❥ No case in BAU history had ever felt as complex or baffling as the one Morgan suddenly overheard developing behind the closed doors of the conference room. Now, finding out what is happening inside between Reid and you —and, more importantly, figuring out how much money the team is about to lose in the betting pool—becomes a matter of national security.
❥ fluff, workplace romance
A blessed silence filled the BAU bullpen—the kind that only happens after a grueling case is finally closed. Half the team had already retreated to their offices to tackle the mountains of paperwork, while Derek Morgan, lazily swirling a coffee mug in his hand, headed toward the conference room to grab his tablet.
He already had his hand on the doorknob when a soft, ragged gasp drifted through the half-drawn blinds.
"Oh god, Spence, be gentle, that’s a sensitive spot!"
The voice was undeniably yours, a breathless, strained whisper with a distinct edge of tension.
"I'm...I`m trying!" Reid’s panicked falsetto rang out. His own breathing sounded quick and uneven, as if he’d just run a marathon. "But if you don't stop squirming, I'm only going to make it worse. Please, just relax."
"How am I supposed to relax when your hands are shaking so badly? You’re the genius, find the right angle."
"The angle has nothing to do with this! Statistically speaking, pain tolerance decreases when—"
"Not now, Spence! If anyone walks in here because Dr. Reid can’t find the right position, I am replacing all your coffee with decaf!"
Morgan pressed his palm to his face, feeling his professional profiler brain wage war with his inner loyal friend. His imagination, unprompted, immediately conjured up pictures completely inappropriate for the FBI headquarters.
At that moment, soft footsteps approached from behind. Emily stepped off the elevator, looking at Morgan with a mix of amusement and skepticism as he practically glued his ear to the conference room door.
"Derek? What are you doing?"
Morgan whipped around, slamming a finger against his lips, and urgently gestured for her to come over. Intrigued, Prentiss stepped closer.
Suddenly, the sharp sound of tearing fabric echoed from inside, followed by your highly expressive, drawn-out groan.
"Oh my god, not so hard, you’re going to rip my shirt! That hurts like hell!"
Something clattered to the floor, and the table creaked loudly, as if someone had heavily leaned their weight against it. Then, Reid let out a heavy sigh and started rambling nervously.
"Okay, okay, I get it. Take off your jacket. Now hold on to me. Like this..."
Emily’s eyes widened to an almost comical size. In a matter of seconds, she went from the shocked “Oh my god, they’re finally doing it!” stage to the sudden realization of “Oh my god, they’re doing it on Hotch’s table!”.
Morgan and Prentiss leaned into the door in perfect synchronization, so utterly consumed by trying to reconstruct the scene inside that they completely missed the significant cough behind them.
"May I ask, ladies and gentlemen, whose profile you are currently analyzing through a keyhole?"
Rossi stood a few paces away, holding a cup of espresso. But before he could even form a guess, Prentiss grabbed the sleeve of his expensive jacket and pulled him into the huddle.
"Spence, wait, you’re squeezing too tight." Your voice broke, followed by a wet sniffle. "Your hands are freezing! Take it out!"
"If we stop right now, it’ll be unhygienic and counterproductive," Reid replied stubbornly. "Please, just trust me. I know what I'm doing."
Rossi froze. A whole spectrum of emotions flashed across his face—from sheer shock to a deep, paternal satisfaction, which he immediately masked with his signature nonchalance.
"Wow," he murmured softly. "And here I thought we’d have to wait until next Christmas for this."
"What’s going on?" Penelope practically sprinted up to the group, her sparkly pen in hand, the moment she caught wind of their frantic whispering. "You guys look like you just caught the Replicator."
"Worse, baby girl," Morgan whispered, nodding toward the door. "Looks like our genius finally moved from theory to practice."
"Oh my goodness!" Garcia gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. She almost shrieked, but Morgan clamped his hand over her lips just in time.
Within a minute, the door had gathered a full-blown strategy meeting. JJ appeared around the corner with a case file, only to be yanked into the pile by Morgan. And as the final touch, Hotch stepped out of his office. Seeing half of his elite unit huddled outside the conference room with dead-serious expressions, he frowned and walked over with heavy, commanding strides.
"What is this unauthorized gathering about?" Hotchner eyed the team suspiciously.
Morgan silently pointed to the crack in the door. From inside came a final, overwhelmingly loud cry.
"Yes! Yes, Spence... oh god, finally."
Hotch didn’t hesitate. With the face of a man ready to storm a terrorist bunker, he decisively threw his shoulder into the door and stepped inside. Behind him, holding their breath, the rest of the team clustered together, expecting to witness the most scandalous and long-awaited sight in FBI history.
But reality proved to be much more literal.
You were sitting on the edge of the conference table, your blouse unbuttoned at the top and draped loosely over one shoulder. Spencer was stepped deep between your knees, his torso pressed flush against yours to get a closer look.
One of his thighs was wedged snugly between yours for balance, pinning you lightly against the table. His hands were braced firmly on your bare collarbone and shoulder, while you were clinging to the lapels of his jacket like a lifeline, your fingers wrinkling the fabric.
Surrounding the two of you were rolls of gauze, hydrogen peroxide, and medical tape. Reid looked completely disheveled, mostly because you had been tugging at his clothes while he tried to treat a nasty gash on your shoulder.
Reid blinked in utter confusion at the frozen team in the doorway. He opened his mouth, likely to spout some scientific justification for administering first aid, but you cut him off.
"What’s the matter, guys? Judging by your faces, you were expecting at least a ritual sacrifice."
You shifted your bandaged shoulder and defiantly tilted your chin up, even though your cheeks flushed a faint pink.
Morgan recovered first, letting out a booming laugh as he slid down the wall. Rossi just shook his head, while Hotch pinched the bridge of his nose.
"False alarm, Reid’s still a saint," Emily smirked, gently nudging a giggling JJ and a deeply disappointed Penelope back out the door.
When the door clicked shut, leaving only the two of you in the room, Reid slowly turned his head back to you, his cheeks flaring a bright, furious crimson.
"They... they thought we were..." he stammered, his brain finally processing the double entendres of your conversation. His voice dropping an octave. "Mathematically speaking, the probability of them misinterpreting a basic wound treatment shouldn't have been that high, considering they are trained profilers."
You couldn't help but chuckle, wincing slightly as you pulled your blouse back up. "Spence, we were screaming about 'angles,' and 'fingers,' Honestly, I'm just glad Hotch didn't tackle you to the ground."
Reid looked down at the medical tape in his hands, a shy, surprisingly soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Well... for the record," he murmured, looking up at you through his eyelashes, "if I were to ever... do that... I wouldn't need a statistical breakdown to find the right angle."
