random spencer thought again… but he would be the goofiest looking guy on the beach like. yes we know he hates it cuz germs or whatevs.. but listen!!! this man would be a chronic over-packer, have a comically large wide brimmed hat, sunscreen smothered on his nose… FUNKY SWIMMING TRUNKS WITH A BAGGY TSHIRT!!! FUCKKK I NEED HIM!!! probably stays out of the water and reads the entire time. would absolutely drag you back to shore to reapply sunscreen on a timed schedule. absolutely packs the best beach snacks…
Funniest thing about criminal minds is that they're always on about not contaminating a crime scene and they wear gloves etc BUT their ties are always dangling over any human remains way too close😭😭 tuck ur darn ties into your shirts😭😭😭
Maybe taking a gap year next year was a bad idea because I have no sense of direction or passion and I genuinely dont know what to do with all that time :( but going to uni straight away was futile considering I couldn't decide on a course. I feel soooo directionless and useless all my passion for everything ever has fizzled away:(((((((((
Any tips on how to be a functioning human being are welcome.
It's hot out. Hotter than hot, actually. Sweltering, Spencer would say. And he does, as he lays sprawled across the sofa, the fan in the corner moving at its highest speed, though its efforts are in vain against the heat swarming you both. Hes in shorts, a rarity, and you love him all the more for it. It's very endearing, the shorts, tank top combo that you remember being surprised that he even owned.
Youre sitting on the floor in front of him, as little clothing as possible adorning your own body.
You glance over at Spencer, his eyes closed, a cold rag on his forehead, and you let your eyes move over his features.
His sweat damp curls are sticking every which way, a result of him pushing them away from his forehead while grumbling about needing a haircut soon. Theres a light sheen of sweat covering his skin, one that makes him shine, even in the darkness of his living room. Your eyes trail down his arms, the soft circular scars in the crook of his elbow.
You glance down his long legs, the faint patches of hair, barely visible due to their lightness. You let out a soft chuckle at the sight of his mismatched socks, the ones he refuses to take off, even in the heat because he can't stand the way the floor feels on bare feet.
You swallow, mind turning back to the scars. Your eyes follow. You take a sip of water, swallow harshly and think about how far hes come. You blink, heat going to your brain as you lean forward and let your lips brush the scars there.
You press a few soft kisses there, backing away as more heat rushes to your cheeks when you look up and see Spencer peaking at you curiously.
You offer a small smile and his eyes watch you for a few seconds longer. You feel it as you stare back, the analysis of every micro expression you're not even aware youre making. You hope, in amongst the subconscious movements, he finds love.
It takes a few minutes, but he does relent, exhaling softly as he tugs at your shoulder. "C'mere."
You scoot yourself closer, leaning in as you pet down his messy hair.
His hand comes up to cup your jaw, movement gentle, almost like hes coaxing the muscle to loosen before he leans up, pressing his lips to yours gently.
It goes on for a few seconds, before he parts, leaving one peck at the corner of your mouth before he says, "I wish it weren't so hot. Otherwise I might keep going."
You feel the heat rise to your cheeks once again, and you pick up your hand fan, turning away as you try to bring cooler air to your face. You don't see him smirk at you, but you do hear his breathy chuckle, full of affection, and most certainly, love.
Masterlist
Please stay safe in this heatwave, yall. It's brutal. wanted to put photos on this, but couldn't decide on which ones to pick!
Description: Seven years ago, you and Spencer made a drunken pact: if you were both still single by thirty-five, you would marry each other.
You forgot about it. Spencer never did.
___________________________________
Title: The Deadline
The agreement had been written on the back of a takeout menu seven years ago, somewhere between the second bottle of wine and Spencer’s attempt to explain why your latest date had failed using probability theory.
“He talked about cryptocurrency for forty-five minutes,” you had said, dropping your forehead onto the kitchen table. “Then he asked whether I’d ever considered fixing my nose.”
Spencer’s expression had gone perfectly still. “What’s wrong with your nose?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why would he—”
“Because he was an ass, Spencer.”
“Oh.” He had looked offended on your behalf, which had made you feel marginally better. “Yes. Statistically, insulting someone during a first date does significantly reduce the likelihood of a second.”
“Thank you, Doctor Romance.”
He had taken the insult with a sip of wine.
His own evening had gone poorly, though it had taken nearly twenty minutes of careful questioning to get him to admit it. The woman had spent most of dinner checking her phone and had eventually told him that talking to him felt like attending a lecture she had forgotten to study for.
You had hated her immediately.
“We’re doomed,” you had decided.
Spencer had frowned. “That seems unnecessarily pessimistic.”
“You’re right. I’m doomed. You’ll meet some brilliant professor who collects first-edition Russian novels, and I’ll be found dead in my apartment after my cat eats half my face.”
“You don’t have a cat.”
“I’ll get one once I’ve accepted my fate.”
That was when you had made the pact. If neither of you was married by thirty-five, you would marry each other.
Spencer had insisted the agreement needed clearly defined terms. You had found a pen while he listed possible complications, including relocation, preexisting engagements, major changes in personal compatibility and, for reasons you still did not understand, tax implications.
You wrote it on the back of the menu.
At thirty-five, if we’re both single, we get married. No backing out.
You had signed beneath it with an exaggerated flourish.
Spencer had studied the words for several seconds before adding his name beside yours in neat, narrow handwriting.
Then you had folded the menu, tucked it into the junk drawer and forgotten about it.
At least, you thought you had.
••••••••••
“Thirty-five,” Garcia announced, dropping a pink bakery box onto the table in the bullpen. “A distinguished age. An elegant age. An age at which a woman knows her worth and will no longer tolerate men who own mattresses without fitted sheets.”
Your birthday was still two weeks away, but Garcia had apparently decided that celebrations were most effective when stretched across several business days.
“I’m not thirty-five yet,” you reminded her.
“Which is why this is a pre-birthday cupcake.”
“There are twelve cupcakes.”
“The passage of time is emotionally demanding.”
Morgan reached into the box before Garcia had finished arranging the napkins.
She slapped his hand away.
“Those are for the birthday girl.”
“The birthday girl isn’t even having a birthday today.” He retorted.
“That sounds like someone who doesn’t deserve frosting.”
You smiled as they argued, reaching for your coffee. Across the bullpen, Spencer had stopped halfway through removing a file from his bag.
His eyes were fixed on the bakery box.
More specifically, on the silver number thirty-five Garcia had stuck into the center cupcake.
You raised your eyebrows at him.
He looked away so quickly that he nearly dropped the file.
It happened again during lunch when JJ asked whether you had any plans for your birthday.
And again when Emily mentioned setting you up with a friend from Interpol.
Spencer became intensely interested in whatever he happened to be holding each time the subject arose. A book. A case file. An empty coffee cup he studied as though the meaning of life might be printed at the bottom.
By the end of the day, you had had enough. You found him in the kitchenette pouring an alarming amount of sugar into his coffee.
“Did I do something?”
His hand paused above the cup. “No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
“I haven’t.”
“You took the stairs when you saw me waiting for the elevator.”
“Taking the stairs can improve cardiovascular health and reduce the risk of—”
“You work on the sixth floor.”
He set down the sugar packet. For a moment, he said nothing. His gaze moved toward the doorway, checking whether anyone was nearby. Then he asked, “Do you remember the agreement?”
You stared at him. “What agreement?”
His mouth tightened slightly. The hurt crossed his face so quickly you almost missed it. “Never mind.”
He reached for his coffee, but you caught his wrist before he could leave.
“Spencer.”
“It was years ago. You were upset, and we’d both had wine. It was obviously a joke.”
The memory surfaced slowly.
Takeout containers. Cheap wine. Spencer sitting at your kitchen table with his tie loosened, explaining that he would need access to at least half of the bookshelves if you ever lived together.
Your grip on his wrist loosened.
“Oh my God.”
He gave a small, uncomfortable laugh. “Exactly.”
“The marriage pact.”
A crash sounded from the hallway.
You both turned.
Morgan stood outside the kitchenette with a broken plastic coffee cup at his feet. “The what?”
Spencer closed his eyes.
Within eight minutes, the entire team knew.
You suspected Morgan had broken several laws of physics to spread the information so quickly.
“A marriage pact?” Emily repeated, leaning against your desk. “With Reid?”
“It was a joke.”
“Was it?” JJ asked, glancing toward Spencer.
He was seated at his desk with a book open in front of him. He had not turned a page in five minutes.
Garcia pressed both hands to her chest. “This is the most romantic thing that has ever happened within these deeply beige walls.”
“It isn’t romantic,” you said. “We were drunk and miserable.”
“Historically,” Rossi said from behind his office door, “that’s how plenty of marriages start.”
Hotch emerged from his office carrying a file.
Every head turned toward him.
He looked from you to Spencer, then at the gathering around your desk.
“We have a case.”
The room scattered.
As Hotch passed, he placed the file in your hands. “Congratulations,” he said quietly.
Your mouth fell open. Morgan laughed so hard he had to brace himself against a desk.
The case should have ended the conversation.
Instead, thirty-five followed you to Iowa.
It appeared when you and Spencer were assigned adjoining hotel rooms. When a local detective mistook you for a couple. When Morgan referred to the vending-machine crackers Spencer brought you as “early spousal support.”
You laughed each time because it was easier than examining why Spencer never did.
He smiled occasionally, but it never reached his eyes.
On the flight home, you found him awake while everyone else slept.
The cabin lights were dimmed. Spencer sat across from you, one knee drawn slightly toward his chest, an unopened book resting in his lap.
“You really remembered?” you whispered.
His fingers tightened around the book. “I have an eidetic memory.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
He looked toward the dark window. The reflection showed the strain around his eyes. “Yes,” he said.
“For seven years?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
His answer took so long that you started to wonder whether he would give one.
“Because I didn’t think it was a joke.”
Something shifted painfully beneath your ribs. “Spencer…”
“I knew you probably didn’t mean it.” His voice stayed low, careful not to wake the others. “At least, not in the same way I did. But you asked, and I thought…” He swallowed. “I thought that if we reached thirty-five and you still wanted me, I would be the luckiest person alive.”
You could hear the steady hum of the jet beneath the silence.
He gave a short laugh that sounded embarrassed. “It was irrational. There was no reason to believe our circumstances would remain unchanged for seven years. The likelihood of either of us entering a long-term relationship was—”
“Spencer.”
He stopped.
“You could have told me.”
“I didn’t want you to feel obligated.”
“So you planned to wait until my birthday and what? Show up with the menu?”
His eyes flickered toward his satchel.
You stared at it.
“No.”
His cheeks turned pink.
“Spencer.”
He lowered his gaze.
Slowly, you reached across the aisle and pulled the satchel toward you.
He did not try to stop you.
The folded paper was tucked inside the inner pocket, protected between two clear plastic sheets.
The restaurant had closed years ago. The ink had faded slightly, and there was a stain near your signature from the wine you had spilled.
But the promise remained.
At thirty-five, if we’re both single, we get married. No backing out.
You ran your thumb across his name.
“You kept it.”
“I went back for it the next morning.”
“You stole my takeout menu?”
“You had thrown it in a drawer with expired coupons and batteries.”
“That was my filing system.”
“It was a fire hazard.”
You laughed softly, though your eyes had begun to burn.
Spencer watched you with the cautious expression he wore when approaching something wounded.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have assumed it meant anything to you.”
You looked at him over the paper.
“The reason I forgot wasn’t because you meant nothing to me.”
He stayed perfectly still.
“I forgot because somewhere along the way, I stopped imagining a future where you wouldn’t be there.” You folded the menu carefully. “You’re already the person I call when something goes wrong. You’re the first person I want to tell when something goes right. Half your books are in my apartment, and you have your own mug in my kitchen.”
“The blue one.”
“The blue one,” you agreed. “You know how I take my coffee. I know you pretend not to be cold because you hate asking for an extra blanket in hotels.”
“I don’t hate asking.”
“You’re using your coat as a blanket right now.”
He glanced down at the jacket draped across his lap.
“That’s circumstantial.”
You smiled then you placed the menu on the empty seat beside you and held out your hand.
Spencer looked at it. His fingers slipped into yours slowly, as if he was afraid you might change your mind halfway through.
“You don’t have to wait until my birthday,” you said.
His brows drew together. “For what?”
“For an answer.”
The hope on his face was almost unbearable.
You tightened your hand around his. “Yes.”
His lips parted.
“Yes to the pact,” you clarified. “Eventually. I’d prefer a real first date before we start discussing tax implications.”
“You remember that?”
“Bits and pieces.”
“I was right about the tax implications.”
“I’m sure you were.”
His thumb moved over your knuckles. “So this would be a date with the intention of determining long-term romantic compatibility?”
“It means you’re taking me to dinner.”
“Tonight?”
“We land after midnight.”
“Tomorrow?”
You pretended to consider it. Spencer waited, visibly tense. “Tomorrow,” you agreed.
His smile appeared slowly, softening his entire face.
You had seen Spencer happy before. You had seen him excited, relieved, amused and triumphant.
You had never seen anyone look at you as though a seven-year wait had been worth every second.
He lifted your joined hands and pressed his lips gently against your knuckles.
Behind him, Morgan opened one eye. “I better be the best man.”
Spencer nearly dropped your hand.
JJ’s muffled laughter came from two rows back.
Garcia sat upright beneath her eye mask. “I’m planning the wedding.”
“There is no wedding,” you whispered fiercely.
“Yet,” Rossi corrected without opening his eyes.
Hotch remained facing the front of the plane. “Everyone go back to sleep.” A beat of silence passed. Then he added, “And congratulations.”
Spencer looked at you, his face bright red.
You leaned across the aisle and kissed his cheek. “Tomorrow,” you reminded him.
His fingers found yours again beneath the armrest.
In 2x16 of criminal minds (an episode after Revelations), spencer pulls out two vials of dilaudid in the bathroom, but he takes two vials from tobias' pocket at the end of Revelations. It might be a continuity problem, but do we think those are the same two vials - unused - from Revelations? Or had he gotten more somehow? It's a little confusing because he's withdrawn and rather sporadic in his mannerisms that episode, but i think it arguably gets worse in the next couple episodes, for example round the time when he explodes at emily - so perhaps he hadn't shot up since the kidnapping until episode 17 or 18? I find that intriguing because i have literally never though about that before and i have rewatched season 2 probs more than any other season of CM. But he had an addiction, he must have been using for a while, right? Idk, yet again I'm thinking too much about a cbs procedural drama lol and his addiction storyline wasnt the most fleshed out thing in the world but I'm really interested in hearing people's theories!!!
Gonna cry because Harold Finch had to witness his father losing his memory just like Spencer Reid and his mother ANDDD having their partners blindfolded in front of them while they hadn't seen eachother for years/ ever oh my god. They are the same. I need to make an edit comparing these scenes.
