The Statistical Improbability of Dating Spencer Reid
Spencer Reid x fem!BAU!Reader | WC: 9640
Summary: Or: Five times you and Spencer dance around your feelings, and the one time Spencer finally puts the pieces together.
Tags/Warnings: Mutual pining, idiots in love, confessions, fluff, Spencer being an oblivious cutie patootie, no use of Y/N, no beta we die like men
A/N: New fandom, who dis? I’m officially branching out into the Criminal Minds fandom because tumblr has my number and fed me Spencer Reid on a silver platter. Special shoutout to @h0lym01y and their lovely headlock series for inspiring me to write for him! I’m still pretty early into the series, so apologies if my characterization isn’t quite there yet! (Also, fun fact: this was supposed to be a nice quick little piece to dip my toes into a new fandom, and it turned into its own beast so... sorry, not sorry) Thanks @mythandmemories for giving it a twice-over to make sure it all makes sense!
The first time you brought Spencer coffee, it had been completely by accident. The shop you went to had made your order wrong the first time and given you both cups. Unsure of what to do with it, you had offered it to him since he was the only other one in the bullpen when you had arrived. Surprisingly, he had accepted it. The second time you brought him coffee had been the day after a particularly stressful case. And the fourth time, it had become a problem.
Not a real problem, of course. The BAU had serial killers and kidnappers and interstate investigations to worry about. Compared to those, your increasingly embarrassing crush on your coworker wasn't even on their radars. Which was great because no matter how much you told yourself that you couldn’t date someone you worked with, your heart never seemed to get the memo.
Which was why you had found yourself standing in line at a coffee shop at six-thirty in the morning, mentally reciting Spencer’s order while pretending you weren’t. One coffee for you. One coffee for him. Because apparently you had become the sort of person who memorized a man’s coffee order. Lovely. You blamed it on your inability to simply ask Spencer out like a normal person.
The elevator doors opened onto the BAU floor. Most of the lights were still off. Hotch wasn’t in yet. Neither was Rossi. The bullpen was quiet enough that you could hear the sound of pages turning. Your stomach did an embarrassing little flip, and you tried to remind yourself that you were an adult, not a high schooler. It didn’t do anything to quell the butterflies.
Spencer was already in office. As he always was when you came in early. If you didn’t know any better, you would’ve guessed that he slept there, curled up behind his desk with a book for a pillow. The mental image made you smile. You crossed the bullpen, thankful that Spencer didn’t seem to notice you at first. It gave you a few stolen seconds though you’d never admit to taking them.
You watched the way his slender fingers dragged across the page before deftly turning it and moving onto the next. Watched the way he chewed on his lip, the muscle in his jaw flexing slightly with every movement. It was ridiculous, just watching him exist. You knew it was ridiculous. Then again, no one had ever accused a crush of being rational.
“Morning,” you said softly as you drew closer, not wanting to startle him. His head snapped up, warm brown eyes landing on your face before dropping down to the two cups of coffee in your hands.
“Good morning,” he replied, a small smile spreading across his face. It was gentle and genuine. The kind of smile that always felt like a reward. You dragged your thoughts back to yourself before they could stray too far into dangerous territory. “You’re early,” he said, closing the book with one finger marking his page.
“So are you.” You tried to sound casual as you set the coffee down on his desk, careful not to spill any of it on his papers. “I figured I’d beat the morning rush.” Spencer’s gaze lingered on the cup of coffee you’d set down, his expression softening slightly. He picked it up and turned it in his hands, examining the order written on the side. He frowned.
“How do you know what I order?”
Your heart stuttered against your ribs for a beat. Of course he’d ask. He couldn’t just accept a free coffee without asking about the details. And it wasn’t like his order was something straight off the menu either. It was just something you’d… remembered one day. Because apparently your brain just stored information about Spencer Reid with frightening accuracy.
“Oh.” You made a vague gesture with your free hand. “You mentioned it once.”
“I did?”
“About three months back.” And that’s where you fucked up. Because now it sounded weird. Who in the world remembered a coffee order from three months ago? Fortunately for you, in Spencer’s world, it was a completely normal thing. Or at least something that didn’t seem out of the ordinary. He looked thoughtful for a moment, as though he were filing the information away somewhere.
“That’s impressive.” You preened for a brief moment before confusion kicked in.
“Impressive?”
“The average person retains significantly less information from casual conversation than people assume. People typically forget about fifty-percent of a conversation within the first hour of having it.” Of course. Of course that was his takeaway. You laughed, hoping that it didn’t sound as nervous as you felt. Spencer smiled at you and took a sip of the gifted coffee. Something warm and dangerous settled low in your chest, and for a second, neither of you looked away.
Then, Morgan showed up with his booming voice, and the moment shattered, the fragile pieces of it collapsing down around your feet as you shuffled over to your desk.
“Damn, where’s my cup?” he asked, glancing between the two coffees you and Reid held. He grinned, already moving towards the break room to start up the communal pot.
“You snooze, you lose,” you called after him, sinking into your chair and sipping at your drink.
Three weeks later, Spencer still hadn’t figured it out. Not that you’d expected him to. At least that’s what you kept telling yourself. The only problem was that somewhere along the way, bringing Spencer coffee had stopped being about flirting. Anymore, it was a habit. Part of your routine. It was something small that made him smile, and that smile – the one that was just for you in the mornings before anyone else showed up – had become your favorite part of the mornings. You were halfway through the motion of setting the cup down when Spencer spoke up.
“You don’t do this for anyone else.”
You froze, coffee in hand as you looked at him like a deer caught in the headlights. “What?”
“I noticed that you don’t bring coffee for anyone else in the office.” The cup sat between the two of you. Spencer looked at it then up at you. “Just me.” Your pulse hammered beneath your skin. Had he actually–?
“Oh.” You let out a nervous chuckle. “Well.” Every coherent thought fled from your mind, leaving you with an absolute masterclass of a non-response. Spencer continued before you could manage anything more.
“I was wondering why.”
And there it was. The most perfect opening in the world in the history of flirting. Because the answer was simple. Because I like you. Four words. That’s all you had to say, and you wouldn’t have to dance around this anymore.
“Because,” one down, three to go, “you’re here earliest.” Nope, those weren’t the right words to say. What a traitor of a tongue you had. Spencer nodded in understanding, accepting your explanation like it was the most sound reason in the world. You were pretty sure that the thought of someone being interested in him in a romantic way hadn’t ever crossed his mind. And that realization hurt just a little more than it should have.
“You don’t have to keep doing it.”
“Oh,” you squeaked, your stomach lurching uncomfortably.
“No, I mean–” Spencer sat up a little straighter, suddenly flustered as he shook his head. “I appreciate it.” The sincerity in his voice nearly knocked the air from your lungs. “I really appreciate it. I just don’t want you to feel like you have to keep doing it.” And there it was again. The small smile that no one else in the office got except for you.
“Not a problem at all, Spence.” And suddenly, the coffee didn’t feel quite so embarrassing anymore. Maybe he didn’t understand what it meant. For all you knew, maybe he never would. But he liked it. And that was enough for you.
Spencer hated formal events. This wasn’t anything new. He’d hated them the first time Hotch dragged him to one. He’d hated them the second time. And he hated this one all the same. There were too many people, too much noise, and far too many strangers trying to shake his hand.
Worst of all, he had to wear a tie.
The tie itself wasn’t the problem. He wore ties for work almost every day. The problem was that he’d tied it three separate times, and it still somehow looked wrong. Spencer frowned at his reflection in the restroom mirror. The knot was slightly off-center, and the collar of his shirt sat unevenly. He loosened it again, his mind going over all the different ways he could potentially convince Hotch to let him stay behind at the hotel. He wasn’t really needed for this part. He sighed, pulling the tie free entirely and draping it over his shoulders. Maybe he could blame it on jet lag. They’d been in Colorado for three days, but he could–
There was a knock at his hotel door that pulled him from his thoughts. Spencer glanced at the clock on the nightstand. He wasn’t expecting anyone, and you all weren’t scheduled to leave for at least another forty-five minutes. He briefly wondered which one of his teammates had come to check on him. Probably Morgan, ready with some quick joke or quip. Spencer opened the door, fully expecting Morgan’s grinning face. Instead, he found you.
All of his thoughts crashed into each other at once as he took in the sight of you. You were dressed and ready for the event, more put together in a way that looked effortless. Spencer had seen you in plenty of business casual stuff before. He’d seen you wear nice outfits for other undercover work in the past too. But something about you in this exact moment was… different. A little more put together. A little more ethereal in a way he just couldn’t wrap his brain around. When his mind finally kickstarted back into action, it supplied him a single thought.
Oh.
Which wasn’t particularly useful. Or eloquent. Especially for a man with his vocabulary.
“Hi,” came the oh-so-professional greeting from his lips. He watched your eyes travel from his face down to the tie that was still draped around his neck, and a small smile curved your lips. The same one that always made something warm settle between his ribs.
“Tie giving you trouble?” you asked, and Spencer had to look away. You were standing in his doorway looking fully put-together, and he was standing there with his tie undone and hair mussed from running his fingers through it one too many times. It wasn’t exactly the image he wanted to present.
“It doesn’t want to sit properly,” he admitted, gesturing vaguely. “The knot keeps shifting.”
“Here, let me help.” You stepped into his room without waiting for an invitation
“I can do it,” he said too quickly. Because the alternative involved you standing close enough to touch him. Which felt like a terrible idea but not for the usual reasons he had. For reasons Spencer was trying very hard not to examine. You paused and folded your arms.
“Spencer.”
“Really,” he insisted. “I’m perfectly capable of tying a Windsor knot.” He was. He did it every day for work. He was a fully functional adult who could dress himself for a formal event he had zero desire to attend. You laughed, – not at him, never at him – and Spencer was beginning to suspect that your laugh might’ve become his favorite sound. Not that he planned on telling anyone that. Ever. Before he could think of another excuse, you stepped fully into his room and beckoned him closer.
“Come here.” His heart raced. He opened his mouth to argue. Then closed it as his traitorous feet obeyed, bringing him within arm’s distance before he could think better of it.
You reached up for him, pausing for a moment to let him retreat if he suddenly decided he didn’t want your hands on him after all. When he didn’t budge, your fingers gently grasped the loose tie and drew closer to him. You were so close. Closer than Spencer could ever imagine you being. Close enough that Spencer could see the tiny details he might not have fully been able to catalogue from afar. The faint shimmer of your makeup. The way your eyelashes cast the faintest shadows against your cheeks. The scent of you. Something warm and familiar. Something that immediately lodged itself in his brain.
He didn’t dare look away from your face. Somewhere at the back of his mind he recognized that your movements weren’t putting together a regular Windsor knot. There were too many steps for that. An Eldredge knot his mind supplied. Your fingers brushed against his throat as you looped the fabric around itself, and Spencer was pretty sure he forgot how breathing worked. Which was, obviously, impossible considering that breathing was an autonomous action that his body was physically incapable of forgetting in any sense of the word.
And it wasn’t like you were doing anything inappropriate, either. You were fixing a tie. A completely normal thing. A thing that approximately half the population of men got help with. It wasn’t an official statistic, so the percentage was likely higher. Which put him in the majority. So why did his entire nervous system feel like it had short-circuited?
“Hold still,” you chided, lightly tugging on his tie. His gaze fell to your lips, and for a single, dangerous, second, he let himself wonder what they would feel like against his. Spencer diverted his gaze.
“I am holding still.”
“You just moved.” Your fingers ghosted against him again, and Spencer stared very intently at a piece of the peeling wallpaper against the opposite wall of the hotel room. At the mirror that hung on the wall. At literally anything except for you. Because looking directly at you felt like it was too risky at this exact moment. What if you looked in his eyes and found all of his secrets there? It was a ridiculous notion. “There.” You smoothed the tie against his chest, and he didn’t need to see it to know that it was perfect.
“Thank you,” Spencer said, his voice softer than he meant for it to be. You looked up at him, and for a moment, neither of you moved. The space between you hummed with possibility.
“You’re welcome,” you replied, your hand still resting lightly on his chest. “Now you look ready to impress a room full of strangers.”
He swallowed hard, throat feeling uncharacteristically dry.
“You clean up real nice, Reid.” Your words were light and teasing, but they landed somewhere deep inside his chest. Spencer blinked, caught off guard.
“What?”
You smiled at him. “You look good.”
His ears burned. Because people didn’t usually say things like that to him. Not in any serious way. Not while looking him directly in the eye. Not like this. The warmth in your expression made his stomach twist itself into knots.
“You look nice too.” That wasn’t right. You looked beautiful. You looked stunning. You looked–
Nice. Truly the most exceptional word he could pluck from his vocabulary. But your smile brightened regardless as though nice had been the best compliment you had ever heard.
“Thanks.” The silence between the two of you stretched, neither of you willing to break it. After a moment, you took a small step backwards, and Spencer immediately missed the closeness. Which was an alarming realization in and of itself. You nodded towards the hotel door. “Come on. Before Morgan sends a search party for us.”
Spencer laughed, feeling the tension slip from his shoulders. “I’ll be right there.” You nodded before slipping out the door. Spencer pressed his fingers to the knot you had done, stepping into the bathroom to take a brief look at your handiwork. He smiled at his own reflection. The knot was immaculate, sitting exactly where it needed to be. He hadn’t expected anything less from you.
You were pretty sure you looked like hell. Honestly, the entire team did. The case had been long and grueling. Three states, four victims, and next to no sleep. You all had piled into a diner after the arrest. Tables pushed together and everyone was nursing mugs of coffee. You’d spent most of the last seventy-two hours surviving on gas station coffee and sheer stubbornness. Everyone had.
Morgan was poking at the fries on his plate like they’d personally offended him. JJ looked ready to curl up beneath the table and sleep for eternity. Even Rossi looked tired, which felt vaguely unnatural. The only person who seemed remotely functional at the table was Spencer, which somehow wasn’t surprising.
He seemed to operate on an entirely different set of biological rules than the rest of humanity. You sat next to him, shoulder pressed lightly to his. He didn’t seem to mind. Or at the very least, he didn’t move away. And that tiny fact was all the fuel your little crush needed to continue burning for the next eternity.
You stole a glance at him out of the corner of your eye as you sipped at your coffee. His tie was loosened, and the top button of his dress shirt was undone. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. His hair was a disaster, the product of running his hands through it several times too many. You liked him best like this. Not because he looked more attractive. Although he absolutely did. That wasn’t the point. The point was that this version of Spencer felt more real. More relaxed. More human.
This was the version of him you didn’t get to see nearly as often as you’d like. The version of him that you had somehow, disastrously, fallen head over heels for. Months ago, the realization would’ve been horrifying. Anymore, though, it mostly felt exhausting. Because you were pretty sure absolutely nothing was ever going to come of it. Garcia and Morgan both insisted that he liked you back, and JJ swore that everyone could see it. You weren’t so sure about it, though. If Spencer liked you back, then surely something would’ve happened by now, right?
The waitress showed up beside the table before your thoughts could spiral any further. She had a pot of coffee in hand and proceeded to fill everyone’s cups as they were offered up to her. You dutifully held yours up. There wasn’t enough caffeine in the world that was going to keep you from passing out once you were on the plane. But you did have to stay awake long enough to make it there. She set the coffee pot down and pulled out the notepad she had taken everybody’s orders on.
Your eyes drifted to Spencer’s hands and they way his fingers wrapped around his mug. There was a small scratch on his knuckle, and you vaguely wondered when he’d gotten it. He hadn’t been part of the takedown…
“–together?”
You turned to look at the waitress, eyes wide. She was pointing her pen between you and Spencer. Your brain short-circuited. The word echoed in your head, and because you were apparently incapable of functioning like a completely normal human being around Spencer Reid (or maybe you could blame the exhaustion), your brain latched onto the idea that you were so obvious about your crush that even the waitress could see it.
Heat rushed into your face, and all at once, every trace of exhaustion had been wiped from your system. Beside you, Spencer froze, and you could see the way his brow furrowed. Then, he let out a small, awkward chuckle before shaking his head.
“No, we’re not together,” he said, and the easy way he said it made you want to slide beneath the table and disappear. Which was dumb, because obviously you weren’t dating. But your stupid heart still carried that hopeful torch. “Just coworkers.” You looked down at your coffee, wondering if there was any way you could drown yourself in it in case the embarrassment wasn’t enough to end you. Unfortunately for you, Spencer kept talking. “Actually, workplace relationships, while fairly common, tend to be more complex than people realize. Fifty-seven percent of people report a negative impact on their work performance and–”
“Reid,” Morgan cut in. “She means the check.” Spencer’s mouth snapped shut. The tips of his ears turned a faint shade of pink, and you watched the realization dawn across his face.
“Oh,” he said, his voice going quiet. “The check.” The entire table went quiet as the waitress scribbled something down on her notepad, her expression unreadable.
“Right. Separate checks then,” she said, clicking her pen. She slipped away, and mercifully, the rest of the table went back to their low chatter. You focused on your coffee, stirring it just to have something to do with your hands. Spencer shifted beside you, his shoulder brushing against yours again. The contact sent a ripple of warmth through your body despite the humiliation still burning in your cheeks and the sting spreading through your chest.
Logic dictated that you shouldn’t have felt hurt. Spencer was simply being honest, and that’s what you liked about him, wasn’t it? It was just a misunderstanding. Obviously, Spencer hadn’t said that he wouldn’t have dated you specifically. He had simply launched into reasons why dating a coworker could be difficult. They were just facts. And Spencer wasn’t exactly known for choosing the most socially graceful option when a factual one was available.
But facts or not, the logical side of your brain was already checked out for the evening. All your heart could hear was ‘just coworkers.’ The words burrowed deeper into the hole in your heart, finding the weakest spot and curling up to fester. You took a sip of your coffee, letting the bitter taste of it burn its way down your throat. Spencer shifted beside you, and you could vaguely feel the way the rest of the team’s eyes drifted down to your end of the table. You stayed quiet for the rest of the evening.
Spencer had fully expected you to cancel on him. Not because you were unreliable but because the team had landed late the previous night after a case in Wisconsin. And ‘late’ was being generous. The jet touched down close to midnight on Friday, and by the time everyone made it to Quantico, filed the necessary reports, and dragged themselves towards their cars, it had been close to two in the morning.
Movie night had been planned for Saturday. It was your idea, technically speaking. Spencer had made an offhand comment that he hadn’t seen a movie you were referencing during a conversation in the bullpen, and you’d stared at him like he’d committed a federal offense.
“You’ve seriously never seen it?”
“No.”
“Spencer,” you began, your tone suggesting that you were trying very hard to stay reasonable. You were joking, of course. At least… he hoped you were joking and that you weren’t actually upset at him for not having seen whatever movie you were talking about.
“It’s not statistically unusual to miss popular media,” he reasoned. “In fact, given the rate that new–”
“We’re watching it.”
Spencer stopped talking, thoughts careening off a cliff as your words sunk into him. He blinked. “W-we?”
“Yes. My civic duty demands it. This Saturday. Clear your calendar.” He smiled before he could stop himself. Then, he proceeded to spend the rest of the week trying very hard not to look too deeply into the fact that you had made plans with him. Not with the team. Not with a group of people that included him. Him.
Which, he had to remind himself, was objectively nothing.
Coworkers spent time together outside of work. Friends watched movies together and made plans. Friends brought takeout and laughed with each other and sat on couches in living rooms while pretending none of it meant anything more. Still, by Saturday afternoon, Spencer had convinced himself that the plan would fall through even as he reorganized the stack of books on his coffee table for the fourth time.
You were probably too tired. Or maybe something else would come up. He could think of a small list of things that you probably prioritized on a Saturday evening over watching a movie you’d already seen with a coworker you saw almost every day. So when you called him at six asking him for what he wanted from the Chinese restaurant just a couple blocks away from his apartment and assured him that you’d be there right around seven, Spencer found himself standing completely still in the middle of his living room for three whole seconds.
He looked down at himself. Cardigan, button-down, and slacks. Was it too formal? Probably. He had already changed twice. The first outfit felt too casual, but the second had seemed like he was trying too hard. He thought that maybe this one had landed in a more reasonable middle ground, but now with the timer until you showed up at his front door counting down, Spencer was beginning to suspect that there was no such thing as reasonable.
The stack of books on his table got adjusted for a fifth time.
The knock at his door came at exactly 6:57. He crossed his apartment too quickly, stopping just a couple paces away from his door and forcing himself to breathe. This was completely normal. And it wasn’t like this was the first time you’d ever been over either. There was the time when you’d driven him home when it was snowing and used his restroom before braving the journey home. He still kicked himself for letting you drive alone in that weather.
The knock came again, jolting him from his thoughts. He pulled the door open. You stood in the hallway wearing jeans, a soft-looking sweater, and the kind of tired smile that turned his thoughts to static. You held up the takeout bag in one hand and a DVD case in the other.
“I come bearing food and cultural education.” He took the bag from you and stepped aside, something warm and impossible settling into his chest as you crossed the threshold.
“You didn’t cancel,” he said before he could stop himself. You looked at him, eyebrows lifted as you slipped your shoes off and lined them up next to his.
“Was I supposed to?”
“No.” He winced. “I mean, no, obviously not. I just assumed you might. We got in late last night, and we were in the field for almost four days. Statistically, sleep deprivation can significantly impact social follow-through.”
You stared at him for a moment before grinning, eyes practically twinkling as they found his. It was his favorite expression you had. “Well,” you began, walking further into his apartment. “Statistically, I really wanted to be here.” That was a nonsensical answer that didn’t really make grammatical sense, and Spencer’s brain supplied him with several possible responses. He rejected all of them.
“I’m glad you came,” he said finally. It wasn’t his best work, but it was genuine. And he meant it more than he probably should have. Your smile widened anyway, and he was sure that he’d said the right thing.
His apartment felt different with you in it. An irrational thought but not an inaccurate one, he mused. Nothing had physically changed about the space, but it seemed less quiet with you there. Less… solitary. Spencer wasn’t entirely sure what to do with that observation.
Dinner was easy which, admittedly, surprised him a little. It shouldn’t have, in retrospect. Lots of things with you were easier than with others. He didn’t have to filter himself nearly as much. The two of you had made it through maybe five minutes of the movie before you had paused it in the midst of him pointing out several historical inaccuracies in the opening scene. Spencer looked over at you in alarm.
“What?”
“Keep going.” You motioned for him to keep talking.
He glanced back at the screen. “You paused it.”
“Yeah, so I can hear what you’re saying.”
Spencer stared, a strange warmth moving through him that left him just a little breathless. Most people tolerated him. But not you. You didn’t interrupt him when he started explaining things. You didn’t get that glazed, polite look people sometimes got when they were waiting for him to realize that he’d rambled on too long. You listened. You asked him questions. Real, engaging questions. Not just the surface level ones to be courteous. He swallowed and looked back at the television because looking directly at you made whatever had wedged itself between his ribs threaten to tumble out of his mouth.
“It’s just that the timeline doesn’t really support the costuming choices,” he said at last.
“Okay,” you said, nodding. “What would’ve been more accurate?”
The first half of the movie took twice as long to watch because you kept pausing it to argue with him, ask him questions, or point out inconsistencies. And somewhere along the way, Spencer felt himself relax into the moment and stopped worrying about whether he was talking too much.
You were curled up on the opposite end of the couch, legs tucked beneath you and your takeout container sitting empty on the table in front of you. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as you brought your hand to your mouth to hide a yawn. Moments later, you did it a second time. By the fourth one, he frowned.
“You’re tired.”
You gave him a look from across the couch. “Astute observation, Doctor.”
“You should sleep.”
“I’ll sleep when I’m dead, Spence,” you said, shaking your head at him. Spencer’s frown deepened.
“That’s an incredibly reckless mindset, especially given that the average adult needs between seven and nine hours of sleep per night to maintain optimal cognitive function.”
“Says the man who once stayed away for forty-eight hours straight during that Chicago case.”
“That was different,” he argued. “It was a case.”
You laughed softly and pointed at the tv. “Eyes on the screen, genius. You’re missing important cultural references.” He dragged his gaze away from you and only half paid attention to the characters as you shifted, scooting closer to him and settling deeper into the couch cushions.
The movie continued. Your commentary became less frequent until it stopped entirely. Spencer glanced over again. Your head was tipped back against the cushions, eyes closed. He waited a moment, unsure if he should say something or not. Your breathing evened out.
You were asleep. On his couch. In his apartment. Beside him. Not because you had to. Not because the jet didn’t have any other available seats. You had come here intentionally. You had stayed. And you felt safe enough in his company to let yourself drift off within arm’s reach of him. The realization settled over him all at once.
The objectively correct thing to do, he thought, would be to wake you and offer you the bed. Or a blanket. Or, more realistically, a cab home. Something practical and considerate. But you looked peaceful. And Spencer didn’t want to be the reason that peace ended.
He had discovered, over the last several months, that he liked when you got to be comfortable. He liked seeing the way your shoulders would loosen after a hard case. He liked when you were happy, and more than anything, he wanted to be the person who could make you smile when work had taken too much from you.
It was a truly dangerous thing to want. Spencer knew that. He wanted it anyway.
You shifted in your sleep, and before Spencer could process what was going on, your head settled against his shoulder. Every single one of his well-earned IQ points evacuated the premises. Gone. Vanished. Like they had never existed in the first place. He didn’t move. Couldn’t move, really. Every muscle in his body had locked into place the moment your hair brushed against his jaw.
The movie continued playing, but Spencer had stopped processing any of it. All of his thoughts gravitated around the weight of you against him, the slow rhythm of your breathing lulling him into a strange, unfamiliar calm. He had never been big on physical contact before. He knew the physiological benefits of it and could cite several studies done over the years about how physical touch affected the human brain. But knowing the science of it and actually experiencing it were two very different things.
Your warmth seeped through his cardigan and settled into his skin, and he found himself leaning into it despite every rational part of his brain telling him that this was a bad idea. Minutes ticked by, and Spencer remained exactly where he was, too terrified to move and risk ruining whatever this was. Because this was nice. Dangerously nice. The kind of nice that made him want impossible things. The kind of nice that made him imagine what it would feel like if this had been on purpose rather than an accident.
This wasn’t a date. He knew that. You were his coworker. A friend. A friend who brought him coffee and fixed his ties and fell asleep on his couch because you trusted him. That was all. And yet… Spencer tilted his head just enough that he could catch a glimpse of you. Maybe there would be a day when you chose this with him. Maybe one day he could simply reach over and–
Nope. Absolutely not. His thoughts were venturing into dangerous territory.
Spencer turned his attention back to the television, but he didn’t see anything on the screen. He realized with a quiet start that he was in trouble. Because somewhere between the coffee and now, you had become his favorite part of every day. And Spencer wasn’t entirely sure when that had happened.
You had reached your breaking point. Not because anything in particular had happened. In fact, it was precisely because nothing had happened. Absolutely nothing at all. You were trapped in your own personal hell, unable to move past your childish crush on your coworker while simultaneously incapable of addressing it like the very reasonable, mature adult that you were.
The bullpen was empty. The rest of the team had finished their paperwork and gone home early. Rain tapped against the windows of the building. Across the room, Spencer was still buried in paperwork, reading and organizing files with quiet, focused efficiency. He was hunched over his desk, glasses balanced precariously on the bridge of his nose and threatening to slide off completely with every passing line he read.
It was a terrible idea. You knew it was. But you were tired. Tired of wondering. Tired of hoping. Tired of reading meaning behind every little smile. You stood from your desk and perched yourself on the edge of his.
“Hey, Spencer?” His attention snapped to you in an instant, eyes wide over the rims of his glasses, and you hated how your brain reminded you that he always looked at you immediately whenever you spoke. As though your voice mattered more than whatever he had been doing before. It was a dangerous thought.
“Hm?”
Your pulse pounded in your ears. “If someone liked you…” You looked at the papers on his desk, eyes focusing on the spot where his fingers still held his place. “…do you think you’d notice?”
The question hung between you, heavy and loaded with every implication you could pack into it. You watched as Spencer’s brow furrowed, and he pressed his lips together into a thin line. His head tilted slightly, and you knew that this was the worst idea you’d ever had. Because the longer he sat there, the more he profiled the question, the more likely he was to figure out the reason for it. Which meant it became more and more likely for the reality of rejection to crash down over you with each passing second. Then, finally,
“Probably not.”
Your jaw went slack. “What?”
Spencer’s hand pulled away from the page he had been reading as he spun in his chair, turning to face you fully. “Human courtship relies heavily on implication. There are dozens of signals that could indicate romantic interest, but most also have non-romantic explanations.” You stared at him. He had gone into full lecture mode. During the closest thing to a confession you’d been able to give a voice to. Granted, it wasn’t really a confession. “Physical proximity, gift-giving, and prolonged eye-contact are typically the most common signs of attraction, but those all exist in platonic relationships as well.” He paused, eyes searching your face. “Why?”
Something twisted inside of your chest, and you weren’t sure if it was relief or devastation. Probably a horrible mix of both. Because of course. Of course Spencer Reid could profile a stranger’s entire life from a single crime scene, but he couldn’t recognize romantic interest if it hit him in the face. And somehow that was even worse. Because if he didn’t know – if he genuinely couldn’t tell – then maybe every missed signal wasn’t rejection.
You weren’t sure if you wanted to laugh or scream more. Instead, you settled for a weak smile and a shrug that you hoped looked more casual than it felt. “Just curious,” you said, voice sounding strange even to your own ears. “A hypothetical.” Spencer’s brow furrowed, and you could practically hear the gears turning in his head as he thought.
“Hypothetical,” he repeated. “You know, statistically speaking, most questions posed as hypotheticals aren’t actually hypothetical.”
“Just thinking out loud,” you insisted, voice pitching up slightly as you moved to retreat back to the safety of your desk. Spencer’s eyes tracked you as you fled, and you could feel the weight of his gaze following you back to your desk. Your heart hammered against your ribs, and you focused intently on the computer screen in front of you, clicking through files you had already reviewed three separate times. You made it almost four minutes before Spencer spoke again. Which, considering the circumstances, felt both mercifully brief and unbearably long.
“Are you asking because of someone specific?”
Your fingers froze over the keyboard. You should’ve expected it. Really, you should have. Spencer Reid was not known for letting a loose thread hang, especially not one that had been handed to him with a flashing neon sign that read ‘suspicious emotional subtext.’ You didn’t dare look up at him.
“What was that?”
“Your hypothetical,” he clarified. “Are you asking because someone has been flirting with you, and you’re not sure how to interpret it?” The laugh that left you was strangled.
God, this was the worst part of it all. He sounded genuinely interested. Concerned, even. Fully prepared to help you solve a problem that was, unbeknownst to him, currently sitting across from you with his glasses sliding down his face. And it wasn’t even his fault. Okay, it was, but you could hardly blame him. You hadn’t exactly been the most forthcoming about it.
“Something like that,” you said. It was close enough to the truth to make your stomach lurch. Spencer was quiet for a beat. Then, you heard the soft scrape of his chair wheels against the floor. You looked up despite yourself. He had perched himself on the edge of his desk, right where you had been moments before. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he had that look on his face that he got whenever he was trying very hard to figure out the answer to a question.
“You’re asking whether someone would notice if they were being flirted with. That suggests either uncertainty about the other person’s awareness or uncertainty about whether your perception of their behavior is accurate.”
Your mouth went dry. Damn him and his brain. Damn the way he could pull the edges of a thing apart without ever realizing that he was the center of it. “It’s rude to profile your coworker, Spence,” you chided, but you couldn’t muster any heat behind it. “Maybe I was just wondering how often people miss obvious signals.”
“Frequently,” he said without any hesitation. “People tend to overestimate their ability to interpret romantic interest accurately. There have been studies done suggesting that men, in particular, are more prone to misreading friendliness as flirting, but the inverse happens too. Some people under-detect attraction because they’re trying to avoid making wrong assumptions.”
There was something softer in his voice. He was looking at you. Not with the sharp focus that he used on suspects. This look was quieter. Like he was trying to understand something he didn’t want to scare away. You chewed on your lip and turned back to your computer. The almost-confession sat between you like a live wire. One more honest word and the whole balance that your friendship sat on could come crashing down around both of you.
I like you, Spencer.
Your friendship with Spencer wasn’t theoretical. You already had it. What if confessing made every plane ride awkward? What if movie nights suddenly stopped? What if you couldn’t look across the bullpen and smile when you caught his eye? The possibility of something more with him wasn’t guaranteed. But the possibility of losing what you already had was a risk you simply weren’t ready to take.
“Anyway,” you said, too brightly. “Forget I asked.”
“I don’t think I can do that.” Your stomach did a little flip, and Spencer seemed to realize how it sounded a second after he said it. His ears went pink, and he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I mean, I have an eidetic memory, so technically–”
You laughed before you could stop yourself. It came out breathless. Relieved. A little too fond. Spencer’s mouth curved in response. And there it was. That smile. That small, private, devastatingly Spencer smile. The tension between you eased into something more bearable. Almost manageable, even. He looked down at his desk, shuffling around the papers he wasn’t reading. “You know, if this hypothetical person is making you feel uncertain, you could always just ask them directly.”
You nearly choked. “Could I?”
“It would be the most efficient way to resolve the ambiguity.”
“Right.” You nodded, swallowing down all the words you wanted to say. “Efficient.”
“Although,” he mused aloud, “efficiency isn’t always emotionally comfortable.” That surprised you. You looked at him again. For a moment, he seemed younger than he already was. Not naive. Just uncertain in a way he rarely allowed himself to be around anyone. His thumb brushed against the side of his index finger, a small self-soothing gesture you only noticed because you noticed too much about him.
“No,” you agreed. “It isn’t.” Another pause hung between you. Somewhere deeper in the building, an elevator chimed faintly, but no one came into the bullpen. No one interrupted. No one saved either of you from the conversation you were both pretending not to have.
Friday afternoons at Quantico always felt different when there wasn’t a case taking you across the country. There was something almost strange about witnessing the building slowly empty as agents filtered towards the elevators. So often, you only ever got to experience the bustling activity of a regular work day or the quiet of coming into the office in the wee hours of the night after touching down post-case.
You should’ve left twenty minutes ago. Your reports were finished, you’d organized your desk twice, and your car was sitting in the parking lot just waiting for you. Hell, you could probably even catch the latest episode of whatever show one of your friends was raving about. And yet, here you were, standing beside Spencer’s desk while he carefully slid a file back into its proper place.
“You know,” you said, “you don’t have to finish that tonight.” You gestured to the file in his hands. Spencer looked up, warm brown eyes finding yours.
“I know.” His fingers lingered on the file. “I just want to finish organizing these before Monday.”
“Haven’t you organized them like four times already?”
“Those were different files.”
“Ah.” You nodded solemnly. “Completely different.” Spencer shook his head, the faintest smile tugging at the edges of his lips. The thing that kept ruining your life. You should’ve been immune to it by now. You weren’t.
“Are you leaving?” he asked.
“Eventually.” Your answer earned you a look. “What?”
“You’ve been standing there for ten minutes.”
“Maybe I enjoy judging your filing system.”
Spencer laughed. The sound was soft. Almost private. “You’re terrible.” But there was no bite behind his words.
“Only when it comes to you.”
Minutes later, the two of you were finally heading to the elevators. The ride down was quiet. Comfortable. The kind of silence that had developed naturally over months of shared cases, shared flights, and far too many late nights together. By the time you stepped outside, the sun hung low on the horizon. The air was beginning to cool. The perfect weather for an evening walk.
“So, got any plans for this weekend? Besides our weekly movie night?” you asked, falling in step beside Spencer as the two of you began the familiar route to the train station. Spencer adjusted the strap of his messenger bag, his gaze fixed somewhere ahead of you both.
“Nothing particularly exciting. I was planning to finish a book I’ve been working through.”
“The one on forensic linguistics?”
“You remembered?”
“Of course I remembered,” you said, bumping him with your shoulder. “You’ve been talking about it this whole week.”
Spencer ducked his head, a smile playing at his lips. “I didn’t realize.”
The two of you passed the coffee shop you always stopped at. The one that always got Spencer’s order right. Spencer stopped to peer into the window of the bookstore he always liked to stop at because they usually had first editions of books. You offered to go in with him, and he declined your offer every time. None of this should’ve felt significant anymore. The coffee shop. The bookstore. The walk to the station. They had all become part of your routine months ago. They were small, ordinary things.
Except that you thought about them constantly.
For months, you had collected scraps of ordinary things. Tiny pieces of evidence that maybe he liked you back. Tiny fragments of hope. And for months, none of them had amounted to anything. You were tired. Tired of carrying this thing around inside your chest. Tired of pretending that walking him to the station every Friday wasn’t your favorite part of the week. You were tired weeks ago. Now, you were exhausted.
And the worst part of it was that you couldn’t even bring yourself to stop. Because every time you thought you were finally getting over it, he’d smile at you. Or remember some insignificant detail you’d mentioned weeks ago. Or call you first when he found an interesting article. And you always ended up right back where you’d started.
“I’ve noticed something,” Spencer said abruptly as the two of you stopped at an intersection. “You do this every Friday when we don’t have a case.”
“Do what?”
“You walk me to the train station.” You kept your eyes on the sidewalk across the street, unwilling to let yourself hope that maybe he’d finally picked up on your feelings. Spencer turned to face you, and you could see the way the sunlight caught the edge of his jaw in your peripheral vision.
“Well someone has to make sure you actually make it home. Can’t have you sleeping in the office over the weekend. The cleaners might mistake you for a stack of files,” you said, keeping your voice light. The crosswalk signal blinked white, and you stepped forward. Spencer didn’t move.
“Your car’s in the opposite direction,” he pointed out, falling in step behind you again. “You walk fifteen minutes out of your way every Friday.”
“Maybe I just enjoy a nice Friday evening walk,” you countered, hoping that the deflection would land. Spencer fell silent beside you, and for a moment, you were sure you’d gotten away with it. The two of you crossed the street, and you let yourself believe that he’d let it go like he always did. That he’d simply file the observation away in that impossibly organized mind of his and move on. He didn’t.
“Your apartment is in the opposite direction,” Spencer said again. “You walk me to the station and then turn around and walk back to your car. That’s thirty minutes of extra walking every Friday.”
The train station came into view, its familiar brick facade catching the last golden rays of sunlight. You shoved your hands into your jacket pockets and turned to look at Spencer. The evening light caught in his hair, turning the edges of it gold, and something about the way he was looking at you made your stomach drop. You didn’t have an excuse for him. You didn’t have the energy anymore to try to think of one.
“You know, Spence, for someone who’s supposed to be good at noticing patterns,” you began before your exhausted brain could stop you, “you miss some really obvious things.”
His brow furrowed instantly. “What does that mean?”
Your heart stuttered then stopped as you realized what you had said, and you wished you could take it back. Abort mission. You laughed. Too quickly. Too loudly. Too forced.
“Have a good weekend, Spence.” You started backing away, plastering a too-nervous smile on your face.
“That’s not an answer. You can’t just say something like that and leave.”
“Watch me.”
Spencer stared at you, jaw going slack as you laughed again and turned to walk back the way you had just come. He blinked, feeling like he’d just been blind sided by something as subtle as a bullet. As you disappeared among the crowd, he readjusted his bag again and began his descent to the station.
People moved around him. Commuters, tourists, the usual Friday evening crowd. But even as he navigated through them towards the station, he didn’t notice any of them. You miss some really obvious things. The comment sat at the forefront of his mind. Something about it bothered him. Not because it was insulting. Because it was specific. Patterns and obvious things. Something he had missed.
Spencer frowned. The train hadn’t arrived yet. Which was good. Because now, he was thinking. And unfortunately, thinking was how Spencer got himself into trouble. What obvious thing? The question settled into his brain. Made a little nest. Refused to leave. You seemed amused when you said it. But also… something else. Something that he couldn’t quite place.
A memory surfaced. The diner several weeks ago. The way you stared into your coffee after the waitress asked if you were together. The sudden quietness. The hurt he’d read in your body language. No… not hurt. Disappointment? Why would you be disappointed? Unless–
His stomach dropped.
The coffee. Every morning. You had remembered his order after hearing it once.
The tie. Your hands against his collar. You look good.
Movie nights. The fact that you had never cancelled. Not once.
The hypothetical. Spencer’s breath caught in his throat. The hypothetical.
“If someone liked you, would you know?”
“Oh my god.”
The words escaped before he could stop them. Several people glanced at him, but Spencer didn’t notice. Because every memory was rearranging itself in his head. Like puzzle pieces falling into place next to each other. The realization crashed over him. You’d been trying to tell him. And he had answered you with statistics and facts. Spencer covered his face with one hand. You had been handing him answers, and he had somehow missed every single one.
A second realization hit him before he could fully recover from the first. Why did the thought make him so happy? Spencer lowered his hand. Because the answer was painfully obvious. He liked your smile. He looked for you when he entered a room. His favorite evenings somehow always involved you. His apartment felt quieter after you left. His first instinct when something interesting happened was to tell you.
The train pulled into the station, doors opening with a mechanical hiss. Spencer watched as people boarded it, but his feet were rooted to the spot. The train doors chimed their final warning before departure. Spencer turned around, the doors sliding shut behind him. But he was already halfway up the stairs before the train started moving.
The evening air hit him immediately, cool and sharp. He broke into a jog. Then a run. His messenger bag bounced against his hip, books and files shifting with every stride. Several pedestrians turned to stare as he passed, but he couldn’t be bothered to care. His lungs burned in a way that was entirely unfamiliar as he retraced the path you both had just walked minutes ago. He wasn’t a runner. He had never been particularly athletic, but his legs carried him forward with a determination he couldn’t explain.
His mind raced faster than his feet, cataloguing every moment between you that was suddenly so obvious. When he finally made it to the parking lot he knew you always parked in, he was breathing harder than he’d ever admit to. His chest heaved, and he pressed a hand to his chest as he scanned the rows of cars, searching for yours. The lot was nearly empty at this hour, and for one terrible moment, he thought he had missed you.
Then he spotted your car. And you. You were standing beside the driver’s side door with your keys in hand. Spencer started towards you before he could talk himself out of it. Before he could overthink it. You looked up at the sound of approaching footsteps. Surprise crossed your features before settling into confusion.
“Spencer?”
He slowed to a stop just a few footsteps away. You stared at him. He stared back at you. And he realized that, despite sprinting out of a train station to chase you down, Spencer hadn’t actually planned what he was going to say. “Did you miss your train?”
“Yes.”
You didn’t look convinced. Spencer couldn’t blame you. He was still catching his breath, his chest rising and falling in uneven bursts. Strands of his hair had fallen across his forehead. Your expression shifted from confusion to concern then from concern to something softer.
“Spencer.” The way you said his name nearly undid him. “Why are you here?”
“I figured it out.”
The words settled between you, and for one long moment, neither of you moved. Then,
“…what did you figure out?”
Spencer let out a single, helpless breath of a laugh. Everything. He had figured out everything. The coffee. The tie. The movie nights. The hypothetical. The station walks. Months and months of things he’d managed to completely miss because the idea that they could’ve meant anything more than just friendship had never occurred to him.
“You’ve been flirting with me.”
Your eyes went wide, and Spencer didn’t have to be a profiler to know. He had never seen anyone look more guilty than you.
“Oh.” You looked away. Towards the parking lot. Towards the sun setting over the horizon. Towards anywhere but him. Spencer took a single step closer. “I’m sorry,” you said, and Spencer was taken aback. That wasn’t what he had expected you to say. “I’m sorry. I didn’t– I wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable. I just–” Your voice cracked. Spencer thought his heart might’ve done the same. Why were you apologizing? He was the one who should’ve been sorry. You were the one who had tried. He was the one who had missed it. “Spencer, I–”
“Can I kiss you?”
For a second, Spencer wasn’t entirely sure that he had actually said the words out loud, but judging by the look on your face, he had. You opened your mouth to say something. Then closed it. Then opened it again.
“Spencer–”
“I know it’s abrupt.” That was the understatement of the century. His heart was beating so hard that he could feel it in his throat. “I know it’s not exactly– I didn’t plan any of this, and I’m probably doing this wrong. But I ran out of the train station because the thought of going home without telling you was somehow worse than the thought of you thinking that I was rejecting you and that’s–”
You kissed him.
Or maybe he kissed you.
The distinction blurred into irrelevance the moment your lips touched his. Your lips were warm and soft, and they chased every thought from his mind. His hands hovered uncertainly at your sides before they finally settled on your waist. Your fingers found the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer as the world narrowed to this moment. The kiss was slow and uncertain but devastating all the same.
When you finally pulled apart, neither of you moved very far. His eyes found yours. A smile played on his lips. He was somehow more breathless than he’d been a moment ago.
“Wow.” The word slipped out before Spencer could stop it. You laughed immediately.
“That’s all you’ve got to say, genius?”
“In my defense, I had a much better sentence prepared.”
“Did you really?”
“No.”
You laughed harder, the sound echoing across the nearly empty parking lot. And Spencer found himself laughing with you. Because somehow, after months of missed signals and crossed wires, you’d both ended up exactly where you were supposed to be.
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