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FOOTNOTES ON INTIMACY

summary: Boundaries are important in any relationship—even fake ones (especially in fake ones). Spencer Reid is very good at sticking to the rules you’ve discussed together, until he does something off script that sends you spiralling. contents: 2.4k words, fluff!, fake dating (FINALLY), prof!reader, reader wears glasses, WILDLY inaccurate use of a research study as a narrative device lol, prof!reader mental crash out (she is me i am her). a/n: I feel like I both rushed but also dragged the first act so much but now we're here!!!! Partly inspired by this anon from a while back and @mariasont's honey doesn't go back in the jar ficlet. gif from @reidgif as always read Spencer and prof!reader's rules and boundaries here.

Never, in your whole life, had you ever imagined being in a situation like this. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say this is a reimagining of those vintage, surrealist comedies your fellow professor Carrie likes to watch. The black and white kind that leaves you feeling confused and slow. Visually, the scenes register, but the sequence of events does not, and you spend the rest of the day mulling over the details.

How did this beautiful woman end up swimming in the trash? Why is this child living in a shoe? Is the shoe massive, or is the child tiny?

How did you end up fake dating Spencer Reid?

Of course, you could make a step by step presentation charting how you went from point A to point B. To any outsider, it would make sense. It’s simple cause and effect, consequences of a series of actions accumulating into one deal.

But still, it feels illogical.

You aren’t the type of woman who gets involved in situations like this. You’d believed yourself above it—why would you ever make time for love and silly romance when there’s so much to do. Too busy with papers and research, too aloof and wary to let new people in, yet somehow. Somehow.

Part of you wonders—worries, really—if Spencer Reid is some sort of anomaly. If, perhaps, his very existence threatens your perfectly maintained equilibrium, and he’s sent your way to derail your plans. But that opens up a whole other can of worms involving destiny and red string theories, most of which carry implications that you don’t wish to look into any further, lest the conclusion further complicate your feelings.

Instead, you did what any sensible scholar would do.

You’d taken to writing. Treat this whole thing like it’s nothing more than a research assignment, no matter how twisted or ridiculous.

While the research for your field often involves abstract theories applied to obscure texts, and fake dating is so wildly out of your area of expertise, you’re still able to pare it down to the fundamentals. A thesis statement to defend, participants, and variables. It sounds awfully pedantic, but clinging to the basic principles of scientific inquiry lets you keep your head at a level, helps you process the grave you’ve dug for yourself.

It’s all written in your journal, the spare one you keep at home, containing the details of the arrangement broken down into digestible data.

The thesis statement: Being a couple lets you have a date to your best friend’s wedding, and it will stop the rumors of his inappropriate relationships with his students, therefore it is a mutually beneficial deal.

The participants: You and Spencer Reid.

Extraneous variables: your colleagues, his students, your best friend, and every person you’ll have to fool with this arrangement.

On another page, you’ve written down the rules—you both agreed it’s good to have a clear list of dos and don’ts. Keeps both of you safe and accountable. You keep the sole copy. Spencer insisted on only having a physical one, to eliminate any issues with hacking and cyber stalking that could potentially expose the secret. And since he could remember virtually everything you’ve discussed, you get to keep the incriminating list.

It’s fine. It keeps you grounded.

Not that anything dramatic has happened to warrant a sense of panic. No, it’s more because you haven’t dated anyone in so long that you’ve forgotten how to act in romantic situations. The list, with all the data organized, functions not just as a reminder of your boundaries but also as a sort of guideline for dating.

Fake dating, you remind yourself. And Spencer has been so sweet about everything. Never pushing for more, never making excuses to touch you where he shouldn’t, never lingering when he does. Your public displays are strategic—huddling together in libraries, walking with his arm over your shoulder on your way out of campus, him changing his phone wallpaper to a picture of you that he took. Nothing that will raise eyebrows, but definitely suggests a thing.

Neither of you confirm anything. The actions speak for themselves. Your job is to keep up the appearances.

Out of everything, hand holding becomes the most frequent form. It’s such a simple action, your palm nestled in his perpetually cool ones, linking together in a way that society has deemed romantically unifying. All he needs is to reach over, no fuss or ceremony, just skin touching skin, and the whispers erupt like butterflies being cast into the air.

It’s easy. Low stakes. Even pleasant, if you’re being honest, because Spencer has a habit of soothing small patterns over the back of your hand. Sometimes, he’ll draw circles over your knuckles, from your pinky to your index, then looping back again, over and over until you’re convinced your skin knows each whorl of his thumbprint.

You wonder if he does it on purpose.You’ve never really bothered to ask, despite your curiosity, as the impending answer makes your stomach twist nervously.

Sometimes, you’ll squeeze his fingers together absentmindedly, only realizing you’d done it when he squeezes back. Sometimes, you wish he wouldn’t let go.

All of this to say: the plan is going well. Better than you thought. Which means you’re constantly on edge, waiting for the ball to drop.

Not that Spencer has done, or even said, anything to insinuate a hidden agenda—though, admittedly, you keep yourself alert, his words and actions replaying in your head, analyzed from this angle and that, reading into what he’s presenting. But, no. His disposition leans into an affability that would put a softer person at ease.

This anxiety comes from years of pattern recognition. Even putting your years of training and rigorous scholarship aside, it’s easy to see that narratives fall prone to repetition. In most cases, a general sense of contentment settles, takes root just enough to let you lower your defenses, before something terrible comes swinging.

It’s taught from the most introductory of classes, reinforced by the stories being told in movies and books. And while life doesn’t always follow Freytag’s pyramid, it’s a common enough occurrence to merit its own expression: the calm before the storm, as they say.

Well, you’re not about to be taken by surprise. You’ll make sure of that.

Your mistake is expecting this symbolic storm to be an external force. A colleague, perhaps, maybe even HR calling out both of you.

But all of this, of course, is in theory.

In reality, the slightest deviation from Spencer sends you reeling, no matter how prepared you thought you were.

You’re talking to him by the courtyard, leaning against the brick wall. The air is crisp, a coolness that you can tell is beginning to grow teeth. Spencer’s cheeks are pink because of it. The arrangement isn’t even on your mind. No, you’re too busy telling him about a new analysis on Pigafetta’s accounts, hands gesturing wildly while he nods along and listens.

You like that about him. In all your time together, he doesn’t feign his interest. When you, or anyone else, really, approach him with something to discuss, he’s willing to listen.Encouraging, instead of condescending. Usually, he’s read something tangential to the topic too, always so eager to contribute and talk, until your conversations spiral and bleed across disciplines. It seems like it’s another one of those conversations, standing casually outside the building, underneath a sky that’s ablaze with pinks and oranges.

Maybe it’s from the wild gestures that accompany your words. Maybe your glasses are simply too heavy. Either way, gravity does its job, dragging your glasses down the slope of your nose little by little over the course of the conversation. With both hands too occupied, you’d scrunch your nose to nudge them back up.

Unfortunately, there’s a point where the offensive frames have slid so far down your nose, past the point of saving.

And Spencer seems to notice before you do.

His hand comes up, quick and sure, like it's instinctive, like he’s done this for you before. Carefully, his thumb and forefinger close around right along the hinges of your glasses, so as to avoid accidentally leaving his fingerprints on the lenses. In one absentminded motion, he pushes them higher up your nose.

Your words falter to an embarrassing staccato.

“Um, thanks.”

“You're welcome, darling.”

You blink.

His hand lingers in that space by your temple, and for a fleeting moment, you wonder if he’s about to kiss you. A treacherous part of you wonders what that would feel like.

But—no. Absolutely not.

And Spencer doesn’t. You feel a shift, his hand moving further back, tangling into your hair as he tucks a wayward strand back. And then it angles down, knuckles grazing against your cheek, too slow to be anything but intentional.

It burns.

No, that’s inaccurate. You burn, set aflame by the eyes boring holes into your back, cheeks warming at his proximity, his undivided attention. A breath slips in—a clumsy attempt at grounding yourself—but that’s a mistake too. Your lungs alight from his perfume—cedar and nutmeg, underscored by hints of coffee. All warm, wonderful things.

You feel as though you could incinerate from the inside out.

His hand, as usual, feels cool to the touch.

For a moment, you wish he had kissed you. Bent down and bridged the space, got that over with. At least a kiss is somehow expected. You’d discussed the boundaries of kissing. You’re somewhat prepared for it. This is completely unfamiliar territory, his knuckles feeling more scandalous on your cheek than if he’d pressed his mouth upon yours.

“That’s not part of our rules.” you blurt out. Too loud. Your head jerks sideways to see if anyone caught what you’d said, but there’s no one within fifteen feet of you. Spencer’s hand loses contact as you do.

You squash the part of you that immediately misses it, and amplify the sense of relief instead.

“Touching me there,” you scramble to explain, voice lowering, “That’s not part of our rules.”

“I believe we agreed not to touch private areas. As far as I’m aware, your face is the most public facing part of you.”

You feel more warmth rushing everywhere. Armpits sweating levels of panic that you try to hide with a carefree smile.

“We—okay, sure. But we also didn’t agree to that other thing.” you hiss through a smile. “Pet names.”

“Oh.” Now he blinks, as if it never occurred to him that a single, two syllable word could send you into such a spiral. “I suppose we didn’t.”

“No.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Air rushes out of your nose. He’s so quick to apologize, to bend to whatever need you have, even though this whole thing had been your idea.

“Don’t be, it’s fine. I’m fine, just taken by surprise.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course. It’s, um—” Nice. Really sweet. Painful–-nobody’s ever called you darling with such tenderness before. “—really believable.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I think we could add it to the—well, you know.”

“Is that what you want?”

“It’s not a matter of what I want.” you scoff, hands feeling useless now. They hang limply at your sides, fingertips itching. Why say that, you want to ask. Where did it come from? Did you mean it? “It’s believable. Couples give each other pet names, so it makes sense if we do it, too.”

“Okay.”

“That’s it?”

“Should there be more?”

You can’t tell if he’s being purposely obtuse. You can’t tell if there should be more to discuss. In less than three minutes, he’s unraveled your mind with a touch, and a simple word, rendered useless the very thing you considered a constant.

“I don’t know. It feels like there should be,” you pause, grappling for the words to articulate. The journal comes to mind. Yes. Research. This is research, existing between experimentation and methodologies, and slowly, the words formulate again. “We need parameters. You can’t call me that whenever you feel like it.”

Definitely not after he touched your face as if his fingers are looking for other parts of you to memorize. Like soothing over your knuckles isn't enough.

“Of course,” Spencer seems to read the distress in your face, because he takes a few steps back. A small one, but significant. Your breath rushes more freely, but part of you longs for his warmth.

He smiles, soft and reassuring. “I’ll only call you darling if there are people who can hear it, how about that?” he suggests. “Makes no sense being so intimate if it’s just the two of us.”

That’s a cruel paradox, isn’t it? You’re displaying this intimacy, performing it, when the very concept also refers to privacy. Something that should only be for two people—for couples. The very opposite of this farce you’ve gotten into.

But you’re here. And it’s been working, you shouldn’t complicate it by overthinking.

So you nod. Your glasses slip from the action, and you scrunch your nose to nudge it back up. “Okay. That sounds fair.”

“You’re more than welcome to give me one too,” his hand twitches by his sides, before he shoves it inside his coat pocket. “I mean, obviously, you don’t need to. But—yeah.”

“Yeah.” you echo, biting your lip. “I’ll think about it, and let you know. And I’ll add this new rule to the list.”

“Okay. Make sure you indicate the parameters and—”

“I know, doctor. This isn’t my first rodeo.”

“Oh?” he smiles, tilts his head just enough for his curls to turn russet, and finally everything feels normal again. “You’ve had to negotiate fake relationships before?”

“Uh, yes. You’re actually my fourth.”

“And here I thought I was special.” he presses his fist to his chest playfully, leaning back as if the words struck him physically. “You wound me, darling.”

The second time around, your mind doesn’t betray you anymore. Doesn’t stutter or go blank, but something beneath your ribs feels achy, like a bruise about to heal.

“You’re breaking the rule.”

Spencer grins. Smirks, really, dimples and perfect teeth and twinkling honey eyes. “It isn’t written in your journal yet, therefore I’m not bound to anything.”

You back away, expression twisting into annoyance, feigned and playful. “You’re insufferable.”

He laughs, watching as you walk away. And then calls out loud so you, and the students around the vicinity could hear, “I’ll see you tomorrow, darling!”

Thank you deeply for reading, please reblog if you enjoyed! More prof!Spencer x prof!reader fics here.

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