RAINCHECK ⟢ spencer reid x greenaway!reader
summary: you finally say yes when spencer asks to take you on a real date, but work interrupts the night before the entrées arrive. genre: fluff, a lil hurt/comfort tags/warnings: reader is elle's sister, spencer being adorably nervous, forensics/crime scene-related convo (blood & guns mentioned), kissinggg muah muah, possibly incorrect use of the italian language, several suggestive lines from reader but nothing crazy, reader actually being soft & thoughtful woah, incredibly corny slow dance, no use of y/n a/n: hiii i don’t really know how i feel about this one but it was time for me to stop agonizing over it and put it out into the universe anyway. hope u guys like it! sorry it’s so long lmao I couldn’t stop writing. the next greenaway fic is one I’ve been working on for a veryyy long time and is a departure from all the fluff from the last few parts so stay turned for that coming soon 😉 | GIF by @reidgif 🫶🏼
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You trace your lipstick in the mirror and tell yourself to breathe, then click your hoop earrings shut. The click is crisp and decisive, the opposite of how the paperclips skittering across your desk on Wednesday night sounded while Spencer tried, and failed, and failed again to start a sentence.
three days ago:
“Reid,” you’d said, clicking your pen shut.
He startled like you caught him tampering with evidence.
“Yes.” He straightened. “Hi. Yes.”
“Are you trying to build a jump rope out of office supplies?”
He looked down at the paperclip chain he’d been hooking together like he didn’t remember doing it then dragged a palm down his tie, trying to iron his nerves flat.
Five minutes later he led you discreetly to the supply closet in the east corridor and closed the door like he was worried the sound would carry.
“Spooky,” you murmured, leaning back against a filing cabinet. “Either you’re about to murder me, or this is some weird new foreplay game.”
“What? N-no. Nothing like that.” He shook out his hands, wired tight in a way he usually isn’t with you anymore.
“I’m going to ask you something,” he said. “And I need you to know before I ask that you can say no.”
“…Okay.”
“And I mean it, because I know if you feel cornered or rushed you’ll just…” He trailed off. “You know.”
“Run?” you offered.
He flinched. “Yeah.”
“Why’s the word ‘run’ suddenly impossible for you to say?”
“Because I don’t like thinking about you running from me, much less saying it.”
Oh. That hits you square in the chest.
“Hey,” you said softly. “Just ask whatever you need to ask, and I promise I’ll hear you out.”
“I’ve been thinking about this for a while,” he said, eyes wide and devoted. “I told myself I’d wait until you felt—” He searched for the right word. “Steady. With me. Which is why I thought, maybe, I could ask you now.”
He was right — you are steadier now. You don’t pretend not to want his hands on you. You don’t pretend you don’t sleep better with his heartbeat beneath your ear on his couch than you do alone in your bed. He knows that.
“Ask me what, Spencer?”
He swallowed hard. “I would like to…to take you out. For a date. Not a night hidden in my apartment or a walk we don’t label. I mean a real, proper date where we both wear something nice and I pick you up and we eat in an actual restaurant and it’s—” a nervous pull of his mouth, “—just us being on a date. Together. Because we want to be.”
You stared at him.
The first thing that hit was a familiar panic, because dates mean something official. Dates are tangible and meaningful and real. But the second hit, right behind the panic, was a deep, quiet ache. This is Spencer, who brings you coffee the way other people breathe. Spencer, who falls asleep sitting up because your head is on his shoulder and he’d rather get pins and needles than wake you. Spencer, who never assumes, never takes, always asks. Spencer, who looks completely wrecked right now because the idea of pushing you too fast physically hurts him.
You could have run. Or said “not yet,” and he would’ve nodded and smiled understandingly and you’d’ve gone home hating yourself for making him wait for something you already know you want.
“Okay,” you heard yourself say before you could even realize you were saying it.
He blinked. “Okay what?”
“Spencer,” you laughed. “Okay. As in, yes. You can take me on a date.”
There was a beat where he went sincerely, scientifically stunned into silence. “Saturday?” he managed eventually. “Can we do it this Saturday?”
“Mhm,” you hummed. “It’s a date.”
Spencer’s face did something you weren’t prepared for. Relief, obviously, and joy, yeah, but also a grateful softness like you’d just granted his every wish.
You looked away because if you held that look any longer you would’ve done something reckless, like kissed him in an FBI supply closet.
“Saturday,” you said, reaching out to straighten his tie before heading to the door. “Don’t be late.”
—
You smooth your dress, check your lipstick once more, and grab your bag just as three careful knocks land on your door.
Spencer is five minutes early.
Of course he is. You knew he would be and factored it into your getting ready timeline.
You watch from the peephole as he shifts his weight in the hallway outside your apartment, fingers flexing like he’s working up the nerve to knock a second time.
You open the door before he has to.
“Hey,” you say, casual.
He looks at you and absolutely forgets how to be alive.
His whole system just… shorts. His eyes go wide, drag down, come back up slowly like he can’t decide where to land.
You’re wearing a dress, which is not unheard of for you, but isn’t your default outfit choice either. It hits high on your mid-thigh and clings like it was made for you, with a neckline that would definitely not pass Bureau dress code. Your usual leather jacket’s draped over it. Sheer black tights—not fishnets this time—with pointed-toe stiletto boots. Your lipstick is your classic vampy red and you did your eye makeup a tad more shimmery than usual.
“Hi,” Spencer manages to choke out.
You lean against the frame, pretending your pulse isn’t in your throat.
“You look—” He swallows. “Wow.”
That shouldn’t hit as hard as it does, so you smirk to cover it. “Gonna finish that thought?”
He blinks, gaze dropping again — slower this time, more shameless. “You look beautiful,” he says. “Really, really beautiful.”
Your stomach drops in a way that feels a little like vertigo. It’s not that you don’t know you’re hot, because you do. You’re well aware of the effect you have on people. But the way Spencer says it makes your heart twist.
“Yeah?” you say, trying for light. “You don’t look so bad yourself.” You’re underselling it, if you’re being honest. His suit is black, not brown or gray like usual, and the difference is obscene. His shirt is also dark, paired with a deep burgundy tie. His hair is actually tamed like he tried, but not enough to hide the curls completely. He smells like soap and something faintly warm that you determined long ago is just how his skin smells close up.
You let your gaze drag, slow, just to watch him flush.
“Trying to impress me, Reid?” you ask.
“Yes,” he says automatically, smiling sheepishly.
You laugh. “Okay. Points for transparency.”
He exhales, shoulders dropping in that way you’re addicted to. The tension in his jaw eases.
“Ready?” he asks.
You step out, locking the door behind you. “Ready.”
He offers you his arm as you walk down the hall. It’s such an old-fashioned, earnest gesture that for a second you just stare at it before sliding your hand into the crook of his elbow.
Finally, you feel him breathe.
—
It’s not just a casual night at the museum. You figure that out the second you see the line out front.
The building glows. The facade is lit up in warm gold against the evening sky, banner flags hanging off the columns. People in suits and dresses mill under string lights, badges on lanyards. There’s a registration table, which cements even more that this night isn’t just to “wander around the Smithsonian.”
You glance at Spencer as you walk up. “You brought me to a gala and I didn't even get a warning?”
“It’s not a gala,” he explains nervously. “It’s a fundraiser-slash-preview for a new exhibit. Guest list is by invitation, but it’s not— it’s not black tie, it’s—” He catches your expression, swallows, and recalibrates. “Is this okay?”
You bump his arm. “Yes, Spence. I like it when you show off.”
He swallows. “Right. Okay. Good.”
You tip your chin up to squint at the banner over the doors. FORENSIC SCIENCE ON TRIAL: FROM CRIME SCENE TO COURTROOM.
His eyes spark, quick and pleased. Nerd.
You huff. “You brought me to a homicide exhibit.”
“It’s a historical forensics exhibit,” he corrects. “They’re debuting a collection of crime evidence and investigative tools like autopsy photography, ballistics comparisons, blood spatter analysis, courtroom transcripts — those kinds of things — from across the last century.” He pauses, then adds, quieter, almost shy: “I thought you’d like it.”
You stare at him.
Because he picked this, for you.
Not dinner and a movie. Not “I heard normal couples go bowling.” He picked an after-hours event full of weapons evidence, postmortem bruising documentation, and archaic crime lab methodology because, in his brain, that’s romance for you.
And he’s right.
“Spencer,” you say. “If this is an attempt to seduce me with photographs of blunt force trauma, it’s disturbingly effective.”
He makes a desperate little noise like he just swallowed a live wire. “I— that’s— I didn’t— that’s not—”
You grin. “Relax. I’m kidding.”
“I really did think you’d like it, though,” he says, softer.
You can’t deal with the way he says that, so you nudge him forward. “Well. Are we going in, or are we just loitering on the sidewalk so all the rich donors can judge us?”
“Right. Yes.” He reaches into his jacket, pulls out two badges on lanyards, Your name is printed on one — your name, not “Guest,” which means he must’ve set this up long before he worked up the nerve to ask you on this date three days ago.
You blink at it. “Did you register me in advance?”
“Yes,” he admits. “Otherwise you would’ve just gotten a sticker badge, and I know you hate the way they always roll at the edges. And everyone else has these ones, so I didn’t want you to feel—” He falters. “—out of place.”
It hits you, stupid and hot, that he really did think of everything. You hook the lanyard over your head before you can say anything dumb about it.
Inside, it’s all low light and glass cases and soft instrumental music. There’s a roped-off display under a spotlight featuring a lined-up series of early police-issue sidearms, each labeled with case numbers, photographs of recovered bullets, and blown-up comparison images of rifling patterns.
You whistle under your breath. “Sexy.”
Spencer laughs softly. “Right? Look at that one. Analysis of the land & groove impressions helped scientists to identify exactly who fired it during a 1923 standoff between—” He stops himself and glances at you, almost sheepish. “Sorry. Too much?”
You shake your head. “Keep talking.”
You drift together through the first room, then the second. He doesn’t lecture at you — it’s not like that. He just leans in close, mouth near your ear, and shares details like he’s letting you in on secrets.
You hate how your skin reacts to the warmth of his breath. You also shift a fraction closer. Accidentally, obviously.
The next gallery is framed black-and-white morgue photos — bruise mapping, pattern analysis, angle-of-impact diagrams with neat arrows.
You linger on a forearm mottled with crescents. The placard under it explains inaccurate bite-mark comparisons done in the 1980s.
“Ask me how many convictions based on bite marks have been overturned,” he says, voice low.
“How many?”
“Thirty-six, at least.”
His knuckles brush the back of your hand where it rests on the case glass — barely there, and somehow everything. Your pulse gives you away.
“This is good,” he says quietly.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” His eyes stay on you. “It feels like a date.”
A soft laugh slips out. “That’s because it is one.”
Before you can spiral at your own honesty, you push off the case and nod toward a side hall marked Restricted: Staff Only.
“C’mon.”
You can practically hear him internally litigating trespass statutes as he follows you into the dark.
The little alcove you duck into is out of sight from the main gallery, lit only by the glow at the end of the hall. You can hear the murmur of voices from the exhibit space, but it’s hushed.
Spencer steps in after you and, for a second, just looks.
He takes you in from this new proximity like he’s cataloging a miracle. His gaze flickers down slowly, then drags back up, and by the time he hits your mouth again he looks a little wrecked.
“What?” you ask softly.
He swallows. “Nothing.”
“Liar.”
He huffs. “You’re just— very distracting.”
“Good,” you murmur.
Something in his face flickers, then he does that thing you still haven’t built up immunity to: he lifts one hand and touches you like you’re precious. Just a gentle thumb along your jaw, a question he still asks even though you’ve already answered it a hundred times.
You lean into it before you can pretend you won’t.
It’s almost absurd, you think — barely ten yards from autopsy photos and here you are in an off-limits corridor with Spencer Reid looking at you like you’re the most exhilarating thing that’s ever happened to him.
Your voice comes out low. “Are you gonna kiss me, or are you just planning to stare at me like I’m Medusa until I turn to stone?”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “Medusa didn’t turn herself to stone, she—”
You pull him down by his tie. “Spencer.”
He grins, hovering a breath from your lips. “Yes. Yes, I’m going to kiss you.”
His mouth is warm and careful when it finally meets yours, then warmer, then just on the edge of not careful. His free hand slides to your waist, and yours stays in his tie without thinking. You like the feel of it against your knuckles, and you like the way his breath catches when you pull.
When you break, it’s only because you need air and not because either of you wants space. He stays close — forehead almost against yours, breathing a little uneven.
“I can’t believe I convinced you to kiss me in the restricted section,” you murmur, just to hear him laugh. “It’s like Harry Potter if it wasn’t a kids’ movie.”
Spencer breathes a chuckle against your cheek. “I think you could convince me to do almost anything.”
A shiver runs through you at that, and you turn your head to steal one more kiss. “Telling me that is a dangerous game,” you tease.
He pulls back just far enough to meet your eyes, and you see that look again — the glassy, stunned, happy one he gets when you show affection like this. You’re almost getting used to seeing it. Almost.
“Dinner?” he asks, soft. “I, uh, I made a reservation.”
You nod. “Lead the way, genius.”
—
The restaurant looks like somewhere you only get into if you “know a guy.” Low light, white tablecloths, real candles, wood-paneled walls crowded with black-and-white photos, quiet jazz. It smells like garlic and butter and something slow-simmered with wine.
Spencer is trying so hard to act normal.
You can see it in the way he hovers half a second like he’s debating whether to pull your chair out — he wants to, you can feel it — then aborts at the last second, second-guessing himself.
“You can pull it out, you know,” you murmur, tilting your head up at him. “It’s not gonna bite.”
He exhales, embarrassed. “Right. Yes. Sorry.”
He moves the chair for you and you let him, because you are soft for him in disgusting ways you refuse to examine. When he takes his own seat across from you, you watch him fold his napkin once, too precisely, and line his fork up like symmetry might steady him.
There’s already water at the table, bread, a saucer of olive oil that smells peppery and clean.
“Spence,” you say, leaning back a little, crossing your legs under the table. You let your heel graze up his calf to watch him almost drop the bread knife. “Traditionally, on dates, you’re actually supposed to talk.”
His mouth twitches. “I know, I’m just— I believe I have about a seventy-three percent chance of saying something right now that’ll make you roll your eyes at me.”
“Mm.” You tear off a piece of bread and drag it through olive oil. “And what’s the percent chance of you saying something that makes me want to make out with you in the bathroom?”
The tips of his ears go pink. “Seventy-eight.”
You grin. “Seems accurate enough.”
That gets the first real exhale from him since you left the museum. His eyes go a little soft as they settle on you in the candlelight.
“I like this,” he says quietly.
“Yeah?” You pick up a menu mostly to avoid having to look directly at the way he’s looking at you.
“Yes,” he says simply. “I like… you here.”
Against your will, heat climbs up your throat.
“You feeding me pasta is a strong survival strategy, I’ll give you that.”
“In my defense, it’s excellent pasta.”
“You’ve been here before?”
“Once,” he admits, a little shy. “With Rossi.”
That tracks. Rossi “knows a guy” everywhere up and down the mid-Atlantic.
“He said if I ever brought someone here that I ‘actually gave a damn about,’ I should ask for Giuseppe,” he adds, looking down at his napkin like he didn’t just say that sentence out loud in front of you.
Your pulse stutters, but you try for casual. “Will Giuseppe judge me if I order something with enough garlic to kill a man?”
“He’s Italian. I think he’ll judge you if you don’t.”
That earns a real grin out of you.
A server appears at your elbow, and the way he greets Spencer — “Dottore Reid!” — tells you this is definitely Giuseppe.
“Can I start you two off with anything to drink?” he asks with a robust Italian accent.
Before you can open your mouth, Spencer answers for you. “She’ll have a martini, extra dirty. Grey Goose if you have it.”
Your eyebrows go up.
Giuseppe claps once and winks at you. “And Signore, for you?”
“Just club soda with lime, please.”
You glance at him across the table, one brow still arched.
“Antipasti?” Giuseppe asks. “Chef Bruno is doing arancini tonight, and we also have a—” he pauses to kiss his fingers “— burrata with roasted figs and balsamico.”
“Both,” Spencer says without hesitation. “Please.”
When he leaves, you lean in, elbow on the table and chin in your hand. “So,” you murmur. “You planning to order for me all night like we’re in a mafia movie, or was that a one-time performance?”
Color blooms high on his cheekbones. “I just— you love martinis, and I know you always ask for them extra dirty and get annoyed if they use cheap vodka because you say it tastes like floor cleaner. And you always want to order appetizers for us to share when we get takeout, so I— I thought it would be easier. Not in a weird ‘I speak for you’ way.” His mouth quirks. “I wanted you to know I pay attention.”
“Hey,” you say, and he looks up quick, like he’s braced for teasing. “I like you knowing what I like.”
He goes a little wide-eyed, like you just palmed his heart. His thumb traces a slow circle in the condensation on glass, like he needs sensory grounding.
“I like knowing,” he says quietly.
Okay. Well. Now your pulse is in your throat.
Your martini arrives — cloudy, salty, cold with three plump olives — and his club soda in a short glass with extra lime. You clink a tiny “cheers” without making it a big production. His eyes crinkle when you do.
He watches your lips wrap around the rim of your glass when you take a sip and immediately looks down to pretend he’s studying his napkin again.
You could laugh, but you don’t. You’re too busy staring at him and having a small internal crisis.
Because sitting across from him like this is doing something to you that you weren’t prepared for. You knew you were in trouble, but you didn’t realize how much until he recited your drink order like he’s been rehearsing it for weeks.
“Tell me something,” you say, mostly to get air.
He looks up fast. “Anything.”
“How long have you had this planned?” You swirl the stem of your glass between two fingers.
“A while.”
“A while,” you echo, amused.
He glances down at the table, then back at you. “I, uh, made the dinner reservation two weeks ago,” he admits. “The museum took longer. Those passes were… not easy to get.” His smile tugs, crooked. “Rossi might have helped.”
Of course Rossi did.
“So you were just… sitting on this? For over two weeks?” you ask. “What would you have done if I said no?”
“Canceled the reservation and the passes,” he says, earnestly confused as to how that isn’t the obvious answer. When you raise your brows, he scrunches his and adds, “I’m… not really sure I understand the question.”
“You put all this effort into tonight and would’ve been perfectly okay with canceling if I’d said no?”
“It wasn’t that much work,” he mumbles shyly. “But yeah. If you weren’t ready, I would’ve just canceled and waited to plan something else when you were.”
It blows you a little sideways, the simplicity of it. He spent days developing a plan for the perfect first date, asking Rossi for advice and begging to use his connections for the museum passes, making restaurant reservations and arranging for the owner to be your waiter and getting his best suit drycleaned, but he would’ve canceled it all in a heartbeat if you told him you needed more time.
You try to play it off. You really do. You nod, lean back in your chair, cross your legs so your boot slides along his calf again. It doesn’t matter. You can feel it in yourself anyway. The slide. The fall.
This is what scares you — this exact feeling. Sitting across from someone who looks at you like you hung the stars and realizing in real time you’re losing ground because you want him, and you trust him, and that trust is starting to come easy. You don’t usually get easy. Easy, historically, has cost you.
Your stomach is in a knot and it still feels… good.
Disgusting.
“Spencer,” you say, just so you can feel his name in your mouth.
His eyes flick to yours, helpless, and you wonder what you look like to him right now. You wonder if he’s thinking about your mouth from the museum hallway. You wonder if he’s imagining you in his bed. You’re imagining you in his bed.
“Yeah?” he says softly.
You’re about to tilt this deeper — say something you can’t unsay, slide your foot higher, lean across the table and tell him you’re going home with him after dinner — in the real way — when both of your phones start buzzing on the table at the exact same time.
You don’t move for a beat. Neither does he. You both just stare at each other like maybe, if you wait long enough, the world will do you a favor and stop existing.
It doesn’t.
You reach for your phone. Spencer reaches for his.
Hotch’s voice hits your ear: “We’ve got a case. Serial in Florida. We’re wheels up in ninety, so I need everyone in Quantico within the hour.”
JJ’s voice is audible from Spencer’s side of the table, low and urgent. “Sorry to interrupt your night, Spence. We’ve got a case. How soon can you get to the BAU?”
You keep your own voice steady. “I’ll be there,” you tell Hotch.
Spencer hasn’t said a word into his phone yet, and you hear JJ through his line after you hang up. “You good?” she asks.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good,” he says softly into the phone, but you can hear the lie in it, see the devastation written all over his face. “I’ll be there soon,” he adds before ending the call.
“Okay,” you say. “Here’s what’s gonna happen. You’ll take me to my place first, then we’ll swing by yours so we can each grab our go bags, and then we’ll drive in together.”
He blinks. “Together?”
“Yeah, together,” you say. “We’ll just stagger a few minutes between our entrances. You’ll go in first, I’ll come in five minutes later. No one will know.”
His mouth twitches. “Rossi knows.”
“Well, he hasn’t ratted us out so far, so we’re fine,” you say. “Point is, you’re not just dropping me at home and then brooding alone like a sad Romance-era poet. We’re riding in together. Got it?”
“Got it,” he says, quiet.
You stand. He’s on his feet instantly, hand already on his wallet. He flags down Giuseppe with an apologetic wave.
He’s moving with his usual efficient purpose, and trying very, very hard not to believe his one shot at this got ruined.
You hate that for him so completely it scares you.
You step close while he tucks his wallet away, close enough that your arm brushes his sleeve.
“Hey,” you say.
He looks at you.
“Don’t look so defeated. We’ll just raincheck the rest of the night, okay?”
He nods tightly. “Okay,” he says, clearly not convinced he’ll ever get a real chance to redeem that raincheck.
In the car, when you slide into the passenger seat and he reaches over to rest his hand on your knee — just enough pressure to say I’m still here, are you still here? — you cover his hand with yours and squeeze.
—
Quantico on a Saturday night always feels hollow.
JJ’s standing with a half-open folder at Emily’s desk, Morgan’s braced over the briefing table, Rossi’s tapping a pen. No one’s smiling. No one looks surprised to be here.
Spencer’s talking to Hotch, and if you didn’t know him the way you do, you’d think everything was fine. But the thing is, you do know him. You know the tell in his mouth when he’s holding something back, the way he goes a hair too still when he’s quietly upset.
He’s wearing that stillness like a pressed shirt.
JJ looks up as you round the corner and hands you a folder. “Victims so far: three men, thirties to forties, bodies dumped near interstates.”
The briefing takes five minutes, then you scatter: Emily grabbing her go-bag, Morgan snapping his file shut, Rossi sliding his notebook away. You sweep your hair back with an elastic from your pocket.
Spencer doesn’t move though — not right away at least. He’s standing at the end of the table with his bag strap across his chest, folder in hand, eyes dropped to the case notes.
“Walk with me,” you murmur, angling your body so it’s private.
He falls in at your side like it’s gravity. You talk through the case, and by the time you hit the main doors and push out into the night again, some of the edge has worn off. Not gone, just softened.
Good. You can work with softened.
—
The hotel is the usual Bureau special: anonymous beige, humming AC, bed that looks fine from the doorway but will feel like you’re lying on plywood in three hours.
You put your bags down, sit on the edge of the mattress, and pull your phone from your pocket to send a text:
my room, 20 minutes. mandatory attendance. don’t ask questions
Spencer types back almost immediately:
Okay.
Well, it’s not the most enthusiastic response, but he’s coming, so that’s enough for you to get to work.
First thing: lights. You kill the overhead and turn on the bedside lamp instead. It throws the room into a hazy amber that can almost pass for mood lighting if you don’t look too hard.
Second: table. The sad little round one in the corner with two even sadder chairs gets dragged to the middle of the room. You pull the chairs in close, almost touching.
Third: centerpiece. There’s a vase with a single plastic lily in the hallway by the elevators. You steal it and set it in the middle of the table.
Fourth: food. You raid the lobby vending machines: two bags of chips (plain for him, spicy for you), a sleeve of Oreos, mini M&Ms, one little pack of shortbread cookies, a Kit-Kat, two cans of Ginger Ale, and one of those vacuum-packed “charcuterie snack packs” with four sad salami coins and six baby cheese rectangles.
You plate your vending machine haul as nicely as you can manage and pour the ginger ale into glasses, then you step back and look at the setup.
It’s tragic, and it’s perfect.
You’re still re-centering the stolen flower vase when you hear a soft knock.
Spencer’s suit jacket’s a little rumpled from travel, tie loosened. He must’ve combed a hand through his hair at some point; one curl has fallen loose in a way that makes your fingers twitch.
He gives you a half-hearted smile, but then his eyes slide past you and land on the table.
For a second, he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even breathe.
You feel weirdly naked, which is hilarious, because you are fully dressed and the most indecent thing in this room is a two-dollar meat-and-cheese kit.
“Reservation for two,” you say, because if you don’t talk you might actually start vibrating. You tip your head toward the setup and let yourself smirk. “Dr. Reid, your table’s ready.”
“Did you—” His voice comes out rough. He clears his throat and tries again. “You did this? For me?”
You shrug, casual, but your heart’s doing sprints. “It’s called improvising, Spencer. You should try it sometime.”
Then it really hits him — the stupid flower, the chairs pulled way too close, the ginger ale. You watch it wash through him: surprise, then delight, then something else that just about guts you: shaken, stunned gratitude.
“Hey,” you say lightly. “You coming in, or are you planning to stand out there in the hall so Morgan can walk by and see you making heart eyes at me?”
That jolts him. He steps in fast, closing the door behind him.
Up close he looks a little dazed. You like that more than you should.
“Sit,” you tell him. “The sommelier recommends the ginger ale. Notes of corn syrup and airplane.”
He huffs a laugh and sits. “You’re ridiculous,” he says softly.
“You’re welcome,” you reply.
He looks at you then — really looks.
“You did this for me.”
“Yeah,” you say. You clear your throat and immediately ruin the sincerity with attitude because that’s who you are. “You were being a sad little puppy about our ruined evening. Couldn’t just let you mope.”
He laughs under his breath, eyes dropping. When he looks back up, he’s still pink. “Thank you,” he says.
You reach for the ‘charcuterie.’ “So. We left off right before you got to tell me how long you’ve been pining over me. You were about to say ‘a while,’ and then Hotch cockblocked us.”
He drags a hand down his face, fingers hooking over his mouth in that trying-not-to-smile way you’re addicted to. “That’s not exactly where we left off, but…yeah. I had… talking points.”
You almost choke. “You had talking points?”
Spencer makes a face. “Not a script or anything,” he says, embarrassed. “I just— I thought… if you got nervous, or if you thought you should run, I wanted to make sure that the things I actually needed to tell you got said.”
Your voice comes out softer than you mean it to. “Okay. Tell me, then.”
He blinks. “What?”
“We’re here,” you say, gesturing at the table. “We made it to dinner. So. Talk to me. Say your things.”
You watch his throat move.
“Spencer,” you add. “I’m not gonna bolt.”
He nods once, slow. He takes a breath.
“I was going to tell you,” he says quietly, “that tonight wasn’t about… proving anything. Or locking you into anything. I didn’t want you to feel like you owed me because I made a reservation and put on a tie.” He keeps going, eyes low, words careful like he’s laying them down for you to pick up at your own pace. “I just wanted to give you something that wasn’t reactive. Because… we’re always reacting, you know? To the job, to whatever gets thrown at us, to—” he huffs out a breath, “—near-death experiences, occasionally. So I wanted something you could step into on purpose. Something that was just… ours.”
You feel floaty for a second. Untethered.
He doesn’t notice. He’s looking down at his hands now, thumb rubbing over his knuckle. “And then,” he says, softer, “I was going to ask you some things. I—I read up on a lot of lists of good first date questions, but most of them were terrible so I made my own list and thought I’d try a few.”
You stare at him. “You made a list.”
Color climbs back up his neck. “Yes.”
“Of first date questions,” you say.
“Yes,” he says, shy. “Adjusted for the fact that I obviously already know you, of course. I just…” His mouth pulls. “I really wanted it to feel like a normal date between two normal people. We could ignore all the complicated things for one night and just…talk.”
You swallow. “Alright, Doctor. Hit me with a question.”
He draws a breath. “Okay,” he says, almost to himself. Then: “What was your favorite part of today? Before the call.”
“Wow,” you chuckle. “Starting light, huh.”
He looks worried. “I can do a different one.”
“No,” you say quickly. You reach under the table and put your hand on his knee, palm warm through his slacks. It shuts him up mid-panic. “No. I like that one.”
You could say the hallway at the museum, because obviously. You could say the few minutes at the restaurant you did get, because watching him across that table felt incredibly right.
What comes out instead is, “You at my door.”
His eyes flicker. “When I picked you up?”
You nod. Your thumb rubs once, slow. “You in that suit, looking like you were gonna throw up because you thought I might bail. You were… happy, and nervous, and so stupidly handsome I almost shut the door just to collect myself for a second.”
He just stares at you. You don’t usually hand him things like that.
“Okay,” he says after a second. “Okay. That’s… that’s a good answer.”
You squeeze his knee and take a sip of your ginger ale. “Next question.”
“If you weren’t doing this — the BAU, I mean — and you couldn’t pick law enforcement at all, what would you do? What would you be doing on a Saturday night if you weren’t about to go interview a coroner at seven in the morning?”
You lean back a little in your chair, but you leave your hand on him because it’s as much for you as it is for him at this point. You let your eyes drift to the sad little plastic lily.
“I don’t know,” you say honestly. “That’s a bad answer, but I don’t. I’ve spent so long doing this and bleeding for it and being good at it that it’s kind of… part of me. I don’t know who I am without it.”
He nods. He doesn’t try to fix it. He doesn’t say you could do anything. He just listens. Which is… worse. Or better. You don’t know.
“But,” you add, softer now, “if you mean like tonight — like what I’d want to be doing if I wasn’t on the clock? That’s easier.”
His gaze sharpens. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you say. “That answer is I’d still want to be with you. No guns. No jet. No serial killers. You and me and nowhere to be in the morning.”
For a second he looks so undone you almost look away for him, just to give him cover.
“Spencer,” you say quietly. “Breathe.”
“Okay.” His voice is so soft you barely catch it. “One more?”
You nod.
He wets his lips. “I was going to ask if you wanted to come back to my place afterward. Not—” He rushes that part, flustered. “Not… not like that. I wasn’t— I wasn’t expecting anything, obviously, I just— it’s Saturday, and on Saturday nights we usually hang out at my apartment, and I thought maybe I could ask you to stay on purpose this time. Not like you ‘fell asleep on my couch by accident,’ just… do you want to come home with me and stay until tomorrow.”
That lands so stupidly you actually have to laugh, soft and breathless, just to keep from making a sound you’ll regret. “You romantic menace,” you tease. “Trying to take a girl home on the first date.”
His ears go pink. “It’s not— that’s not—”
“I know,” you say, and your voice cuts under his, low, honest. You lean in, crowd his space a little. “I know what you meant. I get it. And for the record, I would’ve said yes.”
You hold his gaze and just let it sit there, let him feel it.
“Well,” you add after a second, clearing your throat. “You said your things. You asked your date questions. You didn’t combust. See? Totally nailed it.”
He huffs out a soft sound that’s not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh, and you feel yourself smiling.
Silence settles again, but it’s not awkward. Your knees are still touching. Your hand is still on his leg. You’re so close that you could lean forward and kiss him from here.
“Can I ask for one thing back from tonight?” he says, breaking the quiet.
You tilt your head. “Depends what it is.”
His eyes flick briefly to your mouth and then back up. “I know it’s stupid,” he rushes. “It’s just — after dinner, before we went back to my place, I was planning to ask you to walk down by the river with me, and then I was going to ask if I could… uh, dance with you.”
You stare at him.
He winces. “That sounds ridiculous out loud. Never mind, please forget I said that, that’s—”
“Spencer.”
He goes quiet.
“That is, without a doubt, the corniest shit anyone’s ever said to me.”
“I know,” he says miserably, hiding his face in one hand.
You pull it away gently and tilt his chin up to look at you. “I didn’t say no. I just said it was corny.” You smirk a little, then hold your hand out for him. “C’mon, Romeo. Before I change my mind.”
His face does something you’ve never seen it do before. He stands too fast and almost trips on his own feet, because of course he does. “Graceful,” you tease, and he huffs a quiet laugh.
You meet him in the narrow strip of beige carpet between the table and the edge of the bed.
There’s no music, and you don’t bother putting any on. The lamp throws warm light across his jaw, his collarbone, the loose line of his tie.
He hesitates a second, like he’s not sure what the protocol is. You save him from short-circuiting by stepping in first, sliding one hand up under his open jacket and flattening it against his dress shirt.
His breath stutters.
“Here,” you murmur, lifting your other hand.
He takes the cue. One of his hands finds your waist, fingers warm and careful. The other laces your fingers with his.
You start to sway.
It’s not even really dancing. It’s just the two of you moving slow in this ugly room, pressed close enough that your body lines up against his. You lean your head against his chest, right over his racing heartbeat. His chin dips until it grazes your hair.
“This is so cheesy,” you mumble into his shirt.
His laugh rumbles against you. “We can stop if you hate it.”
“Shut up,” you tell him, which is code for I don't hate it and don’t you dare stop.
His grip tightens the tiniest bit, and you feel his thumb stroke once along the curve of your waist. He breathes you in and you let your eyes slip shut because it’s suddenly too much to look up at him looking at you.
This is the part that scares you more than any gun in your face ever has: this stupid slow sway, your cheek against his chest, his heart under your ear, his hand holding yours. It’s terrifying.
You let yourself have it anyway.
“Hey,” he says after a while. His voice is low, muffled in your hair. “One true thing?”
You feel yourself smile against him.
“Yeah,” you say softly. “Hit me.”
He’s quiet for a second. When he speaks, it’s barely above a breath. “I was happy with you tonight,” he whispers. You squeeze his hand. “At the museum. At dinner. In the car. Here. All of it. I was just… happy.” His voice catches, then steadies. “This sort of thing doesn’t happen for me a lot, not like this. I really, really needed you to know that.”
Your fingers curl in his shirt and you breathe him in.
“My turn.” You swallow. “I didn’t say yes to this date just to make you happy or because you were nervous when you asked me or anything like that. I said yes because I wanted to.” Your voice drops. “I wanted tonight. With you. I wanted all of it.”
Spencer doesn’t move for a long beat.
Then you feel it — the way the tension bleeds out of him. The way his shoulders drop. The way his grip on your waist tightens, just slightly, like he’s fighting the urge to pull you closer.
“Okay,” he whispers. It comes out wrecked and grateful in a way that makes your throat sting.
You tip your head back because you need to see his face. He looks undone in the lamplight. Soft at the edges. Warm-eyed. His mouth is a little parted, like you keep catching him right before a confession.
You go up on your toes and kiss him.
He makes a soft, helpless sound in the back of his throat that you’re going to replay in your head for the rest of your life. His free hand slides up, fingers spreading between your shoulder blades. And when you finally break, you don’t step back right away. You just rest your forehead against his jaw and breathe him in.
“This counts,” you tell him quietly. “First date. I know it wasn’t entirely what you planned, but it still counts.”
“Yeah,” he says, voice low and rough and honest. “It does.”
You let yourself sit in that for one more long, slow breath.
“Alright, Romeo,” you murmur, stepping back. “We’ve got, like, four hours before Hotch starts banging on doors. You should go back to your room and get some sleep.”
He doesn’t move at first. He just looks at you.
You cross your arms, pretending your pulse isn’t still in your throat. “Spence.”
He smiles. Small. Wrecked. Yours. “I’m going,” he says, and his voice is warm in a way you’re going to feel later, alone, when you’re lying in bed staring at the ceiling. “I’ll— I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Yeah,” you say. “Bright and early, Dr. Reid. Don’t be late.”
He lingers one more second at the door. You almost think he’s going to say something else, but instead, he just reaches out, takes your hand, and brings your knuckles to his lips. It’s barely even a kiss — just a press, a gratitude thing — but it hits you so hard you actually forget to breathe.
“Goodnight,” he murmurs softly.
Then he’s gone.
You stand there in the dim lamplight for a second, barefoot on ugly carpet, his warmth still on your skin. It’s terrifying, how full your chest feels. It’s also steady.
You know, certain in a way that’s getting harder to deny, that you’re in deep with this man.
And you’re kind of okay with that.
ᝰ.ᐟ
this fic is part of the greenaway!reader universe/series! you can read more about this pairing here ♥️
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