bel

23 she/he

[flowersforbucky]

sucker for you

peter maximoff x reader

word count: 1.2k

i can't stop thinking about how peter would react to reader taking his lollipop from him and putting it in her mouth so here's a little drabble about that

a/n: i should be working on this bucky piece that i started like 3 weeks ago but i just needed to get this out of my system first

warnings/tags: language, use of alcohol (everyone is 21+!!), no use of y/n, peter's pov, and some ✨️tension✨️

Peter didn't know it was possible to get so flustered over a human being.

He's never exactly considered himself to be a ladies man, but around you? He's hopeless. A lost cause. Every time he's near you, it feels like his first very day ever interacting with another person.

From the way that your smile reaches your eyes whenever he makes you laugh with a stupid joke to the way that you always smell sweeter than the candy that he eats too much of, he's been a goner for you since the day he first met you.

And the worst part? You seem to know exactly how to make him blush.

As per usual on Friday nights, yours and Peter's group of friends is hanging out in the woods behind the mansion. You're all lounging around a bonfire that Scott works to keep going strong, talking amongst yourself in pairs.

"You know, I heard Warren telling Scott that he's planning on asking you to the winter gala," Jean snickers to you.

Peter isn't trying to eavesdrop, really. Jean just has zero volume control when she has any amount of alcohol in her system. He'd be able to hear every word she's saying even if you and her weren't sitting right next to him.

He twists the stem of the cherry flavored lollipop that he's sucking on, trying and failing to focus on whatever it is that Kurt's rambling on about. His body is angled away from yours, but he can feel the vibration of your low laughter from where your shoulder rests against his.

"What?" Jean demands when you offer no response other than some giggles and a shake of your head. "You've already turned two people down. You're kinda running low on options at this point.”

Peter had heard that you've been asked to the gala that Charles throws in the name of the X-Men every year. He couldn't lie, he was relieved when he'd found out that you had shot down the suitors - not that he'd ever have the balls to ask you himself. He had no desire to be added to the list of people that you've rejected to a glorified prom.

“So? I can go alone. Going alone is better than going with anyone who isn't the person that I actually want to go with,” you answer with a shrug of your shoulders.

Peter tenses at your words, his stomach doing a somersault.

“And who would that be?” Jean asks in a teasing voice, almost like she already knows the answer.

Before you can respond, Peter quickly shoots to his feet. Kurt comes to a sudden stop in the middle of a sentence, and both you and Jean turn to look up at him from where you still sit on the old, fallen tree that is being used as a bench.

“Where're you going?” You ask. Peter knows it's probably wishful thinking, but he can't help but think that there's a hint of disappointment in your voice.

“Back to the mansion. I've gotta take a whiz,” he retorts, hoping he sounds casual. Truthfully, he can't stand the thought of having to hear you say some dude's name in response to Jean's question.

“Since when are you above pissing in the woods?” Scott laughs as he piles some more branches onto the bonfire.

Peter shoots him an obscene gesture, about to bolt in the direction of the mansion when he feels your hand wrap around his from beneath him. You begin to get up, and he instinctively helps pull you into a standing position.

“I'll walk back with you,” you tell him as you drop his hand. “I'm going to grab a few more beers.” You smile at him in the orange glow of the fire and he forgets how to speak. He motions as if to say after you and you begin walking in the direction of the mansion.

He's fully aware that he could have the two of you back to the school in a split-second, but despite how nervous he gets around you, he'd never pass up the opportunity to spend a few moments alone with you. Living here, you're both almost always surrounded by other people. If it's not Jean, it's Storm. If it's not Storm, it's Raven or Hank. If it's it's not –

“I just had to get away from that,” you sigh when the two of you are out of earshot from the others. “I love her, but Jean can be kind of relentless,” you add with a small laugh.

“You can say that again,” he agrees, his voice mumbled from the lollipop stuffed between his teeth and his check. “Just the other day she was saying that I should ask someone.”

“Yeah?” You quip, a curious edge to your tone. “And are you going to?”

“Nah,” Peter shrugs, trying to play it cool. “Like you said, it's better to go alone than to go with someone who isn't the person you really like.”

“So what's stopping you from asking her? Is she already going with someone else?”

“No,” he answers, coming to a stop in the middle of the moonlit path the two of you are walking on. “She's not. But she's already turned down basically everyone in the school, so I don't think I stand much of a chance.”

Sometimes Peter starts a sentence without knowing where it’s going, but right now even he's shocked by his words. He's not quite sure where the bravery came from, but he can't exactly take it back now. You're not stupid - he knows you can read between the lines to deduce who he's talking about.

You come to a halt, turning back to look at him. He offers a small, nervous smirk and resists the urge to dash away before you can reply to his confession.

“Three people isn't basically everyone in the school,” you chuckle with one of those grins that could bring Peter to his knees. You take a few slow steps towards him, stopping when your chest is just inches from his. Your gaze flickers from his eyes and down to his mouth before you reach a hand up to his face and pinch the stem of his lollipop between your thumb and index finger, plucking it from his mouth.

His eyes widen in surprise, all but bulging out of his head when you pop what's left of the red lollipop into your own mouth. You swirl it around in your mouth, your plump lips wrapped around the stick.

“But for what it's worth, the whole school could ask me and there's only one person who would get a yes out of me.”

You pull the lollipop from between your lips and hold it back up to Peter's mouth, resting it against his bottom lip until he parts them - to speak or to accept the sucker, he's not sure. But he doesn't do anything to stop you when you guide it back inside his mouth, the flavor of the cherry candy and your saliva infiltrating his senses when it meets his tongue.

“Just in case you were wondering,” you shrug, and turn to continue your walk back to the mansion as if you didn't just make his heart combust in his chest.

He speeds after you, deciding that maybe Jean has a point - maybe he should ask someone after all.

•••••

thanks for reading! this was my first time writing for peter, i'd very much appreciate comments/reblogs 💕

[flowersforbucky]

sucker for you

peter maximoff x reader

word count: 1.2k

i can't stop thinking about how peter would react to reader taking his lollipop from him and putting it in her mouth so here's a little drabble about that

a/n: i should be working on this bucky piece that i started like 3 weeks ago but i just needed to get this out of my system first

warnings/tags: language, use of alcohol (everyone is 21+!!), no use of y/n, peter's pov, and some ✨️tension✨️

Peter didn't know it was possible to get so flustered over a human being.

He's never exactly considered himself to be a ladies man, but around you? He's hopeless. A lost cause. Every time he's near you, it feels like his first very day ever interacting with another person.

From the way that your smile reaches your eyes whenever he makes you laugh with a stupid joke to the way that you always smell sweeter than the candy that he eats too much of, he's been a goner for you since the day he first met you.

And the worst part? You seem to know exactly how to make him blush.

As per usual on Friday nights, yours and Peter's group of friends is hanging out in the woods behind the mansion. You're all lounging around a bonfire that Scott works to keep going strong, talking amongst yourself in pairs.

"You know, I heard Warren telling Scott that he's planning on asking you to the winter gala," Jean snickers to you.

Peter isn't trying to eavesdrop, really. Jean just has zero volume control when she has any amount of alcohol in her system. He'd be able to hear every word she's saying even if you and her weren't sitting right next to him.

He twists the stem of the cherry flavored lollipop that he's sucking on, trying and failing to focus on whatever it is that Kurt's rambling on about. His body is angled away from yours, but he can feel the vibration of your low laughter from where your shoulder rests against his.

"What?" Jean demands when you offer no response other than some giggles and a shake of your head. "You've already turned two people down. You're kinda running low on options at this point.”

Peter had heard that you've been asked to the gala that Charles throws in the name of the X-Men every year. He couldn't lie, he was relieved when he'd found out that you had shot down the suitors - not that he'd ever have the balls to ask you himself. He had no desire to be added to the list of people that you've rejected to a glorified prom.

“So? I can go alone. Going alone is better than going with anyone who isn't the person that I actually want to go with,” you answer with a shrug of your shoulders.

Peter tenses at your words, his stomach doing a somersault.

“And who would that be?” Jean asks in a teasing voice, almost like she already knows the answer.

Before you can respond, Peter quickly shoots to his feet. Kurt comes to a sudden stop in the middle of a sentence, and both you and Jean turn to look up at him from where you still sit on the old, fallen tree that is being used as a bench.

“Where're you going?” You ask. Peter knows it's probably wishful thinking, but he can't help but think that there's a hint of disappointment in your voice.

“Back to the mansion. I've gotta take a whiz,” he retorts, hoping he sounds casual. Truthfully, he can't stand the thought of having to hear you say some dude's name in response to Jean's question.

“Since when are you above pissing in the woods?” Scott laughs as he piles some more branches onto the bonfire.

Peter shoots him an obscene gesture, about to bolt in the direction of the mansion when he feels your hand wrap around his from beneath him. You begin to get up, and he instinctively helps pull you into a standing position.

“I'll walk back with you,” you tell him as you drop his hand. “I'm going to grab a few more beers.” You smile at him in the orange glow of the fire and he forgets how to speak. He motions as if to say after you and you begin walking in the direction of the mansion.

He's fully aware that he could have the two of you back to the school in a split-second, but despite how nervous he gets around you, he'd never pass up the opportunity to spend a few moments alone with you. Living here, you're both almost always surrounded by other people. If it's not Jean, it's Storm. If it's not Storm, it's Raven or Hank. If it's it's not –

“I just had to get away from that,” you sigh when the two of you are out of earshot from the others. “I love her, but Jean can be kind of relentless,” you add with a small laugh.

“You can say that again,” he agrees, his voice mumbled from the lollipop stuffed between his teeth and his check. “Just the other day she was saying that I should ask someone.”

“Yeah?” You quip, a curious edge to your tone. “And are you going to?”

“Nah,” Peter shrugs, trying to play it cool. “Like you said, it's better to go alone than to go with someone who isn't the person you really like.”

“So what's stopping you from asking her? Is she already going with someone else?”

“No,” he answers, coming to a stop in the middle of the moonlit path the two of you are walking on. “She's not. But she's already turned down basically everyone in the school, so I don't think I stand much of a chance.”

Sometimes Peter starts a sentence without knowing where it’s going, but right now even he's shocked by his words. He's not quite sure where the bravery came from, but he can't exactly take it back now. You're not stupid - he knows you can read between the lines to deduce who he's talking about.

You come to a halt, turning back to look at him. He offers a small, nervous smirk and resists the urge to dash away before you can reply to his confession.

“Three people isn't basically everyone in the school,” you chuckle with one of those grins that could bring Peter to his knees. You take a few slow steps towards him, stopping when your chest is just inches from his. Your gaze flickers from his eyes and down to his mouth before you reach a hand up to his face and pinch the stem of his lollipop between your thumb and index finger, plucking it from his mouth.

His eyes widen in surprise, all but bulging out of his head when you pop what's left of the red lollipop into your own mouth. You swirl it around in your mouth, your plump lips wrapped around the stick.

“But for what it's worth, the whole school could ask me and there's only one person who would get a yes out of me.”

You pull the lollipop from between your lips and hold it back up to Peter's mouth, resting it against his bottom lip until he parts them - to speak or to accept the sucker, he's not sure. But he doesn't do anything to stop you when you guide it back inside his mouth, the flavor of the cherry candy and your saliva infiltrating his senses when it meets his tongue.

“Just in case you were wondering,” you shrug, and turn to continue your walk back to the mansion as if you didn't just make his heart combust in his chest.

He speeds after you, deciding that maybe Jean has a point - maybe he should ask someone after all.

•••••

thanks for reading! this was my first time writing for peter, i'd very much appreciate comments/reblogs 💕

[bardoftheshire]

When you're looking for a fluff fic but everyone is horny for the character so all you get is smut

[v-inthecortez]

Hi! It's my first time seeing your account and your headcanons about Peter are amazing and so creative. Can you please maybe make something out of that part where you mentioned that Peter is an unconscious hugger? Anything will do. I couldn't stop thinking about it!!! 🫠🤭

subconscious

bf!peter maximoff x gn!reader. 🍵 ‼️: 677 words. hurt/comfort. peter and reader had an argument. a/n: thank you for the very very kind words anon!!!! sorry i was a bit slow w this one 🥹, couldn't get to post it the past few days but here it is! i hope you like it! 📖 summary: peter tries his very best to try to make it up to you after a mini argument but turns out all you needed is for him to unconsciously hug you and mutter repetitive apologies during his sleep. 

He tried so hard to stop you from sulking after the argument; clinging, apologizing, trying to make you laugh. Yet none of it worked on you. Eventually, you fell asleep still carrying the frustration from your argument. He blames himself, he can’t believe he let you fall asleep while mad at him. 

So he stands there, completely still in disappointment while looking at your sleeping form. He can see the tension in your shoulders even as you sleep. Your back was also even facing his side of the bed, ouch. 

With that, he just lets out a sigh before laying down beside you. He lays down, straightly and completely still, giving you the space you need from him. “Sorry baby, boyfriend of the year, huh?” He murmurs to himself, his heart completely heavy in his chest as he closes his eyes. Guess there's nothing he could do about it anymore today.

However, Peter’s body betrayed him in his sleep. He moves a lot in his sleep, always a restless sleeper. Sometimes you swear that he’s trying to push you off the bed. Though tonight, he does the exact opposite.

You stir awake faintly in the middle of the night. You feel a warmth that does not come from the blanket covering you. Your brows furrow in confusion, you blink your eyes as you glance down.

At some point during the night, he had somehow crossed the distance he tried so hard to maintain. His arm is now around your waist, face now buried against your shoulder, and a leg tangled with yours under the blankets.

“Sorry..” He suddenly mumbles, barely audible. Your eyes widen a bit as you look at his face, he’s deep asleep while apologizing and clinging onto you. “Didn’t mean it.” He mumbles again as his fingers unconsciously curl lightly into your shirt. “Hng.. Babe, sorry, babe..” You saw how the crease between his eyebrows deepens as he continues to apologize in his sleep.

The argument was haunting him even in his sleep.

You almost laugh, but then he shifts again, his grip tightens even more. “Love you.. Really..” He mumbles and squeezes your body gently in his arms. Your chest aches. You feel bad that you slept mad at him and didn’t even give him a chance to make it up to you.

Slowly, you fully turn to him and bury your face on his neck. You let out a breath that you didn’t realize you had been holding in. The furrow in his brows immediately softens, like it’s all he also really needs to calm his mind down.

Actions are better than words, anyways.

When morning comes, you’re the first to wake up. Your elbow presses into the mattress as you prop your head up while quietly looking down at Peter. Peter wakes up, panicking. He blinks multiple times. “Okay I can explain–” he tries to sit up, his voice raspy from sleep. Every memory from yesterday comes rushing back. The argument, the failed apologies..

You unexpectedly run your fingers through his disheveled silver hair, fixing it. Peter freezes, but deep inside, it actually starts calming him down. “Your hair’s so cute.” You whisper softly. Peter blinks.. He's thinking; Is this a dream? However, he hopes it's not. He hopes that he’s finally forgiven.

“You know..” Peter starts carefully, looking up at you gently, there’s still worry in his eyes. “I had this whole apology speech prepared..”

“Well.. I had several. Most of them were terrible.” He confessed gently.

“I could tell.” You respond along with a soft chuckle that he had been dying to hear since yesterday. “So instead, you decided to hug me and apologize in your sleep.”

Peter's eyes widened a bit at that. “I– did..?” He asks, amused at what you told him. You nod at that, a smile on your lips. There it is, that smile he had also been waiting for since yesterday. Finally.

A slow smile of relief starts to form on his lips. 

“Holy shit. At least that worked.”

likes/reblogs/comments are very much appreciated! 🫶

🍵 taglist: @bohnerrific69 @sempiternalbeauty @ethereallmonkey @zoe-benson-rp (lmk if anyone else wants to be added!)

[f1afterhours]

can i make a request please? Can you do an angst for Franco Colapinto where they have been dating for like 8 months behind closed doors but in public theyre at a distance? In an interview someone asks him if he’s in a relationship and he says hes single and it upsets her? Something like that please

Of course you can lovely. Hope this okay for you xx

I’m Single - Franco Colapinto

Franco Colapinto x Reader

Word Count: 2702

Warnings: Angst with no happy ending (oops). Cursing.

There was an unspoken rule between you and Franco. The moment either of you stepping into the Formula One paddock… you became strangers. Not because either of you wanted to hide your relationship but because you’d both agreed it was the easiest way to protect it.

Eight months earlier, everything had started so unexpectedly. You’d met through a mutual friend during a charity event in Monaco. Neither of you had expected much from a conversation that had started over an argument about who made the best coffee.

Franco insisted Argentina. You insisted Italy. Three hours later, you’d completely forgotten what you’d been debating. Instead, you were sat on the harbour until well past midnight, talking about everything and nothing. It had felt… easy. Something both of you realised was incredibly rare.

By your third date, Franco had warned you what dating a Formula One driver actually looked like. “It’s not glamorous,” he’d admitted, intertwining your fingers with his across the dinner table. “It’s airports, FaceTimes, cancelled plans and people making assumptions about everything.”

“I don’t care about glamorous,” you’d smiled.

He’d searched your face, almost making sure you understood. “There’ll be cameras.”

“I know.”

“And if they know about us…”

He’d trailed off and you squeezed his hand.

“Then we keep it ours.”

It had become your promise. Yours. Not the internets, not the media’s, just yours.

So when race weekends came around, you adapted surprisingly quickly. If you were invited into the paddock, you’d arrive separately. You never walked together. Never stood too close. Never shared lingering glances if there were cameras nearby.

To everyone else, you were simply another familiar face with a paddock pass. Someone Franco happened to nod at in passing. Nothing more. Sometimes he’d offer you the same polite smile he gave everyone else. Sometimes he’d walk straight past you without so much as a second glance. It had stung the first couple of times. Instinctively, you’d wanted to reach for his hand or congratulate him after a good session. Instead, you’d learned to celebrate from afar. A subtle thumbs up as he climbed out of the car. A smile he’d pretend not to notice, only to text you five minutes later.

Saw you ❤️

That had become your language. Private smiles, hidden glances, messages sent from opposite sides of the paddock. Once the garage doors closed and the cameras disappeared, everything changed. He’d find you in the hotel lobby, baseball cap pulled low over his face. Sometimes he’d simply hold his hand out as soon as he saw you. No words. Just the silent request. Come here.

Other nights, he’d wrap his arms around you the second your hotel room door clicked shut, burying his face in the crook of your neck as though he’d been holding himself back all day.

“I’ve missed you,” he’d mumble.

“You saw me three hours ago.”

“I know.”

“You ignored me.”

“I had to.”

“I know.”

Then he’d kiss your forehead, apologising in the only way he could.

The pretending never bothered you, because it stopped the rumours. It stopped strangers dissecting your relationship online. It let the two of you have something that belonged only to you. There was just one rule. One thing you’d promised each other from the beginning. If either of you were ever asked about your relationship… you wouldn’t lie. You simply wouldn’t answer. Franco had been the one to suggest it.

“If someone asks if I have a girlfriend,” he’d said one evening while the two of you lay tangled together on the sofa of his apartment, “I’ll just say I’d rather keep my private life private.”

You’d looked up from where your head rested on his chest.

“And if they keep asking?”

“I’ll say the same thing.”

“You won’t deny I exist?”

His expression had softened instantly. He’d tilted your chin upwards before pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. “Never.”

You’d smiled against his lips. “Promise?”

“I promise.”

It had sounded so simple. So easy. And for eight months it had been. Until one interview changed everything.

Keeping your relationship private had once felt exciting. It was stolen kisses in empty hotel corridors. Hands brushing together under restaurant tables. Late night walks through unfamiliar cities where for an hour or two Franco wasn’t a Formula One driver and you weren’t constantly looking over your shoulder to see if anyone recognised him. It was yours.

But somewhere over the last eight months it had become exhausting. Every race weekend gelt like you were playing a role. You had to think before every movement. Don’t stand too close. Don’t look at him for too long. If someone spoke to you while he was nearby, you waiting until he’d walked away before joining the conversation. If he scored points, you celebrated alone. If he had a bad race, you couldn’t even hug him until hours later.

It wasn’t the lack of photos on social media that bothered you. You didn’t care about posting pictures or hard launching your relationship to millions of strangers. You just wanted to be able to congratulate your boyfriend after qualifying without pretending he was just another driver.

You wanted to be able to reach for his hand, to sit beside him, to exist together without constantly wondering who might be watching. The pretending was becoming harder. Especially because it no longer felt like you were protecting your relationship. It felt like you were hiding it.

Still. You loved him. And you knew why he’d wanted to keep things private in the first place. He was still establishing himself in Formula One. Every interview, every mistake, every rumour became a headline within minutes. The last thing either of you wanted was for your relationship to become another topic for strangers to pick apart.

So you kept your promise. Even when it hurt.

The paddock buzzed with its usual energy as qualifying approached. Mechanics hurried between garages, engineers stared intently at laptops and camera crews chased drivers through the narrow walkways, hoping to grab one last interview before they disappeared into their team motor homes. You’d watched Franco disappear into the media pen twenty minutes earlier with a small smile. He’d caught your eye for barely a second. Just enough for the corner of his mouth to twitch upwards before replacing it with the polite smile he wore for everyone else.

It was almost funny. Almost.

Now, you sat inside the hospitality with an ice coffee growing warmer by the minute, trying to distract yourself while he finished his media duties. A notification popped up across your phone.

Sky Sports F1 posted a new video

You smiled absent mindedly. Without thinking, you tapped it. The video opened with Franco smiling into the camera, still dressed in his race suit, a microphone held out towards him. The interviewer started with the usual questions. How had practice gone? How was the balance of the car? What were his expectations for qualifying?

You listened with half an ear, taking another sip of your drink.

“You’re becoming quite popular with the fans recently,” the interviewer said.

“I don’t know about that,” Franco laughed, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Oh, I think you do,” the interviewer teased. “I’ve got to ask… are you seeing anyone?”

Your attention sharpened instantly. You remembered that conversation on his sofa months ago as clearly as if it had happened yesterday.

“I’ll just say I’d rather keep my private life private.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

He’d brush it off and the interview would move on. Simple.

Instead…

“No,” Franco chuckled.

Your face faltered.

“I’m single.”

Your stomach dropped.

The interviewer laughed. “So no girlfriend hiding somewhere?”

“No, he shrugged casually. “It’s just me.”

The world around you suddenly felt impossibly quiet. You barely registered the interviewer moving onto the next question. Barely noticed the mechanics walking past your table. Barely heard the chatter coming from inside. All you could hear were those two words. I’m single.

Not “I’d rather keep my private life private.” Not even, “I’d rather keep that between me and the people close to me.” Just, “I’m single.”

You replayed the clip. Surely you’d misheard. Maybe he’d been joking. Maybe the audio had cut out.

Maybe —

“I’m single.”

Again.

Your throat tightened. It wasn’t the fans believing him that hurt. It wasn’t the headlines that would inevitably follow. It was the fact he had looked directly into the camera and denied the existence of the relationship you’d spent eight months protecting alongside him. A relationship you’d sacrificed so much normality for.

He’d promised. He had looked you in the eyes, kissed your lips and promised that if anyone ever asked, he would never pretend you didn’t exist. Your phone screen blurred. You blinked quickly, realising tears had gathered before you’d even noticed. You locked the screen immediately, placing the phone down on the table.

You refused to cry here. Not in the middle of the hospitality area. Not where anyone could see. You took a slow, shaky breath. Then another. Maybe he hadn’t thought. Maybe he’d panicked. Maybe he’d wanted the questions to stop before qualifying. You tried every excuse you could think of. None of them stopped your heart from breaking. Because whatever his reason was he’d still broken the one promise he’d sworn not to break.

The hotel room was silent. Painfully silent. You’d been back for almost three hours. Qualifying had come and gone without a single second of it. You had gone back to the hotel before it had even started.

Your phone buzzed constantly.

Franco: Where are you?

Franco: Quali is going to start soon

Franco: Everything okay?

You’d read every message. You hadn’t answered a single one. What was there to say?

Congratulations on qualifying. By the way, I watched you tell the world you don’t have a girlfriend.

Instead you’d showered, changed into one of France’s oversized hoodies and sat on the edge of the bed, staring blankly out of the hotel window.

The room no longer felt like your little escape from the paddock. I just felt lonely.

A click echoed through the room. The hotel door opened.

“There you are,” Franco breathed, relief washing over his face. “Jesus, I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

You didn’t turn around and he frowned immediately.

“…Hey.”

Silence. He dropped his backpack on the desk.

“You missed qualifying.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t answer my messages.”

“I know.”

He took a few cautious steps towards you. “Are you okay?”

“Am I okay?” You laugh, a quiet humourless laugh.

His stomach sank. “You saw it.”

“I saw it,” you finally looked at him.

Franco closed his eyes for a second. “…Okay.”

“No not okay.”

“I know what it looked like.”

“It looked like my boyfriend told the entire world he was single.”

“I panicked.”

“You lied.”

“I—“

“You promised me Franco.”

“I know I did,” his jaw clenched.

“No,” you stood up, finally facing him properly. “You don’t get to say you know.”

His shoulders stiffened.

“You looked me in the eyes all those months ago and promised you would never deny our relationship.”

“I didn’t deny our relationship.”

“You literally said you were single.”

“It was an interview!”

“So?”

“So I answered the question!”

“You could’ve answered it the way we agreed.”

“I know that,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Then why didn’t you?”

“I don’t fucking know!” He snapped.

The sudden raise in his voice made the room fall deathly quiet. Franco immediately looked regretful. You simply stared at him.

“You don’t know?”

“No.”

“You just… forgot?”

“I was trying to get out of there before qualifying.”

“So I became the easiest thing to throw away?”

“Don’t do that,” his eyebrows knitted together.

“Do what?”

“Twist my words.”

“I’m not twisting anything.”

“You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Then tell me how you meant it.”

He opened his mouth but nothing came out. Because there wasn’t an explanation that could make it sound better.

“Exactly,” you laughed bitterly.

Franco rubbed both hands over his face. “For fucks sake.”

“No Franco,” you shook your head. “For eight months I’ve stood ten feet away from you pretending I don’t know you.”

“I never asked you to pretend —“

“Yes you did.”

“I asked you to keep us private.”

“This isn’t private anymore.”

“What?” He frowned.

“This is secret.”

“They’re the same thing.”

“No they’re not!” Your voice cracked. “Private means people don’t know every detail of our relationship. Secret means my own boyfriend tells the world I don’t exist.”

Franco looked away from you. “I never said you didn’t exist.”

“You may as well have.”

“Oh come on,” he threw his hands in the air.

“No you come on,” you felt months of frustration bubbling at the surface. “I’m tired.”

“Tired of what?”

“This,” you gestured between the two of you. “Walking past each other, acting like strangers, celebrating your good races alone, watching everyone flirt with you because they think you’re available.”

“What?” His head shot up.

“You heard me.”

“I’ve never flirted with anyone.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

“Then what’s your point?”

“My point is that everyone thinks they have a chance because today you announced that you’re single.”

“Oh my god.”

“What?”

“You’re seriously making this bigger than it is.”

“Bigger than it is?” Your heart dropped.

“Yes.”

“You don’t think this is a big deal?”

“I think you’re blowing one interview completely out of proportion.”

You stared at him in disbelief. “Out of proportion?”

“Yes.”

A hollow laugh escaped you. “You know what?”

“What?”

“I actually defended you.”

“What are you talking about?” He frowned.

“When I watched it…” your eyes filled despite your best efforts. “… I sat there making excuses for you. I told myself you panicked, that you didn’t mean it. That you’d be devastated when you realised what you’d done. But you’re not..”

“I’m standing here apologising.”

“No. You’re standing here defending it.”

Franco’s patience finally snapped. “What the fuck do you actually want me to say?”

“I want you to admit you hurt me.”

“I’ve said sorry!”

“You’ve justified it after every apology.”

“Because you’re acting like I’ve cheated on you!”

“I’m acting like the man I love erased me.”

“I didn’t erase you!”

“You told the world I wasn’t your girlfriend!”

“I told the world I was single!”

“THATS THE SAME THING!”

The words echoed around the room. Neither of you spoke. Franco’s chest rose and fell heavily.

“So what now?” He asked coldly. “You want me to announce us?”

“I never asked for that.”

“You clearly fucking do.”

“I asked for honesty!”

“I was trying to protect us!”

“Protect who?” You laughed through your tears. “Because it certainly wasn’t me.”

“Unbelievable,” Franco scoffed.

“No, what’s unbelievable is that you don’t understand why this hurts.”

“I understand.”

“No you don’t.”

“I do!”

“No!”

He let out a frustrated groan, pacing across the room before spinning back around. “You know what?”

“What?”

“I’m fucking exhausted.”

“So am I.”

“No.”

He pointed towards the door. “I’m exhausted from having this same conversation every few months. There’s always something. The hiding, the travelling, the lack of time together. Now it’s one fucking interview.”

You stared at him. “I’ve never complained about any of that.”

“You’ve hinted at it.”

“Because I was struggling Franco!”

“And I was trying my fucking best!”

The words clung to the air. Then came the one that neither of you could take back.

“If being with me is so fucking difficult,” Franco said, his voice low and sharp, “then maybe you should stop making it my problem.”

The room went completely still. You looked at him as if you didn’t recognise the person standing in front of you. He realised what he’d said the instant it left his mouth. His expression changed immediately. The anger disappeared. Replaced by horror.

“…I…”

But it was too late. A slipped silently down your cheek. You nodded once. Very slowly.

“I think…” your voice was barely above a whisper, “… you should leave.”

Franco took a step forward instinctively. “No I didn’t mean —“

“Please.” You couldn’t even look at him anymore. “Just leave.”

For the first time in eight months… he didn’t know how to fix what he’d just broken.

[whoswitchybabyanyway]

the donor dilemma

pls enjoy my cringey little edit lmfao

you’ve decided it’s time to have a baby—with or without a partner. working at the BAU hasn’t exactly left room for candlelit dinners or whirlwind romances, so you’ve started looking into a donor. simple. sensible. entirely under control… until Spencer Reid overhears you talking about it and, in true Spencer fashion, decides to make things complicated in the most endearing way possible.

the proposition

the agreement

the appointment

extra: the most academically stressful room on earth

cycles

margin of certainty

unspoken things

couple energy

under surveillance

cold metal, warm hands

sacrifice

collision course

the truth comes with jell-o

tender things

premature celebration

gravitational pull

flicker

the night shift

the gift

growing pains

forks and futures

aisle seven

valentine's day extra: not nothing

close

soft click

normal

making room

tiny, supposedly

out loud

a strategic allocation of time

of bronze – and blaze – and betting pools

breaking news: romance

i don't wanna miss it

now

a dawn that blooms

homecoming

gold

father's day extra: the astronomy of little things

[pathologicalreid]

invisible string | s.r.

in which Spencer tells Derek the story of how he met you, but Derek doesn't buy it

margotober masterlist

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff content warnings: guys it's been so long since i read this book any errors have to be ignored word count: 867 a/n: this is for my beautiful bff who sent me a tweet about dua lipa and then told me it was spencer reid coded and then when i asked if i could steal the fic idea she said yes pls okay arya i love you

“So, what’s her name?” Derek asked slyly, leaning against Spencer’s desk and crossing his arms in front of his broad chest.

The question pulled Spencer away from the article he’d been reading, flipping through the content while he waited to get a report back from Hotch. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, but the pink flush of his cheeks told a different story.

They were the last three in the office, finishing something that’d had a last-minute deadline change. Morgan and Spencer’s part was done; they were just waiting for the okay from Hotch. “Uh huh,” Morgan said dubiously, “You can’t hide from me, pretty boy. I know you. I know when you’ve got a girl on your mind.”

Spencer rolled his eyes at the implication. Him having a girl on his mind was an infrequent occasion at best, but for the last few weeks, you’d consumed his every waking thought. He understood that Morgan probably figured him out when he started the coffee maker this morning without the pot to catch the liquid gold. Really, the fact that Derek had waited all day was commendable.

Derek nudged at him, “C’mon man. Don’t you want to talk about her? How did you meet?”

Smiling fondly at the memory, Spencer turned away from his computer and faced his friend, “It’s actually kind of a funny story. We met on the metro a few weeks ago,” Spencer recalled.

“A few weeks?” Derek asked with mock incredulity, “You’ve been holding out on me.”

Not really, Spencer thought to himself, he was just enjoying his time with you. Spending time with you was like nothing he’d ever experienced before. It was always just so easy with you. He told Derek your name, the beauty of it dripping from his tongue as his teammate nodded with approval. “She was running late for work, and she had so many things in her arms that I gave her my seat,” he explained, trying to contain his smile.

Morgan nodded in approval, “A gentleman.” He winked as if to say, I taught him everything he knows.

“Once she caught her breath, she pulled a book out from her purse and started reading,” Spencer said, standing up when Hotch told them they were good to head out for the night.

Slinging his bag over his shoulder, Derek grinned, “What book was it?”

Spencer glared at him while they waited for the elevator, “I’m getting there.” Really, the opportunity to tell Morgan about a girl he met was rare—it usually was the other way around. “I had my book out already, so I looked down at hers,” he continued. Initially, he just wanted to apprise your taste, but he discovered something even more interesting, “We were reading the same book.”

Derek just stared, dumbfounded, “Like… the exact same book?”

Nodding in excitement, Spencer watched as the elevator numbers went down, “Same edition and everything.” His smile hadn’t faded the whole time they were talking, “Do you want to guess the book?”

“And face your scrutiny? No thanks,” Derek said, pulling the keys to his truck out of his bag while they exited the elevator.

Spencer buzzed with excitement, “Le comte de Monte-Cristo.” He noticed Derek’s confused look, “It’s The Count of Monte Cristo in the original French.”

Morgan’s expression said it all, he was fully appalled. “You were both reading the book in French?”

“That’s not even the best part,” Spencer said, nearly laughing at the shock on Derek’s face, “When I looked over at her book, I noticed we had both just finished the betrothal feast.”

Stopping in his tracks, Derek looked at Spencer with the same wide eyes, “You were at the same place in the book?”

“Same page,” Spencer confirmed.

Derek shook his head in disbelief, “Just tell me you didn’t say something stupid like ‘Looks like we’re on the same page.’”

His smile faltered, eyes flittering around and laughing nervously, “No, I wouldn’t have said that.”

“Kid,” Morgan said, clearly not believing the lie the moment it came out of his mouth. He shook his head, “You can’t just say stuff like that to women.” He started his lecture, “Listen, we’ll go out this weekend, I’ll find you a honey to talk to.”

Spencer shrugged, walking past Derek’s truck and continuing through, “I’m good, actually. My methods worked perfectly fine,” he said, walking to where you were standing.

You leaned against your car, smiling at the sight of Spencer in front of you. “Hey, is that Derek?” You asked, staring at the man who was staring at the two of you, unmoving.

Glancing over his shoulder, Spencer nodded, “Yeah.”

“Why is he staring?” You asked nervously, accepting Spencer’s hug when he opened an arm for you. Waving apprehensively, you sighed in relief when he waved back from his truck.

Humming, Spencer dropped his bag in the backseat of your car, “Maybe he’s entranced by how pretty you are. I know that usually gets me.”

Your cheeks warmed at his compliment, “Did you tell him the story?”

“Yeah,” he responded, stealing a kiss from you before you got behind the wheel, “I’m still not sure what’s so unbelievable about it.”

[deerfawnn]

surprise — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: garcia and derek go into spencer's apartment, while you're sleeping in his bed. the problem? no one knows you and spencer are dating content warnings: secret relationship , reader also works in the bau a/n: hiii !!! i'm back to my secret relationship roots and i hope you like this <3 bc i had so much fun writing this ( i've been writing it for ages and i'm finally happy with it)

"No, no," Spencer shook his head frantically, his voice almost pleading as Derek maneuvered the car into the parking spot at his apartment complex.

"Why not?" Garcia's voice was full of curiosity as she looked back at Spencer from the passenger seat.

The trio had spent the whole afternoon shopping for your birthday, which was just around the corner. Garcia, as usual, had already gotten everything ready, gifts, decorations, the whole nine yards. She even had a closet near her office packed with presents for you, waiting for the big reveal at the surprise party she was planning to throw.The whole mission was meant to be a fun, collaborative effort, the three of them picking out something special for you to celebrate.

But now, as Derek parked the car and they were all about to get out, Garcia’s sudden idea was making Spencer break into a cold sweat.

"I mean, we can just hang out at your place for a bit, right?" Garcia asked, her tone more like a suggestion than a question. She had already unbuckled her seatbelt, clearly excited about the idea.

Spencer swallowed hard, his fingers gripping the seatbelt. "I don’t know if that’s such a good idea," he said quickly, trying to sound casual, though the nerves were practically radiating off of him.

"I have… stuff to do." His words stumbled, but Derek caught on immediately.

"You've got a date or something?" Derek teased, raising an eyebrow. "Come on, Reid, live a little."

Spencer’s face turned a light shade of pink, but he quickly deflected with a nervous laugh. "No, no date," he replied, but the nervous energy in his tone was giving him away. "I just—uh—need to get inside."

Garcia didn't miss a beat. "Come on, Spencer," she insisted with that gleam of excitement in her eyes. "It’s been forever since we just hung out at your place. You know, a little downtime."

But Spencer’s mind was racing, heart pounding. The last thing he needed was for Derek and Garcia to come upstairs and see you there. He knew you were in his apartment right now, sound asleep in his bed, curled up in one of his sweaters. This morning, you had practically melted into him that morning, clinging to him as he reluctantly told you he had to go.You had been so warm, your face tucked into the side of his neck, holding him like you didn’t want him to leave. He’d rubbed soothing circles on your back, whispering that he’d be back soon, but you hadn't been ready to let go. Eventually, he had managed to peel himself away, promising to return as quickly as possible.

Now, his heart pounded as he watched Derek and Garcia hop out of the car without hesitation. "No, no, no—" Spencer muttered under his breath, scrambling to open his own door. He practically stumbled out, rushing after them, but they were already making their way toward his apartment building.

They didn’t even wait for him. "Of course," he thought bitterly as he hurried behind them. He knew he was too late. There was no way he could stop them now. His only hope was that you were still asleep. And there was a high chance that you were. Spencer knew your sleep schedule well. If he could just get inside before them and shut his bedroom door, everything would be fine.

As they reached the top floor, Spencer’s fingers fumbled in his pocket for his keys. His hands were practically shaking as he yanked them out, quickly jamming the correct one into the lock. Slowly, he pushed the door open just a crack, peeking inside, praying you weren’t—

"Dr. Reid. What are you doing?" Garcia’s voice was laced with amusement as she leaned against the doorframe, watching him with a smirk.Before Spencer could stop her, she pushed the door open wider, stepping inside.

Panic surged through him. His breath caught in his throat.But you were nowhere to be seen. His eyes darted toward the bedroom door. It was closed.

No sign of you.

Spencer swallowed hard, trying to compose himself as Garcia and Derek strolled inside, completely oblivious to the absolute terror he had just experienced. Spencer quickly shut the door behind them, tossing his jacket over the nearest chair, something he never did. Normally, he was meticulous about hanging it up properly, but right now, his priority was making sure nothing seemed off.

Slipping off his shoes, he warily watched as Garcia and Derek made a beeline for his kitchen. As they rummaged through his cabinets, Spencer seized the opportunity. He darted down the hallway toward the bedroom, his socked feet barely making a sound on the hardwood floor. He cracked the door open just enough to peek inside, and there you were, still fast asleep, curled up under the blankets with his sweater draped loosely over your shoulders. A small, involuntary smile tugged at his lips. He closed the door gently, careful not to make a sound, and hurried back to the kitchen before they could notice his absence.

Crisis averted.

He stopped in his tracks, however, when he saw the disaster unfolding before him.

“What are you doing?” Spencer asked, exasperated, watching as Derek and Garcia rummaged through his cabinets like raccoons.

Garcia, mid-bite into a granola bar, waved a hand dismissively. “Relax, genius, we’re just looking for snacks. By the way—” she held up the granola bar with a raised brow, “—I thought you hated these?”

Spencer froze. He did. He never ate those granola bars.

But you did. You loved them, so he always kept some stocked just for you.

He scrambled for an excuse, clearing his throat. “Uh—I just wanted to give them another try,” he mumbled, avoiding Garcia’s sharp, suspicious gaze.

Derek, now chewing a piece of toast, barely looked up. “Yeah, okay,” he said, mouth full.

Spencer shot him an unamused glare. “Can the two of you stop eating my food?”

“No,” Derek replied, taking another bite, completely unbothered. 

Spencer sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You know, most people ask before raiding someone’s kitchen,” he muttered, though there was no real bite to his words. 

Garcia giggled, popping the last bite of granola bar into her mouth. “Oh, come on, Genius. You love us. Besides, you’re acting super weird today. What’s going on with you?” 

Spencer’s eyes widened slightly, and he quickly looked away, busying himself with straightening a stack of papers on the counter

“Nothing’s going on,” he said, his voice a little too high-pitched. “I’m just… tired. It’s been a long day.” 

Garcia and Derek just exchanged a look.Spencer sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He needed to get them out of here before they found something they weren’t supposed to. Like, say… you.

“Do you think she’ll like my gift?” Garcia asked, peeking at the bag on the counter, her fingers fidgeting with the ribbon.

“Most definitely, babygirl,” Derek answered without hesitation, dusting the crumbs off his hands after finishing his toast. “She’s been talking about it for weeks.”

Spencer, still trying to recover from his near heart attack, nodded in agreement. “Yeah, she’ll love it,” he said, meeting Garcia’s eyes with a small, reassuring smile.

Garcia beamed, clearly pleased with herself. “Oh, she’ll love yours, boy genius,” she added, pointing at Spencer. “You know her so well.” Her voice carried a teasing lilt, her grin mischievous.

“Maybe too well,” Derek chimed in, eyebrows raised as he leaned casually against the counter, arms crossed. His grin was knowing, smug. Spencer stiffened.

“When are you finally gonna ask her out?” Derek asked, his grin widening.

Spencer felt his face heat up instantly. He blushed, but not for the reason they thought. He blushed because he remembered the day it happened. The way his heart had pounded in his chest, his palms sweaty as he rehearsed the words in his head over and over. He’d been so nervous, he’d almost convinced himself to back out.

But then he’d seen you, your smile, the way your eyes lit up when you noticed him approaching, and all his doubts had melted away. When he finally asked, his voice trembling slightly, your reaction had been everything he’d hoped for. Your face had lit up, and you’d nodded so quickly, it was almost comical.

“Yes!” you’d said, your voice filled with so much enthusiasm that it made him laugh. In that moment, all his anxiety had washed away, replaced by a giddy, almost overwhelming sense of relief and joy. 

“Aww, how cute!” Garcia practically vibrated with excitement, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she pointed an accusatory finger at Spencer. “He’s blushing,” she sang, her grin stretching impossibly wide. 

Spencer groaned, shaking his head in exasperation. “Did you two come into my apartment just to eat my food and make fun of me?” he asked, arms crossed.

“Pretty much,” Derek said, completely unfazed as he made his way back toward the fridge.

Spencer let out a sharp breath, trying to mask his anxiety. He knew you were still asleep, but that didn’t stop the lingering fear that their loud voices might wake you up.

But then, Derek stopped in front of the fridge.His eyes locked onto the calendar hanging there, and a slow, amused smirk spread across his face.

“Look at this, sweetheart,” Derek said, turning toward Garcia, his voice thick with amusement. Garcia leaned in, her eyes widening as she saw what Derek was pointing at. There, on the calendar, your birthday was circled in bold red marker, surrounded by a carefully drawn heart.

Garcia gasped, clapping her hands together in delight. “Oh. My. God,” she said, her voice rising with every word. “Spencer Reid, you are down bad!”

Spencer felt his face burn even hotter. He wished he could disappear into the floor, or maybe just teleport to another dimension entirely. Anything to escape this moment.Because the truth was, he hadn’t been the one to draw that heart on the calendar. It had been you.

He remembered the moment perfectly.

The day he hung the calendar up, you had been standing right there beside him, watching with an amused little smile. Then, without hesitation, you had grabbed the nearest marker, a red one, of course, and went straight to your birthday month, drawing a huge heart around the date. "So you don’t forget."

He had chuckled, shaking his head as he stepped behind you, wrapping his arms loosely around your waist. Then, he had pressed a soft kiss to your temple, murmuring against your skin. "I don’t forget anything. Especially not something like that."

You had giggled. And Spencer had loved making you giggle.

Now, standing in his kitchen, faced with his coworkers’ relentless teasing, he was struck with the embarrassing realization that Derek and Garcia thought he was some hopelessly lovesick teenager who had scribbled hearts around his crush’s name in a notebook.

(Which, if he was being completely honest, wasn’t that far from the truth.)

But what was he supposed to say?Tell them the truth? Admit that the woman he’d been secretly dating for months, the same woman they were here shopping for, was currently asleep in his bed down the hall? Absolutely not.

But then the choice was taken away from him anyway.

Suddenly, the sound of running water echoed from down the hallway, causing both Garcia and Derek to freeze mid-sentence. Their heads snapped toward the source of the noise, their eyes widening as they stared at Spencer.

Spencer stared back, equally wide-eyed, his mind racing. You were in the bathroom, happily brushing your teeth, completely unaware that two of your and Spencer’s, coworkers were standing in the kitchen, mere feet away.

“Spencer Walter Reid,” Garcia gasped, her voice loud enough to carry through the apartment. She clutched Derek’s arm like she was about to faint. “Is there someone here?”

“No, no,” Spencer said quickly, shaking his head so vigorously that his curls bounced. “It’s probably just my washing machine turning on.”

As if on cue, the bathroom door creaked open, and then closed again. Spencer’s heart sank. “Oh no,” he mumbled under his breath, his stomach twisting into knots.

And then, there you were.

You padded into the kitchen, blissfully unaware of the chaos you were about to unleash. You were wearing Spencer’s boxers, which hung loosely around your hips, and one of his Star Wars shirts that was far too big for you, the hem brushing against your thighs. Your hair was slightly messy, and you were still rubbing sleep from your eyes. Then you stopped. Blinking, you finally seemed to register the two extra people in the room.

Garcia. Derek.

Standing there.

Staring.

At you.

In Spencer’s clothes.

Two pairs of eyes stared at you. And you stared back, your own eyes wide, your brain struggling to process the scene in front of you. Spencer, meanwhile, was staring at the ground like it might suddenly open up and swallow him whole. Garcia broke the silence, her voice low and uncharacteristically quiet, something almost more shocking than if she’d screamed.

“Am I… dreaming?” she whispered, clutching Derek’s arm like a lifeline. She looked pale, her usual vibrant energy replaced by sheer disbelief as she took in your disheveled state.

Derek, for once, seemed just as stunned. “I… no, I don’t think so,” he said hesitantly, his usual confidence replaced by uncharacteristic uncertainty. He blinked at you, then at Spencer, then back at you, as if trying to piece together what exactly was happening.

“Spencer,” you hissed, your voice low but urgent. “What the hell is happening?” You tugged self-consciously at the hem of his Star Wars shirt, trying to pull it down further.

Normally, you were the picture of professionalism at work, always impeccably dressed and composed. But here you were, standing in Spencer’s kitchen in his boxers and an oversized shirt, your hair a mess and your face still flushed from sleep.

It was beyond awkward, it was mortifying.

Spencer finally looked up, his expression a mix of guilt and panic. “I, uh… this isn’t—” he started, but Garcia cut him off.

“Oh no, no, no,” Garcia said, her voice rising with every word, her hands flailing dramatically. “You do not get to ‘this isn’t’ us right now. This is happening. This is definitely happening.” She pointed a finger at you, then at Spencer, her eyes wide. “You two. Together. In his apartment. Wearing his clothes. Oh my gosh, this is the best day of my life.”

You froze, your cheeks burning as you tugged self-consciously at the hem of Spencer’s shirt. “Penelope, it’s not—” you started, but she cut you off with a wave of her hand.

“Nope, nope, nope,” she said, shaking her head so vigorously that her curls bounced. “No explanations, no excuses. This is happening. I have been waiting for this moment for years.”

Spencer groaned, running a hand through his already messy hair. “Garcia, please—”

“No,” she interrupted again, her voice rising an octave. “You don’t get to ‘Garcia, please’ me right now. This is huge. This is monumental. This is—”

“A disaster,” Spencer muttered under his breath, though the faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

Derek, who had been quietly observing the scene with an amused grin, finally chimed in. “Man, Reid, I gotta hand it to you. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “This is so embarrassing,” you muttered, though there was a hint of laughter in your voice.

Garcia, meanwhile, was practically bouncing on her toes, her excitement palpable. “Oh, this is going to be so much fun. I can’t wait to tell—”

“No!” Spencer and you said in unison, your voices sharp enough to make Garcia freeze mid-sentence.

“You are not telling anyone,” Spencer said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Garcia pouted, but there was a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Fine, fine. But only because I’m feeling generous. For now.”

Derek chuckled, shaking his head. “Man, this is going to be the best office drama ever.”

You groaned again, burying your face in your hands. “I’m going back to bed,” you muttered, turning on your heel and heading back down the hallway. As you disappeared into the bedroom, Garcia and Derek turned to Spencer. “You’ve got some explaining to do, Pretty Boy,” Derek said, his grin widening.

Spencer sighed, knowing there was no escaping this. “Yeah,” he said, his voice resigned. “I know.”a

[corollaim]

kiss it better

summary: despite his genius intellect, spencer has no idea how to articulate his feelings. also known as, four times spencer reid injures himself to get your attention plus one time his plan fails (or does it?). relationship: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: fluff word count: 4.8k tags: i know Nothing about first-aid so i apologize if this is both vague and incorrect, spencer burns his hand… and hits his head… and scrapes his knee (minor blood warning)... and tweaks his ankle… and nearly breaks his nose, there’s a track behind FBI headquarters because i needed there to be, the BAU being teasing little shits, crush confession (crushfession?) a/n: my first time writing a 4+1 fic and i am OBSESSED!!! thank you thank you anon for this adorable idea <3

based on this request

1. The Coffee Incident (January 5)

The first time was an accident. 

Spencer hadn’t meant to cause a scene. He had merely been pouring his first cup of coffee for the day, but then the break room door had swung open, and you had entered. Spencer hadn’t seen you in almost a week because of the days off for New Year’s, and it had been the longest week of his life. To say he was excited to see you was an understatement. 

Although Spencer’s memory was quite exceptional, it seemed to have betrayed him. The mental image of your beauty did no justice to convey how spectacular it felt to see you in-person. As soon as he laid eyes on you, the rest of the world faded away. Well, momentarily, at least.

You smiled at him, and he smiled at you, but his goofy grin was quickly replaced by a grimace as his mug overflowed and piping hot coffee poured all over his hand. Instinctively, he pulled away, hissing in pain and flailing his hand about as if he could shake away the discomfort. 

“Reid!” you exclaimed with concern, quickly crossing the room and planting your feet right in front of him. You held out your hands to him, beckoning him to let you examine his burns. At first, he was reluctant to be doted on, but then he realized that his injury was a blessing in disguise. 

Although his hand was in yours for the sole purpose of you offering him medical attention, he considered it an intimate moment. He had always wondered if your hands were as soft as they looked, and now he knew: they were. 

The moment was fleeting, just a few minutes of you utilizing your superior first-aid knowledge to care for him, but it inspired him. Spencer began to wonder how else he could capture your attention under the guise of “medical assistance.” 

Desperate to feel your touch once more, Spencer began scheming. Soon, incident no. 2 was born.

2. The Filing Cabinet Incident (January 16)

The second time was kind of an accident.

For much of the past week or so, Spencer had been contemplating his next move. If he were a more confident man, he could just tell you that he thought you were wildly attractive, but alas, he was not. Confident, that is. So instead?

He nearly got a concussion.

Now, it’s worth noting here that Spencer did not intentionally slam his head into a filing cabinet. Rather, he was bent over, rummaging through the bottom drawer, when you called out to him. At the sound of your melodic, lilting tone—okay, to anyone else it just sounded like you were casually greeting him as you entered the room—his heart leapt, and so did he. He hadn’t heard you come in, but of course, he had left the door open, so that was his own fault, really. 

A solid bang practically echoed through the room as the back of his head connected with the bottom of the top drawer. Evidently, it had slid open while he was distractedly searching for the file he needed. 

A bit embarrassing? Yeah. Exactly what he needed? Also yes. 

Honestly, he was barely dazed by the contact. However, your presence seemed to reduce Spencer to childish tactics. Much like how a toddler only starts wailing over a scraped knee once their parent panics, Spencer turned on the theatrics when he heard you gasp. 

“Jeez, are you okay?” you asked, joining him beside the filing cabinet. As he straightened to his full height, he made a snap decision to lift a hand to the back of his head and gingerly hold his “injury”. It was hardly even tender, but he winced for good measure as he looked at you.

“I’m fine,” he promised. It was the honest-to-God truth, but you knew he had a tendency to downplay his pain, so you figured he was just feigning nonchalance. He did have a grimace on his face—more out of guilt for stretching the truth than anything—which you interpreted as being pained. He wasn’t about to correct you; he was officially committed to the bit.

You reached for his arm, pulling his hand away from the back of his head. It was purely platonic, but Spencer felt his skin heat under your touch regardless. He hoped you didn’t notice, hoped that his cardigan sleeve was doing enough to spare him that embarrassment. 

“Let’s get you some ice,” you said softly. You started to pull away and head toward the break room, then thought better of leaving Spencer to trail behind you. You stepped back to his side, carefully grabbing his arm once more. Bless your heart, you really thought he was concussed. In defense of his lying ass, he was a bit dizzy now that you were touching him, even something as simple as holding his wrist to guide him to the break room.

His steps were heavy and uneven for the few feet required to cross the hall, but you noticed, clicking your tongue and shaking your head.

“Poor hon,” you murmured, and Spencer nearly tripped. You were a ridiculously affectionate person; it was no secret that you were the sweetheart of the team. You regularly referred to Garcia as “love” and showered Prentiss in unprompted hugs, but your terms of endearment never failed to give Spencer heart palpitations when they were directed at him. He was powerless to resist his mind wandering, wondering what it would be like to wake up beside you, your hands carding through his hair as you called him “hon” and snuggled up against him. 

Oh God, where was he? 

“Sit,” you commanded in that sweet, worried tone of yours. Spencer blinked, realizing that his feet had somehow carried him to the break room while he had been fantasizing. Wordlessly, he sunk onto the sofa, watching you bustle around the kitchenette. You procured some ice cubes from the freezer, packing them into a plastic bag before wrapping the bag in a towel. Then, you brought the towel over to him and held it out. He accepted it with a shaky hand, not needing to be told to hold it against the back of his head. 

As he iced his not-so-injured-injury, you pulled up a chair in front of him and sat so close to him that your knees were brushing against each other’s. He was confused at first what you were doing; he had assumed that you would just grab him some ice and call it a day, but you were, apparently, in full Caretaker Mode. 

You pulled your phone out of your back pocket and turned on the flashlight, directing it at his eyes one at a time to watch how his pupils reacted. Spencer vaguely wondered if it really would look like he was concussed, considering how much his pupils undoubtedly dilated when he saw you. Yet, you hummed approvingly and pocketed your phone. 

“No concussion,” you declared confidently. “I have seen symptoms develop a few hours after impact, though. Rare, but not impossible. If you have a worsening headache or any confusion today, let me know, but you should be just fine.” In some strange way, this news almost disappointed him. If he had been concussed, that would be all the more reason for you to dote on him. Despite his initial begrudging acceptance of your help with his burned hand, he had quickly come to realize that your Mother Hen demeanor was adorable, and made him that much more obsessed with you. So he wanted to be fawned over. Sue him.

You stood, returning your chair to its home before turning back to Spencer, offering him a sympathetic smile. You placed a hand on his shoulder, patting it gently before exiting the room, returning to whatever task you had been in the middle of when you had spoken to him in the first place. Your absence left Spencer even more enamored than the last time, and his mind immediately started reeling, plotting his next excuse to have you close again. 

3. The Track Incident (January 28)

The third time was poorly planned, but intentional nonetheless. 

Spencer and Penelope’s physical fitness assessment was approaching. Garcia had proposed that they do some training outside on a particularly warm winter day, and Spencer had reluctantly agreed. He wasn’t too keen on running laps or jumping hurdles or whatever Garcia had planned, especially since he was considering looking into just getting the whole thing waived. 

However, there was one appeal to doing some physical activity, and that was the fact that it was the perfect environment to stage an injury. 

Hotch had given them permission to leave early that day to do some training, so they had made their way outside to the track and field. As Spencer rounded the track, he looked around, making sure there was no one watching in case his performance was less than Oscar-worthy. Garcia was hustling a few feet ahead of him, and he concluded that there was nobody else around, so with that in mind, he threw himself on the ground.

Hearing him hit the floor, Garcia whipped around. 

“Reid!” she shrieked, staring at him sprawled on the ground. “Are you okay?”

Spencer had intentionally stumbled in a way that had made his legs slam into the ground, and he had to hide his satisfied grin when he sat back and saw the scrape on his left knee. He knew it was disturbing to be so excited to see tiny specks of blood blooming across his marred skin, but it was a minor sacrifice, really. It’s not like he would ever go so far as to break an arm in order to talk to you. Even he had some dignity. 

“Fine,” he grunted, pulling himself off the track. 

“You’re bleeding,” Garcia said pointedly, eyebrows furrowed in worry.

“Barely,” Spencer responded with a shrug. Then, because he did not want Garcia to be privy to his self-injurious plotting, he planned his escape. “I’m gonna go clean up.”

“Okay,” Garcia nodded. “I can walk with you, if you want.”

“It’s alright,” Spencer declined. “I’ll be right back.”

“Right back” meaning “after I make a point to hobble past my crush’s desk so that she checks on me”. 

All according to plan, Spencer exaggeratedly limped through the bullpen, and you stopped him. 

“What happened?” you questioned, eyes widening when you looked down and saw the tiny dots of blood dotting his leg. 

“I fell, no big deal,” Spencer shrugged, moving to go grab the first-aid kit from the supply closet. Of course, you rose from your chair and put a hand on his shoulder, effectively halting him. He turned to look at you, feeling a pang of guilt when he saw the concern in your expression. 

If only he could just tell you how he felt without making you worry. For a genius, this entire ordeal was incredibly stupid. He knew it, but couldn’t seem to stop himself. He had some dumb fantasy that maybe caring for him would make you realize that you really did care for him, and then you could both just admit to your feelings and live happily ever after and blah blah blah. He realized how much his daydream read like a ridiculous romantic comedy, but the heart wants what it wants. 

You ushered him into your chair and hurried away to grab the first-aid kit yourself. While you were gone, Morgan noticed Spencer’s condition and raised a knowing eyebrow before blowing him kisses across the bullpen. Spencer rolled his eyes, returning his focus to you. You emerged from the hallway, dropping the first-aid kit on your desk before kneeling in front of him. 

Well, if that didn’t throw his mind right into the gutter.

Spencer watched as you disinfected the scrape, barely even registering the sting over the pounding of his racing heart. Your brows were furrowed in concentration, and your tongue was poking out of the corner of your mouth. He didn’t think that there was anything about bandaging a knee that required such unsullied attention, but he appreciated the way that you were so devoted to aiding him. 

His eyes threatened to flutter shut as your fingertips barely danced across his skin. It was maddening, how the tiniest contact from you could feel so good. You were merely sticking a Band-Aid on his knee, for Christ’s sake. Why did he feel like he was in heaven?

After applying the bandage, you patted the edges to make sure it was secure. You sat back on your heels, about to stand up, when Morgan called from across the room.

“Kiss it better!” he teased. Spencer was grateful that you were too distracted shooting Morgan a perplexed—and slightly annoyed—look to notice how Spencer flushed. His cheeks burned bright red, and he practically ran away, thanking you over his shoulder as he headed back outside. 

Spencer knew that Morgan’s joking would only become more relentless if he didn’t just man up and talk to you, and God, did he want to. Today, though? Today, he was not feeling brave enough.

Maybe next time.

4. The “Treadmill” Incident  (February 5)

The fourth time was a stroke of genius. Well, as genius as this whole absurdly stupid ordeal could get.

After sustaining a very real—minor, but real—injury the week before, Spencer decided to give himself a break. Not a break from yearning; that would be damn near impossible. A break from bleeding, though? That he could manage.

One morning, Spencer decided to fake a limp. He figured his upcoming fitness test was the perfect ruse; he could pretend he had tweaked his ankle while training. He entered the bullpen right on time, careful to keep more weight on his left leg than his right. He tried to keep his movements just subtle enough that they would be noticeable but not overly dramatic. 

After Morgan had gossiped to the entire team about last week’s events, everyone (except you) was well aware that Spencer was full of shit. As he walked to his desk, Rossi noticed his act and let out a loud huff of amused laughter. Spencer narrowed his eyes at the older man, silently commanding him to not say a word. Rossi held up his hands in surrender and wandered off, seemingly disengaging. However, his blinds were open, and it was quite obvious that Rossi was settling in to watch the next few minutes unfold from the comfort of his office.

Spencer reached his desk, dropping his messenger bag beside him and settling into his chair. From your position across from him, you cleared your throat, and Spencer fought to keep a smug smile off his face, knowing his plan had been set into motion.

He looked up at you with mock innocence.

“Yeah?” he asked. 

“What’s wrong?” you replied, nodding toward his “bad” ankle.

“Oh, nothing,” he shrugged. “Just tweaked it.”

“Doing what?” you asked with an adorable tilt of your head.

“Running,” Spencer answered, the lie rolling off his tongue exactly as he had practiced. “Treadmill.”

“You don’t run,” you said pointedly, narrowing your eyes skeptically. “You literally faceplanted on the track just last week trying to do laps.”

“I did not faceplant,” Spencer retorted defensively. “I… knee… planted.”

“Point being,” you continued adamantly, “you don’t run.”

“I’ve taken it up,” Spencer argued, skin starting to crawl under your suspicion. Oh God, had someone snitched to you? He was betting it was JJ. If anyone were going to rat his ass out for lying to you, it would be her. 

Evidently, his momentary panic had been for nothing. You leaned over your desk, whispering conspiratorily to him, “You know you can waive the fitness test, right?”

You were so cute. Not only were you aware of his strong aversion to cardio, but you were helping him get out of the exam altogether. Of course, he did know that it could be waived; he had already submitted the proper paperwork, but nobody needed to know that right now. For all intents and purposes, he was a dedicated athlete, preparing to pass this physical with flying colors. 

“Damn. I wish you had told me sooner,” Spencer huffed with faux surprise. You winced, eyes trailing down to his ankle once more.

“Sorry,” you muttered, staring at his Converse as if you could assess his alleged injury with X-ray vision.

He was such an ass. Here he was, making you feel guilty for withholding information from him, information that could have prevented him from ending up in a position to sprain his ankle. Little did you know, he had not been running this morning. In fact, he had snoozed his alarm twice, leaving little time to do much of anything besides change and hit the road. 

“It’s okay,” Spencer assured you. Then, because he was getting a bit antsy to receive your assistance, he asked, “Any chance you know how to tape it up?”

You looked mildly insulted by his question, squinting at him.

“Of course I do,” you said flatly, before abandoning the pretense and perking back up. “BRB.”

A few minutes later, you were perched on the floor in front of him, sitting cross-legged with his foot propped in your lap. 

“I just have to anchor it here,” you explained, lightly tapping a spot above his ankle before wrapping the tape around his foot, preparing to place the last few pieces. As you worked, Prentiss approached, freezing in place when she saw you sitting on the ground.

“Well, what weird fetish thing is happening here?” she inquired with a broad grin. 

“Stop!” you squealed indignantly, looking at her with exaggerated offense. “I do not have a thing for feet. Reid hurt his ankle this morning.”

“Oh, I’m sure he did,” Prentiss replied. Spencer gulped nervously, anticipating that she would spill his secret. You either didn’t pick up on Emily’s sarcasm or were too focused on finishing your tape job, placing the last piece and patting his ankle comfortingly.

“How’s that feel?” you asked, looking up at Spencer with big, concerned eyes.

“Good,” he said with a jerky nod, feeling Prentiss’s eyes on the two of you. Considering the fact that his ankle was perfectly fine, the tape felt a bit uncomfortable, but he obviously couldn’t tell you that. “Good” would have to suffice.

“Yeah, I’m sure it does,” Prentiss jeered, returning to her desk across the room. You shook your head disapprovingly, ever the empath. You were always quick to come to anyone’s defense when they were being teased by the rest of the team, and Spencer was no exception. It made him adore you that much more, even though he was currently completely undeserving of your loyalty. 

As you rose from the floor, Spencer leaned over to pull on his sock. As he shoved his foot back into his shoe, he spoke sincerely.

“Thanks for all your help,” he said quietly, not wanting anyone else to overhear. Once his shoe was tied again, he met your gaze and added, “I really appreciate it.”

Understatement of the year.

“It’s no problem,” you replied, waving a hand casually and smiling brightly. “That’s what friends are for.”

Right. Friends.

Spencer offered you a tight-lipped smile, trying not to cringe. Of course you merely thought of him as a friend. It’s not like he’d ever had the guts to tell you that he wanted anything more. If only he could find the words, maybe there was a chance that he could feel more than just a fleeting touch from you. 

He really wanted to find out, but he wasn’t sure what to do.

So he did what he did best, and planned his next injury.

5. The… Derek Morgan Incident? (February 13)

The fifth time was just plain stupid. 

Since Morgan had known about Spencer’s crush for some time now, Spencer decided to enlist some help. Understandably, Morgan was a bit taken aback by his request. 

“You want me to what?” he asked, gaping at Spencer.

“Punch me in the face!” Spencer repeated for the umpteenth time. Morgan groaned.

“Why don’t you just tell her how you feel? Like a normal person?” Morgan questioned.

“I will!” Spencer insisted. Then, in a much quieter, much more unsure voice, he added, “Eventually.”

“But first, you want me to give you a shiner,” Morgan said flatly.

“Yes!” Spencer exclaimed impatiently. He had already explained his plan several times. Was it insane? Yes. Should it have been this hard to grasp, though? He didn’t think so. 

“Oh my God,” Morgan sighed exaggeratedly. Then, he raised his eyebrows and pointed at Spencer. “This feels like a weird thing to say when you’re about to give someone a black eye, but you owe me.”

With that, Morgan took up a fighting stance, preparing to sock his beloved coworker in the face. He held his hands in front of his face, balling them into fists. Spencer scrunched his nose and squeezed his eyes shut, preparing for impact. 

“Jesus!”

Your voice broke the tense silence. Unfortunately, you had entered the room a millisecond too late; Morgan’s fist was already flying through the air. To add insult to injury (no pun intended), your voice surprised Spencer, and he opened his eyes and angled his head toward the sound, causing Morgan’s punch to land squarely in the side of his nose. 

You gasped, clapping your hands over your mouth in shock. 

“What the hell, Morgan?” you shrieked, racing over to them. Morgan held up his hands, proclaiming his innocence and taking a step back as you assessed Spencer’s injury. Spencer was groaning in pain, holding his hands up to his nose. When you coaxed his hands away from his face, you saw that his nose was bleeding. Luckily, it didn’t look to be broken; it would likely only bruise. At the sight, you turned over your shoulder and shot daggers at Morgan. He ignored you, addressing Spencer directly.

“I told you it was a stupid idea,” he chided. After reaching the same conclusion as you and determining that Spencer’s wound was nothing dire, Morgan stalked out of the room, shaking his head and muttering something unintelligible under his breath.

At Morgan’s remark, you turned back to Spencer, confusion washing over your features.

“What idea?” you asked, gesturing for Spencer to sit as you wetted some paper towels. You sat in front of him, gently blotting at the blood that had trickled from his nose. Fortunately, the bleeding was minimal, and had already stopped. As you cleaned him up, you watched him expectantly, and Spencer squirmed under your scrutinizing gaze. 

“Um…” he mumbled.

“Spence,” you coaxed, gingerly swiping the paper towel under his nose. Once the blood had been washed away, you offered him the towel and leaned back, crossing your arms. He blew his nose and cleared his throat before meeting your eyes. 

“It was kind of stupid,” Spencer conceded, his voice barely above a whisper. He sighed, embarrassed to confess, but knowing that this conversation would happen eventually. “I, uh… asked him to hit me.”

“What?” you asked, your brow furrowing. “Why would you do that? It’s not, like, a form of self-harm or something, is it? Well, I guess it’s not really self-harm if he’s punching you in the face, but if it was your idea—Do I need to report you? I don’t know when the last time was that you had a psych eval, but this is pretty—”

“I don’t need a psych eval,” Spencer interjected. “I’m fine, I just…” He sighed again, bracing himself for the rejection that would surely follow his admission. “I wanted your help.”

“My help?” you parroted, confused.

“Yeah,” Spencer nodded. “I… I like when you help me. When I’m hurt, I mean. I know it sounds crazy to get injured on purpose just so you’ll pay attention to me or whatever, but… I don’t know.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, assessing him with a distressed look. He thought you were about to have him involuntarily committed somewhere, but then you spoke.

“You know there’s other ways to get my attention, right?” you asked.

“I… well, yes,” Spencer admitted, cheeks flushing. “I didn’t know how to talk to you, I guess. I just… well, I burned my hand and you were so attentive and sweet and I got this dumb idea in my head that you would only ever care about me if you were helping me and—”

“I care about you,” you stated, “but, wait. You burned your hand over a month ago. You’ve been faking it ever since?”

“Not exactly?” Spencer responded, scratching the back of his neck. “I really did hit my head.”

“The track?” you questioned. 

“I might have tripped,” Spencer paused, “on purpose.”

“And… do you even own a treadmill?” you continued.

“...No,” Spencer confessed.

“And you asked Morgan to… break your nose,” you said, sounding purely baffled.

“No! That was an accident,” Spencer clarified. “I just… asked him to punch me in the face. I was hoping for a black eye, at most.”

You blinked.

“I don’t think that sounds much better,” you stated. 

“It’s not, really,” Spencer sighed, his shoulders slumping. God, he felt so stupid. He had done all of this, for what? For you to look at him like he had two heads? Surprisingly, your expression softened, and you began to look a bit amused.

“And you did that… so I would help?” you asked.

“Yeah…” Spencer affirmed, feeling absolutely ridiculous now that he had admitted it.

“If you wanted my attention, all you had to do was ask,” you mused, starting to look more flattered than appalled.

“Yeah, I just… I’m not very good at that,” Spencer confessed quietly. “It’s kind of hard.”

“Talking is hard?” you giggled. “It’s easier than getting punched in the face!”

“In your opinion!” Spencer retorted defensively. “But you’re… you! You’re bubbly and extroverted and sweet and—”

“Do you need me to ask you out?” you offered, and Spencer blanched. Holy shit, were you actually offering?

“I mean… would you? If I needed it,” Spencer questioned, eyes wide with astonishment. You nodded like the answer was obvious, so he continued, “I… might need that.” Then, he started to question himself. Would you think he was less of a man if he didn’t make the first move? “Unless, I… no, I can ask. You probably want me to ask. You don’t have to ask. Um… how should I ask?”

You giggled again, but it sounded more like an “aw, how cute!” kind of laugh and less like a “Spencer’s a gigantic idiot and clearly making a fool of himself” kind of laugh. He much preferred the former.

“Coffee,” you stated simply. Confidently. He wondered how it was so easy for you. “You ask if I want to get coffee sometime.”

Spencer blinked, eyes darting to the coffee machine in the kitchenette. He wanted to point out that a coffee date would be silly, that the BAU had perfectly good coffee here, but then he thought about how fulfilling it would feel to buy you a fancy latte with oat milk and vanilla syrup or whatever it was that you preferred, and he nodded at you. He didn’t have to take things so literally. Coffee was good.

“O-okay,” he nodded again. “Do you want to get coffee sometime, maybe? W-with me, if that wasn’t obvious. Which isn’t to say that I didn’t think you would understand my implication, I just wanted to be clear and—sorry. I’m nervous.”

“That’s okay,” you assured him with a bright smile. “Yes, I would like to get coffee. With you.”

“Great,” Spencer said, sighing with relief. The two of you sat in comfortable silence for a moment, and then you spoke.

“So… I taped your foot for nothing?” you inquired. Spencer blushed harder.

“I’m sorry for lying,” he promised. 

“Oh, big deal. It’s the fact that I was the brunt of a foot fetish joke that’s the problem here!” you replied with mock indignation. 

“I’m sorry about that, too,” Spencer said. “But Prentiss knew I was faking it. I think the joke was more directed at me, anyway.”

“She knew?” you gaped. 

“Well, everyone sort of did,” Spencer explained. “Well, everyone except H—”

As if summoned by the mere first letter of his name, Hotch appeared in the doorway, eyeing them with his usual unimpressed stare.

“Reid, if you’re done scheming for her affection, you have a report due before lunch.”

Spencer’s head whipped around to face his boss.

“Oh. Um, yes, sir,” he stammered, nodding like a bobblehead. As quickly as he had arrived, Hotch disappeared. Spencer turned back to you, swallowing thickly.

“Yeah, everyone knew.”

taglist: @reidmiss-3 @dc-reid-heliotrope @theglitchywriterboi @toomanyfanficsbruh @lotsie2234 @opaliite13 @spencerreids-wife

[irisinlovee]

i just want you — spencer reid

pairings: early season!spencer reid x profiler!reader

theme: hurt to comfort

summary: thinking spencer didn’t have even an ounce of a crush on her, when in reality, he was already picturing his entire life with her.

content warnings: none!

a/n: Always soft for my early seasons Spencey! Anyway, requests are open, my dearest!

‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹

masterlist

The SUV was quiet in the way only stakeouts ever were, engine humming low, radio muted, the outside world reduced to shadows and passing headlights. The city breathed around them, unaware of the two agents sitting in the dark, waiting for violence to announce itself. She leaned back in the passenger seat, exhaustion settling into her bones. It had been a long case. Long interviews. Long hours. Too many bodies, too many reasons to be tired in ways sleep couldn’t fix. She glanced sideways at Spencer, who sat with his head tipped back against the headrest, eyes fixed on the ceiling, fingers tapping lightly against his knee in an absent rhythm. He always looked like this during stakeouts, half present, half somewhere else. Overthinking, almost sarrying the weight of the world like it was something he’d personally misplaced. She liked that about him. Loved it, if she were honest. She’d been doing that for a while now. Loving him quietly from a distance that felt safe enough not to ruin what they already had.

It wasn’t that she hadn’t noticed the way her chest tightened whenever he smiled at her, or how she always found herself angling her body toward him in rooms full of people. It wasn’t that she didn’t replay his words later at night, cataloging the way he spoke her name, soft, like it mattered, but because she knew better. If he were to notice any girl in the room, it would most definitely not be her.

Everyone noticed it too, even if no one talked about it outright. The way Spencer had looked at JJ once upon a time, hopeful and unguarded. The way he cared for her in that quiet, aching way that lingered long after the feelings were supposed to fade. Even if he’d moved on, even if time had dulled the edges, she couldn’t shake the certainty that she would always come second to a girl like that. So she never said anything. Never crossed the line. Instead, she stayed where she was, close enough to feel him, far enough not to scare him away. Tonight, though, the quiet pressed in on her chest, and she needed something human.

“What’s your sunsets like, Spence?”

The question slipped out before she could second-guess it. Spencer blinked, then rolled his head toward her, eyebrows knitting together.

“Sunsets?” She grinned, mirroring his movement and letting her head rest against the seat. “Your future. What do you want to see in ten or twenty years when you sit on your front porch as the sun sets? Wife? Kids? Dog? Cow?”

“Cow?” he echoed, incredulous.

“You know what I mean.”

He laughed, his first real laugh of the day, soft and surprised, the sound loosening something tight in her chest. “Mmm. I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” He hesitated, fingers stilling. “I think… the thing about kids is kind of weird for me. I don’t know if I’d be a good dad. I really didn’t have the best foundation for that.”

Her heart clenched. “Are you kidding me, Spence?” she said immediately, turning toward him. “I’ve seen you with Jack. That one time Hotch brought him to the office? You were incredible.”

He flushed instantly, color blooming across his cheeks. “Really?”

“Yes. You were patient and gentle, and you talked to him like he was an adult without making him feel small. I saw his eyes light up when you showed him that magic trick, could imagine your kids' eyes light up the same way.”

Spencer bit his lower lip, trying not to smile. She saw that? he thought. “I don’t know. I think I’m scared to think about things of the future.”

She softened. “Okay,” she said gently. “If you weren’t scared… how many kids would you want?”

He stared at the ceiling again, thinking hard. It takes him a minute to answer. “Six.”

Her jaw dropped. “Spence, you animal! Six?!” He laughed, covering his face with one hand. “What? You asked! And it’s not like anyone would get with me.”

Something in her chest cracked open. She looked at him in disbelief.

“Spencer Walter Reid,” she said firmly, “anyone would get with you.”

He turned away quickly, eyes fixed on the dark street outside the window. She watched the way his shoulders pulled, like he was folding himself smaller, safer.

“Anyway,” he continued, voice quieter, “I see myself with two dogs, and six kids, and a wife who wouldn’t mind me talking and reading.”

She smiled despite the ache. “That’s a nice sunset, Spence.”

He glanced at her. “How about you?”

Her breath caught. This was dangerous territory, but she answered anyway, honesty spilling out in pieces she could pretend were harmless.

“Well,” she said slowly, “I see myself in a small house in the city. I like the sound of cars and people; it makes me feel less alone. Maybe two kids. Max three.” She hesitated, then added with a small laugh, “I want a husband who’s tall, smart, kind, and handsome. So our kids would look good and be so stinking smart too.”

The words hung between them. Spencer went very still. She realized too late how closely the description matched the man sitting beside her. Tall. Brilliant. Kind to a fault. Handsome in that quiet, unassuming way, people only noticed once they stopped looking for something louder. She glanced at him. He was staring out the window, jaw tight, like he was trying to solve a problem that didn’t have an equation. Spencer thought about how beautiful that life sounded. Thought about a city house filled with noise and laughter, children running through hallways, books piled on tables, dogs at their feet. Thought, dangerously, about how natural it felt to picture himself there.

With her.

But he dismissed it just as quickly. She talked like that because she was comfortable with him, because she trusted him. After all, he was safe. She deserved someone confident. Someone who didn’t stumble over his own feelings or overthink every word. Someone like, well?

Not him.

Before he could respond, Morgan’s voice crackled through the walkie.

“Guys, it’s time to move.”

The moment shattered. She straightened, professionalism sliding back into place. As they stepped out of the car, she cast one last glance at Spencer, wondering if he’d heard what she’d really said. Maybe someday, she thought, they’d circle back to sunsets, and maybe someday, he’d realize she’d been standing in his place the whole time.

The next time they were together, it wasn’t alone in the dark of an SUV. It was loud and crowded. Spencer hated bars. He hated the sticky floors, the way strangers leaned too close, the smell of spilled alcohol and sweat clinging to the air. He hated how careless people were with their hands, with their drinks, with personal space. He’d only agreed because Morgan had insisted. After all, Penelope had promised it would be “fun,” and also because she’d be there. That part mattered more than he was willing to admit. The moment they stepped inside, she slipped away from the group with practiced ease. While Morgan and Penelope headed straight for the bar and Hotch lingered behind them, she beelined for a corner table. She didn’t think anyone noticed. She pulled wipes and a bottle of To-Go Lysol from her bag, quickly and discreetly, swiping down the tabletop, the backs of the couches, the armrests. Efficient. Thorough. Careful not to draw attention to herself.

Spencer noticed immediately.

He watched from a distance, heart doing something strange in his chest. He wondered if she was as much of a germaphobe as he was, if maybe she just hid it better, but if he was being honest, dangerously honest, he hoped she was doing it for him. The thought made his stomach bubble, warm and nervous. By the time the rest of the team arrived with drinks in hand, she’d already tucked the wipes away and settled into her seat, expression casual, like she hadn’t just quietly made the space safer. Their eyes met briefly. She smiled. He looked away too quickly.

JJ was running late. She’d texted that she had to finish a report, something about paperwork refusing to end. They all groaned, but settled in anyway, drinks clinking, conversation flowing easily. She tried to relax. She really did, but time ticked painfully slow. When JJ finally arrived, everything shifted. The door opened, and instinctively, every head turned. JJ was stunning, effortlessly so. She greeted Morgan first, then Penelope, then Hotch, then her, laughter following her like a familiar echo. Across the table, she watched Penelope nudge Spencer sharply, whispering something teasing into his ear. Morgan followed suit, grinning, eyebrows wagging in a way that made the implication painfully obvious.

"Go make your move," Morgan whispers into Spencer's ear, making him shift away uncomfortably.

She dropped her gaze immediately, ducking her head as she lifted her margarita. She drank faster than she meant to, lime biting at her tongue, the alcohol burning just enough to distract from the ache spreading through her chest. Spencer noticed that too. He frowned slightly, watching the way she suddenly went quiet, how her shoulders drew in. A thought flickered through his mind, unbidden, confusing.

Was she… jealous?

The idea made no sense. JJ wasn’t anything to him anymore. She was a friend. A colleague. Someone he cared about, yes, but not like that, and even if she were jealous—why would she be?

It wasn’t like she liked him. Right?

JJ slid into the booth beside Morgan, smiling easily, thanking them for waiting. Before Spencer could stop himself, before he could think through the implications, he stood.

“Oh—uh—here,” he said awkwardly, pulling his chair back. “You can have my seat.” He dragged another chair over, settling himself beside JJ.

Morgan howled. Penelope clapped. Even Hotch smiled, albeit small, it was amused, almost approving.

The sound hit her like a physical blow. If even Hotch liked it, she thought faintly, then maybe she never had a chance at all. She forced a laugh, joining in with the teasing, masking the sting with noise. She smiled when expected to, nodded along to the conversation, but the warmth she’d felt earlier was gone, replaced by something hollow and sharp. It didn’t take long before she stood.

“I—uh—I should probably head out,” she said lightly. “I need to wake up early tomorrow. I’m visiting my mom.”

Everyone had expressed their dissatisfaction, each one trying to convince her to stay longer, but she declined. Spencer’s head snapped toward her.

Confused, he searched her face for something, anything, that might explain the sudden shift. “Oh,” he said softly. “Okay.” She smiled at him, small and polite and distant, then waved goodbye to the rest of the team, promising rain checks and future drinks. As she walked away, Spencer’s mind snagged on the words she’d said. He remembered, too clearly, how just two days ago she’d told him her mom was in Vietnam, on a girls’ trip with her aunts. He remembered because she’d laughed when she said it, because he’d asked questions, because he always did.

He watched the door close behind her. He told himself it didn’t matter. That she was probably just tired. That he was overthinking it, as usual. Still, his chest ached. He wished so badly that he could follow her, or that she’d stayed instead.

Then came the eve of Valentine’s Day.

Garcia’s apartment was warm and loud and overflowing with pink, string lights shaped like hearts, cupcakes frosted too sweet, music playing just a little too happily. It was meant to be comforting, celebratory. A reminder that love existed in many forms. For her, it felt like walking into a room she already knew she didn’t belong in. She sat curled into the corner of the couch, drink untouched in her hand, watching as Morgan leaned far too close to Spencer, whispering something with a grin that spelled trouble. Penelope hovered nearby, eyes bright, practically vibrating with excitement.

Spencer looked overwhelmed. He kept adjusting the sleeves of his sweater, nodding along like someone being talked into something he didn’t fully understand. She felt a slow dread settle in her stomach. Morgan clapped a hand on Spencer’s shoulder and gave him a final push, literal and figurative. Before Spencer stood, before Morgan’s encouragement fully took hold, he hesitated. His gaze drifted, unconsciously, instinctively, across the room to her.

She was sitting quietly on the couch, fingers worrying at the hem of her sleeve, eyes fixed on her hands like they were the most interesting thing in the world. She hadn’t noticed Morgan’s teasing or Penelope’s barely contained excitement. She looked small in that moment. Withdrawn. Somewhere else entirely. Spencer watched her for a beat too long. A ridiculous, hopeful thought crossed his mind, that she might look up, that their eyes might meet, that she’d say something. Anything. A joke. A question. His name. Something that would give him a reason to stay exactly where he was. He wished, hoped, heck, even prayed, stupidly, that she would stop him. That she would make a scene and declare her love for him, but she didn't. In his heart, he knew she wouldn't, but he still hoped, and Spencer, who had never been good at reading the spaces between things, mistook her silence for disinterest.

So when Morgan nudged him again, when Penelope’s eyes went wide in encouragement, he swallowed his uncertainty and because Spencer Reid had never been particularly good at saying no to the people he loved, he stood. JJ was laughing at something Emily said when Spencer approached her. Her breath caught. He held out two movie tickets and a rose, one that was clearly borrowed from Garcia’s vase. It was stiff. Awkward. Rehearsed in the way things were when they weren’t born from instinct but from pressure.

“Uh—JJ,” he said, voice careful. “I was wondering if you’d maybe want to—um—go to the movies with me tomorrow?”

The room seemed to hold its breath. JJ blinked, surprised, then smiled. “Yeah, Spence. I’d like that.” Applause erupted. She watched it all happen with her own eyes, and it felt like being punched straight through the chest. Penelope wrapped her in a hug immediately, squeezing tight. “Oh my god, look at them!” she whispered excitedly. “They look so cute together, don’t you think?”

She turned to Penelope and smiled, bright, convincing, practiced. “Yeah,” she said softly. “They do.”

The words tasted like gravel in her mouth, because if she was being honest, she wished it were her instead.

Valentine’s Day came, and she spent it alone. Just her house, quiet and still, and her thoughts replaying scenes she wished she’d never seen. Spencer’s nervous smile. JJ’s surprised laugh. The way it all fits together is too neat. Her mind betrayed her, circling back to that night in the SUV. The sunset. Was JJ the wife he’d imagined? Was she the one sitting on that porch with him someday? The woman who wouldn’t mind him talking and reading? The mother of his six children? The thought was absurd.

By noon, she couldn’t stand being inside anymore. It was eating her alive to be in the four walls of her home, where all she could think about was Spencer. If she was going to wallow, she decided, she could do it properly, outside, with her favorite hot dog and an extra-large cup of boba. She deserved that much. So she pulled on a hoodie and jean shorts, grabbed her keys, and walked the ten minutes to the park near her house. She bought the food on the way, the weight of it warm and grounding in her hands. She found a bench facing the pond, ducks gliding lazily across the water, and geese honking obnoxiously at passing children. Couples walked hand in hand, laughing softly, leaning into each other like it was the easiest thing in the world. She tried not to imagine Spencer and JJ doing the same. Tried not to wonder if he’d picked her up. If they’d liked the movie. If he’d hugged her afterward. If—God—if they’d kissed. She shook her head, forcing the thoughts away.

Maybe it was time to move on. Was it ever really just a crush? Would it hurt this much if it were? She didn’t have an answer. Two o’clock slipped into three. Three into four. By five-thirty, the sun hovered low in the sky, painting the water gold. She sucked at her now-empty boba cup, fishing for the last pearls, debating whether to go home or stay and watch the sunset. It was peaceful here.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a voice she knew too well to mistake.

“This seat taken?”

Her heart stuttered. She looked up, and there he was.

The man of her just-now thoughts, and always thoughts. Spencer Reid.

He stood beside the bench like he wasn’t quite sure he was allowed to be there, hands tucked into the pockets of a soft gray sweater that read Caltech across the chest. She blinked at him, stunned, not just by his presence, but by the fact that he was wearing something that wasn’t a dress shirt or a vest. The pullover fit him in a way that made her knees weak and her heart thump loud enough she was certain he could hear it.

“Spence?” she breathed. “What are you doing here?”

He smiled, small and nervous, eyes drifting toward the pond instead of her. The sun was lowering now, turning the water molten gold. “I thought you might be,” he said quietly. “The hotdog stand’s near here, and you mentioned once you liked the ducks.”

Her throat tightened. She turned fully toward him. “Spencer… why aren’t you with JJ?”

He didn’t answer right away. He sat down beside her instead, leaving just enough space between them to feel intentional. His gaze stayed on the horizon, watching the sun sink inch by inch.

“Have I ever told you what my sunsets look like?” he asked softly, changing the topic.

She frowned, confused. “Spencer—” She tries again.

He finally looked at her then, eyes earnest, almost pleading. She stopped herself, swallowed, and nodded instead.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “Six kids. Two dogs. A wife who doesn’t mind reading and listening to you talk.”

She turned back toward the pond, afraid of what she might see on his face if she looked any longer.

“I think,” Spencer said gently, “I want to change it.”

Her breath hitched. They sat in silence for a beat, the kind that felt fragile, like it might break if either of them moved too fast.

“I told JJ I wouldn’t make it today,” he continued. “I told her the truth...that what I did wasn’t really me. That I let myself be pushed into something because I didn’t want to disappoint anyone.”

Her heart started to race.

“She told me she knew,” he said, a small smile tugging at his lips. “She said she understood. She always does.”

She stayed quiet, afraid that if she spoke, the moment would disappear.

“So,” Spencer went on, fingers fidgeting with the cuff of his sleeve, “about my sunset…”

He took a breath. “I see a small house in the city,” he said. “Somewhere loud. Somewhere alive. Two kids, maybe three. I think three, actually.” He huffed a nervous laugh. “Because the wife I have in mind is so beautiful, I might want more of her.”

Her world stopped. That wasn’t his sunset. That was hers.

She turned to him slowly, heart in her throat. “Spencer…”

"I already know she'd be okay with me reading for hours on end and my incessant talking because even without being mine, she patiently sits. Watching me, listening, with a smile. No hint of impatience or annoyance. Not even a little bit."

He finally faced her fully, eyes soft and unguarded in a way she’d never seen before. “I want you in my sunsets,” he said simply. “I always have. I just… didn’t think you wanted to be there with me.”

“I thought you wanted someone else, I thought you wanted her,” she admitted quietly.

Spencer shook his head, almost smiling at himself. “I’m not very good at knowing when someone cares about me like that,” he said. “But I’ve never felt safer with anyone than I do with you. Not anyone else, just...you.”

She laughed, trying to hide the blush taking over her entire face, and the smile forming her lips. “You’re crazy,"

“And yet,” he said gently, “here you are.”

He hesitated, then slowly reached for her hand, giving her plenty of time to pull away. She didn’t. Their fingers intertwined easily, like they’d been meant to find each other all along, like it was always meant to be together. They turned back toward the pond together, watching the sun finally dip below the horizon, painting the sky in soft pinks and golds. Ducks drifted past. Children laughed somewhere in the distance. The world kept moving, but for once, neither of them felt left behind.

Spencer squeezed her hand, just once.

“That’s a really nice sunset,” she said softly.

He smiled, warmth spreading through him. “It’s my favorite one so far.”

‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹

masterlist

[anangelseye]

thinking about..

s1!reid who despite being constantly picked on for seeming like he has no experience, indeed knows how to make you fall apart.

s2!reid who’s glasses fog up as you kiss, but he doesn’t want to take them off because he wants to see every detail of you ! his glasses are sliding down his nose bridge and his pupils are blown wide, but you wouldn’t want it any other way.

s3!reid who’s gaining more and more confidence that he starts to initiate things on his own rather frequently.. he loves it when you both loose yourself in making out that it leads to the precise motion, a dance you know the steps to perfectly, desperate for any kind of friction, for him to be as close as possible.

s4!reid who’s an absolute munch. he goes from giving you the most passionate kisses to the way his tongue ropes around you in every direction possible, in zero to sixty seconds. he has grown his hair to the point where it’s just meant for you to tug on, losing yourself in his ever so soft curls as you gradually reach your breaking point.

s5!reid who’s as upset as ever that his movements are restricted due to his knee. he walks around with his cane,hair longer than before, you just can’t help but pounce on him. riding him so carefully,slowly that you both feel each movement like a wave crashing at the most precise angle. the sounds he makes intensify the pleasure, whimpering at your every move, so filthy it drives you perfectly over the edge.

s6!reid suffers at the hands of his migraines. day by day it feels as if lasers are piercing through his forehead. you spread soft,warm kisses all over his beautiful face and genius head in hopes it might make him feel a bit at ease. missionary is your go to during such a difficult time for spencer. he’s so afraid that as he thrusts so gently, his head is buried in the crook of your neck, you’re holding him and kissing everywhere as to hopefully have the universe let you heal his pain.

hey hey everyone! i can finally lean to more consistent posting (hopefully it will stick this time lmao)

should i do a part 2 with the rest of the seasons? i hope you guys like this idea it was so fun to make

have an amazing day/night <3

[reiding-writing]

Heyy!! i was wondering if you could perchance do a drabble with dad!spencer and mom!bau!reader where they've gotten into the rhythm of calling each other mommy and daddy in front of the kids and one of them accidentally slips up and does it work without realising. And then the team is like "hold on 🤨" (probably morgan) and they have to defend themselves. Just something i've been thinking about and i don't have the artistic ability to right it myself but you do! Thank youuuu! xxx

SLIP UP. /spencer reid/

your at-home naming habits find their way into the office.

bau!mom!reader 1.1k fluff masterlist.

a/n | this is so funny i love it.

The bullpen hums with its usual energy—phones ringing, keyboards clacking, conversations weaving through the space.

It’s late, and exhaustion weighs on everyone like a heavy fog. Cases have been stacking up, the paperwork never-ending, and you’re all running on caffeine and whatever sugar-laden snack Garcia has left in the breakroom.

You and Spencer, despite being used to sleepless nights—courtesy of two small children at home—are still feeling the burn.

Parenting while profiling is a delicate balance, and some days, it feels like you barely hold it together. But you've found ways to cope, to slip into a rhythm that works.

Spencer leans over his desk, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he scans a report. His hair is slightly disheveled—likely from running his hands through it—and his tie is loosened, his sleeves rolled up. He looks exactly how you feel, drained.

You, seated across from him, are going through another file when you sigh and reach for the next document. “Pass Mommy the file, please,”

The moment the words leave your mouth, the bullpen stills. For a brief second, no one reacts. Not even Spencer, who doesn’t hesitate to slide the file over to you, his tired brain not even registering what just happened.

But then—

“Hold on, what?”

Your head snaps up so fast you nearly give yourself whiplash. Across the table, Morgan is staring at you with wide eyes, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across his face. JJ’s eyebrows are raised nearly to her hairline, and even Rossi has paused his paperwork, looking mildly amused.

Hotch looks like he’s trying very hard not to react.

You glance at Spencer, who is blinking rapidly, his brain trying to catch up with what just happened.

And then, it hits you.

“Oh my God.” Your stomach drops. Heat rushes to your face. “I didn’t mean—”

Morgan leans forward, elbows on the table, his smirk growing. “Did you just refer to yourself as Mommy?”

Spencer makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat. “It’s— It’s not—”

“Because I swear I just heard that,” Morgan continues, clearly enjoying himself.

JJ covers her mouth, eyes twinkling with suppressed laughter.

You groan, dropping your face into your hands. “It’s not what you think,”

“Oh, I think it’s exactly what I think.” Morgan chuckles, leaning back in his chair. “Reid, you calling her Mommy at home?”

Spencer makes another choked noise, shaking his head furiously. “No! I mean— yes, but not like that!”

JJ snorts, and even Hotch finally cracks, pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s debating whether or not to intervene.

You lift your head, groaning again. “We have two kids under four. There’s a lot of third-person referencing, okay?”

Morgan raises an eyebrow, amused.

Spencer, still red-faced, starts rambling. “It’s a psychological phenomenon, actually. When individuals—particularly parents—are frequently addressed in a particular way, their brains develop an associative response, reinforcing the use of the terms even in situations outside the expected context. It’s entirely innocent. Just an unconscious linguistic habit.”

Morgan whistles low. “Damn, Pretty Boy. You really just tried to profile your way out of calling your wife ‘Mommy’ in front of us,”

Spencer groans, burying his face in his hands.

Your face feels impossibly warm. “We’re tired, Morgan. We haven’t had a full night’s sleep in—” You glance at Spencer. “How long has it been?”

“Three years, three months, and sixteen days,” he answers automatically.

Morgan lets out a low whistle. “Damn,”

Emily places a hand over her heart. “That’s actually kind of adorable,”

Garcia practically vibrates with excitement. “This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I need to hear more,”

“There’s nothing more to hear,” Spencer says, shaking his head quickly. “It’s just a habit. Strictly innocent,”

“Oh, we believe you,” Rossi says, the corners of his mouth twitching. “That doesn’t mean we’re going to let it go,”

“Not a chance,” Morgan agrees.

You groan, dropping your head into your hands. “This is never going away, is it?”

“Nope,” JJ says cheerfully.

Spencer sighs, rubbing his temples. “Great.”

And just like that, the teasing begins.

For the rest of the day—and likely for weeks to come—you hear variations of:

“Daddy, can you pass me that report?” from Emily.

“I don’t know, Mommy, what do you think?” from Morgan.

Garcia, of course, takes it the farthest, occasionally referring to you both as “Mommy and Daddy dearest,” complete with exaggerated winks.

By the time you make it home that evening, you collapse onto the couch with a groan, Spencer falling beside you.

“I’m never going to live this down,” you mumble.

“At least they think it’s funny,” Spencer says, leaning his head back against the cushions.

You sigh. “This is your fault,”

He turns his head to look at you, eyebrows raised. “My fault?”

“You didn’t even hesitate when I said it. You just handed me the file like it was totally normal,”

His lips twitch. “To be fair, it is normal,”

You nudge him with your foot. “Not at work, it isn’t,”

He chuckles, then tilts his head, considering. “Maybe if we just… pretend it never happened, they’ll drop it,”

You snort. “You really think that’s going to work?”

“…No,”

“Exactly.” You groan again, rubbing your hands over your face. “I’m never going to hear the end of this,”

Spencer smiles softly, reaching over to squeeze your hand. “At least we’re in it together, Mommy,”

You open your eyes just to glare at him. “You better not start doing that on purpose,”

He presses his lips together, trying to suppress a grin.

“Spencer,” you warn.

His grin widens. “Yes, Mommy?”

You grab a throw pillow and smack him with it, and his laughter fills the room, warm and familiar.

Exhausted as you both are, you wouldn’t trade this—your life, your family, the teasing from your team—for anything in the world.

[reiding-writing]

hey!!! i have a request for a fluff fic. it's based off of the episode "double babysitter" from bluey (you dont have to watch it but u can for inspo!) where hotch/jj accidentally invites both you and spencer to babysit their kid(s) and you and spencer bond over babysitting. i just love domestic!spencer. preferably fem or gn reader, but everything else is up to you :)

DOUBLE BOOKED [ONESHOT]

/ˈdʌbəɫ bʊkt/

Hotch was finally getting back into the dating scene after some convincing from you and Garcia, that meant he needed a babysitter for Jack. Hotch had asked you himself, whilst Garcia, under the impression that Hotch hadn’t thought that far ahead, asked Spencer. Looks like Jack had two sitters for the evening.

WARNINGS: n/a

spencer reid x gn!reader || fluff || 2.7k || masterlist!!

a/n: so i didn't have the time to watch the episode beforehand (sorry) so i kinda just went with the flow for this one, hope you enjoy :)

Hotch was finally taking a break, and to go on a date no less.

It took you and Garcia almost three days of constant hounding before he agreed, and even after he did he kept bringing up excuses as to why he wouldn’t be able to make it.

He had files to finish, he had meetings to attend, he didn’t have a babysitter for Jack, they might be called into a case.

Anything that could possibly be used as a way to get out of going to this dinner was spewed out of Hotch’s mouth at some point or other, but it didn’t have any hold against Garcia’s persistence for him getting back out in the dating game and your persistence for him to get out of the office for an evening.

You’d recruited almost everyone in the office to help clear absolutely everything on Hotch’s schedule to ensure that his date would proceed unhindered.

Your job was one of the most hands-on.

“Hey little man,” You give Jack a smile as he opens the door to the Hotchner residence at your knocking, a smile that he enthusiastically returns with a small wave.

“Jack, what’ve I told you about opening the door to strangers?” Hotch round the corner almost immediately as the door clicks open.

“But-“

“Wow.” You interrupt Jack’s explanation with a wide-eyed expression at Hotch’s appearance.“Are you going to a date or a funeral?”

He forgets about scolding Jack for a second. “I look perfectly fine,” He furrows his eyebrows slightly.

“You look like someone’s just died,” You press your lips together into a line as you scoot Jack back into the hallway, closing the door behind you as you follow in after him. “I mean who on earth wears a full black suit to a first date?”

His face only proved to furrow further at your words, leaving you to sigh exasperatedly.

“At least lose the tie,”

“Your attitude is very out of line Agent,” He does as you ask anyway, loosening his tie and pulling it over his head before taking a glance at himself in the hallway mirror.

“We’re off the clock Sir,” You return his snark fervently. “Undo the collar of your shirt, you look ten years older than you actually are with it buttoned up like that,”

“You are very capable of making suggestions about my clothes without insulting me in the process,” Hotch undoes his collar with a sigh. As much as he likes to be dismissive, you were right in your suggestion that the tie and collar made him look too formal.

This was supposed to be a fun evening, not a boring business meeting.

“You’re nervous, I get it, but you’ll be fine,” You bend down to take Jack in your arms as he tugs on your sleeve. “Your dad looks much better now doesn’t he Jack?”

The boy nods enthusiastically with a thumbs up, and it forces a small smile to break through Hotch’s stony façade. “Using my son against me isn’t fair either,”

“Hush, you’ve got to get going before your late and all of this effort is for naught,” You open the front door again with Jack still resting on your hip, practically pushing Hotch out of the door of his own house.

“I don’t have to be there for another thirty-five minutes-”

“Buy her some flowers on your way there,” You continue to guide him to turn away from you towards his car, giving his back a small push in its direction. “Wish your dad good luck little man,”

“Good luck daddy! Have lots of fun!” Jack waves enthusiastically from your arms, smiling widely as Hotch turns around to face the two of you once more with an exasperated sigh.

“Thanks buddy, i’ll be home soon,” Despite his mild annoyance at your pushing, he can’t help but smile at Jack’s positiveness. “Behave okay?”

Jack gives a determined nod and a double thumbs up. “I love you daddy,”

“I love you too bud, see you later,”

You shoot him a “Good luck!” as he climbs in his car, one that he acknowledges with a dismissive wave of his hand before he drives off, leaving you and Jack with no company but each other.

“Can we have pizza for dinner?” You laugh at Jack’s question as you watch Hotch’s car pull out of the driveway, turning your attention to the boy in your arms.

“We can definitely have pizza for dinner,”

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

It’s less than five minutes before there’s a knock on the door, and you prepare yourself to give Hotch a half-insulting pep-talk about the fact that his date is going to be fine and there was no way he should cancel it last minute because he got cold feet on the way there.

“Hotch come on-” You’ve already begun by the time you open the front door, and your train of thought is immediately de-railed at the sight of Spencer Reid at the door. “Oh- Spencer- I- What are you doing here?”

He looked just as surprised to see you.

“I- Uh- Garcia said that Hotch needed a babysitter for 7?” Spencer flashes his watch in your direction and lo and behold it’s seven pm on the dot.

“Ah,” You can't help but laugh at the mix-up, shaking your head. "A classic mix-up, feels like one of those cheesy movies don’t you think?"

“She asked you too?” Spencer gives you a sheepish smile, adjusting his bag on his shoulder.

“No,” You shake your head softly with a small laugh. “Hotch did, looks like Penny got a little in over her head with the organising,”

“Yeah,” Spencer pulls his lips into a line, shifting his balance on the balls of his feet. “I uh- I guess i’ll be going then,”

“No no don’t be silly,” You shrug off Spencer’s awkwardness with a smile, stepping aside to let him in, "The more the merrier. Come in, me and Jack have just ordered pizza,"

As if on cue, Jack comes bounding out of the living room, his eyes lighting up when he sees Spencer, "Spencer! Are you staying too?"

Spencer crouches down to Jack's level, giving him a friendly pat on the head with a smile, "It looks like it, Jack. You ready for a fun night with us?" He always was good with kids.

Jack nods eagerly, already pulling Spencer by the hand towards the living room, chattering away about the new toy he got. You watch them disappear down the hall, a smile on your face. It was going to be an interesting night, to say the least.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Interesting was right.

Pizza was always a good go to if you didn’t want to cook, but one thing about looking after a six year old is they can forget that hand food can be messy.

“Jack careful-” Spencer extends his hand over Jack’s lap to try and catch the sliding cheese from his pizza before it hits his lap. He’s half successful, but it still ends up leaving a red blotch on Jack’s spiderman pyjamas nonetheless.

“Oh no!” Jack looks down at his lap wide-eyed, half a slice of pizza still held in his hands.

You laugh shortly at the sight, “Maybe we should get you a plate little man,”

Spencer follows you into the kitchen to rinse his hands and search Hotch’s kitchen for something to wipe Jack’s pyjamas with as you arm yourself up with three plates rather than having you all eat straight from the box.

After the pizza incident, you all move to the couch, settling down with a bowl of popcorn and picking a movie that Jack would enjoy. Spencer ends up narrating half the movie, filling in the scientific facts behind the animated characters' adventures, while you and Jack listen, interrupted occasionally by Jack wanting further clarification on the things Spencer explains.

It was probably the most you’d ever heard him talk in one sitting, enthusiastically over-explaining everything Jack asks about with a small glint in his eyes that makes you forget that you’re just playing house.

By the time the movie ends, Jack is almost asleep, nestled in the crook of Spencer's arm with half-lidded eyes and the occasional yawn. You share a soft smile with Spencer at Jack’s expression, both of you appreciating the quiet moment now that his seemingly endless supply of energy has finally dwindled.

You help Spencer carry Jack to his bedroom, tucking him in and whispering soft “goodnight,”s. Back in the living room, the two of you clean up the remnants of your movie night, the atmosphere comfortable and warm.

“So, what should we do now then?” You glance at the clock as you fold up the empty cardboard pizza box, it was just past 10PM now, seemed like Hotch was having a good time considering he hadn’t even messaged either of you to indicate when he was coming home.

“I uh- I’m not actually sure-” Spencer’s awkwardness seems to return now that he doesn’t have Jack as a buffer for his inherent lack of social grace, and he keeps his eyes firmly locked on the coffee table as he wipes it down.

“Didn’t a new episode of Doctor Who air tonight?”

Spencer finally turns his gaze up to you at the mention of the show. He didn’t know you kept up with Doctor Who. “Uh yeah- it’s on in about..” He turns his eyes down to his watch momentarily. “Seven minutes?”

“Well there we go then,” You round the corner into the kitchen with your voice slightly raised so that he can still hear you. “We can watch the new episode of Doctor Who and by the time it’s finished hopefully Hotch should be back so we can actually go home and sleep for our 7AM start tomorrow,”

A small smile breaks onto his face, both at your suggestion and at your very apparent distaste for the early start you had to endure tomorrow. “I didn’t know you watched Doctor Who,”

“I don’t really-” You shrug your shoulders slightly, a half-guilty expression on your face as you re-enter the living room. “I watched a few episodes after you kept mentioning it in the office,”

“Oh-” Spencer blinks at you in surprise at your confession, watching as you take a seat on the couch with your legs crossed underneath you. “Well uh- What did you think?”

“It’s pretty interesting,” Spencer practically lights up at your statement, taking a seat beside you with the TV remote in hand, making sure to leave a few inches of a gap between yourselves as he flicks through the channels. “I like the way they explained the time travel aspect,”

“Mhm,” Spencer nods enthusiastically at your statement, leaving the remote on the coffee table once he’s found the correct channel and half turning in your direction. “Actually, the way that the time travel is explained in Doctor is very accurate to how it would be in real life, with real scientific backing that several astrophysicists have agreed on,”

This was going to be a long episode.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

A sharp clearing of somebody’s throat jolts you from the light sleep you’d found yourself in, and as you attempt to sit up straight you bash your head into something, hard.

“Ah-” Spencer clutches both hands to his jaw, cupped under his chin as he tries to massage away the pain that was suddenly shooting up the side of his face and waking him up in the process.

“Sleep well did you?” Hotch looked down at the two of you with a raised eyebrow, just barely concealing the amusement on his face as he watched the two of you untangle yourselves to regain some space between each other, looking like a pair of teenagers getting caught doing something they shouldn’t be.

“Hotch- Welcome home, how was your date?” You rub your eyes quickly as you try to deflect the situation.

“It was fine,” He turns his narrowed gaze from you to Spencer with all of the conviction of an overprotective father. “How was yours?”

Spencer almost chokes on his own saliva at the question, and it’s enough for the corners of Hotch’s mouth to turn up ever so slightly. “It wasn’t- We weren’t-”

Hotch holds up his hand as a silent instruction for Spencer to stop talking, and he shuts up immediately, lips pressed taut into a line. “I didn’t know I arranged two sitters,”

“Penny, you how overeager she is,” You give your (mostly valid) excuse with a guilty smile, brushing out the non-existent wrinkles in your jeans. “Spencer turned up like five minutes after you left and we’d already ordered food so it didn’t feel right to just send him off-”

Hotch's expression softens slightly, though the amusement in his eyes doesn't fade. "Well, I appreciate the effort. And it looks like Jack had a good time." He nods towards Jack's bedroom, where soft snores can be heard through the cracked door.

"Yeah, he's out like a light," you say, relieved that the evening went smoothly despite the unexpected turn of events.

Hotch glances between you and Spencer, his lips twitching as if he's fighting back a smile. "Well, I'll leave you two to it then. Thanks for looking after Jack." With that, he leaves the two of you in the living room to vacate to his kitchen, presumably to make himself a cup of coffee despite how late it was.

There's a moment of awkward silence before Spencer speaks up, his cheeks tinged with pink. "I should probably go. It's getting late."

You nod in agreement, though a part of you wishes he would stay a bit longer. "Yeah same here, probably for the best. Thanks for keeping me company tonight, Spencer. It was...unexpected, but nice."

Spencer offers you a small smile, his eyes warm. "Anytime. And hey uh, if you ever want to watch another episode of Doctor Who or... anything else, just let me know."

You return his smile, feeling a warmth spread through you at his offer. "I'll keep that in mind. Goodnight, Spencer."

"Goodnight" He mutters your name softly with a final nod, gathering his things and heading towards the door, leaving you alone to do the same as you call out a final “See you in the office,” in Hotch’s direction before leaving yourself to drive back to your apartment with the memory of the evening etched in your mind.

You can't help but think that despite the initial mix-up, the night turned out to be quite enjoyable, and if Spencer’s offer had anything to say, you might be engaging in more nights like this soon, without having to look after a kid in the process.

Score.

[reiding-writing]

i'm not sure if requests are open but please disregard this if it isn't SJSJSJSJ

i'd like to request a spencer x single mom!bau reader where she took her baby to quantico and the kid wouldn't leave spencer's side but reader and spencer aren't dating but he likes her???? <3

LOCKDOWN. /spencer reid/

how do you navigate a total lockdown with a toddler that hates change? with a whole lot of help.

single mom!reader fluff 8.5k masterlist.

AN | one day late is close enough-

You’re standing with your arms folded, eyes fixed on the board, trying to force patterns to emerge through sheer will alone.

It’s been three days. Too many near-misses. Too many dead ends.

Hotch clears his throat. The sound cuts through the room with surgical precision.

“We need to reconsider victimology,” he says, voice level but tight around the edges. “Up until now, we’ve assumed convenience.”

You glance over, already frowning. “But there’s nothing convenient about these locations. They’re spread too far apart. Different jurisdictions, different routines.”

“That’s what didn’t sit right with me,” Garcia chimes in from behind her laptop, fingers hovering uselessly above her keyboard. “I’ve been cross-referencing work histories and… well. There’s a common thread,”

Everyone turns.

She swallows, suddenly less playful. “They’re all federal employees. Not all agents—but all connected to the Bureau in some capacity. Analysts. Support staff. One retired agent,”

The air shifts. You feel it in your chest, the way you always do when a case stops being abstract and starts becoming personal.

Morgan exhales sharply. “You’re saying the unsub is after FBI employees specifically?”

The room goes very quiet.

Spencer, who’s been standing near the edge of the group with his arms folded tight to his chest, speaks up, voice measured but strained. “Targeting FBI agents would indicate a grievance-based offender. Possibly someone with prior contact—disciplinary action, perceived injustice, or delusional belief of persecution,”

“Revenge,” Rossi mutters. “That’s never good,”

Your stomach twists. You think of badge numbers and names, of routines you know too well. Of desks left empty. And then, your mind jumps tracks entirely—to the small, soft weight that had been sprawled across your chest when you’d left the house that morning, warm and sleepy and blissfully unaware.

Hotch is already moving. “Until we know more, we’re initiating lockdown procedures at Quantico.”

You straighten. “Lockdown?”

“No agents leave the grounds. No non-essential personnel enter,” he continues. “Immediate family members are to remain on-site for their safety.”

You open your mouth, then close it again, jaw tightening. “My son—”

“You can bring him here,” Hotch says, not unkindly. “I’ll be doing the same with Jack. This isn’t negotiable.”

You nod, because you understand. Because you’d make the same call. Because inconvenience and overstimulation are a small price to pay compared to a body bag.

Still, your chest aches.

—

Traffic crawls, taunting you, every red light another minute Percy gets closer to waking up fully. He’s already half-stirring in the back seat, a low, unhappy whine curling out of him like smoke.

“Mama?” he mumbles.

“I’m here, sweetheart,” you say quickly, glancing at him in the rear-view mirror. His hair is flattened on one side, curls going wild on the other, cheeks flushed with sleep. “We’re driving, I picked you up from dad’s house whilst you were sleeping,”

“Going home?” His eyes blink open, confused. “Bed?”

“Not yet,” you admit softly. You hate that part. “We have to go to mama’s work for a little while,”

His face crumples instantly. “No.”

You sigh, already tired to your bones. “I know. I know, sweetheart,”

By the time you’re wrestling duffle bags out of the trunk and herding a fully awake, fully furious four-year-old into shoes, Percy’s mood has deteriorated from disgruntled to apocalyptic. He refuses the coat you hold out, flops dramatically onto the sofa when you try to get him dressed, and dissolves into tears when you mention leaving again.

You’d packed on autopilot. Pyjamas. Favourite dinosaur jumper. Snacks. The stuffed rabbit with the missing eye that he refuses to sleep without. Two duffle bags because one is never enough, and because experience has taught you that forgetting one small, stupid thing will somehow become the end of the world.

“I don’t wanna go. I don’t like your work. It’s loud.”

“I know,” you murmur, kneeling to tug his shoes on before he escapes his car seat. “I know it is,”

“You said today was park day.”

Guilt bites hard. “I’ll make it up to you. I promise,”

He doesn’t believe you. He never does when the promise involves maybes.

By the time you actually make it out of the car, dusk is bleeding into night, and Percy has worked himself into such a state that his crying has gone hoarse and quiet, like his body is running out of fuel. You haul the duffle bags over your shoulders, one strap digging painfully into your collarbone, Percy clinging to your leg like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

The guard at the gate gives you a sympathetic look as he waves you through.

Inside, the building feels harsher than usual. Brighter. Louder. Footsteps echo. Radios crackle. People move with urgency, purpose sharp enough to cut.

Percy freezes the moment you step fully inside.

His fingers tighten painfully around your hand.

“No,” he whispers, voice trembling. “Mama, no.”

“I’ve got you,” you say, immediately crouching down to his level despite the weight dragging at your shoulders. “I’m right here,”

But it’s too much. The lights. The unfamiliar faces. The noise that never quite stops. His breath starts coming too fast, little hiccuping sobs wracking his body as he presses his face into your leg.

Heads turn. Some soften. Some don’t know what to do.

You feel like you’re failing him in slow motion.

“Hey,” JJ says gently, appearing at your side. “This must be Percy,”

You manage a weak smile. “In all his glory,”

“He’s bigger than I expected,” she says, crouching a little, careful not to crowd him.

From across the room, Rossi watches with a fond sort of curiosity. Garcia waves enthusiastically, then seems to think better of it when Percy wails louder at the sudden movement. Morgan offers you a grin that’s meant to be reassuring but doesn’t quite land.

And then there’s Spencer.

He’s standing slightly apart, as he often does, hands fidgeting at the sleeves of his cardigan. He’d heard about your son, of course—heard the stories in passing, the offhand mentions of childcare logistics and emergency pick-ups—but seeing Percy in the flesh is something else entirely.

He stares.

Not rudely. Not intentionally. Just… openly stunned.

Because the resemblance is undeniable.

Percy lifts his head just enough to glare at the room through watery eyes, bottom lip wobbling, and for one strange, suspended moment, Spencer feels like he’s looking at you—shrunk down, softened around the edges, all the same expressions copied and pasted wholesale.

The same furrow between the brows. The same stubborn set of the jaw. Even the way his nose wrinkles when he cries.

It’s uncanny.

It’s like you performed mitosis and Percy came out the other side.

Spencer’s chest tightens painfully.

For half a heartbeat—a dangerous, traitorous half-second—his mind goes somewhere it has no right to go. To a version of reality that never existed. To a life where that resemblance might mean something else entirely.

And then reality snaps back into place, sharp and unforgiving.

Not his. Never was.

He swallows hard, forcing his gaze away just as Percy lets out another heartbroken sob.

You scoop your son up despite the awkwardness, despite the bags sliding off your shoulders. He wraps himself around you instantly, arms and legs locking tight, face buried in your neck.

“I don’t wanna be here,” he cries. “I wanna go home.”

“I know, baby,” you whisper, pressing your lips into his hair. “I know, I’m sorry,”

Spencer watches you hold him, watches the way your body shifts automatically to support his weight, the way your hand rubs slow circles into his back without you even thinking about it. There’s something achingly intimate about it. Something that makes his chest feel too small for his heart.

Hotch steps in to direct you towards a quieter corridor, but Percy’s crying doesn’t stop. If anything, it ramps up, distress feeding on itself, the unfamiliarity pressing in from all sides.

You feel eyes on you. Feel the pressure of being both an agent and a mother, both expected to cope flawlessly.

Spencer hesitates. Then, quietly, he steps forward.

“I—um,” he starts, voice softer than usual. “If you’d like… I could try to help?”

You look at him, surprised. Really look. He looks nervous, hands clenched, eyes flicking between you and Percy with careful consideration.

“That’s very kind,” you say honestly, “but he really hates new people,”

Spencer nods, as if he’d expected that. “I know. I just—sometimes children respond better to someone who isn’t… emotionally charged,”

You huff a weak, humourless laugh. “You’re saying I’m making it worse,”

“I’m saying,” he corrects gently, “that you’re his safe place, and that means he’s allowed to be emotional around you,”

Something in your expression softens. You hesitate, just for a second.

Percy peeks over your shoulder, eyes red and suspicious, and stares at Spencer like he’s trying to decide whether he’s a threat or merely an inconvenience.

Spencer crouches slightly, keeping his distance. “Hi,” he says, simply.

Percy says nothing. He presses his face back into your neck.

“I’m Spencer,” he continues, unperturbed. “It’s very nice to meet you, Percy,”

There’s a pause. Then, in a tiny, furious voice muffled by your jumper, Percy declares, “I don’t like it here.”

Spencer nods solemnly. “That’s fair. New places can be very overwhelming,”

Percy still doesn’t look at him, but his sobs quiet, just a little.

Spencer doesn’t rush it.

He stays exactly where he is—crouched, a careful distance away, hands loose at his sides as if any sudden movement might spook Percy beyond repair. The crying has ebbed into something quieter but no less intense, those sharp little breaths catching in Percy’s chest every few seconds like he can’t quite remember how to breathe properly.

You’re still holding him, arms starting to ache, shoulder burning where the strap of the duffle bag digs in.

“I can take one of those,” Spencer says softly, nodding at the bags.

You blink. “Oh—no, it’s fine, I—”

“I really don’t mind,” he adds quickly. “And it might… help. Sometimes reducing sensory input can make transitions easier,”

You hesitate, then sigh. “Right. Yes. Thank you,”

He takes one of the duffle bags from you with careful hands, as though it might be fragile, and slings it over his shoulder. The gesture is so gentle, so earnestly practical, that something in your chest loosens despite yourself.

Percy remains unconvinced.

He keeps his face buried in your neck, fingers fisted tight in your jumper, but his sobs are quieter now—more exhausted than panicked. You feel the way his body trembles with every breath.

Spencer watches closely, mind ticking away, cataloguing signs the way he always does. Overstimulation. Fatigue. Loss of routine. He’s read the studies, memorised the developmental psychology, but standing here, confronted with a very real, very distraught four-year-old, theory feels woefully inadequate.

Still, he tries.

“Percy,” he says gently, keeping his voice low, steady. “Can I tell you something interesting?”

Percy does not respond.

“That’s okay,” Spencer continues, unfazed. “You don’t have to answer. You can just listen if you want,”

You shift your grip slightly, adjusting Percy on your hip. He whimpers but doesn’t protest.

Spencer glances up at you briefly, as if asking permission without quite saying it. You nod, small and grateful.

“When people feel overwhelmed,” he goes on, “it’s often because their brains are trying to process too much information at once. Lights, sounds, new faces—it’s a lot of data,”

Percy sniffs.

“One thing that can help is focusing on one thing. Something that doesn’t change.”

He pauses, thinking. Then: “Did you know that octopuses have three hearts?”

There’s a beat.

Percy’s grip on you loosens, just a fraction.

Spencer keeps going, encouraged. “Two of them pump blood to the gills, and the third pumps it to the rest of the body. Which is actually why they’re so intelligent—they have excellent oxygen distribution.”

Percy lifts his head slightly.

“Three hearts?” he croaks, voice wrecked.

“Yes,” Spencer says, immediately softening. “And blue blood.”

“Blue?” Percy repeats, suspicious.

“Mhm. Because it’s copper-based instead of iron-based,”

You feel Percy shift, turning just enough to peer at Spencer through swollen eyes. His lashes are clumped together with tears, cheeks blotchy and flushed. He looks furious and fragile in equal measure.

Spencer’s heart gives an uncomfortable little lurch.

“There are also frogs,” Spencer adds carefully, “that can freeze solid in the winter and then thaw out again in the spring,”

Percy frowns. “They’d be cold,”

“Extremely,” Spencer agrees. “But they produce a kind of natural antifreeze that protects their cells,”

Percy considers this, thumb creeping into his mouth without realising. His breathing starts to slow, the hitching sobs fading into uneven but manageable breaths.

Spencer straightens a little, still careful not to crowd him. “We can go somewhere quieter,” he suggests. “There’s a small office near the conference room. Less noise. Fewer lights,”

Percy looks up at you then, eyes wide. “You coming?”

“Of course,” you say instantly. “I’m not going anywhere,”

That seems to satisfy him—for now.

The walk down the corridor feels longer than it is, Percy clinging to you like a koala, head heavy against your shoulder. Spencer walks just ahead, opening doors, glancing back to make sure you’re still there. The building seems to quiet as you move away from the bullpen, the noise fading into a distant hum.

The office is small but mercifully dim, a single desk, a chair, a low lamp casting warm light instead of harsh fluorescents. Spencer flicks the overhead lights off immediately.

“Better?” he asks.

Percy nods faintly.

You ease down into the chair, Percy still in your lap, his body slackening now that the worst of the panic has passed. He’s so tired it borders on painful to watch.

Spencer hovers awkwardly for a moment. “I can… keep talking, if you think it’ll help,”

You smile weakly. “I think he likes your facts,”

Spencer’s ears go pink.

He resumes, voice soft and rhythmic, facts spilling out in a gentle stream—about stars that are bigger than the sun, about ants that farm aphids, about how wombats have cube-shaped poo. Percy lets out a weak, surprised giggle at that one, the sound startling in the quiet room.

“Why?” Percy murmurs.

Spencer’s eyes light up. “Ah. That’s actually because—”

You watch them, something warm and unfamiliar blooming in your chest. Percy’s breathing evens out, eyelids drooping, thumb still tucked firmly in his mouth. Spencer’s voice never wavers, never rushes, filling the space with something steady and safe.

Eventually, Percy’s grip on your jumper slackens entirely.

He’s asleep.

Properly, deeply asleep.

You don’t move for a long moment, scarcely daring to breathe. Percy’s weight is heavy and comforting, his small body warm against yours. His face is relaxed now, mouth slightly open, lashes resting dark against his cheeks.

Spencer notices first.

“Oh,” he whispers, reverent. “He’s out,”

You nod, throat tight. “Thank you,” you murmur. “I don’t—he doesn’t usually… thank you,”

Spencer shakes his head quickly. “It was nothing. Truly,”

It doesn’t feel like nothing to you.

Carefully, slowly, you manoeuvre Percy off your lap and onto the small sofa tucked against the wall. He stirs briefly, frowning, then settles again when you tuck his rabbit under his arm.

You straighten, joints protesting quietly, and turn back to Spencer. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate that.”

“I’m glad I could help,” he says, earnest to the point of painful. “He’s… a remarkable child,”

You smile, tired and fond. “He gets that from me,”

Spencer huffs a quiet laugh before he can stop himself.

You both glance at Percy, asleep and blissfully unaware.

“We should get back,” you say reluctantly. “The case won’t solve itself,”

You leave the office with a lighter step than you arrived, heart still aching but soothed by the knowledge that Percy is safe and resting.

—

Percy wakes disoriented, rabbit half-slipped from his grasp, the room unfamiliar in that hazy, post-nap way that turns everything slightly unreal. For a moment, he just lies there, blinking up at the ceiling, trying to orient himself.

“Mama?” he calls softly.

No answer.

He pushes himself upright, confusion knitting his brows together. The chair where you’d been sitting is empty. The room feels too quiet. Too still.

“Mama?” Louder this time.

Still nothing.

The panic blooms fast and brutal, the way it always does with children that age—no gradual rise, no logic to temper it. Just a sharp, terrifying certainty that something has gone wrong.

That he’s been left.

He slides off the sofa, feet hitting the floor with a soft thump, and pads towards the door. It’s ajar, light spilling in from the corridor beyond. He hesitates only a second before pushing it open and stepping out.

The corridor is big. Bigger than it was before.

People move past him, tall legs and unfamiliar shoes, voices echoing in ways he doesn’t understand. He turns in a slow circle, chest starting to hitch.

“Mama?” His voice wobbles.

No one answers.

He spots the conference room next, glass walls revealing familiar faces inside. Relief surges—surely you’ll be there.

He pushes the door open and stumbles in.

The room goes silent.

Everyone turns at once.

Percy scans the table desperately, eyes skimming over Hotch, JJ, Morgan, Rossi, Garcia—faces he barely recognises—until the realisation hits him square in the chest.

You’re not there.

His face crumples.

The sound that comes out of him is raw and immediate, a wail ripped straight from his chest, loud enough to make more than one agent flinch.

He bolts forward, hands grabbing at the nearest chair, then another, sobs shaking his entire body. “Mama—Mama, where are you? You left me! You left me!”

Hotch is on his feet instantly.

“Hey,” he says gently, rounding the table, hands up in what he hopes is a calming gesture. “Percy, right? I’m Aaron. Your mom’s just stepped out, that’s all.”

Percy doesn’t hear him.

He’s crying too hard, breath coming in sharp, panicked gasps that don’t seem to be doing much good. Tears streak down his face unchecked as he backs away from Hotch, shaking his head violently.

“No! No, she’s gone! She’s gone forever!”

Garcia’s hand flies to her mouth. JJ looks stricken. Morgan mutters something under his breath that sounds a lot like shit.

Hotch crouches down, trying again, voice softer now. “Percy, listen to me. She’ll be back. She didn’t leave you.”

“You’re lying!” Percy screams, voice cracking. “You’re not my mama!”

Hotch winces—not because he’s offended, but because he knows that tone. Knows that look. Jack had cried like that once, years ago, after Hotch been called into office overnight for a case. He remembers the way Haley called him just so Jack could be reassured that he hadn’t been abandoned.

This is different, though. Percy isn’t Jack, and Hotch doesn’t know what to do.

Hotch reaches out carefully. Percy slaps his hand away with surprising force.

“No!” He scrambles backwards, nearly tripping over a chair leg. “I want my mama!”

No one quite knows what to do.

JJ looks helpless. Garcia looks ready to cry. Rossi rubs a hand over his face, clearly out of his depth. Morgan glances towards the door, clearly considering going to find you, but Percy’s distress has escalated too quickly to leave unattended.

The screaming ramps up, loud and relentless, words dissolving into sobs.

And then—

“Percy.”

Spencer’s voice cuts through the noise like a blade through water.

Percy turns, startled by the sound of someone saying his name like that—someone safe.

Spencer stands in the doorway, breath slightly uneven, eyes wide but focused. He takes in the scene in a split second: Percy in full meltdown, the team frozen, Hotch halfway to kneeling and clearly at a loss.

Spencer doesn’t hesitate.

He steps into the room and crouches immediately, bringing himself down to Percy’s level but staying well out of arm’s reach.

“Hey,” he says gently. “I was looking for you,”

Percy hiccups violently, eyes locking onto him. “She—she’s gone again,”

“I know it feels like that,” Spencer says quietly. “But she isn’t. She just stepped out for a moment. She’ll be back very soon,”

Percy shakes his head, sobbing harder. “But—what if she stays away forever?”

The question lands heavy and awful in the room.

Spencer swallows.

He doesn’t lie, instead, he reaches slowly into the pocket of his cardigan.

“I was going to save this,” he says conversationally, “but I think now might be a good time,”

He pulls out a chocolate bar.

Percy stares at it through his tears, confusion briefly cutting through the panic.

“Chocolate?” he sniffles.

“Yes,” Spencer says solemnly. “It’s scientifically proven to help in high-stress situations,”

That gets a weak, hiccupping laugh out of Garcia despite herself.

Percy takes a hesitant step forward.

Spencer holds the bar out but doesn’t push it into Percy’s hands. “If you want some, you can come and get it. No pressure,”

Percy hesitates, glancing back towards the door as if expecting you to appear at any second. When you don’t, his lower lip trembles again—but he shuffles closer, fingers closing around the chocolate.

The crying doesn’t stop immediately, but it dulls, sobs breaking up as Percy focuses on the familiar wrapper, the crinkle grounding him in something tangible.

Spencer stays exactly where he is.

“Your mom told me chocolate is one of your favourites,” he adds softly.

Percy frowns. “She did?”

“She did,” Spencer confirms. “She also said you’re very brave,”

Percy considers this as he fumbles with the wrapper. “I am,” he says quietly.

“You are,” Spencer agrees without hesitation.

The chocolate is half-melted by the time Percy manages to get a bite, but it doesn’t seem to matter. He chews slowly, shoulders still hitching but no longer shaking uncontrollably.

Spencer glances briefly at Hotch, a subtle I’ve got this passing between them.

Hotch steps back.

The rest of the team exhales as one.

Percy sinks down onto the floor, cross-legged, chocolate clutched tightly in his hands. Spencer mirrors him, settling opposite, maintaining that careful distance.

“She promised she’d come back,” Percy says after a moment, voice small.

“And she will,” Spencer says firmly.

Percy looks up at him, eyes red and glassy. “You?”

Spencer’s chest tightens.

“Yes,” he says. “I’ll stay,”

That’s when you burst back into the room.

The sight hits you like a punch to the gut. Percy on the floor, face tear-streaked, chocolate smeared at the corner of his mouth, the team standing around looking shell-shocked, Spencer crouched in front of him like a quiet sentinel.

“Oh my god,” you breathe. “Percy,”

He looks up instantly.

“Mama!” He scrambles to his feet and barrels into you, arms locking around your waist with desperate force. “You came back! I thought—you were gone!”

“I’m here,” you say, voice breaking as you scoop him up. “I’m here, sweetheart. I just went to the bathroom. I’m so sorry,”

He clings to you, burying his face in your shoulder, body trembling now with leftover adrenaline rather than terror.

Percy sniffles and pulls back just enough to look at Spencer over your shoulder. “You didn’t leave,”

“No,” Spencer says. “I said I wouldn’t,”

Percy studies him for a long moment, then nods decisively. “You’re my friend now.”

Spencer blinks. “I—well. I’d be honoured,”

—

Percy stays glued to your side for the next half hour, fingers knotted in your jumper like nothing short of divine intervention could prise them loose. You don’t try. You wouldn’t. You sit with him tucked into your lap at the edge of the conference room while the team gets back to work, his rabbit clutched tight, chocolate wrapper crumpled in his fist like proof that something good had happened in the middle of all that fear.

Spencer sits opposite you, legs folded awkwardly beneath the table, notebook forgotten in front of him. Every so often, Percy peeks up at him through his lashes, checking.

Still there.

Spencer always is.

Eventually, Percy wriggles. Just a little.

“I need to pee,” he announces loudly, because of course he does.

You sigh softly, already shifting him off your lap. “Alright, come on then,”

Percy slides down—then immediately turns, marches straight past you, and grabs Spencer’s hand.

“Okay,” he says firmly. “Let’s go,”

The room stills.

You blink. “Percy—”

“He said he’d stay with me,” Percy insists, chin tipping up in a way that is painfully, unmistakably yours.

Spencer freezes, eyes flicking to you in alarm. “I—I can—”

You hesitate. Weigh your options. Choose the path of least resistance, because the last thing you want is another meltdown in the middle of a murder investigation.

“Alright,” you say finally. “But just to the bathroom,”

Percy chatters the entire way down the corridor, voice echoing off the walls. “Did you know I can count to one hundred? Mama taught me. But I always forget seventy-seven. Why is seventy-seven so many sevens?”

“That’s an excellent question,” Spencer says earnestly, adjusting his stride to Percy’s much shorter legs.

You trail behind them, arms folded, exhaustion tugging at your bones—but there’s something else there too. Something strange and warm and utterly unexpected.

You watch Percy swing Spencer’s hand as they walk, utterly unselfconscious, as though this arrangement makes perfect sense.

In the bathroom, Percy barely lets go even long enough to wash his hands.

“You can wait there,” Percy instructs, pointing at Spencer with authority usually reserved for heads of state.

Spencer obeys.

He stands there awkwardly, staring resolutely at the ceiling tiles while Percy narrates every step of the process at full volume. You catch Spencer’s eye over the top of the cubicle door and mouth I’m so sorry.

He smiles back, small and genuine.

When Percy emerges, hands damp and shirt sleeves soaked, he latches onto Spencer again without hesitation.

“See?” he says proudly. “All done!”

“Well done,” Spencer replies solemnly. “Very hygienic,”

That’s it.

From that moment on, Percy refuses to be more than three feet away from Spencer Reid.

Coffee runs become a joint expedition.

Spencer barely makes it three steps out of the conference room before Percy’s voice rings out behind him. “Where are you going?”

“Um,” Spencer says, startled. “To get coffee,”

Percy gasps, scandalised. “Without me?”

“I—well—”

“I wanna come,” Percy declares, already tugging on Spencer’s sleeve. “Mama says I’m not allowed coffee but I can smell it,”

You throw your hands up. “Fine. Go. Just—don’t let him drink it,”

“I won’t,” Spencer promises immediately, like this is the most serious vow he’s ever made.

You watch them go, Percy bouncing at Spencer’s side, questions firing off like a machine gun.

“Why is coffee brown? Is it made of dirt? Why do grown-ups drink it if it’s yucky? Why does Mama say she needs it to live?”

Spencer answers every single one.

Patiently. Thoughtfully. Occasionally far more in-depth than strictly necessary.

By the time they return, Percy is clutching a cup of hot chocolate Garcia has procured from somewhere, cheeks flushed with excitement, while Spencer looks faintly shell-shocked but strangely… content.

Attempted naps fare no better.

You manage to coax Percy back into the small office during a lull, dim the lights again, tuck him in with his rabbit. He lies there for exactly thirty seconds.

Then his eyes snap open.

“Where’s Spencer?”

“He’s just outside,” you say soothingly. “You can rest,”

“No,” Percy says flatly. “He has to be here.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Percy—”

The door opens quietly.

Spencer peers in. “Everything alright?”

Percy bolts upright. “You left!”

“I was right outside,” Spencer says quickly, stepping in. “I promise,”

Percy studies him, then pats the sofa decisively. “Sit,”

Spencer sits.

Percy curls right up against him like this has always been the plan, small body warm and solid at Spencer’s side, one hand fisting the fabric of his cardigan. He sighs, deep and content.

Spencer goes very still.

You stare.

“I—um,” Spencer murmurs. “Is this… okay?”

You should say no. You should insist on boundaries and propriety and not imposing your child on your colleague who did not sign up for this.

Instead, you watch Percy’s eyelids droop, his breathing slow, his body slacken in a way that only happens when he feels truly safe.

You swallow. “Yes,” you say quietly. “It’s okay,”

Percy doesn’t fall asleep properly this time, but he rests—head heavy on Spencer’s arm, thumb in his mouth, eyes half-lidded. Spencer doesn’t move for nearly forty minutes.

When Percy wakes again, he does so with questions.

Endless, relentless questions.

“Why is the sky blue?”

“Why do people die?”

“Why do dogs not wear clothes?”

“Why does Mama have a gun?”

That one makes you choke on your water.

Spencer answers what he can, deflects gently when he should, and admits honestly when he doesn’t know.

“Why do bad people hurt others?” Percy asks quietly at one point, voice softer than usual.

Spencer pauses.

“That’s… complicated,” he says carefully. “Sometimes people are hurting themselves, and they don’t know how to make it stop,”

Percy considers this. “That’s sad,”

“It is,” Spencer agrees.

Some questions stump him entirely.

“Where do thoughts go when you stop thinking them?”

Spencer opens his mouth. Closes it again. Blinks.

“I… don’t know,” he admits.

Percy looks delighted. “Mama! He doesn’t know!”

You laugh, the sound surprising you both.

As the day stretches on, the team adjusts.

Morgan starts referring to Spencer as the ‘work dad’.

Garcia brings Percy stickers. JJ sneaks him biscuits. Hotch watches it all with a quiet, thoughtful expression, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

Through it all, Percy stays exactly where he’s decided he belongs.

One hand in yours. One hand in Spencer’s.

As if that’s simply how the world works now.

And the strangest part—the part that catches you off guard every single time—is how natural Spencer looks with him there. How instinctively he shifts to accommodate Percy’s weight, how he lowers his voice without thinking, how he listens.

You let it go on longer than you probably should.

That’s what you tell yourself later, anyway—that you indulged it, that you didn’t step in soon enough, that you allowed Percy to get too attached because you were tired and grateful and desperately in need of the quiet relief Spencer’s presence seemed to bring him.

But standing there now, watching Percy perched on the edge of Spencer’s chair while Spencer explains—at Percy’s insistence—why planes don’t simply fall out of the sky, the guilt finally outweighs the relief.

Spencer hasn’t had a moment to himself in hours.

He hasn’t gone anywhere alone. He hasn’t finished a cup of coffee. He hasn’t even stood up without a small hand immediately latching onto his sleeve, a bright voice asking where are you going?

And while he never complains—while he smiles and answers and adjusts and accommodates—you see it. The subtle stiffness in his shoulders. The way his eyes flick briefly around the room, calculating, before settling again on Percy with unwavering patience.

He didn’t sign up for this.

You swallow, heart sinking, and step forward. “Alright, Percy,” you say gently, crouching down. “Why don’t you come sit with me for a bit, yeah? Spencer needs to do some work,”

Percy turns slowly.

His expression darkens with alarming speed.

“No,” he says.

“I know you’re having fun,” you continue carefully, “but Spencer’s busy. You can’t—”

“No!” Percy shouts, voice rising immediately. “I don’t want to!”

Spencer freezes mid-sentence, eyes widening a fraction.

“Percy,” you warn softly, already bracing yourself. “We don’t shout.”

“I want him!” Percy insists, gripping Spencer’s sleeve with both hands now, knuckles white. “You said I could!”

“I said for a little while,” you reply, keeping your tone even though your chest is tightening. “This is too much. You’re being—”

The word unfair never makes it out.

Percy’s face crumples, and suddenly he’s screaming—proper screaming, the kind that comes from deep in his chest and rattles on the way out. He stamps his foot, tears spilling over as he yanks at Spencer’s sleeve.

“You’re mean! You always take people away! I hate it here!”

The room goes still.

Again.

Your stomach drops straight through the floor.

“Percy, that’s enough.” You reach for him, mortified but stern. “I’m sorry, Spencer, he’s just-”

“Hey.”

Spencer’s voice cuts in, gentle but firm.

You stop mid internal meltdown, breath catching as he turns fully towards you.

“It’s alright,” he says quietly. “Really.”

Percy is still crying, clinging to him like a lifeline, but Spencer doesn’t try to disentangle himself. Instead, he shifts slightly, grounding Percy with one steady hand at his back.

“You don’t have to apologise,” Spencer continues, eyes on you now, earnest and calm. “He’s not a burden,”

You shake your head helplessly. “He is. He’s loud and he’s clingy and he’s—he shouldn’t be your responsibility,”

“He isn’t,” Spencer says immediately. “He’s just overwhelmed, and honestly I get it,”

Something in his tone makes you pause.

Spencer glances down at Percy, lowering his voice instinctively. “Percy, can you take a big breath with me?”

Percy hiccups, then mimics him reluctantly. One shaky breath. Then another.

The crying ebbs, leaving behind sniffles and the occasional angry huff.

“There,” Spencer murmurs. “That’s better,”

Percy glares at you over Spencer’s shoulder, lower lip jutting out. “You were gonna make him leave me.”

“I wasn’t,” you say softly. “I jdon’t want you to think that,”

Spencer looks at you, and then Percy. “You shouldn’t say things if you don’t know they’re true,” He shakes his head gently towards Percy. “You need to listen to others too, okay?”

“But—”

“Is your mom ever really mean? Or does it just feel mean?”

Percy frowns. “I don’t want you to go away…”

“I’m not going anywhere, promise,”

You stare at him, searching for any hint of obligation, any trace of polite discomfort.

There’s none.

“He asks interesting questions,” Spencer glances up towards you, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “And he’s very honest. That’s… refreshing.”

Percy perks up at that. “I am honest.”

“You are,” Spencer agrees solemnly.

Your chest aches.

“I just don’t want to take advantage,” you admit quietly. “You already do so much,”

“You’re not, I can assure you of that.”

You don’t hear the rest of it. You can’t.

But Spencer does.

He feels it settle somewhere deep in his chest, heavy and warm all at once.

Because Percy isn’t just a child who’s chosen him at random.

Percy is yours.

Every inflection in his voice, every stubborn tilt of his chin, every dramatic flare of emotion—Spencer sees you in all of it. Like you’ve been distilled down into something smaller and brighter and unguarded.

An extension of you.

And the fact that Percy seeks him out—trusts him, clings to him, feels safe with him—does something profound to Spencer’s insides. Something he doesn’t quite have words for yet.

It feels like being allowed close to you in a way he never thought he’d be.

Not romantically. Not yet. But intimately. Meaningfully.

Like being handed a fragile, living piece of your world and being trusted not to drop it.

Spencer swallows, pushing the thought down before it can overwhelm him.

Percy finally loosens his grip enough to look at you properly. “I don’t wanna stop being with him.”

You sigh, all the fight draining out of you. “Alright,” you say quietly. “But we take turns, okay? You can’t yell like that.”

Percy considers this, then nods once. “Okay.”

He turns back to Spencer immediately. “You stay.”

Spencer smiles. “I’m not going anywhere,”

Percy relaxes against him again, crisis apparently resolved.

You straighten slowly, rubbing a hand over your face. “I’ll… I’ll get him a snack,” you mutter, needing an excuse to step away before your emotions get the better of you.

Spencer nods. “Good idea,”

As you walk towards the kitchenette, you risk a glance back.

Percy is chattering again already, volume creeping steadily upward as he launches into a story about a pigeon he once saw that looked “mean”. Spencer listens like it’s the most important thing in the world.

For a fleeting, treacherous moment, the image feels domestic. Intimate. Like a snapshot from a life that could exist if circumstances were different.

You push the thought away and keep walking.

Behind you, Spencer shifts slightly so Percy is more comfortable, heart thudding a little harder than usual as he does.

—

By the next morning, it’s no longer a question of if Percy will be attached to Spencer.

It’s simply a matter of logistics.

The lockdown stretches on, days blurring together in that strange, suspended way that happens when the world narrows to a single building and a single purpose. The case grinds forward in fits and starts—profiles refined, leads chased, dead ends discarded—but underneath it all, a quieter routine takes shape.

A new normal.

You notice it first when you walk into the conference room one morning with Percy half-asleep against your shoulder, his hair sticking up in odd directions, his rabbit dangling limply from one hand.

Spencer is already there.

He looks up the moment he hears Percy’s voice, eyes lighting instinctively before he can stop himself.

“Morning,” he says softly.

Percy perks up immediately. “Spencer!”

He wriggles out of your arms with surprising speed and toddles straight over, grabbing Spencer’s hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You open your mouth to protest—then close it again.

Spencer squeezes Percy’s hand gently. “Good morning, Percy. Did you sleep well?”

Percy nods enthusiastically. “I dreamed about a shark with four eyes.”

Spencer blinks. “Four?”

“Yes. It was illegal.”

You snort despite yourself.

From that moment on, the pattern is set.

When you’re pulled into a briefing, Spencer keeps Percy occupied with puzzles and whispered facts.

When Spencer needs to consult a whiteboard, Percy trails after him, marker in hand, contributing enthusiastic but entirely unhelpful scribbles.

When you’re on the phone with Percy’s father trying to explain that no, you can’t just drop Percy off for the afternoon, Percy sits on Spencer’s foot and hums tunelessly while Spencer pretends not to notice the pins and needles creeping up his leg.

They eat together. Walk together. Exist in the same orbit.

Spencer never assumes. Never oversteps.

But he’s there.

Always there.

Percy still comes to you first when he’s tired, when he’s hurt, when he needs comfort that only his mother can give. He curls into your side during late afternoons, thumb in his mouth, eyes heavy, murmuring half-formed thoughts into your jumper.

But now—now there’s a complication.

Because when Percy reaches for you, he reaches for Spencer too.

He insists on it with startling determination.

“No,” he says firmly the first time you try to guide him away. “Both.”

You pause. “Both?”

He nods. “Mama and Spencer.”

Spencer freezes beside you, breath catching audibly.

You look down at your son—at his earnest expression, his unshakeable certainty—and then at Spencer, who looks like he’s been asked to handle something infinitely precious.

Slowly, you offer your hand.

Just as slowly, Spencer does the same.

Percy beams.

And just like that, he slots himself neatly between you, one small hand tucked into yours, the other wrapped around Spencer’s long fingers, as though this has always been the arrangement.

The image hits you harder than you expect.

It’s such a simple thing. Such an ordinary thing. But it lodges in your chest and refuses to move, settling there with quiet insistence.

You walk like that down the corridor, footsteps falling into an easy rhythm. Percy swings your joined hands slightly, humming to himself, blissfully unaware of the way people glance at the three of you as you pass.

Garcia’s eyes soften. JJ smiles faintly. Even Hotch pauses, watching with something thoughtful and unreadable flickering across his face.

Spencer keeps his gaze firmly ahead, jaw tight, heart hammering.

He tells himself it’s just practical. Percy feels safer this way. Children seek symmetry, balance, consistency.

That’s all it is.

But the warmth of Percy’s hand in his, the steady presence of you at his side—it’s intoxicating in a way Spencer doesn’t quite know how to handle.

You catch him one evening, long after Percy has drifted off, watching your son with an expression so soft it steals the breath from your lungs.

“He’s… incredible,” Spencer murmurs when he realises you’re there.

You nod, throat tight. “He is,”

There’s so much you want to say. So much you don’t dare. Like if you name it, it might vanish.

Still, the symbolism is impossible to ignore.

You and Spencer on either side. Percy between you, anchoring you together with sticky fingers and fierce loyalty. And you can’t help but notice he hasn’t mentioned his father once since the first day you arrived.

It happens again and again—walking to the cafeteria, crossing the bullpen, even just standing in place while Percy chatters away. He insists on both of you, insists on balance, insists on together.

And every time, Spencer feels something settle a little deeper in his chest.

A quiet, dangerous thought takes root.

That this doesn’t feel like babysitting. That this doesn’t feel temporary.

That if this is what proximity to you looks like—if being near you means laughter and questions and small hands and shared responsibility—then maybe wanting more isn’t as impossible as he’s always believed.

You feel it too, though you don’t let yourself dwell on it.

You feel it in the way Spencer anticipates Percy’s needs before you voice them. In the way he looks at you when Percy laughs, as though he’s seeing you more clearly through him.

For now, you tell yourself it’s survival. It’s circumstance. It’s just what works.

—

“It’s over?” you ask, hardly daring to believe it.

Hotch nods. “It’s over. Lockdown will be lifted within the hour.”

The sentence lands differently for you than it does for the others.

Because for the team, it means movement again. Normal schedules. Planes and cases and distance.

For you, it means packing up a life that has—somehow—briefly rearranged itself into something steadier and starting over again.

You look down.

Percy is sitting cross-legged at Spencer’s feet, using Spencer’s tie as a racetrack for a toy car. He makes a loud engine noise, blissfully unaware that the world is shifting again.

“Percy,” you say gently. “We’re going home now,”

He looks up, face lighting instantly. “Home-home?”

“Yes,” you say, smiling despite the ache forming behind your ribs. “Home-home,”

He cheers, loud and unrestrained, leaping to his feet and throwing his arms around your waist. “I missed my bed!”

You laugh, hugging him back. “I know you did,”

Spencer watches from just behind him, something unreadable passing across his face.

You gather Percy’s things—duffle bags heavier than when you arrived, somehow—while answering half a dozen questions about bedtime and snacks and whether dinosaurs would still exist when you got home.

Spencer helps without being asked.

He folds clothes with careful precision, hands you Percy’s shoes, retrieves the rabbit that had been abandoned under a chair. He moves around you with an ease that feels earned, familiar.

Too familiar.

When everything is ready, when Percy is zipped into his jumper and bouncing on the balls of his feet, you sling a duffle bag over your shoulder and reach for his hand.

He doesn’t take it.

Instead, he turns to Spencer.

“You coming too?” Percy asks, cheerful and unquestioning.

The room goes very still.

Spencer’s breath catches audibly.

You freeze, heart sinking.

“Oh,” you say softly. “Percy, sweetheart—”

Spencer crouches instinctively, meeting Percy at eye level. “I can’t come home with you,” he says gently. “I have to stay here,”

Percy frowns. “Why?”

Spencer opens his mouth.

Closes it again.

He looks at you helplessly.

You crouch beside them, one knee on the floor. “Because Spencer works here,” you explain carefully. “Just like Mama does,”

Percy’s brow furrows deeper. “But you’re coming.”

“Yes,” you say, heart cracking a little. “Because we have the same house, Spencer has his own house,”

Percy processes this in real time. You can almost see the logic wobble and collapse under the weight of it.

“But Spencer helps,” he insists. “He stays. He holds my hand.”

Spencer swallows.

“I did,” he says softly. “I do. Just… not tonight,”

Percy’s lip trembles.

You know the look. You dread it. “Don’t cry—”

“No,” Percy whispers. “No, no, no—” It’s a full-bodied, gut-wrenching sob, the kind that seems too big for his small chest to hold. He throws himself at Spencer, arms locking around his waist, face pressed into his shirt.

“No!” he cries. “You can’t stay here! You have to come! You promised you wouldn’t leave!”

The word leave hits like a punch.

Spencer’s hands hover helplessly for half a second before settling at Percy’s back, holding him close.

“I know,” he murmurs, voice thick. “I know it feels like that,”

You feel utterly useless.

Your chest aches with a mix of guilt and grief and something sharper, something you hadn’t prepared for. “Percy, sweetheart, please—”

He shakes his head violently. “I don’t want to go if he’s not coming!”

A few feet away, the team pretends very hard not to watch.

Spencer looks up at you, eyes wide and lost. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s not your fault,” you say immediately, though your throat is burning. “None of this is,”

Percy sobs harder, fingers twisted desperately in Spencer’s shirt like if he holds on tightly enough, he can change reality.

You try again, voice soft, steady, even as your heart splinters. “Percy, listen to me. Spencer isn’t leaving you. He’s just… not coming with us right now.”

“That’s leaving!” Percy wails.

You nod, because lying won’t help. “It feels like that. I know.”

Spencer squeezes Percy gently. “Percy,” he says quietly. “Can you look at me?”

It takes a moment, but eventually Percy pulls back just enough to glare up at him through tears.

“I wouldn’t leave you without telling you,” Spencer continues. “And I wouldn’t disappear.”

Percy sniffs. “But you’re not coming.”

“No,” Spencer admits. “But that doesn’t mean this is the last time we’ll be together,”

Percy’s face scrunches. “For real?”

You inhale, then exhale slowly.

“For real,” you say carefully, “We’ll make a plan, okay?”

Percy looks between you, hope flickering uncertainly. “A plan?”

“Yes,” you say. “Spencer can come visit,”

Spencer’s head snaps up.

“He can?” Percy asks, breath hitching.

You meet Spencer’s gaze, something unspoken passing between you. “If he wants to.”

Spencer doesn’t hesitate.

“I do,” he says immediately. “I definitely do,”

Percy stares at him. “You promise?”

“I promise,” Spencer says, without a shred of doubt.

Percy considers this. The crying slows, hiccupping into something manageable. He wipes his nose on Spencer’s sleeve without apology.

“When?” he asks.

You smile weakly. “Soon,”

“How soon?”

“Very soon,” Spencer says, a faint smile breaking through his own emotion. “As soon as your mom lets me,”

“Tomorrow?”

You laugh, rubbing tear stains from Percy’s cheeks. “Not tomorrow, next week maybe?”

Percy sniffles one last time, then leans forward to press his forehead against Spencer’s chest. “Okay,” he murmurs. “But you have to come for real. Not just say it.”

“I will,” Spencer promises again. “For real.”

Percy finally releases him, turning back to you with a heavy, exhausted sigh. You scoop him up, pressing a kiss into his hair, holding him tighter than usual.

Spencer stands as you do, hands lingering awkwardly at his sides, like he doesn’t quite know where to put them now.

“Well,” you say quietly, voice rough. “This is it,”

Spencer nods. “Yes,”

You shoulder your bags, Percy tucked against you, and take a step towards the exit.

Then you stop.

You turn back.

“Thank you,” you say, meeting Spencer’s eyes. “For everything. I—I don’t think I could’ve got through this without you,”

Spencer’s lips part, then curve into a small, earnest smile. “I’m glad I could be here to help,”

Percy lifts his head from your shoulder. “Bye, Spencer,” he says solemnly. “Don’t forget me.”

Spencer’s chest tightens. “I won’t,” he says. “I promise,”

As you walk away, Percy twists to wave at him, rabbit flopping wildly.

Spencer stands there long after you’re gone, the bullpen slowly emptying around him.

★ ── thank you for reading ! if you enjoyed this fic, please consider buying me a coffee <3

[mariasont]

HI i have an idea and its making me really giddy

ok so reader is a translator for the bau and they’re always reading and translating texts or calls or anything like that. and the reader to spencer is basically like penelope to derek. they flirt all the time and all of those lovely things.. and it’s kinda just where they’re flirting on the phone and morgan teases reid about it and reid gets all flustered

IDK IF IT CAN WORK I JUST LOVE FLUSTERED SPENCER :(

anyway i’ll probably be in your inbox a bunch uhhh so call me h or something

-h

Warm Under the Collar - S.R

summary: spencer insists he is not flirting. morgan insists that spencer absolutely is. one of them is lying. pairings: spencer reid x translator!reader warnings: heavy flirting, pre-relationship mutual pining, verbal sparring as foreplay, workplace hr violations, use of angel wc: 0.6k

“Are you thinking about me, Dr. Reid? Because I’ve been thinking about you.”

Spencer exhales, tugging at the collar of his dress shirt as if loosening it might alleviate the sudden stranglehold of your words. He wasn’t sure if it was always this constricting or if it was conspiring against him at the mere sound of your voice.

He rolls his eyes, performative, really, because you can’t see him, and it’s easier to feign exasperation than admit the effect you have on him. His mouth, however, twitches in betrayal, flirting with a smile before he crushes it. 

The crime board he was supposed to be focusing on, filled with monochrome photos and reports, was now blurring into meaningless scribbles as his thoughts veer off-course, plummeting headfirst into you.

“I’m always thinking about you.”

The words come easily because they require no effort to be true. Always isn’t hyperbole, it’s a mathematical constant, an irrefutable fact.

He was thinking about you before he even called you, felt the shape of you in his mind like an afterimage burned onto his retinas. 

Thought about what color you were wearing, whether your hair was up or down. He wondered if you’d eaten, if you were drinking enough water, if you’d remembered to bring a jacket to the office because the temperature had dropped unexpectedly. 

“Always? Spencer, if you wanted me that bad, all you had to do was say so.”

He isn’t sure why he hesitates — why his brain takes a detour through all the ways he has said so, if not in words, then in the way his thoughts orbit you like a law of nature. 

“I feel like I did say so. Quite literally. But if you’d like me to be more explicit about it, I’m happy to oblige.”

Another pause. He wonders if you’re smiling.

“Mmm, well, I’m certainly not going to stop you.” You sigh, a little dramatic. “Go ahead, be explicit.”

Spencer physically winces at how hot his face gets. The very concept of explicit sits indecently in the pit of his stomach.

“Tempting.” He exhales, rubs a hand down his face, forcibly redirects. “But I do actually have a job to do. And, lucky for me, it just so happens to require your specific set of skills.” 

He leans against the crime board, half-smirking despite himself, because if nothing else, this is fun — the sharp back-and-forth, the way you press all the right buttons just to see what happens.

“I have a recording that needs translating. Think you can focus for long enough to help me, or do I need to, I don’t know, compliment your intelligence first to get you in a professional mindset?”

“Complimenting my intelligence to get what you want? Interesting. Manipulative, even.”

He groans, tilting his head toward the ceiling, appealing to some higher power for patience. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t say I was going to —”

“Too late, you put the idea in my head, and now I expect it. Preferably in an eloquent, well-structured speech. Bonus points if you make it poetic.”

“Or,” he counters, “you could translate the recording first, and I’ll… circle back to stroking your ego at a later, more convenient time.”

A small pause. The kind that feels intentional, like you’re weighing your options.

“I guess that works,” you say. “Send it over, pretty boy.”

Spencer shakes his head, fingers moving on autopilot as he sends the file, because if he thinks too hard about the way you lilted that last pretty boy, he might die. “Alright, thanks. Be good, angel.”

He hangs up, still grinning like an idiot, still entirely too warm under the collar. He exhales, staring at the phone in his hand like it might have the decency to cool him off, maybe undo the physiological mess you’ve left him in.

“If I have to listen to one more of your phone calls with her, I’m sending y’all an invoice.”

Spencer freezes when he sees Morgan standing behind him.

He clears his throat, ignoring the flush he knew was climbing up his neck. “Flirting is an unsubstantiated claim.”

Morgan just stares at him. Stares. “You don’t even believe that.”

Spencer mutters something about professionalism because he’s nothing if not a walking contradiction.

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[miedei]

am I still looking for it?

you've found yourself in a routine with spencer. you're not sure if its any good for you, but you want him anyway.

a/n: the bear s4 finale got me in such an angst mood sooooo here's my first full angst fic!! i don't know how good my angst skills are but i really wanted to get this idea out so i hope you like it! title is from howling by noah kahan :)

cw: post maeve!spencer x reader, angst, spencer is toxic as hell like he SUCKS, kind of fwb relationship, reader feels insecure a lot, fade to black smut but mdni anyway

wc: 2.1k

mlist

(reblogs are the only way to promote fics on tumblr! please reblog if you enjoyed it :) )

It's not as if you ever intended to anticipate him. You shouldn't have, really, but he's intoxicating. To have someone like that, whose attention is always scattered like rays of sunlight all over the place, focusing just on you. It leaves you giddy, head spinning and legs a little shaky. You can't exactly put an end to that, can you?

After every case, the routine is clear. Drowsy-eyed, the team shuffles into the bullpen, each one of you slinking off to your desks. Silence ensues, interrupted by soft keyboard tapping, everyone trying to rush through their post-case paperwork.

Some of you are faster than others, but everyone seems to finish up at the same time. Right as JJ pushes back from her desk with a sigh, Penelope emerges from her lair, eyes drooping with sleepiness. You’re all ready to go home.

Shuffling past Morgan in the elevator, you stand towards the back, the metal bleeding frigidity into your clothing. You couldn't be further from Spencer, who's standing right at the doors. He doesn't turn, doesn't look at you. He continues his conversation with Emily, and you slump your shoulders just a little further.

The elevator ride is short, the air thick with exhaustion radiating off each of you. Once the doors open to the silent parking lot, half-hearted goodbyes are said before everyone splits off to their cars.

It's only when everyone's out of sight that you turn around – and just like you'd expected, Spencer's lingering at the door of his car. Meeting your eyes, he quirks up one end of his lips, nodding towards his car.

You don't know why you hesitate, but you do. A fleeting glance back at your own car causes him to pipe up.

“I'll bring you back for your car tomorrow morning.”

His voice is low, gravelly in the way it only gets when he's truly tired, both in mind and body. Your self control doesn't stand a chance against him.

Abandoning your car, you stuff your keys back in your pocket, crossing the asphalt to stand at his side. Wordlessly, he slides into the driver's seat, leaning over to push open the passenger door for you.

Sliding in, the familiar feeling of the leather seat against your legs grounds you. Your legs fit perfectly, the headrest at the perfect height for you. Yet another reminder that this isn't the first time. It should be the last.

The drive across the city leaves you in a bubble of tension. Spencer's quiet, too quiet. How do you get him to talk? 

He's been so incredibly silent for the past few months. It's understandable, obviously, but it's still unbearable to experience.

“That was a tough one, huh?”

The words are blurted out, and you have the sudden urge to clap your hands over your mouth. 

Spencer doesn't say a word.

“I mean, I'm usually alright with cases like this but something about talking to the mother of that victim was really difficult, don't you think so?”

Why can't you shut up? Spencer barely acknowledges your words, nodding softly when you look over at his profile.

Thankfully the sight of him dries up any words left on your tongue. From the side, the sharp angles of his brow and jaw are incredibly pronounced. His eyes are steely, trained on the road in front of him. 

Sometimes the sight of him fills you with joy and affection, all pinks and yellows seeping into your skin. 

But other times, he fills you with a sense of murky grey. It flows through you, melancholy burrowing deep into you until it fills your very bone marrow. 

The ghosts of smiles and sobs alike are etched into the lines around his mouth and eyes. You've witnessed both, and how could you ever separate yourself from him when you have?

You're rendered silent until he finally pulls into his street, parking by the curb before swiftly exiting the car. As you open your door and rise from your seat, he’s standing next to the door. 

If you were capable of deluding yourself further, you could tell yourself that this was like the end of a date. He drives you home from dinner, opens your door, helps you out of a car. 

But there was no dinner. He didn’t even touch your door. His hands are shoved in his pockets as if to ensure you won’t grab one.

Even so, you follow him. You walk into his dilapidated apartment building. You walk up the several flights of stairs. You watch him open the door, walk in behind him, and let him touch you.

His hands are searingly hot, one fisted in your hair and the other pressing firmly against your lower back. The kiss isn’t romantic. It’s hungry, bruising. His lips crush against yours as if he’s trying to consume you.

Your breath is pulled from your lungs, sucked into his mouth until you’re gasping for it, fingers digging into his shoulders. He must understand, parting from you briefly, although he takes advantage of that leverage to steer you backwards through his apartment. 

The reprieve allows you to glance around his living room quickly. Quick glances are the most you ever get to see of it, but you yearn for more. The worn leather couch looks comfortable, you’d like to sit on it. You’d like to be able to take the time to peruse the stacks of books on the floor. You want to inspect the pictures on his wall, ask him probing questions about each one. 

But he’s fast, and you have to settle for the glimpse you’re offered. The only notable thing you can register is a book on his coffee table, a distinct red and white cover catching your eye, but you can’t even read the title before you’ve been whisked into his bedroom. 

Spencer’s in a rush, lithe fingers gripping the hem of your shirt and yanking it up off you. Fumbling with the button on your trousers, he reattaches his mouth to yours, ragged breaths falling against your lips. 

It’s like he’s drawing you into his orbit, you’re powerless against the beguiling feeling of his hands on you, whenever you manage to experience it. 

You go willingly, fall back on his sheets and lift your hips when he drags your trousers down you legs. You sigh as he climbs in between your legs, his breath hot against your thighs. 

Looking down, you see him staring transfixed at the sight of your core on display for him. Rough hands grip your inner thighs, pushing them wider as he swallows thickly.

“Fucking wet, aren’t you?”

He’s never cruder than when he’s between your legs, his voice rumbling with exhaustion and lust. His eyes never falter, trained right on that throbbing spot between your thighs as if he’s not even speaking to you. He’s speaking to your cunt.

You barely get the time to dwell on that, because he’s diving in immediately, licking a stripe up your dripping folds with a groan that sends shivers down your spine. 

Everything seems to fall away, your anxieties and nerves melting into goo as he suctions his lips around your clit. 

For just over an hour, you let yourself dive into everything Spencer gives you – everything you told yourself you wouldn’t be indulging in again.

It’s past 03:00 when you finally get the feeling back in your legs. The ache doesn’t go away, but you finally get the sense that you can walk around without stumbling. 

The room is dark, Spencer’s blackout curtains working overtime to block out the streetlights that you know lie beyond them. Spencer himself is fast asleep, on the other side of the bed. After cleaning you up and making sure you peed, he pulled on pyjama pants (he didn’t take his shirt off, again) and fell into the deepest sleep you ever see him in. 

He’s rolled away, as if he’s being pulled to the other side of the room. All you can see is the plane of his back, plaid shirt loose and tight in different places. Normally you’d be asleep right next to him, curled towards him but somehow always waking up on opposite sides of the bed, but tonight you aren’t.

You’re thirsty. You’ll let him sleep. 

Standing from his bed, you pad into the living room. It feels a bit like a violation of privacy, seeing his space without any rush. However, you can’t refuse your greedy eyes, and you can’t help but let them rove over every item with insatiable interest.

Photos of his mother, of a younger version of him standing with professors. One of the BAU, a shaky one in which you can see yourself in the corner, leaning over Penelope’s lap to get into frame. It sends another queer, tingly feeling down your back, but you can’t exactly say what it is. 

Pacing through the room to get to his kitchen, a distinctive red catches your eye. The book you noticed earlier, laid out on the coffee table in a position of honour. 

Something about it draws you in, and you walk over to it, lifting the book with a soft grip. The Narrative of John Smith. The red door on the cover frames the words, and a thrill runs through you. 

This is something of Spencer’s. He holds it dear. It must be beautiful.

You can’t stop yourself from flipping the hardcover lid open. The creamy white pages are thick, clearly expensive. The first page is empty, the author and publishing information all on the next pages. But you don’t turn the page yet.

Instead, your eyes dart immediately down the page to the handwritten inscription. The script is neat, letters etched with clear care.

Love is our true destiny. We do not find the meaning of life by ourselves alone; we find it with another. - Thomas Merton

You can’t do this. You don’t even know who Thomas Merton is. But you do know who wrote this. You know why Spencer has the book laid out in a position of honour.

You have to leave. 

Any thoughts of water, or even staying the night flee your mind. You have to get out. 

You shove the book haphazardly back on the coffee table. Hurrying back to Spencer’s room, you scoop up your abandoned work clothes. A final glance towards Spencer, and he looks perfectly comfortable, hugging a pillow to his chest as his shoulders rise and fall with each breath.

Muttering a curse under your breath, you walk into the hallway, choosing to get clothed there, rather than in that room with him. 

You must look haggard, wrinkled blouse and trousers on as you walk towards his front door. Your shoes are scattered around the living room, forcing you to root around for them for a moment. 

After sitting on the couch to pull them on (it is comfortable, damn it), you rise, snatching up your workbag from the floor before turning to the door. You’re ready to go, but a niggling thought in the back of your mind stops you from storming out. 

Cursing yourself, you have to turn around, walking back to that godforsaken coffee table.

The book is crooked, left open at the inscription. 

You don’t want to, but you reach out, keeping your touch soft as you close it, straightening it so it sits right in the centre of the table. You’re pathetic.

Finally, a heaving sigh leaves your lungs as you grip the doorknob, turning it to walk into the cold hallway.

You’ll have to call a cab to get back to Quantico and pick up your own car.

[girllblogging777]

summary : two universes collide when spencer has to watch the team meet his workplace crush, called in from another branch for her decryption skills - and he doesn't really like sharing.

word count : 2.3k

pairings : spencer reid x FBI!reader (workplace romance)

notes : there is such thing as the intelligence branch !! spencer is very jealous and it shows, modern romance would say they're at that point in the talking stage where they still won't aknowledge eachother irl

working for the FBI had its perks.

mostly social, you had to admit. certain jobs, tough you weren't exactly sure why, carried prestige. the prestige you felt when over drinks on first dates or small talk with old friends, someone asked what you did for work.

you could've been a linguistic analyst anywhere else, the years of studies and countless research papers you'd worked on would've earned you nothing but eye rolls and judgemental stares.

curiously, with the acronym of FBI came instant gratification. federal bureau of investigation, the magic words that earned compliments and sometimes mocking gasps.

how does it feel to work for the government ?

you're part of the Intelligence Branch ? of course, you're so smart.

the best perk however, apart from the thrilling feeling pulsing through your veins that came with having a purpose, worked three floors above you at the behavioural analysis unit.

with his tall figure and soft cozy looks, spencer reid didn't look like he belonged in this world either. united by the feeling of standing out in the crowd, or rather feeling invisible between individuals with a stern appearance and a sterile heart, you two connected.

a workplace crush, that's all he was.

a really awfully good looking guy who had once blushed at your words when you rode the elevator with him and filled the silence by complimenting his thesis.

of course you knew who he was.

if he were to step a foot on in your department, you were pretty sure applause would echo off the walls. this guy had done more fore crime solving using linguistics than your entire team ever had, and his endless knowledge sort of terrified you.

and maybe since then, he'd started to use the east wing elevator abnormally often. and maybe you'd exchanged numbers. for the sole purpose of keeping eachother in the loop during important cases, of course.

and maybe you were tired today because you'd spent all night exchanging texts, and your brain was beginning to turn into mush from the hours of sleep it'd been denied in the previous weeks.

all because of the boy who stood on the other side of the room from you right now, with his arms crossed and brows knit together while he listened to something the unit chief was saying.

"the unsub we're looking for seems to be leaving hidden messages on the crime scenes," agent hotchner explains, not bothered in the least by the number of people hanging onto his every word.

then, he adds.

"the letters have been collected, and as of now they're our primary focus. we believe an in-depth analysis might help us with the profile."

all around the bullpen, the air was charged.

agents taking notes while the team just stood there, shoulders high and gazes unwavering, like a silent affirmation of their superiority.

you wouldn't have appreciated it, the condescendance lingering in the air, aiming to make you and your colleagues feel somewhat impressed.

not if it wasn't for spencer.

the boyish brunette who was leaning against a desk - his desk you presumed, based on the precise alignement of the books displayed - whose eyes on you could be felt from miles away.

prentiss spoke up next, arms crossed in authority.

"with this guy, danger is imminent. he's escalating, and that's why we called the IB. we need more experts on the case."

something the woman said didn't quite register in your mind, your attention focused on keeping your gaze away from spencer.

a blonde one you recognized as penelope led you to the conference room, and you simply followed like a stray puppy yearning to get his owner back.

no one needed to know.

not as the team gathered around the round table, specifically asking you to join the meeting in hopes of receiving your expertise. in the room of qualified profilers trained to spot miscalculated glances and fleeting touches, with eyes like lasers piercing through the illusion of lies, you had to pull yourself together.

spencer made it a difficult task.

“i was thinking i could quickly go through all the letters the unsub wrote to try to find a pattern. i'd just need access to the archive room to find old files, i've worked through a similar case before.”

quick words, evidently suggested like he’d invented the alphabet himself. you almost smiled when you remembered something he said two days ago, in that exact same nonchalant tone.

“studies prove key elements such as sharp angles, uneven pressure or stilted writing can reveal traits linked to psychopathy." he adds, apparently finding the watch around his wrist more interesting than you, sitting across from him.

hotch asserted himself once more.

"actually, the bureau wanted the input of a real language analyst for this task," he said, sharp jaw nodding in your direction. the focus in the room shifted on you as he said your name.

the smile you gave felt forced, pressured by the half a dozen pair of eyes on you. only one made your heart beat faster for all the wrong reasons, and they belonged to the one who knew you as more than a name on a badge, a piece of chess in the game.

"morgan, you'll help her with the profiling. everyone else, i need you on the field"

morgan ?

the man in question gave you a welcoming grin, and though you were hoping for someone else, you nodded in return. for some reason you swore you heard spencer swallow, adam's apple sticking out, and you felt your a slight pinch of something that almost tasted like disappointment.

you weren't a profiler.

you couldn't have known - and he was grateful for that - that the reason he kept his gaze down and hands to himself came from an irrational part of his brain he didn't know existed.

the one that was jealous.

so he gathered his files and abruptly got up, leaving you with morgan as the rest of the team headed back to work, without even looking back.

turns out the dark skinned man had more to himself than flirtarious smiles. you two worked side by side all morning and he helped you delve into the files.

and before you knew it, you'd managed to keep spencer in the back of your mind for hours.

at lunchtime, while snacking on a granola bar, you caught yourself rambling about the meaning of commas in the unsub's letters. your excitement was contagious.

"gee," derek laughed, cutting you off with a chuckle to remind you he couldn’t keep up.

"you're like a female version of reid or something."

you stopped chewing. looked up, alerted. attempted to wipe away some unwanted crumbs and dreamy grin that had appeared on your lips a little too naturally.

"i'll take that as a compliment."

"trust me, pretty girl" he said, giving you a reassuring wink that might've led you to think he knew more than he let on, "that's a compliment."

the door opened.

he stared. spencer.

files in his hands and mouth opened like he was about to say something but lost all ability to form proper words when he heard the exchange. you felt your hands tighten around the empty plastic wrapper.

morgan’s head turned towards you, then reid.

the tension was painfully obvious, he’d heard the last two sentences and that was already more than enough. a little too interested in the newbie to realise his friend was just being welcoming.

“i was just coming here to say we found a new body with another note displayed on the crime scene,” spencer spoke after what felt like ages. he still didn’t look at you.

“-but i guess you’ll do a great work without it, since you make such a great team.”

morgan whistled, attempting to ease the tension with yet another uneeded comment.

“woah, someone’s jealous.”

with a friendly pat on spencer’s very much tense arm, he left, leaving you and your male copycat in a very awkward situation.

suddenly, the conference room felt smaller.

the space, tight. tighter than the shirt sticking to your skin you suddenly felt trapped in. droplets of sweat clung to the back of your neck and you kept your chin down, eyes piercing through the documents laid out on the table.

he didn’t move, not until he cleared his throat and closed the door behind him. “i didn’t know your intention was to befriend the whole BAU," he snarked.

"i didn't know you had such a problem with me being in your life."

your sharpness made him flinch. daring words, toying with the feeling in his heart he was too much of a coward to properly name. nobody he'd ever met had acted this way towards him. with brutal honesty, confronting him with raw emotions he'd be tempted to conceal.

spencer's eyes were locked onto yours when you spoke. he looked vulnerable in this light, but the anger bubbling beneath his ribs didn't stop him from saying.

"i- that's not what i meant" he stuttered, looking both confused and indignated.

you'd pushed your chair out of the way to get up, almost reaching his height now. there was no escape from this conversation - and you'd very much rehearsed it in your mind anyway. now was time for the real deal.

"i think you did,"

of course, in your head, it wouldn't happen here, out of all places. feelings didn't match well with your work, and now in the conference room was far from the appropriate time.

"i think you're jealous" you affirmed with confidence, crosing your arms to prove your point, "jealous of the fact that i was assigned the task, and that derek had to supervise and not you."

gee, even hearing you call him by his first name made him boil.

"m’not jealous. i have three PhDs”

you laughed. indeed, even with academic degrees up his sleeves, he could still be very oblivious.

“not of the case, idiot.”

he knew what you meant.

and paused. swallowed again.

you bit your lip in waiting, almost facepalming yourself at the honesty of your words - you got that way when you were nervous. and you were really nervous now.

“i don’t think i’ve ever been jealous before.” he said, to himself more than you.

never had he encountered someone to be jealous of. he had the brains, the world seemed to like him. see something even he couldn’t sometimes. he was never jealous of the living because he spent most of his time in a world of his own.

and then he met you.

“there’s a first time for everything” you said with a reassuring smile, much softer now. time for trust, trusting someone and allowing them to see behind the illusion. for love, and letting someone in.

barely blinking, your mesmerising eyes are deeply focused on his now.

“i don’t think i liked it, though.”

“being jealous ?”

he nods, admitting. “you’re smart. and so good at what you do, i swear you made the room light up when you walked in.”

the distance between your bodies fades as he takes another step towards you. he nervously talks with his hands.

“and you could be a profiler !” he lets out, “i’ve never met anyone from another department who has enough talent to hypothetically join a higher rank and willingly refuses to even think about it.”

your lips part, a silent gasp.

“and it just hurts to see you here- here with everyone being so…”

the curious angle of your head makes him smile when you question. “so what ?”

“so perfect !”

it almost pains him to admit it. that the beauty you exude makes him ache, tugging at his sensitive heartstrings more often than he’d like to admit. when the elevator door close, or late at night while staring at his phone in hopes of engraving the pixels or your texts in his brain, he admires the closest to perfection the universe has ever created.

you.

"spencer," you let out in an amused giggle. "i'm not interested in your friends. or your job, for that matter."

he puffs some air into his cheeks, bashful. "i know. my brain just... likes to stop working when you're around, or something."

right, or something. with a playful nudge of the arm, you add.

"i am interested in you, though"

his eyes widen, pupils dilating. the little amount of oxygen left in the room is enough to make him slightly choke, which he covers by his hand. germ thing, sure.

"in me ?"

"yeah." someone has to say it, and you will if it means putting an end to the wrenching state of not knowing what you are. "-if you are, that is. unless i completely misunderstood the situation and you're actually jealous of my linguistics diploma-"

he calls your name, almost offended "i speak four languages !"

"i speak five. not that we're counting"

no bother mentionning you're also learning two. he's overwhelmingly close to you, and the smell of his cologne makes you melt little by little.

he utters quietly. "see ? perfect."

there's not exactly much he could do to make this conversation better. like, better than any debate you had over the phone, and yet he adds.

"i really am interested. and i'd like to see you sometimes... outside of work"

"and the elevator"

he laughs. a genuine sound you could get drunk on, and with a rush of adrenaline, reaches forwards to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

"just us. on a date. no work and no elevators involved, i promise"

jealousy looked good on him, earlier when he came in with clenched fists and a dark gaze. but nothing, no other expression could match the one he was wearing on his face. pools of hazel softened around the edges, spencer looked truly enamored.

and that ? that looked even better.

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