously enough- before dropping his gaze back to his lap.
His daughter’s scratchy handwriting stared back up at him in glittery pink rows of questions. The exact same questions had also been painstakingly copied out on each piece of paper sitting before the entire circle of stuffed animals she was standing within, a faint smell of strawberry wafting up from each sheet. His eyes focused on a small smudge on the corner of his paper, a tiny little thumb print the evidence of her efforts. It’s rather silly the things that make tears prick your eyes when you’re a father.
“Carl.” She called, spinning to face a rather worn out looking teddy bear with a NASA logo on its chest. The same teddy bear had been Spencer’s earliest student as a child. “How many moons does Mars have?” He thought it was a little odd to ask additional questions during what was supposed to be a quiz, but he daren’t question her teaching methods. He understood better than anyone the itch to keep on teaching. Carl answered, albeit in a voice very similar to his teacher’s but in a slightly lower-pitch, earning a gold star sticker to his paper. Spencer’s cardigans were littered in the same stickers. He was, after all, her star pupil and he made sure everybody at the BAU knew it when he wore them like badges of honour with a proud smile to match.
“Badger.” She said, turning to the rather appropriate named stuffed badger at her side. “How many moons does Mercury have?”
Spencer’s spine straightened instinctually, ears perking up like a puppy hearing the world ‘treat’ as his hand shot straight up in the air. “That’s a trick question- Mercury doesn’t have any moons. It’s far too close to the sun to hold onto its own moon and even if it did it would likely eventually get pulled into the sun anyway.” He beamed up at her, holding himself back from prepping his sweater in preparation for its next gold star.
Instead, the little teacher furrowed her little brows at him, hands on her hips as she sighed. “Daddy!” She chided in her sternest voice. “I asked Badger, not you!”
Spencer’s mouth silently opened and closed like a fish, a slight flush tingling in his cheeks as his posture shrunk. “I’m so sorry, Miss Reid.” He offered her a sheepish smile before gesturing to the class for her to continue. “It won’t happen again.”
“Thank you.” She nodded, twirling on her heel to where Toto the dog was apparently waiting with his paw raised, not that Spencer could tell. He tilted his head back down to his paper, admiring where he could see that she’d stumbled over the spelling of Uranus a couple of times before getting it right. His was clearly the first quiz she’d written. A fruity smell wafted from the pen as he speedily answered the rest of the questions- play pretend class or not he was not about to lose his star pupil streak.
“Daddy?” He heard her call after a while. His neck snapped up to find her standing right in front of him, her sheet of gold stars in hand. “Which planet in our solar system has the shortest days?”
“Jupiter!” He answered immediately, and if he was in a seat he would be practically jumping out of it. “Jupiter’s days only last approximately 10 hours. Comparatively, Venus has the longest days- one day on Venus is equal to 243 days on Earth. That’s even longer than its years.”
“Perfect answer!” She was smiling at him now, her joy infectious to her father as a grin broke out on his own face.
“Well I have the best teacher ever.” Spencer answered simply, shrugging like it was the most true thing in the world. In the universe, even.
She reached out, pressing another sticker to his chest so that it sparkled over his heart. “And I have the best student ever.”
synopsis: your journal is where you write out anything and everything. you feel it, your journal has it— including the declaration of your feelings for your good friend and colleague, dr. spencer reid. the journal serves its purpose of secrecy, until spencer accidentally stumbles upon it and reads how you really feel.
warnings / tags: canon-typical violence mentioned, reid and reader are oblivious to feelings, reader is pretty inexperienced, shy-ish!reader, mentions of anxiety, fluff, reader x derek playful banter (cus who doesn’t love that), reader is nondescript aside from spencer being taller than, no use of y/n.
word count: 4.8k (dev stfu challenge [level: impossible])
a/n: listen the next fic i write about this man is going to be downright filthy. i’m feral for him what can i say
Exhaustion settles into the bones of every single agent on the plane.
The case was tough.
It was mentally taxing, and while you felt tired, you couldn’t sleep.
So, you journaled. You picked up the habit of doing this after every case. There were a few secret confessions scrawled in black ink in between each case, though. Something personal. Something you weren’t ready to confess out loud.
Your eyes trail to the very man you’ve written about. Even when he’s exhausted, he looks handsome.
Hazel eyes that skim over words in a book he’ll probably be done reading by the end of the flight, mussed hair from a long night of chasing a serial killer, and a furrow between his brows as if he’s in deep thought.
You’ve had a secret thing for Spencer Reid since you joined the BAU three years ago.
He was the first one to welcome you, and the first one to sit and chat with you to get to know you. In exchange, he especially liked the fact that you didn’t meet his knowledge and rambling with an eye roll or an enough, Reid.
You always tried to listen intently. Clung onto every word as if you’d remember it all, even if half the time you were staring at his distinctive features.
Your eyes snap back to the page and write a few more words before Derek sidles into the seat beside you. He places a cup of tea on the table in front of you, leaning back to sip on his coffee.
“Thank you,” you say softly.
“What do you write in that thing, anyway?” He nods his head toward your journal, and you slowly close it after bookmarking your page.
“Why? You wanna know my deepest darkest secrets?” You quirk a brow at him and he shoots you the infamous Derek Morgan Smirk.
“Actually, princess, I do,” he says, raising a brow to challenge you. You bark out a laugh and nudge him with your shoulder.
Your laughter unintentionally pulls Spencer’s attention to you, and you keep your eyes trained on Derek to keep from fidgeting in nervousness.
“It professes my undying love for you, Morgan. That what you wanna know?”
“Oh, baby, you shouldn’t have,” he teases you, and you roll your eyes at him. You stop short when he leans into you, lips close to your ear.
His voice is so low that it’s nearly a whisper.
“I know it’s not me you’re writing about in that journal though, princess. I think it has to do with the person you have wandering eyes for.”
You stiffen in your seat as Derek backs away, looking over your features. There’s no point in hiding something he already knows, because as soon as you try to deny it, you know he’ll call your bluff.
“Promise me you won’t say anything.” Your voice was pleadful, eyes begging.
Morgan furrows his brows.
“I promise. But you should know he has eyes for you too.”
Your gaze snaps up to Spencer, and he looks down quickly at his book.
Maybe Derek has a point.
-
You spend the rest of the flight back to Quantico trying not to think about Spencer and what Derek had told you.
You tried and tried and tried, but you failed.
It didn’t seem likely that Spencer of all people would have any interest in you outside of being your friend and colleague.
Were you just oblivious when it came to noticing? Were the signs not clear enough? Maybe Spencer was a lot more careful and subtle than you were.
Unbeknownst to you both, the whole team knew you both liked each other. You were the only two who didn’t know it yet.
They wanted you both to figure it out for yourselves, but once in a while someone would throw a bone to encourage either one of you to make a move.
Back at the Bureau, you internally groan at the report you have to do for this case. You’re really good about staying on top of your paperwork, but exhaustion crowds your mind as you sit at your desk, which happens to be adjacent to Spencer’s.
One hand rubs your temple as the other writes your report, and you hear Derek snicker before he throws a crumpled up post-it note at you.
“Morgan, I swear to god—”
”Oh cheer up, princess. I heard your stomach growling from a mile away and wanted to see if you want to get some food with Garcia and I after we leave here.”
You contemplate it for a few seconds, but truthfully, you could eat sleep for dinner at this point.
“As much as I love you both, I’m gonna have to pass.”
“Fine, but you’re going with us next time. Deal?” He volleys, and you laugh.
“Sure, Morgan. Deal.”
“What about you, Pretty Boy?” Derek asks, shifting his focus to Spencer.
Spencer looks up from his report, lips forming into a thin line before he subtly shakes his head.
“Thanks, but I’m going to pass too.”
“You got a hot date or something?”
Your eyes flicker to Spencer, and he’s looking at Derek like he just said E=mc4.
Your heart drops a little at the prospect of Spencer being with someone else. It’s selfish, you know, but it’s in that moment that you realize you really should tell him how you feel. You need to shove your shyness to the side for a split moment, just to get those three words from your brain and out of your mouth.
“No, Morgan, I don’t have a ‘hot date’.”
Relief floods through your body hearing his words, and you catch Spencer’s gaze for a second before you look back down at your report.
“You guys are no fun. Garcia and I will have to party by ourselves,” Derek says.
“Oh, I know Penelope will love that,” you chortle.
“Nobody can resist me. Not even you, princess,” Derek winks at you, and you shake your head with a huff of a laugh and a roll of your eyes.
“Right, Romeo.”
Spencer makes a small sound of amusement at your response, and you look up at him with a slightly proud grin.
You return back to your report, and you’re so focused on it that you don’t even realize how much time has passed. Everyone in the office has gone home except for you, Spencer, and Aaron.
You finish your report and look up, shocked to see the bullpen empty.
“You were pretty engrossed in your report,” Spencer points out.
Your gaze shifts back to him. “Yeah, I guess I was. You’re not done yet?” You nod your head toward his desk.
He was done nearly an hour ago, but he didn’t want to tell you that.
“Just about done,” he replies.
You stand up and stretch, grabbing your bags and coat along with your report.
“Well, have a good night Spence. See you tomorrow.”
“Do you mind if I walk you out to your car?” his voice wavers the tiniest bit, and to a person who doesn’t profile people for a living, they would’ve missed it.
But you don’t.
Your heart flutters in your chest and you give him a soft smile.
“Oh, yeah, of course—I mean, I don’t mind,” you sputter. “I’d like that.”
He grins at you before throwing his satchel across his body, grabbing his coat and report. You both head up to Aaron’s office, giving the door a soft knock.
“Come in,” Aaron says, and you walk in with Spencer following behind you.
Aaron looks up from his paperwork, and you both hand him your reports.
“Thank you both for your work today. I’ll see you tomorrow,” Aaron says.
You look at all of the files surrounding his desk.
“Hope you don’t stay too late, Hotch. You need a vacation,” you tell him, and the corner of his mouth lifts up in slight amusement.
“Don’t we all. Have a good night, you two.”
“Good night,” you say.
“You too,” Spencer says, before you walk out of his office and to the elevators.
You ride down the elevators in a comfortable silence before walking out to the parking lot. Spencer’s hand brushes yours a couple of times, and his touch makes your body run hot.
”I don’t know about you, Spence, but I’m gonna go home and go straight to bed.”
He grins at you as he stuffs his hands in his pants pockets.
“You’re not going to eat anything?”
He sounds concerned, and it makes your heart clench.
God, can you feel normal at all around him?
“I’ll fix up something small, but I genuinely have no energy left in me.”
“I hope you sleep well, then. A good night’s sleep is crucial in adults for physical and mental well-being. It can improve your mood, your brain function, and even reduce risks of chronic diseases.”
“Huh. I’ll have to keep that in mind the next time I want to stay up late and binge watch a TV show because I can’t fall asleep.”
His mouth twitches in amusement.
“Goodnight, insomniac,” Spencer says, and your jaw drops.
“Was that a joke, Doctor Reid? I’m impressed.” You tease, and a faint blush paints his cheeks. You put a hand on his arm and squeeze it lightly.
“Goodnight, Spence.”
And it’s only then when you get home, after you shower and do your nightly routine, that you find yourself unable to sleep for a completely different reason.
-
“Hey gorgeous, Spencer and I are on our way. Hope you’re ready for us,” Penelope’s voice sing songs over the speaker of your phone.
“Yup, cookies only have a couple of minutes left in the oven and our mocktails are going to be made fresh when you both get here.”
“Perfect! See you in a few.”
She hangs up before you can respond, and you laugh at her eagerness.
You’re writing in your journal again. This time, it’s about how you’re planning on telling Spencer how you feel about him.
You’re not the best in this department, and given your (nearly non-existent) dating record, you’re struggling with expressing your true feelings to the one person who understands you the most.
Your oven beeps and you stand up from your couch, absentmindedly leaving your journal open on your coffee table.
There’s a knock on your door as you’re pulling the cookies out of the oven, so you yell come in!
Penelope and Spencer appear at your door and step inside of your apartment. Penelope is carrying a plastic bag of takeout food and Spencer has three movies in his hands to choose from.
Somewhere along the line, movie marathon night between the three of you became a tradition. You got to experience the softer side of Spencer outside of the Bureau, and perhaps this is where you can pinpoint where the realization dawned on you of your feelings for him.
They make their way to your kitchen as you just finish plating the cookies. You remove your oven mitt before Penelope gives you a big hug.
“I can’t wait to stuff my face with all this food and watch classic movies,” Penelope says. You nod in agreement and your eyes shift up to Spencer.
“So what movies did the good doctor bring?” You ask, and he hands you the movies without question.
“I’m gonna go use the restroom really quick,” Spencer says. You nod and look down at his movie selections: Casablanca, The Breakfast Club, and The Shining.
You’re bemused by the range in genres, but not at all surprised by The Shining. You know Penelope doesn’t do too well with horror movies though, specifically because you all already see too much real-life horror on a daily basis.
“First movie is your pick,” you say, handing Penelope the movies while you pull out three glasses from your cupboard to make the mocktails.
“Ugh, not The Shining. I love the other two though. I pick The Breakfast Club.”
“Good choice,” Spencer says, leaning against the kitchen entrance wall.
“Those are quite the movies you brought,” you tease, pouring the finishing touches of the mocktails into their respective glasses.
He stares at you a beat longer than normal, studying your face. His eyes soften and flash with a look you’ve never seen before. He clears his throat and his mouth quirks up.
“Thought I’d give you ladies the option, since we all know The Shining would’ve been my first pick.”
“Yes, well, thank you for not forcing me to watch an icky scary horror movie.”
You grin at Penelope as you hand her her glass. You go to hand Spencer his, when his fingertips brush yours in a way that catches you completely off guard.
The touch was subtle, but it was there, and you weren’t sure what to do with how it made you feel. Nobody has ever had this level of effect on you in your life, and it sort of terrified you how strongly you felt about the man standing not even three feet away from you.
“I’m going to plate up our food before we put in the movie. Cheers, my lovelies,” Penelope says. You all clink your glasses together before you take a sip of your drinks.
You excuse yourself for a moment to clean up in the living room, and you stop short when you see your journal wide open on the coffee table.
Right on the very page where your feelings for Spencer are written down clear as day.
Embarrassment runs hot through your body, slinking through every single vein and bone in your body as you scramble to shut the journal before briskly walking to your room to shove it in your nightstand drawer.
All you can do is hope to god Spencer didn’t see anything in there.
A throat clears from behind you and you jump, whirling around only to come face-to-face with said man.
His tall figure towers over you as he studies your face. He’s deliberately taking his time, like he’s trying to remember every single detail and etch it into his mind.
His eyes flicker down to your lips before meeting your gaze again. You don’t know how long you two stand there before you come back to your senses. You clear your throat, and he takes a step back from you before offering you the famous and incredibly awkward Reid smile.
“Garcia brought the plates to the living room. We should head out there,” he says, voice soft.
Any words you can think of instantly die on your tongue, so you muster up a nod before moving past him.
Penelope is sitting on one end of the couch, and she pats the middle spot when she sees you. You plop down next to her and Spencer takes his seat next to you, sitting much closer than he normally would.
His body radiates a soothing warmth and you want to lean into him. Instead, his thigh presses against yours as he spreads his legs, and all you can do is try and keep a poker face to act like it doesn’t phase you.
Your eyes subtly trail down to his lap before flicking back to the screen. The three of you dig into your food as you watch the movie, but the heat of Spencer’s body has your mind absolutely reeling.
Spencer’s eyes shift to you, and he notices you’re barely paying attention.
“You okay?” he asks, voice low, and you roll your lips into your mouth with a nod.
He looks unconvinced, but he turns his attention back to the TV.
And that’s how it is for the rest of the night. Throughout the ending of the movie, cleaning up and bidding them goodbye, Spencer’s shifty gaze was driving you crazy. Furrowed brows, looking like he was about to say something until he ultimately decides against it, an unsurety that hung in the air.
You tossed and turned all night; incessant worry seeping into your bones that he did, in fact, see what was written in your journal.
Maybe Derek had been wrong all along. And if he was, you’d be crushed. Not having Spencer as a lover and partner is something you could live with and eventually get over, perhaps. But losing his friendship, the safe space you’ve created within your orbit of each other, would be downright devastating.
You’re exhausted beyond belief when you walk into the Bureau the next morning.
You’re pouring yourself a cup of coffee in the kitchenette when Derek walks up to you.
“Morning sweetheart,” he says, grabbing his designated coffee mug from the cabinet.
“Hey Morgan.”
“You look super tired.”
You look up to meet his gaze, squinting your eyes. “Thanks. I appreciate that,” you say, sarcasm oozing from your voice.
He flashes a smile at you before pulling you into a side hug.
“What, did you party too hard last night?”
You scoff a laugh. “If you count eating takeout and drinking mocktails while watching a movie with Garcia and Reid as a wild night, then sure.”
Derek raises an eyebrow. You already know where his mind is going. “Oh? Did Reid force you and Garcia to watch a scary movie?”
“Actually, Garcia chose The Breakfast Club,” Spencer speaks up from behind you.
You both turn around to look at him, and Derek chuckles as he leans against the counter.
“But you did bring a scary movie,” Derek states, and the corner or Spencer’s mouth quirks up.
“In true Spencer Reid fashion, he did,” you confirm.
Spencer’s eyes flick to you, and this time, the look isn’t so subtle. Derek looks between the both of you and raises his eyebrows, mouth twisting into a smirk.
“Well would you look at the time,” Derek exaggerates, checking the non-existent watch on his wrist. “Gotta go bug Garcia.”
Derek pushes off the counter and leaves you and Spencer standing in the kitchenette. It’s almost hard to look away from him, but you clear your throat and look down at the coffee in your mug before sporting a tight-lipped smile.
“Hey, can we talk?” Spencer suddenly asks, and you freeze. Your heart thunders behind your ribcage, and your eyes snap up to his once again as you swallow thickly.
“Uh- yeah, sure. About what?”
There’s a nervous waver in your tone, and he furrows his brows before taking a step closer to you. He opens his mouth to speak, but JJ stops him short as she calls everyone to the briefing room for a new case.
“Later?” He asks.
With sweaty palms and a racing mind, you offer a curt nod before you step around him to disappear into the briefing room, where the team is debriefed on a series of missing women in a small town in Vermont.
You do everything you can to steady your heart, using the case as a pure distraction in lieu of thinking of all the possibilities in which direction your conversation with Spencer could go. You had a hunch, but you didn’t want to be presumptuous.
To your luck, the team is kept busy at the police station after you all introduce yourselves to the Stowe sheriff and the other officers.
But when it’s time to head to the hotel to get settled in, Aaron approaches the team all standing in a circle in the small but charming lobby of the small-town inn.
“Rooms are pretty much all booked up. We’ll need to double up for the trip. Morgan, you’re with me, JJ and Prentiss, Dave gets his own room and you two,” Aaron gestures to you and Spencer. ”You’ll be sharing a room.”
Because, of course it would happen like this. You remind yourself to keep your poker face in check as you give your boss a curt nod. Derek wriggles his eyebrows at you and Spencer to tease you, and you have to refrain from flipping him off in front of everybody.
“I want everyone to try and get some rest tonight. I need all of your minds refreshed and sharp by tomorrow morning. We meet in the lobby at seven thirty.”
Everyone is given a room key, and you go to pick up your go bag before Spencer beats you to it.
“I got it,” he murmurs, offering you a soft smile.
“Oh, um, thanks Spence.”
The gesture gets side glances from the team, but nobody dares to say a thing. The team veers off to their own rooms, which are all conveniently located down one long hallway.
You open and hold the door for Spencer when you step into the room. Much like the lobby and the town as a whole, the room is charming with warm autumn-tone colors and countryside artwork adorning the forest green walls, a quilted queen-sized bed with matching sheets, and wooden furniture to tie it all together.
Your heart skips a beat at the sight of only one bed. You huff a laugh, trying to make light of the situation. “Hope you don’t mind sharing a bed with me, Reid. I promise I don’t hog up all of the covers,” you look up at him with a soft smile, and he sets your bags down on the bed before shaking his head.
“I don’t mind.”
You nod, twisting your lips to the side. You’re expecting him to bring up whatever it is he wants to talk to you about, but he doesn’t. Instead, he pulls his pajamas out of his go bag before taking a step toward the bathroom.
“Are you okay if I shower first?”
“Go ahead.”
“Thanks,” he says, toeing off his Converse before shutting the bathroom door behind him. You sigh, taking a seat on the bed before you slip out your journal from your bag. You write all of your anxious thoughts down, hoping this will give you some control over your emotions.
You’re so immersed in your writing that you don’t hear Spencer come out of the bathroom twenty minutes later. You only look up when you feel the other side of the bed dip under his weight. Your head snaps up and you shut your journal closed, stuffing it back in your bag before you grab your own pajamas.
He eyes you without saying a word, and if your anxiety wasn’t so ramped up, you’d think the way he’s looking at you is almost… endearing.
You close the bathroom door behind you without looking back. When you step back out after your shower and your night routine, you find Spencer sitting upright against the headboard of the bed reading a book. His glasses are perched on his nose, and he scrunches it before pushing the lenses back up his face.
You fold your dirty clothes and put them away before you pull out your journal again, only to put it on the bottom of your bag this time. Spencer sees this, and clears his throat before shutting his book.
“Can we talk now?” He asks. You inhale sharply and straighten up, looking at him with apprehensiveness. Even if you’re not ready for it, you try to mentally prepare yourself. You know you can’t keep running away or ignore his request forever.
“Sure.”
He puts the book on his nightstand, swinging his plaid pajama pant-clad legs over the side of the bed. He pats the spot beside him, and you make your way over. You don’t sit beside him, though. You stand in front of him, because you don’t think you’d be able to handle that kind of proximity from him at the moment.
He looks up at you while you look down at him, and you stare at each other for what seems like hours. It was probably only a couple of minutes without saying a word, but with eyes like his, it’s easy to get lost in how warm they are. How comforted they make you feel.
And now, you notice how much they soften when they’re on you.
“Did you mean what you said?”
His question was abrupt. Confused, you tilt your head and furrow your brows.
“What—?”
He grabs one of your hands, gently tugging you closer so you’re standing in between his two long legs. You’re so close to him now that you’re almost positive he can hear your heart beating against your ribcage.
“What you wrote in your journal about me.”
You inhale, trying to pull your hand away, but he won’t let you.
“Listen, I-,” he licks his lips before shaking his head, “I didn’t mean to read it. It was open on your coffee table at your apartment, and I originally thought it was just a book, until I looked closer and I saw your handwriting and my name on the page, and how you wanted to confess that you have feelings for me. I know I shouldn’t have kept reading it, and I know it’s a major invasion of your privacy, but I just really, really need to know — did you mean it?”
Your shoulders slump in defeat. You know you can’t lie to him.
”Yes, Spencer. It’s true.”
He squeezes your hand.
“How long have you felt this way?”
You roll your lips into your mouth before you sigh, completely giving in. If he’s going to know the truth, he might as well know everything.
“A while. Probably shortly after I joined the BAU. I didn’t expect to form any type of feelings, but all those late nights, tired chats over coffee, movie night marathons, all of it— somewhere along the line, it just happened. And I was so apprehensive to admit it out loud because if I did, it would have made everything real. All the feelings, the glances, the subtle touching, the tension that I thought was only in my head. I always thought there was no way you’d ever reciprocate what I’ve been feeling for the past few years.”
“What if I told you I have this whole time?” He brings your hand up to his lips, kissing your knuckles with care. You gasp softly at the contact.
You let out an abrupt laugh of disbelief.
“Then I’d say we were both definitely foolish to not have figured it out sooner.”
“I agree with you,” he chuckles. He stares at you again, this time in pure admiration. “Can I kiss you?”
Your lips part in subtle surprise, but you don’t waste any time as you lean down and press your lips to his.
The kiss knocks the wind out of you. It’s so full of care and passion. Nothing like you’ve ever experienced before.
Spencer’s lips are soft, and they move in tandem with yours before he breaks the kiss to sit against the headboard again, tugging you down to straddle him. He grabs both sides of your face and deepens the kiss, swiping his tongue over your bottom lip.
You part your lips and twist your head to the side, completely giving in and melting into his body.
Your lungs burn from lack of oxygen, so you regretfully pull away to draw in a deep breath. He chases after you, moving one hand to the nape of your neck, pulling you close to him again.
He parts from you after a few seconds, resting his forehead against yours. He can’t help the smile that invades his lips as his thumb moves back and forth over your cheekbone.
“You don’t know how long I’ve been wanting to do that,” he whispers. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you how I felt sooner, either.”
“It’s okay, Spence.”
You maneuver off of him and underneath the thick blanket, scooting closer into his side as he reaches over to turn off the lamp. He settles next to you, head resting on top of yours as he wraps his arms around you to pull you snugly into his side.
His thumb caresses your arm as you both lay there, basking in the post-kiss butterflies and darkness of the room. You know he’s afraid of the dark, but with you by his side, he doesn’t seem to mind it much. It’s almost peaceful.
“We’re going to have to fill out a lot of paperwork back at the Bureau,” he says. You smile into his chest as you rest your hand over his beating heart.
“I think it’s worth it.”
He kisses your forehead.
“So do I,” he says, pausing right after. His lips land on your forehead twice more before he speaks again.
“But you also get to flip the page in your journal and write about the navigation of us now. No more second-guessing.”
Pure comfort and gratitude fills every inch of your body with his words.
And, perhaps, part of you subconsciously left your journal open on your coffee table, meaning for him to read the ink that bled into the pages that changed the trajectory of your relationship with him in the best way possible. Anxiety and worriedness be damned, when all is said and done.
summary: when you come home after a night out to find your fiancé's friends in your living room, you just have to give them a house tour.
wc: 1.6k
cw: drunk-ish reader, tipsy spencer, suggestive
request: Spencer Reid here, something giggly to drink, downtown girl persona, psychic reading or criminal activity
You swear you’re so careful from the moment you step out of the elevator down the hall from your and Spencer’s apartment. You know you’ll get better at being quiet with practice, so you’ve given yourself a head start, holding your hand over your mouth as you tip toe across the hallway despite the high heels you’re wearing. When you arrive in front of your front door, you glance down at your free hand, eyes widening in a drunken panic. You giggle to yourself behind the muffle you’ve made of hand before taking your hand off. You take a moment to go through your purse, looking for your lip liner and the shiny gloss you’ve packed in there. If there’s any chance Spencer is still awake — which of course he will be on a night you’ve gone out with your friends — you want to be able to leave a bold kiss print on his lips.
From inside the apartment, Spencer perks up. He’s trained to recognise your sounds in every state of your being, and he’s very aware that any second now you’re going to stumble through the door despite being so careful to push it open as slowly as possible. The only this is that he’s not sure if Derek, Emily and Penelope are ready to meet the drunk version of you. They’re all sat around him, drinking a mix of wines handpicked from the grocery store down the road, only moments away from meeting the second version of you.
To be fair, Spencer didn’t expect them to be here for so long, nor for you to come home so early. But suddenly, the front door is swinging open, and your slow footsteps are sounding through the entryway of the apartment. Derek, who sits closest to the living room’s entrance, freezes for a moment, looking back, and it instantly gains Emily and Penelope’s attention, bringing their conversation to a stop. Spencer stands slowly, making his way towards the entrance. He can hear you making an effort to be as quiet as possible when you shut the front door, but it still thuds, and you sigh as you pull out your key, loudly twisting it into the door to lock it.
Spencer meets you at the entrance of the living room, and his entire body softens immediately at the way you smile so widely at the sight of him. “Hi.” You sigh, walking towards your fiancé. He opens his arms as you walk into him, wrapping your arms around his neck. You press your body into him, tilting your face up, and Spencer leans down to capture your lips with his. “How’d you get home, baby?” He asks when your lips part, slightly worried.
“I split a cab with Sophia.” Spencer nods with a quiet hum, and you push yourself off him, turning around to sling your purse over the couch. That’s when you notice Spencer’s friends in the room, all looking straight towards you. You gasp loudly, and Spencer is instantly jealous of his coworkers for the smile you give them, which rivals the one you had given him mere seconds ago.
“Oh my god Emily, Penelope and Derek in my house! House tour!” You spin around, ready to begin leading them into your apartment, then instantly turn towards them again. “Wait, let me give you guys hugs first.” Spencer’s three friends are instantly standing up with wide smiles, and you exchange hugs with all of them before grabbing Emile and Penelope’s hands, leading them out the room as you call out “Someone hold Derek’s hand.”
Behind you, Penelope offers Derek a hand. “Did Spencer show you around the place, was he a good host?”
“No, he was a terrible host.” Emily jokes, and you halt in your footsteps, turning around to glare at your fiancé. “She’s lying!” He cries, holding his hands up defensively. “Emily, tell her you’re lying.”
“I am joking, sweetheart.” She says, and you nod, opening the door you had stopped just next to. “Okay, this is our guest bathroom.” You immediately move onto the next room, which is only three steps away. You swing the door open, humming when you see the mess you left on the floor whilst getting ready. “Okay, maybe I’m not going to show you the bedroom.” When you turn around, Spencer can see the half-hearted guilt lacing your eyes, and you add “Sorry, Spence.”
Emily, Penelope, and Derek begin making their way back to the living room, and Spencer steps towards you, wrapping an arm around your waist. “It’s okay, baby, you know I love your mess.” He presses a kiss to your forehead, and you place a hand on his chest, taking the moment of privacy to ask him quietly “If I sober up a little by the time your friends leave, could we..?” Spencer’s eyes blow wide in surprise, and he laughs in shock when you tilt your head to the side, a little smile playing on your lips.
“Yeah of course baby. If you sober up.” You hum in satisfaction, leaning up to kiss him quickly before strolling back into the living room. “Oh my god, I completely forgot about the kitchen.” You point towards the hidden room by the entryway, adding “That’s the kitchen.”
You gasp quietly when you feel hands squeezing at your waist, and you look back to see Spencer smiling down at you. “Come sit.” He says, nodding towards the cluster of couches in the living room. You shrug, mumbling “I’d love to, but I think the state of our bedroom put me into a state of shock, so I’m going tidy a little before going to bed. It was nice seeing you guys. Come over again so I can be filled in on the office drama, please.”
You leave the room whilst the trio giving you replies, and Penelope giggles loudly at your behaviour. “I like her like this.”
Emily hums, raising her glass of wine to her lips. “Next time, we pull out her deepest darkest secrets.”
Spencer flushes darkly, trying not to reject that idea so strongly. So instead, he takes another sip of wine, promptly ignoring eye contact with any of his friends. Derek hums suspiciously, eyeing Spencer down. He wisely chooses his next words. “Yeah, she might have some interesting things to say, won’t she pretty boy?”
Spencer shrugs, his shoulders stiff hanging by his ears. “Don’t know.”
Penelope lets out a wild cackle, then slaps a hand over her mouth. “Okay, maybe this is our sign to go home.” Emily says, observing the blonde closely. Penelope nods. “Yeah, and we’re gonna go talk about you.”
“Sleepover?”
“Oh yeah.”
“I guess I’ll head out too.” Shrugs Derek, already pulling his phone out to order himself and the pair of girls ubers. Spencer nods, walking his friends to the door. They exchange hugs, and Spencer goes red when Penelope whispers to him “Have fun.”
“She’s drunk.” Spencer gasps, and as Penelope pulls away, she says “And you aren’t?”
Spencer is so quick to close the door behind them, swallowing thickly. He locks the door twice, rushing to the living room to pick up the glasses of wine. He stares at the only glass with any wine left in it, and quickly picks it up to chug it down, tossing his head back in the process. He rushes to the kitchen, two glasses in each hand for efficiency then runs over to the bedroom, where he doubts you’ve managed to clean anything up.
He slams the door open, flinching when it bangs loudly against the wall, and he gulps loudly at the sight he’s greeted with. First and foremost, the makeup products that had been littered in front of the mirror are gone, and the failed outfits you had gone through have disappeared from the bed. Instead, he finds you in nothing but a pair of panties, laying on your side with your legs bent to create a perfect picture of seduction. Spencer nods at your flirtatious smile, immediately tugging his button-up over his head without even unbuttoning it.
You welcome him onto the bed by moving onto your back and spreading your legs to make space for his body as he settles on top of you, lips immediately melding with yours. Your warm hands run down his chest to his trousers, snaking a hand into his boxers to wrap a hand around him. Spencer shivers at your touch, lips parting to moan into your mouth as one of his hands comes up to play with your tits, bringing a sound out of you. You extract your hand from his boxers, breaking the kiss so you can glance down at his belt so you can see as you unbuckle it.
Spencer pecks your lips before kissing down your neck, but before either of you can do anything else, a familiar ringing noise sounds through the house. You both freeze, pulling away from each other so you can stare at each other with mild looks of panic. Spencer jumps off of you, running out of the room. He curses quietly when he glances through the peephole, but he’s too desperate to cover up as he swings the front door open again. When Derek walks in, he doesn’t comment on Spencer’s appearance. Not the way he stands shirtless, or the fact that his belt is undone, and certainly not the tent in his trousers. But he does smirk widely, eyes glimmering as he walks into the living room, calling out “Left my wallet!”
Derek yells out an apology to you as he leaves, clapping a hand on Spencer’s shoulder, and Spencer swears he gets harder when he hears your voice call out “It’s okay!”
Spencer almost forgets to lock the door before rushing back into the bedroom.
It Is Raining Today And I Love You // Spencer Reid🌌
synopsis: as he watches you sleep, spencer ponders just how you came to be in his life. and more so, how you managed to turn the mundane into a fairy tale
pairing: spencer x reader
genre: super sappy fluff
wc: 1.5k
notes/tags: spencer is incredibly melodramatic, he wants to get married so bad, mention of his migraines, spencer has a nightmare, some vague religious stuff kinda?, purposefully very cheesy and sappy lol, title is taken from my fav quote in the princess bride (the novel) :3 read more abt the inspo here !
masterlist // if you enjoyed pls reblog it helps promote the fic so much !!
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The moonlight makes your skin appear to be glowing, and if Spencer didn’t know any better he’d say it really was. There seems to always be a glow about when you’re around. It follows you as you float around the apartment like an angel, a gentle light in the darkest corners of his worrisome mind that seems to always find him. With his migraines he often avoids the light these days- but he never shuns yours. Yours could never bother him.
There’s a quiet rustle as you shift in your sleep, curling yourself impossibly tighter over Spencer’s body, your hand rubbing his chest as if you can sense his restlessness. The only other sound he can hear is the steady rise and fall of your breathing. It’s become something of a metronome to him. He has it’s pattern memorised- so much so that when he’s missed you especially hard he’ll hold his own, just for a moment, just to hear the evidence of you very much real and tucked up beside him in the dark, clear and uninterrupted. Is this what people call lovesick? If so, he would spend his life ill with no complaints.
Your hand glows now, a serene tinted blue against the dark fabric of his sleep shirt. The weight of your hand grounds him so surely that he feels it even when it isn’t there. Even states away, across the country, lying in a lumpy hotel bed with a distinct lack of you beside him. It’s there. He notices now that the finger beside your pinky seems bare, naked. Your skin looks uncharacteristically cold where a thin blanket of diamonds should be wrapped around it, dull where it should be sparkling. He makes a note to fix that as soon as possible.
As his eyes drift from your hand to your face, cheek smushed into his chest, he thinks his breath might leave him completely. It’s hard to believe he ever lived a life without you. Just the thought of it feels ridiculous, like picturing the tide without the moon- still and stagnant and dead. He had to have known you somehow, from somewhere. Perhaps the heaviness in his heart he carried until he met you was just him missing you from some far away place he can’t remember- a dream he once had or a life he once lived. As he lays with your head beneath his chin and your leg anchored over his like gravity exists solely to hold the two of you together, he decides that this is the only logical conclusion as to how he has survived this long at all.
Reincarnation isn’t something he necessarily believes in. But what else could it be? He has simply always known you. After all, he believes now that he would wither and die if he were to be without you- that he would succumb to some melodramatic malady the finest doctor on Earth couldn’t cure- so how else could he have made it this far? Perhaps in past lives the two of you were the whirlwind romance they wrote fairytales about, or upon which poets based their rhymes. Maybe you were together decades ago, smiling and twirling in the black and white rain of an old romance movie. The life he’s lived thus far can’t have contained enough luck to have brought you into it now. He’s sure that as long as life has lived on Earth he has loved you. Maybe even before then. Definitely before then.
His hand drifts along his chest until it finds yours and clasps it gently without his brain even asking. The scent of your heavenly shampoo beneath his chin has turned his brain to mush anyway, if he’s being entirely honest. His cold fingers ghost over your much warmer ones. The two of you always seem to operate that way, your bodies always naturally accommodating the other. He’s shocked he doesn’t catch hypothermia every time he’s away from you. Spencer lets your skin radiate, seeping warmth and love and joy into his until his fingertips are tingling. They stop when they find what they’re looking for, a small freckle just below your thumb. So small and so faint he can’t even see it in the dark but knows exactly how to find it nonetheless. The stuffy Texas hotel room he’d been swealtering in for 9 days for all its unbearable heat couldn’t stop him from freezing without your hand in his.
He recalls what a local officer had said to him. “I wish I had the luxury of getting away from my wife that often.” Luxury. That night Spencer had had one of his nightmares. He had awoken panting, sweat bonding his shirt to his skin so that it suffocated him. His hands trembled as he reached for you, as they fumbled in the darkness for the comforting smoothness of your skin beneath his fingertips- only for them to crash into a mess of rough, empty bed sheets. He waited for the coo of your voice, a sweet, enchanting magic to dispel his terror, but all he heard was silence. A loud, agonising silence that mocked him where he lay shaking. The stench of sweat and fear attacked his nostrils until he couldn’t even remember the smell of your shampoo, or of the candle you always blew out before bed- a soft, soothing lavender for his migraines. He suddenly felt his head begin to throb. Where he always had your arms to cradle him and rock him to safety, he now had nothing. Luxury. He let the word roll over his tongue. It tasted like bile in his mouth. If that was luxury then he would happily live as the poorest man in the world.
His thumb kisses the freckle beneath yours. It’s something he hears often. Men warning each other of marriage, couples warning about the monotony of the mundane- of what comes after. It’s one of the few things in the world he is truly incapable of understanding. He’s never known what people mean when they speak of ‘the honeymoon phase’ because he doesn’t feel he’s ever left it and he’s certain- he’s even ran the statistics- that he never will. People spit the word ‘mundane’ as if it were poison, yet to him it tastes like honey on his tongue. All he ever wants with you is the mundane. All he wants is to lay here each night tracing every freckle, listening to every breath- to every reminder that you’re here. You’re his.
In the morning Spencer will rise before you as his body has trained itself to do so that he can watch you wake. His heart will clench as your eyelids flutter open and your hazy eyes search the room before landing on him with a lazy smile that makes him bless the eidetic memory that until now he had sworn to be a curse. You’ll stretch, arms above your head as Spencer’s body freezes in their absence. You’ll crack the same sleepy joke you do every morning, swaddling his body in your arms once more as it thaws and he’ll laugh like he does every morning- not necessarily because it was funny, but simply because he loves you. It’s a sight he can never get bored of. It’s a sight he prays to every deity he knows of to be able to see for the rest of his life.
Now, as the moonlight bathes you in serenity, his hand drifts back over yours until he lands at your finger. The same one colder than the rest and bare beneath the knuckles. He loves you so much he cant breathe as his fingertips ghost over its base, envisioning a ring of diamonds that absorb the divine moonlight and reflect it in a dazzling kaleidoscope of radiant blue all over the room he’s so fortunate to share with you. He’s somehow been lucky enough to have you by his side so far, no doubt thanks to some cosmic intervention beyond his comprehension. Could he be so lucky as to love you not only until the end of this life but the next too? As many lives as God is willing to give him he will take. As many ways he gets to see you, as many languages he gets to tell you ‘I love you’ in, as many mornings just like the one he has lived a thousand times and that he is itching to live again- he’ll take it.
Spencer can’t wait. He needs to tell you the second you wake. He holds his breath for a moment, letting the rhythm of your breathing soothe him like a lullaby as his eyelids flutter shut. His hand is still curled around yours, tracing the skin where a ring will soon sit. Just the thought is enough to set his heart alight as he finally drifts away. His mind melts to a molten sea, sweeping away everything he’s ever known and leaving him dumbfounded in its wake until all that remains is three single words. The words he repeats every day like a mantra, a prayer- a tether.
Tags/Warning: None, tipsy reader, Spencer gets sad, Penelope is a cutie, they are such a cute group i will write about then one day, JJ is my babygirl too and her and spence are my fave platonic duo
Genre: It's kinda fluffy i must tell you
Summary: When Spencer finally thought he was about to have his first date, the plans changed, even if he may not have minded at the end of the day.
AO3
Author's notes: so this took me a long fucking while and im sorry for it, the end may have mistakes because i was trying to finish for the last full week no joke, that being said i hope you guys like it, next one going to be a about episode...(loading)
You didn't believe in God, because religion was something that was proved in your work field to have done more bad than good. Also, because working at the FBI showed you that the so-called merciful God was extremely doubtful considering the horrific cases you had to go through.
Nonetheless, you were sure that whoever was behind the secrets of the universe was playing with you at that moment, while you stared at Derek and Penelope in front of your desk.
"Could you repeat that for me?" You tried to sound clear, afraid that the shock would actually make you stutter.
"JJ invited me over for the game that she will watch with Spencer! And it's in a VIP box, did you ever go into those? Me, never." Garcia — as everyone called her except Derek, who used the famous 'baby girl' nickname — seemed oblivious to the many feelings passing through you.
"Cupcake, Penelope is inviting you to come with them. All the kids of the team, you know." Derek tapped your shoulder, like the overly brotherly vibe he had going on with you. You didn't know. But it wasn't bad either.
"So… you want me to go with Penelope, JJ and… Spencer, to a football game, in a VIP box. How would I even get the tickets for it?" Because you knew how the VIP box looked like — you may have googled it when you got home after the day you watched Spencer ask JJ out because of Gideon — and you were sure you weren't able to afford it.
"It's a gift from me." Derek shrugged. You knew he had money, because he had this whole landlord thing going on, but you never asked how much.
"Why would you do that?"
"Why wouldn't I? My baby girl and cupcake are going to have fun, I can afford to give you some fun." He winked at you, smirking like the devil in disguise he was. But you knew better than to believe Derek's words after what happened in the jet.
"Why would I go? I don't like football." You shrugged.
"Me either! But we can match outfits and have fun and drink a lot!" Penelope squealed. "I already know. We can all wear something red. So we would match with the football team."
You looked at her for a long moment, before you grabbed the mug in your desk, drinking a long sip of orange juice.
"Is Spencer okay with that…?" Your voice was tiny against the rim of the mug, pretending not to really care as much as you already did.
"Of course he is. JJ told me we will all meet at the VIP box so you and I can go together." Because Spencer would probably arrive with JJ. Or something like that.
You really weren't sure about this whole situation. You knew for a fact that Spencer had asked JJ out. Taking the other people to the "date" — can't even consider that, at this point — wouldn't be something logical to do.
Unless…
"Okay."
Penelope cheered with little claps, taking her bedazzled flip phone from the pocket of her skirt, already typing while she walked back to her office.
"Spencer doesn't know about Penelope and I are going with them, right?" You asked Derek, not looking away from the orange juice in your mug.
Derek frowned. "He does. I mean, probably." Then he shrugged, walking to his desk while you seemed to be the only one thinking — overthinking — about this whole thing.
Spencer didn't know why his chest felt so… full. He was nervous, tomorrow was supposed to be the day of the game. He counted down the minutes until five o'clock the next day arrived, while staring at the swirling coffee in his mug.
A date.
If he went back to two weeks ago and told his old version that he was about to have a date by the end of the month, he wouldn't believe himself.
First, because time travel was impossible, and his past would be his future, so it wouldn't work. Second, because he was ridiculous and no one would ever date him. Or go on a date with him.
It was easier to think that way — with the many reasons to think that way — while he kept planning stuff on his head, waiting and waiting for the next day to come.
He kept having these silly thoughts in his head. Would he get to hold hands? Maybe… a goodbye kiss? Derek seemed to make it so damn easy.
He stopped smiling to his mug like a stupid teenager when JJ pushed her chair to his side, making him jump.
"Hey. I totally forgot to warn you. I invited Penelope to go with us." She had a smile on her face, fidgeting with a pen in her hand.
"What?" Spencer's face dropped a bit.
"I don't know, I think it would be cool for all of us to hang out. I think she will invite someone else. The more, the better right?" JJ chuckled, standing up while not noticing how Spencer's face melted into a sad expression on each word.
So it wasn't a date.
Spencer wasn't so excited anymore. Definitely not excited. He was anxious and bothered. His hands were sweating because he truly didn't know why he decided to still come. He walked into the stadium entrance, tapping the strap of his satchel while he looked around for the girls.
He hated himself for thinking that for even a second, he was actually going on a date. With JJ of all people.
His Adam's apple bobbled when he swallowed hard, watching the sea of people. Before he had to found out that JJ wasn't seeing this as a date, he thought he could deal with the crowd and loud noises and the non-hygienic surfaces all around him. Now, he wasn't so sure anymore…
JJ and Penelope showed on distance, arms tangled together as they carried their purses while holding a refillable soda cup. You, were a few steps back, which surprised him.
His body moved on its own, walking closer to the trio until Penelope was the first to notice him.
"Hi! Oh my god, you are here. This is so fun, there is so many people here and it's going to be so fun," She chimed, greeting Spencer with a half hug he didn't know how to give back, and stepped back.
JJ looked at him with a small smile, waving a hand — because she probably knew he wasn't touchy — before his eyes landed on you. You seemed just as out of place as he was.
Maybe because you didn't know he was coming, and he annoyed you? Or maybe he was projecting the fact he didn't know why you and Penelope were here. On his so wished date.
"We should go to the box." He nodded stiffly, glancing at his wristwatch before the small group started walking, JJ and Penelope in the front while you and him stayed behind a bit.
The silence between you was weird, and he didn't know why. Actually, Spencer felt this really annoying thing in his chest. Frustration.
Spencer Reid wanted to cry a bit, like the child he felt he still was.
The walk to the VIP box was fast, and his eyes widened when they got there. It was this full cubic room, with couches and a small kitchen area with a bar. There was the balcony that was turned directly to the stadium where he could hear the loud noise of people.
"This is so cool! I have never been to one of those." Penelope squealed on her feet, walking around the room to see everything, already taking photos.
JJ was also comfortable, already sitting down to turn the TV — because for some reason there was a TV where you could watch the game that was happening outside — while both Spencer and you stood in the middle of the room.
His mouth opened, almost to say something before you moved to the bar area, and he heard you mumble about orange juice.
He closed his mouth with an audible click of his teeth.
"Spence, come on." JJ tapped the couch, making him swallow hard. He didn't understand anything anymore.
"Hi." He smiled nervously as he sat by her side. "So… Just so— I mean— I thought-" He wanted to jump out of the balcony of the VIP box so bad. "This was never going to be a date, right?" He whispered to her, ignoring the fact he really felt like having an anxiety attack.
JJ stopped messing with the TV controller, blinking before she looked at him.
"It's okay I'm just— It's just that Gideon told me to ask you to come with me because you liked Red Skins." He explained quickly, before he covered his mouth. Ugh, he was feeling sick.
"Oh…" JJ nodded, like she understood. "I'm sorry I thought… Sorry." She gave him an apologetic smile Spencer understood very well. "I just thought about all of us hanging out and…" She gestured.
Her hand squeezed his arm before she walked out to where Penelope was preparing a few drinks and babbling in yours ears about anything and everything. You clearly didn't mind.
Spencer felt like crying. Was it okay to cry because he was a failure in social interaction? He didn't know. He knew for a fact he wasn't normal.
Derek had joked about how his weirdness probably were the reason he never got a date, and then even when he tried, he got confused and mistaken by a friend's hang out.
It wasn't JJ's fault. He knew that, and he would never blame her over such a thing. But he was mad at himself for not being more clear. He stood up, putting his bag aside before he walked to the balcony, eyes looking down at the stadium. It was big and filled with colors and people.
He rested a hand above his eyes, rubbing the temples with his fingers because he felt like crying. He couldn't cry. He knew for a fact that it was embarrassing to cry in front of his teammates, especially when they were all fierce women he would never compare himself too.
And he included you on that thought. You would never believed that.
He got surprised when you entered the team, he knew for a fact that you were as great as him in the FBI. Your age was the closest thing you had in common, but he knew you were good during the academy time — the one he got permission to skip because he didn't have a single physical ability — while having a degree in Criminology and still finishing one in Linguistics.
Yeah, he had read your files. But he still didn't know how he was supposed to act around you. With Elle, JJ and Penelope was easy, they were all just… them.
They had taken him as their little mascot, the whole team considered him a kid after all. But he didn't know what you considered him. You were a genuine mystery he couldn't solve.
"Hi."
His head perked up, finding you in the balcony by his side, your arms leaning against the rail just like he was doing.
His voice felt trapped before he forced himself to speak. "Hey. Ahn— You like football?"
"Nope." Your head shook. "Derek forced me to come with you guys. "The youngest members of the team hanging out" type of idea." You explained with shrug and air quotes. He knew Derek was fond of you, he actually had listened him talk about you quite few times — even if he didn't understand why Derek said all of that directly to him.
"You never go to the team's hang-outs." His mouth worked faster than his brain, and he winced when he sounded so rude. "I mean— That's not bad I'm just— Like you are part of the team, and you should hang out with us more often. It's cool. You are cool."
He looked away, trying to school his face into normality and not into a mortified piece of embarrassment.
"You guys already have a dynamic. I don't wanna ruin it." Your voice sounded quiet, his eyes turning to search across your side profile while he registered what you said.
"You don't ruin anything." He said in the same quiet tone. "If we are being serious, I'm the most probable sore thumb on the team."
"You are amazing, what do you even mean?" Your voice sounded weird. Then your eyes widened, and he noticed that you didn't mean to say what you said.
"You think… I'm amazing?" His eyebrows furrowed, and his lips turned into that little pout that made him look quite adorable.
"I mean yeah. You have a thousand degree and an IQ of a 187. How are you not amazing while being the epitome of the word genius?" You shrugged it off, looking down at the stadium.
You weren't happy that you said that so fast, but you weren't going to backtrack either. This was probably the longest conversation you ever had with him since you got into the BAU.
"And I'm sorry, by the way." You looked up slowly. "This was supposed to be your date with JJ wasn't it?"
His breath stopped for a good few seconds, his neck starting to get ready from embarrassment.
"What? No! I mean— JJ and I are friends. I-I just invited her because she likes the Red Skins. Gideon gifted me the tickets thinking I was into it." He lied. And he was bad at it, gesturing nervously while trying to not cry out of embarrassment. God, he hated the whole situation.
He glanced away, knowing she was looking at him, but he felt too nervous to keep the eye contact — he always did.
"So you don't like JJ?"
"What do you mean? I like her. She is nice. A good friend." He nodded stiffly.
"I mean romantically." You explained.
"O-oh no, no, no. We don't- Yeah no, we don't like each other like that." He stuttered, wincing while keeping his eyes on the crowd down the stadium.
He shook his head, resting his face on his hand for a moment. He had this mental rule of never speaking too much around you, because he noticed he always turned into a jerk or a complete mess.
"I don't like anyone. And I'm not looking for a relationship right now." He mumbled, his hand falling down before he glanced at you — you were looking down at the stadium, nodding in silence.
"That's comprehensive." Your hands gripped the railing, eyes traveling through a sea of people. "I'm actually the same way." Your lips moved faster than your mind. "FBI is just too much for relationships you know?"
Spencer nodded too. He could be agreeing with that, but he knew better than blame his job for his lack of relationship. He was a total wreck when it comes to communication.
God's sake, he thought you didn't like him for the simple fact you were too closed off. He couldn't read you like he could read the others. Not even Gideon was that hard to understand, so it obviously meant he didn't please you, right?
Before he could say something else, you turned around as the sound of Penelope's voice came from the back, she waved at both of you to come inside.
"We need to take pictures and make this the best party ever!" She waved her hands with a high-pitched end on her voice, due her excitement.
"It's not a party. It's a football game." Spencer frowned, glancing when you sat down on the couch by JJ's side.
"Oh my dear lovely nerd, you could never understand my ability to turn everything into a party."
Her eyes glowed with happiness and small portion of alcohol in the system, while she took a small camera from her pink purse. "We are making an album of friendship today!"
You smiled a bit watching Penelope and JJ get into a cab while standing on the sidewalk.
The game had ended fast — because they barely had paid attention to it, playing games and eating snacks while talking and enjoying the VIP box experience — making the group split when they got out of the stadium after walking for a few minutes.
"She is way too drunk." Spencer commented by your side, hands holding the strap of his satchel, a soft flush of pink on his cheeks and nose due to the cold air of the night that made your stomach turn upside down.
You felt giddy, the alcohol in your system wasn't high, but you still felt more at ease than normal.
"What? Is there something on me?" Spencer question made you blink, noticing you were staring at his face.
"Nope." You shook your head. "Nothing in your face." You almost slipped "pretty" in the middle of that.
"Are you alright? I can call a cab for you—"
"No!" You said quickly before you blinked again, shaking your head. "No. You don't need that. I can just walk. You are going to the… To the station right?" You pointed to the direction behind you.
Spencer nodded, lips on a thin line as he looked at you. You were pretty, he already knew that — he would never say it out loud — but your face had a different flush to it. Because of the alcohol, he thought.
He also thought it was weird to see you laugh so much today. You were the most closed off person after Hotch and Gideon on the team, and that was saying a lot.
"Yeah. Yes. I take the train home."
"But you have a car?" Your forehead turned into a frown, as you both started walking together.
"No… I mean- Yeah I do, but I prefer to take the metro. It's better and easier. And I don't have to pay attention to anything out of what I wanna do. Like reading." He explained, gesturing with his hands making you smile.
"Makes sense."
The walk was quiet for a moment, weirdly comfortable. Spencer always felt the need to fill the silence every time he was with someone, especially someone that had a weird effect on him.
His eyes focused on his shoes, the black sneakers he wore didn't fit the rest of his attire. The button up, the tweed jacket and the slacks he wore were completely nerdy. He was all nerdy and all pretty.
"Mhmm I wished I didn't live so far away from the metro." You mumble. "My apartment sucks. And my landlord is a real douchebag."
Spencer looked up, surprised you were talking to him. You would normally keep silence — because you didn't want to sound stupid and most of the time couldn't even look the guy in the eye, but he didn't know that.
"Your landlord suck?" Spencer's voice was sweet. Dripping with honey in your ears.
"He is this old guy with like… no knowledge of, you know, heaters from this century. I wished I had taken more time to actually search for a proper apartment before I moved here." Your eyes looked up to the lights on the street, sighing. The air condensed in front of your lips.
"I live near the Van Ness-UDC Metro." He mumbled. "It's pretty nice. The rent isn't so… expensive I guess. And the heaters are good." He joked.
You turned your head, putting a strand of hair behind your ear to look at him. "Should I move into your building?" You joked back and he giggled.
"I don't know. It wouldn't be bad if you did. Most of my neighbors are… old or never around. I am also never around." He glanced between you and the sidewalk, while holding the strap of his satchel more tight with both hands.
Spencer had that little face on, that made your heart rate spike, the one where his lips were pressed together, and his cheeks were puffed. The Silly Spencer face, you had named.
"Did you know that the oldest building in D.C. is currently the Old Stone House in Georgetown? It was built in 1765, it is the only remaining pre-Revolutionary colonial building in the city that stands on its original foundation." He suddenly rambled making you smile and nod.
"That's a lot for a building."
"It's." He kept going. "Steel reinforced in concrete typically takes 10 years to begin to corrode. Under ideal condition, it can be delayed for several decades. Considering that corrosion initiation usually takes 2.4 to 2.7 years for 25 millimeters of thick concrete cover. Which depends on moisture, oxygen and carbonation." He finished with a hand gesture.
He didn't know why he was talking about concrete corrosion. He, actually, didn't know why he was talking at all. There was no in between when he was around you, as it seems. Complete silence or straight up non-stop rambling. Spencer frowned to himself, looking away before he quickly moisturized his lips.
"How do you get to know this type of thing?" Your eyebrows were glued together, asking with actual amusement and delight. "Your head is insane, Dr. Reid."
It wasn't an offense, you were trying to compliment him, but Spencer had heard similar things with bad tones to know better than to recognize your attempt to show interest.
"My— My mother used to read a lot to me when I was a kid and I always had a lot of free time to study so…" He shrugged.
"So you are a genius."
"I don't really consider believe that intelligence can be accurately quantified, but I do have an IQ of 187, an eidetic memory, and can read 20,000 words per minute." He stopped for a moment. "I'm a genius. Yes."
You giggled more, a hand covering your mouth while you tried to ignore the fluttering thing in your chest that kept trying to fly.
"Damn. I'm happy you can recognize it." You shoved your hands into the pockets of your coat, eyes glimmering under the yellow lights of the street while you both arrived at the stairs of the metro. As you entered the station, you looked around.
"I will have to call a cab." You made a soft grimace, looking at the map with the metro lines.
"Call a cab?" His eyebrows created a furrow in his forehead, making him turn to you. "You don't take the metro? Why did you walk me here?"
"Ahn…" You opened and closed your mouth, eyes ranking through the map on the wall. "So you wouldn't walk alone. Obviously."
"You don't need to do that- I can take care of myself." He said, slightly defensive. "You didn't have to do that…"
His voice turned small at the end, his shoulders shagging a bit. He was, once again, embarrassed and not knowing how to react to you. It was so weird. You were all closed off, but suddenly you walked him to the metro?
"Do you think you will be able to get your arm license?" The question was sudden, making him look up.
"Yeah. I mean, yes. Of course." He answered quickly, his eyes travelling around the station while fidgeting uncomfortably.
"Are you worried about your exam? You will do great."
"Hardly." He mumbled. His self depreciation was stronger than him half of the time.
"You just said you would." You narrowed your eyes.
"Automatic response." He mumbled.
"Theoretically I should have a gun." You explained. "But I avoided."
Spencer frowned, his eyes traveling through your face when you looked back at the map of the metro. You seemed thoughtful, almost lost.
He swallowed hard, looking away before it become weird to stare at a co-worker like that. "Why would you avoid having a gun? Don't you wanna be a true agent?"
He didn't mean to sound so rude, but he was also projecting, so that was normal at this point.
"You think that you need a gun to be a true agent?" Of course, you would catch what he said and read into the lines. You were both profilers and you weren't stupid even if you were a little tipsy.
"No. But I look like a school teacher assistant without one. You don't." He squeezed his lips in a small grimace, annoyed and a bit uncomfortable with the topic.
"Why?" You frowned, looking at him with a funny grimace.
Spencer got tongue tied, opening and closing his mouth because he didn't know how to explain that you were… Well, you weren't nerdy like him. Not at all. You were… pretty and attractive. To him, at least.
Not that he would ever admit such a thing, obviously.
His line of thought was interrupted by the sound of the metro arriving by the side of the platform, his eyes looking at the metal box with what could be… sadness?
He kinda wanted to talk to you more. Maybe try to explain why you were so much more of an agent than him. He could already imagine how embarrassing it would be to do that.
"You should go before the doors close." Your eyes looked between the fidgety genius and the metro, smiling with your lips glued together.
"I should. Yeah. Ahn-- Bye. Goodbye. I mean we will see each other on Monday so-" He tried to lift a hand and wave in a weird way while trying to say bye, but before he could properly do so, you hugged him.
Not a full hug, just a quick one with one arm around him and your chin touching above his shoulder. You were thankful for the high heel boots you wore today, clearly helping to pass the height difference.
"Bye, Spence." Your mouth was not moving accordingly to your brain, and calling him 'Spence' was not on your plans.
Spencer barely registered though, his eyes looking at you in silence. You smelt nice. He was weird about it.
"Ah-ah-" he opened and closed his mouth, watching you step back until he just decided to wave, when you turned around to go up the stairs, he stiffly walked to the metro.
His mind was elsewhere the whole drive, but for some reason, he still smelled the soft orange touch of your perfume under his nose when he got home.
Tags/Warning: None, reader is a watcher/narrator most of the time, reader does not feel like part of the team, reader doesn't know how to get close to spencer or anyone, derek calls her cupcake because he is trying to get closer
Genre: Angst from reader's pov(?)
Summary: "In plain sight" means in a place that is clearly visible. Ex: "the way you felt about Spencer Reid, was a feeling hidden in plain sight." And for you, feeling hidden and exposed around that genius was torture.
AO3
Author's note: I swear to god i was trying to make a better job at writing this for the past week, reader is supposed to look and sound like an outsider while she does not feel like part of the team and i hoped i made that claer. This is a first part and i truly plan on making more "reader action" the next part!!! i'm sorry if its bad but i tried, next part will be better!! I also must say THANK YOU LEXIE YOU ARE MY SAVIOUR; she is the best 🧡
You watched Spencer from afar, his face contorted with confusion as he tried to blow the trick candles, because Derek had decided to prank him during the small celebration the team had planned for his birthday.
"Make a wish! Come on man! Blow, baby blow!" Morgan cheered in his ear, making him frown even more with dislike for the noise.
JJ tapped his shoulder, which caused him to stop blowing the candles like a crazy boy. "They're trick candles, Spence, okay? They're gonna come back on."
He looked up at her before he tried one more time. "I don't— I don't understand."
He gave up, a small pout on his lips and that made you smile, you were still leaning against your desk, before you stepped closer to where they were.
"Oh, mommy to rescue you!" Morgan teased, JJ and Elle prepared to cut the cake.
"Mommy?" Spencer frowned even more.
Gideon and Aaron standing nearby when Aaron started to speak.
"Isn't it amazing he knows what he knows, and he's only 24? That made you smile.
"Imagine what he will know by 50," Gideon stated. The conversation got interrupted by Aaron’s phone and he excused himself, taking the call with a frown. You paid no attention to him because you noticed Spencer approach where you and Gideon were, and you couldn’t help but smile
"Are you having fun, birthday boy?" Gideon joked, and you chuckled watching him smile. Your own face would definitely get cramps for smiling around him so much.
"Yes, definitely," He grumbled , even if he tried to sound annoyed you could see he was happy. "Can I take this hat off?"
"I wouldn't."
"Hey Spence, first piece for the birthday boy," JJ called from the desk making him look away for a moment before he turned to you with… glowing eyes.
"Do you know she's the only person in the whole world who calls me "Spence"?" His smile made you stutter for a moment, not having time to answer before he moved to grab the piece of cake from her, you saw their fingers touch and your heart squeezed with the bitter feeling.
"Here Cupcake." Derek approached you with a piece of cake and you mumble a soft "thank you" under your breath. You thought about asking him something before everyone was interrupted by Aaron coming back from the call.
"Sorry guys, the party is over."
While gathering your go bag and everything else on the way to the jet, you kept remembering the way his eyes glowed when he spoke about JJ, and it hurt a bit more than you wanted.
When in flying — something you truly didn't like — the team was getting briefed in the case. Brenda Samms, found by her children yesterday. You could only imagine the trauma those kids would have to deal with. She had been strangled with a wire.
"No weapon left at the scene." Elle looked through the crime scene pictures while you leaned forward sitting next to Spencer on the couch. Your face contorted at the content.
"She had residues of tape and glue in her face. According to the analysis say the tape and wire weren't found at the crime scene. He brought it and took with him when he left," You murmured, a crease in the middle of your forehead making Spencer glance at you for a moment, you didn't notice.
"He also started leaving messages at the fourth scene . This was on the mirrors: Fair lady, throw those costly robes aside. No longer may you glory in your pride. Take leave of all your carnal, vain delight—" Aaron read out loud.
"I've come to summon you away this night' It's a ballad from the late 1600s. A dialogue betwixt death and a lady." Spencer explained, and you noticed Derek with an incredulous look.
"A 17th century ballad?" Elle asked.
"Essentially, a woman begging death to live," Spencer gestured, which made you want to smile.
"What kind of person would know something like that? Literature isn't the most famous topic out of universities. Maybe a professor?" You inquired while changing glances with the team.
"Anyone with an internet connection, actually. You should see what comes in when you type the word "death" into a search engine." Spencer smiled a bit when he spoke.
"Reid, no wonder you can't get a date." Derek made a mocking face, making you want to throw the pillow in your lap in his direction.
"Reid, you stay on the messages. See if there's a deeper meaning. You two, actually." Gideon intervened preventing the teasing from escalating, as he pointed at you and Spencer.
"It definitely looks like he ransacked the crime scene pretty well," Derek's grumble made everyone nod. "Nothing was taken."
The eyes were his signature, which made the behavior necessary for the emotional release, was what Gideon explained when you walked to the small kitchen area of the jet.
"There used to be a widely held belief that the eyes record a snapshot of the last thing a person sees before they die." You could hear Spencer's voice from where you were, your head nodding in a small movement while you poured orange juice into your mug.
"Yeah, that's right. People used to write poems about talking to death." Derek kept going.
"Ballads."
"Whatever." Derek dismissed Spencer's correction and you could see from the corner of your eye when the doctor slid off the armrest of the couch to sit down properly.
"You think they'll ever run out of new things to do with their victims?" Elle suddenly spoke, everyone looked at her when she asked Gideon.
"Well, finding new ways to hurt each other is what we're good at." Everyone went silence, the humming of the jet occupying the space before everyone started to gather their stuff to land.
You walked back to the couch, sitting down by Spencer's side. "Would you like some?" You moved the mug to his line of sight.
He glanced up from the file. "Is it coffee?"
That made you smile, because he was a complete junky for coffee. "It's juice. Orange. Vitamin C is great for the skin. It's my favorite."
"I know that." He mumbled while going back to pay attention to the files in front of him, which made you frown. He knew it was your favorite?
"Right…" You got comfortable in your seat. Your eyes traveled through his profile, the way his nose wobbled a bit while he read the files in his lap. It was your favorite detail about him.
One of the details. When you entered the BAU, nine months ago, Spencer Reid was something you didn't expect. A genius with social skills of a victorian child — if the said victorian child traveled in time to the actual days of 2007 — lacking the basic skills to have a normal conversation without info dumping and getting a thousand different subjects at the same time?! No way. You never thought this would be your type, being genuine.
But it happened, and even if he was slow, did not notice your attempts to be closer to him and made you feel like the old, less confident teenager version of yourself, you still liked him. Hopefully no one would notice. Or maybe hopefully they would, and maybe because they were all closer to him they would make him give you a chance and he would fall for you and you would have babies named after old sc—
"Hey, cupcake." Derek voice made you glance up. The team was already leaving the jet, after the landing while you were barely paying attention, too lost in your own head. Damn. "Are you alright?"
You gave Derek a tight smile. "Sorry, yes. And thanks."
You grabbed your bag and files, your mind couldn't prevent you from repeating to yourself how stupid it was to pine over a guy you barely got to meet without having to catch snips of conversation of him and his actual friends. You couldn't remember the last time you even had a normal conversation with the guy himself.
The station was filled with police officers when the team arrived, Hotch introducing everyone to Captain Griffith, who was responsible for the task force in the Tommy Killer case. You moved to a free seat, already getting your work started.
A few moments later Spencer arrived, sitting on the empty chair next to you. You squeezed your lips together. "It's a shame that we had to cut the party short."
He looked up from the book he was reading, blinking like he just noticed you there. Which was usual. You didn't understand much of how he worked. You tried though.
"I don't really care. The last time Morgan spend the day annoying me." It didn't sound true, but he was back to reading, scribing into a notepad before you could say something. You wished you could say something that wouldn't sound dumb.
It was that way for the past 6 months or so. Maybe he didn't like you not even as a friend, after all you weren't good at getting closer to the team, but...Elle joined the team after you and she still seemed to be closer to everyone. It was ridiculous because she wasn't even trying, was she?
You started researching on the computer in front of you, glancing up from time to time while he read over the books and other paperwork. His mind was amazing, you thought. Your age was the only thing you two had in common.
"Here." Your hand stretched across the table to give Spencer the full ballad you had been able to gather.
"Found something?" Gideon's voice made you both look up, him and Derek had just arrived from the crime scene.
"More like a question." You answered, pursuing your lips.
"We found the full verses. He's pretty much following it to a tee, at least the death side of the conversation." Spencer glanced between Gideon and the paper.
"We don't know why he didn't leave a message at the first three murders." You explained, grabbing the page from his hand to show Gideon. "This is ten verses long, just from the side of the death, while the lady doesn't answer. He did have the material."
"If he doesn't use it as a signature it isn't something that he has to do for an emotional reason then, I mean, why start??" Spencer finished. You noticed Derek glancing at you for some reason, your lips pursed a thin line as you looked away to pay attention to Gideon.
Gideon turned to JJ, asking her to find out when the press first broke the news of the crimes.
"He wasn't getting enough attention right? Police departments are slow, they take ages to realize a pattern." You looked at Gideon and Spencer nodded with you.
"After the fourth victim was found." JJ answered Gideon’s question, from her desk.
"The increased patrols didn't begin until after the fourth victim either." You glanced over Derek's hand as he read through the files he held.
"The police doesn't realize he is the same criminal in the last three victims so he writes the verse…" Gideon gestured.
"And everyone knows that he was there." Spencer finished.
You stepped back as Aaron and Elle arrived. "The offender in this new attempt is a black male."
"That doesn't happen, interracial assault is rare." You leaned against the desk behind you.
"How about Harbert Mullin? He killed fourteen different people—"
"But there wasn't a sexual component to his crimes," You interrupted, before he finished the description. You did notice that his forehead frowned for a millisecond.
"And he wore a ski mask. This attacker wore a ski mask," Elle added, looking at Gideon.
"Tell them we're ready." Gideon walked to the board.
"For a profile?" Derek inquires.
"We're gonna make Tommy contact us." Gideon answers. You sighed, not really surprised by how Gideon's mind worked, but the job got done.
Only a few minutes later, the cops gathered in the bullpen station, watching the team while the dropped the profile. You could see that their feelings wavered between skepticism and admiration as he spoke.
The team explained about the profile, Gideon talking about how the unsub used a killing kit — duct tape, glue and wire — before Aaron talked about he was probably skilled in his job, that probably involved the use of hands. He also had a vehicle that was kept in perfect form, while acting during the day. Derek was responsible to talk about how he prepared, watching the victims before the attack.
"You're not gonna catch him accidentally." Aaron turned to the board for a moment.
"He destroys symbols of wealth in the victim's homes. He harbors envy of and hatred toward people of a higher social class. He feels invisible around them." Gideon analyzed.
"Class is the theme of the poem which he left at the various crime scenes. At one point in the poem, the women attempts to bribe death but he doesn't accept it." Spencer explained the poem left in the scenes.
"He says this is the one moment when riches mean nothing when death comes, the poor and the rich are exactly alike." You gestured to the verse. "He is a middle class. A lower class person would stick out in the type of neighborhood where the crimes took place. Especially as they are currently being highly patrolled." You pushed your hand into your back pockets, glancing between the board and the cops.
"Why does he glue the eyes open?" One of the other cops asked, as Elle stood in the middle of the empty space.
The question made Elle explain — since it was her specialty — about how rapists didn't like when victims looked away or ruined their fantasies by closing their eyes. Everything about him, — the verses, the staging, the aggressive language — the way he called himself Death, was his way to show he wanted control, probably for being under the thumb of some female figure in his life. He needed the attention to feel praised. And with all that: He was white.
"We have witnesses that identify him as a black male." Captain Griffith intervened.
"The attacker was black. He is not the Tommy killer." Gideon refers to the fact the recent crimes were from two different criminals. Because the fact that the Tommy Killer would watch his victims beforehand, he would know that Mr. Gordon would arrive at that hour. Mrs. Gordon attacker wore a ski mask.
"He wants the victims to see him anyway." You added.
"Your attempted rapist is a garden variety disorganized young man." Aaron said.
"As the victim's age goes up, generally the attacker's age goes down. Mrs. Gordon is about 60, which puts her rapist at about 20." Elle explained.
"And it takes years to develop the level of calm and sophistication that Tommy displays at a crime scene. The rapist is far too young for that." Gideon explained.
"Mrs. Gordon told me that there's a young man who delivers groceries to their home. He fits a lot of what we're describing about her case." Elle pointed out, gesturing with the files in her hand.
"Great." The detective grumbled. "So we're back to zero on Tommy." He stood up, dropping the files on the desk, making you tilt your head for a second. You didn't like cops, which was an irony.
You watched as Aaron took over, walking with Griffith to his office, he was going to explain the new plan to catch the criminal. They would arrest the black man that actually attacked Mrs Gordon, while sharing in a conference he was the Tommy Killer, causing the actual unsub to get mad for getting out of the spotlight.
Everyone started preparing to go after both of the criminals with the plan Gideon created, as you looked around for a moment, Spencer approaching the crime board. "Do you think it will work?" You asked, leaning on the edge.
"Gideon is smart, he knows how to take the unsubs into his traps." His voice was quiet, barely glancing up from the paper he held.
"Isn't scary how he always know what to do?"
"Maybe for the fact he has been dealing with them for long makes the situation looks scary. You get used to it." He turned around, walking away and mumbling about refilling his coffee mug.
The plan after the arrest went perfect, being announced at a conference JJ was responsible for, the only thing to do now was to wait for the unsub to contact the cops. And wait was annoying.
You sat at one the empty desks, resting your head against your crossed arms before you accidentally heard Spencer ask Elle.
"Do you think it's weird that I knew that ballad?" You could hear the way his voice sounded quiet, his hands were fidgeting with a cube.
"I don't know how it is that you know half the things you know but I'm glad you do." Elle's voice was gentle, but you couldn't see her face or what she was doing.
"Do you think it's why I can't get a date?" Spencer's voice made you stop for a moment. It was weird. Those moments were you see someone that held the only thing you want, questioning such a thing. It was weird and actually a pretty bad feeling.
"You ever ask anyone out?" Elle suggested.
"No." And also never notices when someone is actually into you, either.
"That's why you can't get a date." It was stupid to get mad at someone for saying the truth wasn't it? Probably.
"Detective Martin." The voice made you look up, watching the detective pick the phone. "Hey. Hey." He gestured wildly to the phone.
"Line 6, Penelope. Line 6." JJ instructed Penelope, who was responsible for tracking the unsub through the call. Elle's moved to the telephone, putting the call on speaker.
"You stupid, incompetent sons of bitches! I don't make mistakes! I am death! You hear me?! I am death! You'll see now. Tomorrow, mark my words, you will see. And while I'm taking her, I'm gonna be thinking of you." The voice was angry and rough, before the call ended completely.
Tomorrow arrived and you find yourself in a car with Derek and Spencer. You weren’t sure why you were there, but Derek called and you went. You were sitting in the back seat, Spencer and Derek in the front
"It's 10:30 already." Derek grumbled, his elbow resting on the window.
"All he said was tomorrow. He didn't specify morning," Spencer mumbled, looking through the binoculars.
"He is diurnal, I doubt he would change. This is when everyone is giving him the attention he wants," You spoke, watching the empty street.
Derek kept flipping him phone, looking anxious.
"Are we sure this is a good spot?" Spencer looked around. He turned his head to look at the back of the car, looking at you in the process. You immediately averted your gaze.
"Three of the victims lived within a block of this street. It's the main artery through the neighborhood." Derek explained.
"True, but three victims in the same block could mean he's done with the area." Spencer comments.
"Or he is familiar with this neighborhood." You stretched your hand to grab one of the bottles of water in the front.
"And comfortable in it." Spencer completed.
"But then, on the other hand the other victims lived more than a mile in either direction. God, I hate not having a plan. We're looking for a needle in a haystack here." Derek grumble, pressing his hands against his face.
"Actually, it's more like we're looking for a needle in a pile of needles." Spencer interrupted which made you smile a bit. His logic was correct.
"What?"
"A needle would stand out in a haystack." His hands gesture made you smile forcing you to hide your face with a hand. You would give anything to get into his head and see how the gears would spin.”
"Ok. And we're not looking for someone who stands out? No." Derek was obviously joking, but Spencer was not getting it.
"He is making sense, Derek." You smacked the side of his arm, and Spencer almost gave you a smile.
"We're looking for a particular needle in a pile of needles." He said before he grabbed the binoculars again, looking through them like a curious toddler.
It was this thing you noticed on him. You were in the field less than him — he had turned into an agent at the age of 22, which was insane — but each time you noticed him, he still carried that same energy. Curios and genuine.
Your train of thought was interrupted by a call. It was Hotch. They had found out where the unsub worked. In five minutes the the car was pulling up in front of San Diego Bell.
"FBI." Derek lifted the badge, looking at the now completely confused attendant. "I need to know where one of your technicians is."
"FBI?" You always noticed is the way everyone who saw a badge would instantly develop the necessity to repeat what they just heard. It was weird. Funny, even.
"Where are your technicians?" Spencer asked this time. He of course was way less heated than Derek.
"They're all out in the field." The attendant insisted, still confused.
"Listen!" When Derek hit the counter with his hand, the attendant jumped — which was an obvious reaction — but you wouldn’t help but notice that even Spencer flinched.
"I need Franklin Graney right now." Derek shot.
"Okay okay!" The attendant moved to the near computer, you three — not patiently — waiting before he came back, holding a paper. "Here it's-"
"Thank you." You interrupted him without waiting while Derek was already calling Hotch back as you gave him the address.
"It's on Orange and Chandler." You pointed as you closed the door of the car. "We re going back?"
"You and Reid. Then I’ll help them with the search." Derek explained, already pulling the car out. Of course you would stay at the station. You still didn't have a gun license.
He quickly dropped the two of you off and just like that, he was off.
"God, I hate this." You mumbled, following Spencer through the door.
"You didn't get your license too?" Spencer asked, which surprised you, for some reason.
"No. Not yet."
"Are they searching?" JJ asked as soon as she noticed both of you. You nodded.
"They went to Orange and Chandler." Spencer explained. "It's an extensive area they may not even be—"
"They will." You interrupted. "The whole station is out there. He is not that lucky. Or smart."
Waiting sucked as always. And after they brought the unsub in, the paperwork was the worst part. You were happy you could take him out of the streets, but it always felt like fighting the Hydra. Cut one head and another two will grow.
Packing to the jet was easiest part, because you never took enough anything to be worried about taking too long and you were also constantly eager to go back home.
The jet was humming softly, everyone was sitting down. Elle and Hotch were looking over papers in one corner, JJ was reading something in the armchair and Derek was on the couch by your side, reading his own stuff.
You were watching Gideon and Spencer. Not shamelessly, but you were paying attention to their game. Chess. You never really liked chess. It was one of those hard things that anyone who liked it went insane for it.
The game wasn’t boring though. You wished to know how it truly worked so you could understand Spencer’s - and of course Gideon’s - plays. Someone used to tell you. "A man shows a lot of himself when playing with his hands."
"Oh, I almost forgot. I have something for you." Gideon pipped up, taking a envelope from his bag.
"Oh, yeah?" Spencer answered, while still looking at the mini chess board.
"Forgot to give it to you at the party." Gideon explained, stretching the envelope across the table. Eavesdropping wasn’t a nice thing to do, but you were all in the same space. Your stomach felt bad for some reason.
"But you don't give birthday presents. The Red Skins." Spencer read on the tickets. Football.
"It's a V.I.P. Box," Gideon explained.
"Thank you so much."
"Ever been to a pro football game?" The question was curious, maybe because everyone would know the answer.
"No, I honestly didn't even know this was football." Spencer chuckled with a bit of shyness.
"You're gonna love it." Gideon smiled.
"We are. You're coming with me, right?" The boy frowned, pointing between them with the envelope.
"No. Someone else on the plane is a huge skins fan." When Gideon said that, you knew already. And the file between your hands started to trembled slightly. It was ridiculous, you squeezed the paper harder, trying to stop.
"Who?"
"Only person in the world who calls you Spence." The phrase landed hard on you, who wasn't even part of the conversation, but the way your body leaned back against the couch, you could swear you had been slapped with the bitter reality.
"JJ?" Spencer sounded happy. He sounded genuinely excited
"She's a huge Red Skins fan." Gideon repeats with a nod.
" W-what should I say?" The stutter made you squeeze your lips together, his hands moving on the board to make a moment. " Checkmate." He said leaving Gideon speechless.
Then he stood up, clearly nervous before he sat down by the armchair close to JJ. "Heard you're, uh, a fan of football."
You dropped your file and stood up, moving towards the farther end of the jet. You walked to the tiny kitchen and felt your brain get filled with that high-pitched noise and the ringing in your ears.
"Cupcake?"
You looked up, blinking a few times to find Derek there. "Yeah?"
"Are you alright?"
"Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?" You poured some orange juice into your mug. "Don't profile me." The words were mumbled. Because even if you truly weren't close to the team, Derek seemed to be the only one trying to include you. He and Garcia, mostly.
"I'm not profiling you, Cupcake. But you are clearly bothered for some reason"
"No," You interrupted. You didn't know what he was going to say. Maybe he would say something about the case, maybe it would be something about the flight, or the weird looks he had been giving you the last five whole days.
"Look… If you need something, you got me." You would have smiled, but you noticed how Derek pointed at t
He knew. About your stupid crush and about the fact you were probably pining over Spencer forever now. And he was probably pitying you.
"I'm fine; I just hate flying." You walk past him again to sit on the opposite end of the couch where you had sat before — therefore his seat. At least you knew he wouldn't mind it. Your gut feeling telling you that maybe this time, you wouldn't be happy when you got home.
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