s2!spencer reid x f!reader
word count: 1079
this is my first work on here so i hope people like it!!
"Shush, stop fussing. I'm only braiding your hair."
You shoot Spencer an incredulous look over your shoulder.
"You're the one who's fussing." You mutter, brushing a stray hair out of your eyes.
"I am not."
"You've restarted this braid three times."
"Because it wasn't symmetrical." He huffs, still moving his fingers through your hair.
"It's a braid, Spencer."
"Exactly."
You stare at him.
He stares back.
Somehow, he genuinely believes that explains everything. With a dramatic sigh, you settle back onto the couch and allow him to continue his mission. A mission he has taken far more seriously than anyone reasonably should.
It had started innocently enough.
You'd been sprawled across the sofa while Spencer sat beside you reading. After a particularly long week of cases, neither of you had much energy for conversation. The apartment was quiet except for the occasional turn of a page.
Then Spencer had absentmindedly started running his fingers through your hair.
And he hadn't stopped.
Twenty minutes later, he'd announced that your hair was "ideal for braiding."
Now here you were.
A captive audience.
"Hold still."
"I am holding still."
"You moved."
"I breathed."
"That's still movement."
You laugh quietly. Behind you, Spencer mutters something under his breath and carefully separates another section of hair. His fingers are surprisingly gentle.
You'd expected awkwardness. Expected him to accidentally tangle everything together. Instead, he's painstakingly careful, as if your hair is some rare historical artifact he's been entrusted to preserve.
"You've done this before."
The statement slips out before you can stop it.
Spencer pauses.
"Done what?"
"Braided hair."
"No."
"You definitely have."
"I haven't."
"Spencer..."
"I read about it."
You immediately start laughing.
Of course he did.
Of course he researched braiding.
You can practically picture it: three in the morning, unable to sleep, falling down an internet rabbit hole about the history and techniques of braids.
"I knew it."
"I was curious."
"You studied hair braiding."
"There are different techniques."
"Oh my God."
"There are."
You can hear the smile in his voice now.
"French braids, Dutch braids, fishtail braidsβ" He rambled on but you interrupted him quickly
"Stop."
"There are cultural variations dating back thousands of years."
"Spencer."
"I'm just saying."
You shake your head fondly.
Only Spencer Reid could turn a simple hairstyle into an academic subject.
A comfortable silence settles between you. The kind that only exists when you've known someone long enough to stop filling every moment with words. You close your eyes as his fingers continue weaving through your hair.
Slow.
Gentle.
Steady.
Somewhere in the distance, rain taps softly against the windows.
You hadn't realized how tired you were until now.
The case had been rough. One of those cases that stayed with everyone long after the paperwork was finished. The kind Spencer carried especially hard. You know he still thinks about every victim.
Every family.
Every person he couldn't save.
Sometimes you catch him staring off into space afterward, lost in thoughts he'll never fully share.
Tonight, though, he seems calmer. Lighter. Maybe because it's just the two of you.
No crime scenes.
No reports.
No nightmares waiting around the corner.
Just home.
His fingers brush the back of your neck accidentally.
A small shiver runs through you.
Immediately, he freezes.
"Sorry."
"You don't have to apologize."
"I wasn't paying attention."
"It's fine."
Another pause.
Then, more quietly, "Did I hurt you?"
The concern in his voice makes your chest tighten.
You turn slightly.
Spencer is looking at you with that familiar worried expression, eyebrows drawn together. The same look he gets whenever he thinks he might have upset you. The same look that appears no matter how many times you reassure him.
Your heart melts every single time.
"No," you say softly.
"Really?"
"Really."
His shoulders visibly relax.
"Okay."
You reach back blindly until your hand finds his knee, squeezing it gently.
The tension leaves him almost instantly.
Sometimes physical affection communicates what words can't.
"I like this."
Spencer's fingers hesitate.
"The braid?"
"You doing my hair."
For a second, neither of you speak.
Then his voice comes out surprisingly soft.
"I like it too."
Your smile grows.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
His hands resume their work.
"It's nice."
The simplicity of the answer somehow makes it more meaningful.
Because Spencer doesn't say things he doesn't mean.
Never has.
Every word is deliberate.
Every feeling carefully chosen.
When he says he likes something, he truly does.
"You know," you say, "most people don't spend their evenings conducting hair-braiding experiments."
"It's not an experiment anymore."
"Oh?"
"I've figured it out."
The confidence in his voice makes you laugh.
"Have you?"
"Yes."
"You sound very proud of yourself."
"I am."
"That's adorable."
He groans.
"I regret telling you that."
"No, you don't."
"No," he admits, "I don't."
A few moments later, his hands fall away.
"There."
"Done?"
"Done."
You immediately reach up.
Spencer catches your wrist.
"Wait."
"What?"
"I want you to see it first."
The excitement in his voice surprises you.
You turn around.
He's holding your phone.
Looking absurdly pleased with himself.
When he shows you the screen, your eyebrows rise.
The braid is actually good.
Really good.
Neat.
Even.
Far better than you expected.
"Spencer."
"I know."
"You practiced."
"I did not."
"Spencer."
His smile gives him away instantly.
You laugh so hard you nearly fall sideways on the couch.
"Unbelievable."
"It was one tutorial."
"It was absolutely more than one tutorial."
"It may have been several."
"Several."
"Eight."
You stare.
He shrugs.
"I wanted to do it properly."
The affection that rushes through you is almost overwhelming. Because that's Spencer. He never does anything halfway.
Not work.
Not learning.
Not love.
If something matters to him, he gives it everything.
And somehow, somewhere along the way, you'd become one of those things.
You reach forward and cup his face.
His smile softens immediately.
"Thank you."
A faint blush colors his cheeks.
"It was just a braid."
"No."
You brush your thumb across his cheek.
"It wasn't."
For a moment, neither of you say anything.
Then Spencer leans into your touch.
Small.
Instinctive.
Trusting.
And suddenly the braid doesn't matter at all.
Only this.
The quiet apartment.
The rain outside.
The man sitting in front of you with slightly messy curls and a shy smile. The man who learned how to braid hair simply because he thought it might make you happy.
And honestly?
You think that's the most Spencer Reid thing you've ever seen.
