L.

“i know it won’t work, make it ache, make it hurt”

[whisperedmeg]

TETHERED ⟢ spencer reid x greenaway!reader

summary: spencer has spent so long being the one who steadies you, up until an unsub he sees too much of himself in knocks him off-balance. he asks for space but ends up at your door anyway, and you become the tether you didn’t know he needed. genre: hurt/comfort tags/warnings: reader is elle's sister, canon-typical violence: unsub is killed (suicide by cop), mentions of trauma & bullying (reid’s goalpost story from 3x16), brief mentions of parental mental illness/neglect, needy clingy spencer, kissing, emotional intimacy, non-sexual nudity (showering together), no use of y/n a/n: i pulled inspo for this fic from s3e16 “elephant’s memory” — the case/unsub isn’t meant to be exactly the same, but you’ll recognize key parts of 3x16 here (and there’s a slight canon divergence where you have to pretend Reid & Morgan’s bullying convo in that ep never happened). next greenaway!reader fic is coming later this month (sneak peek) before my event and will be a BIG one, so stay tuned! | GIF by eva @reidgif 🫶🏼

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The unsub’s hands are shaking.

He can’t be older than nineteen. He’s too thin for the coat he’s wearing, swallowed by it, shoulders hunched like he’s been bracing for impact his whole life. The rifle looks huge and wrong against him, like a prop someone handed the wrong person. He looks like a kid. He is a kid.

Spencer is ten feet away with his palms up. His voice is low and steady in that way that always makes your chest ache — like he thinks if he stays gentle enough, the world will be gentle back.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says. “I know you’re scared.”

The kid’s eyes flicker. Focus, then blur. Like he’s looking at Spencer and through him at the same time.

Around you, the perimeter holds its breath: uniforms, SWAT, Hotch’s stillness. Everyone waiting for the moment the situation inevitably tips.

Spencer keeps going.

“You’ve been hurt,” he says. “You’ve been humiliated and you didn’t deserve any of that.”

The kid’s mouth twitches, and a sound catches in his throat.

He doesn’t lower the gun, but for a second—just a second—his shoulders drop like he wants to believe Spencer.

“Look at me,” Spencer says. “You’re not a monster.”

The kid blinks fast. Wet lashes, red-rimmed eyes.

“Don’t,” he croaks, voice cracking around the word like it hurts. “They tortured me! Every day, this town found new ways to tear me down. Don’t act like you know what that’s like.”

Spencer’s throat works. “I do, though. I know exactly what it feels like to be the kid everybody watches and nobody helps. And if you put down that gun and let me walk you out of here, I promise we can get you some help.”

For a moment, the kid pauses, and it almost looks like he’s considering doing what Spencer asked. He opens his mouth, closes it, looks around, looks back at Spencer with a fleeting flicker of hope. But then he blinks again and tightens his grip around the rifle like it’s too late to change course. Too late to make a different decision.

You see it before Spencer does. Or maybe he sees it and refuses to believe it.

The kid’s gaze skates past Spencer, and with a sudden, almost deliberate motion, he lifts the rifle.

“Wait—” Spencer says, voice rising for the first time, cracking. “No— no! Don’t—”

A loud crack cuts through the air and sends the kid to the ground.

Spencer doesn’t move. He’s still standing with his hands up, frozen, staring at the unsub’s body as blood pools around him.

Hotch says his name. “Reid.”

Spencer lowers his arms slowly, like he’s fighting gravity.

His gaze is still locked on the kid on the ground. On the rifle lying useless beside him, like it was never the point at all.

“He— he was listening to me,” Spencer says under his breath, hoarse. “He was listening. I thought—”

You reach for him, careful, and when your fingers brush his elbow you feel it — his whole body trembling, the way he’s holding himself together by sheer force of will.

“That kid was trying to force our hand. That was always his plan. He wanted to die,” someone says nearby, too loud, too blunt. A cop trying to make it clean and simple.

Spencer’s head turns sharply.

“He just wanted it all to stop,” he says, voice razor-thin. “He couldn’t see a way out. It’s not the same thing.”

Then Spencer turns back to the body like he can rewind time if he stares hard enough. Like he can change the outcome.

For a second, you can’t tell if he’s breathing.

He’s so still it’s unnatural — still frozen in the moments before the shot. Like the part of him that reached for the kid hasn’t caught up to the fact that there’s nothing left to reach for.

You step in closer until you’re at his shoulder, but his eyes still don’t leave the blood, because he isn’t just seeing the boy on the pavement.

He’s seeing a version of himself that didn’t make it out.

—

The jet is dim and humming, the kind of soft, constant noise that usually helps your nerves settle. Tonight it just makes everything feel underwater.

The team is scattered in their usual places: Rossi reads, Prentiss has her eyes closed, Morgan’s listening to music, Hotch and JJ skim through files.

Spencer is sitting across the aisle.

Not beside you.

Even after cases that leave you both scraped raw, he always ends up beside you. But tonight, he doesn’t.

That’s the first wrong thing, and it makes you itch.

The second wrong thing is the book in his hands. It’s open, yes, but his eyes keep sliding over the same line like it’s written in a language he’s forgotten how to read. His knee bounces. His fingers drum a pattern on the page — tap tap pause, tap tap tap.

You wait. Five minutes. Then ten. The itch under your skin keeps getting worse.

Finally, you lean across the aisle and keep your voice low. “You’re not fooling me.”

He doesn’t look up. “What?”

“You’re pretending you’re reading,” you say, “but you’ve been on the same page since we hit cruising altitude.”

His jaw tightens. “I’m reading.”

You blink slowly. “Okay.”

Silence stretches. The engine hum fills the gaps.

You try again, softer this time. “You almost had him, Spence.”

His head snaps up, eyes sharp, bright with fatigue and something else that makes your chest pinch.

“Stop. Don’t,” he says.

It’s clipped and sharp and immediate, like you stepped on a wire.

You hold still. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t make it sound like that was—” He stops, throat working. “It wasn’t a win.”

“I’m not saying it was a win,” you whisper. “I’m saying you did everything you could.”

Your fingers curl around the armrest. You pick your next words carefully, like they’re glass.

“You’re allowed to be upset,” you say. “It’s normal to—”

“Can you not do this right now?” he cuts in sharply.

Your stomach drops. His face immediately shifts, like he realizes how it sounded, but he doesn’t pull it back. He can’t. He’s too far out on the ledge.

You stare at him for a beat.

Then, because it’s true and because you’re not going to sugarcoat him into thinking this is fine:

“You’re being kind of a dick,” you say, quiet enough that only he can hear. “And I know you’re not a dick. So what’s actually going on?”

He flinches, and for a second you think he’s going to shut down, fold himself into that seat and lock you out completely.

Instead he exhales, long and shaky, and his eyes flick to yours.

“I’m sorry,” he says genuinely. “I just… I can’t talk about this right now.”

“I’m not asking you to pour your heart out at thirty thousand feet, Spencer. I’m asking you to stop pretending you’re fine, and to let me be there for you.”

His throat bobs. He looks back down at the book. His fingers tighten around it until the pages crinkle.

“I really thought I was getting through to him,” he says finally, voice so low you almost miss it. “For a second I really thought I’d get him out of there alive.”

Your chest aches.

“I know,” you say softly.

He sits there for another beat, frozen between wanting space and wanting you.

Then he closes the book, stands, and crosses the aisle.

He drops into the seat beside you like it’s the only place left in the world.

His knee bumps yours and he stares straight ahead, jaw tight, one hand settling on the armrest between you.

You let your knuckles brush his for half a second. He shifts just enough that his hand presses against yours, not quite holding, but not letting go either.

You look out of the dark window and swallow the worry until it’s quiet.

—

By the time you get home, your body is running on muscle memory and fear.

Keys. Lock. Shoes kicked off in the general direction of the mat. You flick on a lamp and the living room blooms into soft light that doesn’t match the way your chest feels.

It’s too quiet. There’s too much room for your brain to start replaying the last twenty-four hours like it’s trying to find the exact frame where everything went wrong.

On the tarmac, Spencer had walked with you all the way down the stairs, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours once. You’d let yourself believe, for half a second, that he was going to get in your car like he usually does after cases. That you’d end up back here together, washing the week off in the shower, trading exhausted jokes in the kitchen, falling asleep with your bodies tangled because neither of you knows how to do distance anymore.

Instead, he’d stopped and said:

“I think I need some space tonight.”

You blinked.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he added quickly, like that made it better.

You didn’t argue. You could’ve; you wanted to. But you swallowed it down because you’re trying — really trying — to be the kind of girlfriend who doesn’t make everything about her issues. To be the kind of person who can hear I need space without hearing I’m leaving.

So you nodded, kept your voice steady. “Okay.”

Now you’re alone in your apartment, staring at the empty space on the couch where his long legs usually end up, and you hate how fast your brain starts building stories out of nothing.

You drag your fingers through your hair. You should shower. You should eat something. You should do anything that isn’t standing in the middle of your living room like a ghost in your own life.

Eventually, you move into the kitchen and fill a glass with water you don’t drink and lean your hip against the counter.

Your phone stays face-down on the table where you can’t stare at it.

If he said he’d call tomorrow, he’ll call tomorrow. Spencer Reid is a lot of things, but he’s never careless with promises.

Still, your chest aches, dull and persistent, like a bruise you keep pressing to see if it still hurts.

You’re halfway through convincing yourself to move again when the knock comes.

Two soft taps that signal, immediately, that they don’t belong to anyone else.

You’re at the door before you can think.

Spencer stands in the hall, cardigan wrinkled, hair a mess, eyes shining like he hasn’t blinked enough since the case ended. He looks… smaller, somehow.

For a second he just stands there, like he’s waiting for you to tell him he shouldn’t be here.

“Spencer,” you say, and it comes out quieter than you mean it to.

His throat works. He swallows like it hurts.

“I know I said I—” he starts, but you don’t let him finish.

You grab his sleeve and pull him inside with one decisive motion, like the question was never whether he could come in, only how long it would take you to get your hands on him. The door clicks shut behind him and the sound is weirdly final, like you’ve shut out everything except this.

He exhales — one shaky breath that feels like a surrender, and you slide your palms up his arms, grounding yourself in the reality of him: warm, solid, here. You tip your chin up and kiss him once, slow and soft and steady.

When you pull back, he keeps his forehead close to yours, eyes closed.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

“For what?” you ask, because you need him to say it.

His eyes open. They flick over your face like he’s counting you, making sure you’re real.

“For being a jerk on the jet. For needing—” He stops, jaw tightening. Then, quieter: “For not being able to do tonight by myself.”

Something in your chest loosens at that.

“That’s okay,” you say. “I’ll make some tea.”

He lets go of you so you can walk towards the kitchen, but follows you like a shadow. Like if you step too far away, he might slip back into the dark.

“Green?” you ask. “Or black? Chamomile maybe?”

He hovers in the doorway for half a beat, then he steps closer.

“Whatever you’re having.”

You open a cabinet with more force than necessary. The mugs clink. The sound makes you flinch and he flinches with you, like your nervous systems are wired together now, some odd little Bluetooth connection you never knew you were agreeing to.

You can feel him behind you, close enough that the warmth of his body presses into your back without him actually touching you. You’d tease him on a normal night — ever heard of personal space, Dr. Reid? — but tonight you don’t.

The kettle starts to fill. Water rushes over metal, loud in the quiet.

“You said you needed space,” you say lightly.

“I know I did,” he murmurs.

You glance at him over your shoulder.

He looks miserable. Not dramatic-miserable, but Spencer-miserable.

“But?” you prompt.

His eyes flick to yours. He holds them. That alone feels like a confession.

“I needed you,” he admits, and it’s so quiet you almost miss it.

Something in you softens at that.

“Okay,” you say. “So you’re here.”

You turn back to the counter and set the kettle on its base. The click is sharp. You reach for the tea tin and—

—and his arms come around you.

His forearms lock across your stomach and he bends to press his face into the side of your neck, breathing you in like he’s trying to recalibrate. Like he walked all the way here on instinct and now that he’s got you, he doesn’t know what else to do except hold on.

You let out a slow breath and lean back into him, giving him permission without words.

“I’m here,” you whisper.

He makes a sound — half exhale, half something he wanted to say but swallowed back instead — and his arms tighten again.

Your heart does this stupid, tender ache that makes you want to punch a wall.

You tilt your head just enough to brush your mouth against his temple. A kiss that says stay.

He shifts, lips skimming the side of your jaw in return.

When you reach for the tea again, he doesn’t let go.

He just follows the motion, glued to your back, moving with you as you drop the tea bags into the mugs, as you pour the hot water, as you add honey without asking because you know he likes it that way.

It would be funny, on any other night. A tall, lanky, genius of a grown man clinging to you in your kitchen like a lost kid at the county fair.

Tonight, it just makes your throat burn.

“Breathe,” you say softly.

“I am,” he murmurs, but you can hear the lie in it.

So you inhale, slow and deliberate, and hold it just long enough for him to feel it before breathing out.

His chest rises against your back, uneven at first — then, gradually, his breath matches yours.

There. That’s something, at least. You feel it in the way his hands stop flexing, in the way his shoulders drop a millimeter, as if you’ve coaxed him down from some internal ledge.

When you finally turn in his arms, mug in each hand, he doesn’t step back.

You hold his gaze and tip your chin. “Couch.”

He nods, finally releasing you long enough to let you lead him into the living room.

You set the mugs down on the coffee table. Before you can move to the other end of the couch to sit, his fingers catch your wrist, gentle but firm.

“Don’t go far,” he says.

Your chest tightens again, that same sweet bruise.

You step closer, slide your palms up his arms, and kiss him once more, a little deeper this time, because you want him to feel it.

When you pull back, his eyes stay shut for a second, like he’s memorizing the shape of the moment.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you tell him.

And for the first time since the gunshot, the tension in his face eases just enough that you can see the person underneath it again.

He sits, knees spread, forearms on his thighs, mug cooling on the table untouched. You settle beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushes his.

For a while, neither of you speaks. Then, quietly, he says, “I wasn’t lying when I said I knew what it was like.”

Your throat tightens.

“On the scene,” he adds, still not looking at you. “When I was talking to the unsub.”

You nod once, slow, but you don’t speak. You’ve learned — through the job, through him, through yourself — that people say more when you let the silence simmer.

Spencer swallows. His fingers knit together and then unknot again. You feel his knee start bouncing again, that familiar frantic tempo, and you press your palm over it. The motion stutters, then slows.

“Before we cleared the area,” Spencer says, “I saw him scan the crowd for threats the same way I used to scan school hallways.”

Your chest gives a small, aching jerk.

“You used to do that?”

“Of course I did,” he murmurs. “I learned pretty early on that if you can predict who’s going to hurt you, you can… you can minimize the damage by avoiding certain people. Certain places. Certain tones of voice.”

He finally looks at you then, and it’s devastating, how sad his eyes are. Like he’s been carrying this feeling around forever and today he got reminded of the weight.

“And earlier, watching him, I just kept thinking—he and I learned the same skill, but where I learned to adapt, he learned to—” He cuts himself off, jaw tight. “To retaliate.”

You shift closer, your thigh fully against his now. Your hand slides from his knee to the inside of his wrist, thumb finding his pulse.

“I don’t think it’s just watching him die that got to me,” he says. “We see unsubs get taken down all the time.”

“Spence,” you murmur, a warning and a comfort wrapped together.

He closes his eyes.

“It was that when he looked at me,” Spencer continues, voice dropping, “it felt like… like he recognized me.”

A beat passes, then another.

“Like he was looking in a mirror,” he adds. “And… he wasn’t wrong to see that.”

The admission sits between you, heavy and terrible.

You want to say a hundred things. You want to tell him he’s not anything like that. You want to list all the ways he’s different, all the ways he’s good, all the ways he’s Spencer, your Spencer.

But you know him too well. If you come at him with reassurance right now, he’ll dodge it like it’s a thrown object.

“Talk to me,” you whisper instead.

He looks at you again, and something passes over his face — fear, maybe. Or relief. Or both, tangled together.

“I keep thinking,” he says, “if I’d had one more minute… if I’d just said the right thing… if I’d been better at it…”

“You were good at it,” you cut in, gentle but firm. “You were amazing at it. You’re the only one of us who could’ve even come close to getting through to him.”

His jaw clenches. “And yet he still died.”

You slide your other hand up to the side of his face, fingers brushing his cheekbone, grounding him in something human.

“Spence,” you say, and it comes out soft in a way you don’t always allow yourself. “Look at me.”

The hurt in his eyes makes your own burn. You blink hard, once, and refuse to let it spill. You need to be the solid one right now.

“You can’t save everyone,” you say quietly. “Even if you do everything right.”

“I know that,” he says. “Logically, I understand that’s true.”

“Okay,” you reply. “Then this isn’t logical. So tell me what it is.”

He stares at you for a long second like he’s deciding whether to let you see something he normally keeps locked behind his teeth.

Then he exhales, slow.

“It’s terrifying,” he admits. “To—” His voice catches, and he clears his throat, angry at his own body. “To stand there and realize that the person in the room who you have the most in common with is the bad guy. To… know just how close you were to turning into him. How close you still could be.”

Your stomach drops. You keep your hand on his face. You don’t let him drift away.

He swallows again, eyes fixed somewhere past your shoulder like he’s seeing a different room.

“I was in the library,” he begins. “And Harper Hillman comes up to me. She tells me that, uh, Alexa Lisbon wants to meet me behind the field house. Alexa Lisbon was, like, easily the prettiest girl in school.”

You can almost see it: young Spencer, book-bag slung over one shoulder, heart doing something stupid and hopeful despite everything he knew.

Your chest aches so hard you feel it in your teeth.

You keep your voice quiet, steady. “So what happened? Alexa wasn’t there?”

His eyes flick to yours for half a second, then away.

“She was there,” he says. “So was the entire football team.” His jaw tightens. “They… stripped me naked and tied me to a goalpost.”

The words are blunt, clinical, like he’s trying to numb them by making them factual.

But nothing about this is numb.

“So many kids were there,” Spencer continues, voice rougher now. “You know, just… just watching. Nobody tried to stop them.”

Your hand slides from his cheek to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair gently, like you’re holding him in place.

He keeps staring into nowhere, blinking too fast.

“I begged,” he says, and the word is barely a whisper. “I begged them to, but they just…” His throat works. He swallows hard. “They just watched.”

Your stomach twists violently. You press your forehead to his temple for a second, a quiet, involuntary gesture of I’m here.

Spencer inhales shakily.

“And finally,” he says, “they got bored and they left.”

He laughs once, empty. “It was like midnight when I finally got home, and my mom didn’t—” He stops, eyes squeezing shut. “My mom was having one of her episodes, so she didn’t even realize I was late.”

For a moment, you can’t speak. Your mind keeps trying to build an image and rejecting it because it’s too cruel to hold. Spencer, barefoot on cold grass, rope burns, humiliated, alone. Spencer walking home in the dark to a mother too confused to notice.

You feel something feral rise in you, hot and protective and murderous, but you put that anger aside because you know he doesn’t need you to hunt down Harper Hillman and Alexa Lisbon and the entire football team right now (no matter how badly you want to). That’s not why he’s telling you this.

Your hand tightens on the back of his neck. Your other hand slides down his arm and finds his hand, prying his fist open slowly until his fingers uncurl into your palm.

“You never told her, did you?” you say quietly.

Spencer shakes his head. “I thought—” His voice cracks. “It’s one of those things that I thought if I didn’t talk about it, I’d just forget, but I remember it like it was yesterday.”

Your throat burns. You swallow.

You shift until your knees tuck against his thighs and your arms can wrap around him properly. His hands hover for a heartbeat — uncertain, like he’s forgotten how to be held without it meaning he’s weak.

Then you guide him, gentle and firm, and he folds into you. He leans his head against your shoulder and lets you pull him closer.

He exhales against you, shuddering. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, and you can tell he means it for a hundred things at once.

“Stop,” you say. You pull back just enough to look at him. “Don’t apologize to me for… surviving, or for telling me about it.”

His eyes flicker. The shame tries to reassert itself.

You don’t let it.

“Hey,” you murmur. “Look at me.”

He does, and you take a long breath, pushing back against the part of you that still wants to run from honesty and closeness; the voice inside your head that, while much quieter now than it once was, still tries to convince you that letting him all the way in is a bad idea.

“You are the safest person I’ve ever known, Spencer Reid,” you say slowly, letting him feel every word. “And you’re sitting here acting like you’re dangerous because you understand first-hand what pain can do to people.” Your thumb traces his pulse at his jaw. “But… you understanding that is the whole point. It makes you good at this job. It makes you human.”

He stares at you like he’s trying to memorize your face. Like he’s trying to decide if he’s allowed to believe you.

“I’ve never told anyone that story before,” he says quietly.

The weight of it presses down, intimate and terrifying. You feel it in your ribs: his trust, his choice.

He swallows. “You’re the only person I've ever wanted to tell. And I didn’t… I didn’t want to be alone with it.”

Your heart does something painful and tender at the same time.

“You don’t have to be alone with anything anymore,” you murmur. “Not if you don’t want to be.”

His eyes shine. He doesn’t blink.

“I don’t think I really realized how much I need you until tonight,” he says quietly. “I’ve always wanted you, obviously. But I need you, too.”

Your breath catches.

You slide your fingers into his hair, hold him close.

“You have me,” you say. “Okay? You have me.”

—

Time passes in small, quiet ways.

In the tea that goes cold on the coffee table because neither of you remembers to drink it. In the way the city noise outside shifts from restless to sleepy. In the way Spencer’s grip on you loosens — not because he wants to let go, but because he doesn’t feel like he has to hold on for dear life anymore.

At some point, you stop counting his breaths and start trusting them.

He stays curled into you on the couch for a long time, forehead tucked against your shoulder, one hand spread at your waist like he’s memorizing the shape of you. Every so often his fingers flex, as if he’s checking you’re still there. Every time you slide your palm over his knuckles in answer.

You don’t talk much. There isn’t a clean follow-up line to they tied me to a goalpost that makes the world make sense again. There’s just… being.

You feel him come back to himself in increments. His shoulders drop. His jaw unclenches. The tightness behind his eyes softens into something tired instead of broken.

When he finally lifts his head, it’s careful, like he doesn’t want to break the spell.

His eyes meet yours.

“There you are,” you say softly.

A tiny smile flickers at the corner of his mouth. “Hi.”

He reaches up, thumb brushing your cheekbone where you’d wiped away a tear earlier that you’re refusing to acknowledge.

“I’m sorry,” he starts again.

You catch his wrist gently. “Don’t be.”

You sit up slowly, stretching your legs, and he follows your movement immediately like his body has decided you’re the North Star and he’s not fighting it anymore.

“Do you want to shower?” you ask.

He hesitates for half a beat, then nods. “Yeah.”

In the bathroom, you move around each other the way you always do. It’s a familiar routine. Toothbrushes side by side, your sweatshirt abandoned on the counter, his fingers catching yours when you reach for the same towel.

The shower steam turns the harshness of the day into something blurred at the edges. You wash your hair and he stands behind you, hands resting gently on your hips, leaning down to press a kiss to your shoulder like he can’t help himself. Like the nearness is still a need, even now that he’s steadier.

You turn, water sliding down the sides of your face, and he’s looking at you in that quiet, intent way he always does when he’s thinking too hard.

“What?” you ask.

He shakes his head, almost embarrassed. “Nothing.”

You don’t let him get away with it, but you also don’t press like an interrogator. You just step closer, palms flattening against his chest, and tip your chin up.

He leans down and kisses you, slow and sure, like he’s re-learning what it feels like to be held without punishment. You kiss him back until the tension in his shoulders fully releases, until his hands slide up your back and settle there like they belong.

When you pull away, he stays close, nose brushing yours.

“You’re…” he starts, then stops, as if he can’t find a word that isn’t too big.

You grin, trying to lighten the air around him. “I’m what? Your perfect, wonderful, super hot girlfriend?”

He laughs for a second — an actual laugh, warm and surprised.

“Well, yes,” he admits, a little helpless. “That’s true too.” His gaze drops for a beat, then returns to yours. “But I was going to say that you… you make it quieter. All of it.”

Your throat tightens, because you know what he means. You quiet his self-doubt, his self-criticism, his fear.

“You make it easier to breathe,” you answer, and it comes out softer than you expected. Honest in a way you don’t usually allow yourself to be. “Like I can stop bracing for the worst all the time.”

His eyes flicker — surprise, something bright and almost shy — and then he smiles softly. “Good,” he murmurs.

When you get out, you hand him a towel. He reaches for it but uses it to tug you in instead, wrapping it around both of you for a second like a makeshift shelter.

You rest your cheek against his skin and let his warmth sink into your bones.

In your bedroom, the routine continues.

He moves around your space like he belongs there, and he does. It’s etched into all the quiet details: the drawer you emptied for him months ago, the small stack of books he keeps on your nightstand, the fact he knows where you store your extra pillows and you know which side of the mattress he drifts toward in his sleep.

You watch him for a moment as he stands at the edge of the bed, shirt in his hands, hair damp, skin still flushed from the shower.

There’s something about seeing him like this — unarmored — that always makes your chest go tight. Like you’re witnessing something you weren’t supposed to get access to.

He catches you staring and raises his eyebrows faintly as he pulls the fabric over his head. “What?”

You shrug, attempting casual and failing. “Nothing.”

He gives you that small, knowing smile and climbs into bed. When you follow, he reaches for you immediately — an arm around your waist, pulling you in until your back is against his chest.

You settle with a sigh you didn’t realize you’d been holding in all day. His hand slides up your side, slow and grounding, then comes to rest over your ribs where your heartbeat keeps thudding like it’s trying to prove something.

“Thank you,” he murmurs into your hair.

“For what?”

“For coming to the door,” he says quietly. “For not making me explain before I could even think straight.” His arm tightens once, steady. “For letting me be here.”

You turn in his arms, just enough to look at him. In the dark, his eyes catch what little light there is, and they’re softer now.

“Like I was gonna leave you out there in the hall,” you murmur, thumb skimming his jaw. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

His mouth twitches, almost a laugh.

“I didn’t know what I needed,” he admits. “But it was you. I just needed you.”

“I know,” you whisper. “You have me.”

For a second, he almost looks like he might say something bigger. Something he can’t take back. But instead, he swallows it and leans in to kiss you again, the kind of kiss that still makes your stomach flip even after everything. Like you’re still new to each other, like you’re still learning, like you’ll never be done.

When you pull back, he rests his forehead against yours.

“Tomorrow,” he murmurs, voice already thick with sleep, “I’m going to be better.”

You hold his face between your hands for a moment, grounding him the way he’s grounded you so many times.

“You don’t have to be,” you say softly. “Just… be here.”

His eyes close on a slow exhale.

“I’m here. I’m yours,” he says, and the words are so devastatingly sincere that you feel them settle in your bones.

You settle back against him as his arm tightens around you, and then his breathing evens out, sleep taking him.

You lie there in the dark with him warm at your back, his hand over your heart like he’s using it to keep time, and you let yourself absorb the quiet.

It’s not total silence or stillness, not really. Not with his breathing in your ear or his palm rising and falling over your ribs.

You shift a fraction, and his arm tightens around you like he can’t bear to let you drift too far, even in sleep. It makes your throat burn with a feeling you refuse to name tonight, so you settle for staring up at the ceiling until your eyes go soft.

Tomorrow will arrive with its teeth. The job will soon enough hand you another case that chips away at your soul.

But tonight, Spencer found you anyway.

And you let yourself believe — just for this one quiet stretch of night — that if the world ever tries to pull you apart, he’ll still reach for you in the dark. That you’ll still reach back.

ᝰ.ᐟ

this fic is part of the greenaway!reader universe/series! you can read more about this pairing here ♥️

& don’t forget to send in requests for my 2k event, greenaway!reader marathon, happening next month!

PSA: likes do very little for promoting posts on tumblr! if you'd like to support a fic, please reblog!

[lenatpn]

🥹🥹 missed them sm

[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

[deerfawnn]

part 6: one door closes

— ★ following your first kiss, you and spencer learn how to be together. particularly spencer, who is still learning how to let himself love and be loved after prison.

pairing: spencer reid x sweetheart!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: mostly just them being very cutesy together, so lots of kissing, once again lots of mentions of prison !! diana and william are mentioned, and so are spencer's nightmares a/n: merry christmas everyone !! <3 this part took me a while, i'm sorry :( also, i fear it's very necessary to add that i do not know much about telescopes. so, forgive me if the things i mentioned don't quite add up. gif credits to @reidgif <33

masterlist

Four days. That's how long the case lasted. Yet, Spencer's mind had only one recurring subject. You.

Four days was an eternity for a genius and it provided far too much time to overanalyze. Every night, as he laid in his hotel bed, he replayed the memory of kissing you. He could still recall the softness of your lips and the little sigh you’d made.

But that same brilliant mind, trained to anticipate worst case scenarios, was quick to tarnish the moment. He had doomed you. By crossing that line, by giving in to an impulse he’d fought for so long, he had irrevocably changed your friendship.

You had seemed so genuinely happy in the moments after and that was the part that both thrilled and terrified him the most. It suggested you wouldn’t want this to be a one time thing. (Not that it was just one kiss. By his count, it had been three, maybe four ).

Instead of heading to his own apartment, he went straight to yours from the airport, the keys you’d entrusted him with feeling heavy in his pocket. He pushed your door open slowly, knocking on the wood to announce his presence. He didn’t want to startle you.

Your bright voice immediately called out, “Come in!”

The sound twisted a knot of guilt in his stomach. He hated the thought of disappointing you.

He found you on the couch, a book resting spine up on the cushion beside you. You shifted, wincing only slightly, to smile up at him. “Hi, Spencer.” You immediately patted the empty space next to you.

He was helpless to stop his smile, just as he was helpless to stop his eyes from darting down to your mouth for a fleeting second. He forced his gaze away, focusing instead on the coffee table.

“Hey,” he managed, his voice gentle. “How’s your thigh?”

“Oh, pretty okay. It doesn’t hurt that much, and I can move it much better,” you reassured him, sitting up a little straighter as if to prove your point.

“I’m glad.” His eyes flickered to the prescription bottle on the side table, automatically counting the pills through the plastic to verify you’d been staying on schedule. You had, of course. When his gaze returned to yours, you were smiling, having caught on to what he was doing.

“So...” you began.

Spencer nervously bit his lower lip. Your communication over the past few days had been limited to a few texts. You checking if he was safe, him asking if you needed anything. He wasn’t a fan of texting, but calling you seemed far too nerve wracking. He knew that a phone call would lead to the conversation about the kiss and he refused to dishonor something so significant by trying to define it from hundreds of miles away. It deserved to be face to face.

“So. Uhm—” Spencer began. He fidgeted with the cuff of his sleeve. “I’ve been… I thought about—about uhm.”

“The kiss,” you supplied. A grin touched your lips. “Or well, kisses?”

Spencer met your eyes, a sheepish smile gracing his features before he remembered what he was doing here. He took a breath, opening his mouth to deliver the speech he’d prepared on the jet.

But you knew him.

“Spencer.” Your voice stopped him before he could begin. You held out your palm and he took your hand immediately, his fingers intertwining with yours. Emboldened, you scooted closer, ignoring the protest from your injured thigh.

“Do you like me?” your voice wavered. You were clearly nervous, but didn't back out from the question.

He didn’t even have to think. “Of course I do,” he whispered, his thumb stroking the back of your hand.

“Okay, so don’t say what you were planning to say,” you said, your hand slipping from his to gently press a fingertip against his chest, right over his frantically beating heart. “I know you overanalyzed the kiss and I know you’re worried, that you’re trying to stop this before it happens.” You held his gaze. “But I like you. And that’s all I, or well, we, need for now.”

Spencer watched you, his eyes full of adoration and dread. You were, of course, sort of right. But his mind always liked thinking about the worst case scenario.

Seeing him still hovering on the edge of self sabotage, you decided to shift his focus. You leaned in, your voice dropping to a whisper. “Was I that bad of a kisser?”

Spencer’s mouth fell open in shock. “No. No, not at all,” he insisted, the words rushing out. “You’re—you’re a great kisser.” Despite the initial stutter, his statement landed with confidence.

Now it was your turn to squirm. His sincere compliment had completely caught you off guard, leaving you flustered.

“Okay, well,” you managed shakily. A grin spread across your face. “Problem solved.”

A genuine chuckle escaped him as he shook his head at your logic.

“No, but seriously, Spencer,” you spoke, your voice softening. “I just… I’m letting you know that I’d love to give this a try.” The admission left you feeling terrifyingly exposed.

You hurried to add, “But if that’s not okay with you, that would be completely fine, too. And nothing would change between us, I promise.” You meant it, you truly did. Or, you tried to.

Well, yes, nothing would change, except I’d now know the exact taste and sweetness of his lips, and the way your breath hitches just before you lean in. And the fact that you hum during kisses.

Spencer watched you and for a second, he was silent, and your heart stuttered. Then, he shook his head. “No,” he whispered. A genuine smile finally broke through his serious expression. “No, I’d… I’d love to give this a try, too.”

“Yeah?”

Spencer nodded, and that was all the confirmation you needed. Before you could second guess yourself, you practically pounced on him, your hands coming up to frame his face. You immediately pressed your lips to his. You felt him smile against your mouth, a happy sound rumbling in his chest as he kissed you back, his hands coming up to rest on your waist.

He pulled back just enough to breathe the words against your lips. “I missed you so much.” And then he was kissing you again.

You smiled into the kiss, but the moment was abruptly interrupted by a sound of pain that you couldn’t suppress as you shifted your weight.

“Okay, okay, we should stop. You’re hurting yourself,” he mumbled against your lips. The hands that had slipped into your hair now drifted down, one cupping the nape of your neck.

You pouted. “I’m fine,” you insisted, only to immediately let out another groan.

“You’re not fine,” he chided gently. He allowed you to press one last kiss to his lips before he carefully guided you back against your pillows. You let out a sigh of frustration, but it was impossible to sustain it when you saw the adoring look in his eyes.

He gently lifted your legs and settled them across his lap.

“I missed you too, by the way,” you spoke softly, tugging at your bottom lip.

Spencer’s smile was wide as he glanced over at you. In this moment, it was impossibly easy for him to forget his overthinking. How could he dwell on potential future disasters when you were lying here like this? Your hair was charmingly mussed from his fingers, splayed out over the pillow, and your lips were kiss bitten and swollen just a tiny bit, all because of him.

You were so perfectly happy watching him, the way he smiled softly to himself, his fingers tracing patterns on your leg, that you almost didn’t want to break the comfortable silence.

“How was the case?” you asked, the question feeling slightly wrong. You were still smiling, unable to contain the joy of having him here.

Spencer turned his head to look at you. The irony wasn't lost on him. You were a fully qualified agent, currently sidelined by an injury, not someone who needed protecting from the reality of the job. And yet, he felt the need to protect you.

“It was okay. It went well,” he lied. He immediately pivoted, grasping for a brighter topic. “JJ misses you a lot.” He saw your expression soften at the mention of your friend and pressed the advantage. “Says she misses having someone to check the new sandwich spots around the city with.”

It was a perfect distraction. He knew would pull you away from asking for case details. Because the details were awful.

And if you weren't there, why would he tell you? Why should he burden you with the knowledge that he had been mere seconds too late? That he’d held a young man in his arms, feeling the life seep out of him? That it had reminded him so much of Luis that he’d almost tasted the prison air?

He wouldn't tell you that.

His eyes would not betray him either. So he immediately looked away, focusing on your colorful couch cushion.

“I miss her too,” you sighed, successfully diverted, a wistful smile playing on your lips. “But I think I’ll be back on my feet soon.”

He just nodded, offering a tight smile of his own. “Good.”

And that was the end of the conversation.

He stayed the evening. You told him about your four days, which hadn't been much, the books you’d read and the frustrating physical therapy exercises.

And he told you about other things. A fascinating book he’d read on the jet, a funny story about Luke getting the food orders wrong for the team, the way the autumn leaves were just starting to turn outside. He told you everything. Everything but the case.

The official first date with Spencer came weeks later, a reward of sorts for the tedious work of physical therapy you had been doing.

Spencer, true to his nature, had been terribly nervous all day. He’d mentally prepared for every possible conversational dead end. He feared his mind would betray him with a bunch of useless statistics or, worse, silence.

But the moment you smiled at him from across the table, something clicked into place. He found himself telling you about various books and you listened with genuine interest.

He had chosen a restaurant that was undeniably fancy. You had protested gently when you saw it. “Spencer, this is too much. You didn’t have to do all this.”

But he had insisted. “I wanted to.” Seeing the way your face lit up as you took in the elegant room, he knew it was worth every penny.

His initial worry, that it was too safe a choice for a first date, melted away when you reached across the table and squeezed his hand.

“This is perfect,” you said, your voice sincere. “And besides, we have more than enough other dates to go on to try all the other places you have in mind.”

The fact that you were so casually assured of a future, sent a wave of warmth through his chest.

It was when he took a sip of his water, that you noticed it. His fingers had been tracing the stem of his glass and the edge of the plaster on his index finger caught the light.

“What happened to your finger?” you asked, nodding towards it.

Spencer’s hand stilled. He had specifically chosen a plaster that would match his skin tone, an attempt to make it invisible. A flicker of panic crossed his features before he mastered it, offering you a strained smile. “Papercut. A really bad one.”

You shook your head, a fond look on your face. “Of course.”

To you, it was the most Spencer Reid injury imaginable. A man who lived his life between the pages of books was bound to suffer cut his fingers on them.

It wasn't exactly a lie, he reasoned as the moment passed and the conversation moved on. But it wasn't the whole truth, either.

He couldn't tell you that it was the fifth cut that week. He couldn't explain the almost desperate hours he’d spent rifling through his old books he had annotated years ago. He had scoured his own books for clues to a less ruined Spencer, thinking that if he could just grasp who he used to be by looking at those annotations, he could somehow piece together a better version of himself for you.

A better boyfriend.

He was profoundly grateful you had only seen one papercut.

As he walked you to your door later, all thoughts of papercuts faded. The date had been a genuine joy. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt so light. And when you kissed him goodnight at your doorstep, Spencer couldn't wait for all the other dates to come.

Soon enough, weeks passed and he couldn't have been happier. You were still firmly forced on to paperwork duty, and Spencer was doing his mandatory two-week leave. But for the first time he enjoyed it. It gave him time. Time to prepare his lectures, to read, and, most importantly, to be with you.

Usually, you’d come over to help him organize his class notes. But tonight was different. Tonight, you had a small overnight bag by the door. Tonight, you were sleeping over for the first time.

His smile was instant when he saw you emerge from his bedroom, clad in the same teddy bear pajamas you’d worn the night you cleaned his wound.

The telescope had been a last minute idea. He’d almost tripped over its case while cleaning his entire apartment before you arrived. It had been tucked away for months.

Now, you were pulling open the large living room windows, letting the cool night air into the room as he carefully settled the telescope's tripod, angling it to peer out into the sky.

“So? Which ones are we looking for?” you asked as you came to stand beside him, your arm gently brushing his.

Spencer was fine tuning the focus, his eye pressed to the eyepiece. “Alpha Gruis,” he mumbled distracted. “The constellation is Grus, the Crane. The name itself is derived from Arabic, meaning… ‘the bright one.’” He adjusted a knob, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Kind of like you.”

The words were almost mumbled under his breath. He only realized he’d spoken aloud when he heard the soft shuffle of your impatient steps fall completely silent. He straightened up, turning from the telescope to meet your gaze. Your eyes were wide, your lips slightly parted in a look of surprise.

“What's wrong?” he asked, confused as to why you were staring.

“That… that was just really nice.” you interrupted softly, shaking your head as a smile spread across your face.

The words had slipped out so automatically because it was simply the truth. You were the bright one in his life.

“Well, it’s true,” he smiled softly.

He stepped closer then, his hand finding its place on the curve of your waist as he gently guided you to stand in front of the telescope. “Here, see for yourself.”

Leaning over your shoulder, his cheek nearly brushing your hair, he could see you were still smiling to yourself, the compliment warming you from the inside out. The sight made him smile too.

“Okay, this is too high for you,” he mumbled, his voice a low rumble near your ear. His hands came up, encircling your waist to reach the telescope in front of you, his chest pressing lightly against your back as he adjusted the height. He loved the way you instinctively leaned back into his body.

Despite the relationship being in its early stages, you still seemed to immediately seek him out, Something he’d noticed even before you started dating. The only difference now was the permission you gave yourself to lean into it.

To look through the eyepiece, he had to lean his head over your shoulder, his chin coming to rest lightly near the curve of your neck. Your cheek was almost pressed to his. He could feel the rhythm of your breathing slightly quicken and he listened to it with pure delight. In fact, he might have deliberately dragged out the fine tuning of the telescope just a moment longer, savoring the feeling of you being nervous in his arms.

Finally, he straightened up slightly. "Does that work for you?" As he spoke, his hand came up, his fingers gently pulling a stray strand of hair back from your face, tucking it carefully behind your ear.

"Yup. Works fine," you replied, your voice a little breathless.

"Okay, good," he whispered, smiling. "I think the sky is clear enough for us to see it." He encouraged you with a slight squeeze of his hand on your waist, before dropping it to his side.

As you peered into the lens, he watched you from behind. The sight was profoundly domestic. You, standing in the middle of his living room, using his telescope.

He tried to recall the last time he’d used it himself. He probably did know the exact date, but he didn't care to retrieve it. Recalling it would hurt, not just because of the pain associated with that lonely past, but because it paled in comparison to the new memory he was forging right now. He’d never had anyone to share the telescope with as an adult. The last time was when he was thirteen, with his mom. Seeing you here now, excited to share this with him, was delightful.

But your silence stretched a beat too long. "Do you not see it?" he asked concerned.

You lifted your head from the eyepiece, an apologetic frown on your face. "I thought I did, but it was just a plane."

You were about to say you were sorry, he could see the word forming on your lips as you turned your head to meet his eyes. But he was already smiling, a smile that stopped your apology before it could begin.

"That's okay," he said, his voice full of warmth. "Here, try again. I'll help."

Spencer knew the sky. He didn't need to look for himself first. You turned your head, ready to comply, but this time his hand came up to gently frame your jaw from behind. His fingers cradled your face as he looked past you, aligning the telescope with the star.

"Up," he mumbled, his index finger tapping on your cheek. You followed the instruction, tilting your head back. "And now, a bit to the side." He guided your head a fraction to the left, a smile touching his lips as he felt the frantic flutter of your pulse beneath his fingertips.

But, he had nothing to feel cocky about. His own heart was hammering against his ribs.

"Now, try to look for it again," he said, his voice hushed as he reluctantly dropped his hand from your face.

You leaned forward, peering into the eyepiece. He couldn't see your expression, but he could imagine the sweet frown he knew would be etched between your eyebrows. A part of him hoped you'd turn around soon, just so he'd have the opportunity to kiss it away.

Just as he thought about fetching you a cardigan because of the cold nigh air, your hands fell from the telescope. You reached backward, finding his hands which had been hovering just above your hips. You took them and pulled them firmly around your waist.

He could tell it had taken a surge of courage for you to make that move.

Perhaps that was why you'd been silent about the star.

Your mind had been preoccupied with the scary act of pulling him closer. Because he knew, with absolute certainty, that Alpha Gruis was right there in the center of the lens and had been all along.

He didn't say a word, didn't tease. Instead, he let his hands slide under your soft pajama top. You squeaked at the initial shock of his cool skin against your warm stomach, before you melted back into his chest with a soft sigh. His thumbs brushed circles over your skin.

"Do you see it?" he asked, his voice quiet by your ear.

It didn't take two seconds. "Oh my god, yes!" you breathed out excitedly.

He had to press his lips together to suppress a profoundly cocky grin, burying his face in your hair to hide it. Clearly it had been there all along but the act of trying to pump yourself up to grab him closer had distracted you from seeing it right in front of you.

"Wow," you whispered.

Spencer smiled softly against your hair. "It's pretty, isn't it?" His voice was filled with a sleepiness that felt strange. He let his head rest more fully against the side of yours, his cheek pillowed on your soft hair.

The truth was, he hadn't been sleeping at all.

His mandatory two week leave always seemed to invite the nightmares in. When he was on a case, his mind had a target. The fight was external and he was useful.

But here, in his apartment, the battle turned inward. He was fighting ghosts and you can't handcuff a memory. Ghosts don't have hands to be restrained. They simply are lingering in the periphery, and they were always worst when he was left alone with them in the dark.

So, he stayed awake.

He closed his eyes for a long moment, breathing you in. He knew he was probably hindering your ability to move your head, but he was so tired and you were so soft. You smelled like vanilla, a scent so calming he found himself wondering if he should buy a candle that mimicked your shampoo.

Maybe that would help with sleep. It wasn't a completely baseless theory. The first time he'd slept through the night without a nightmare waking him was that first night you'd shared a hotel room on a case.

The conversation leading up to this sleepover had, however, been awkward. You'd dropped subtle hints he'd either missed or his subconscious had deliberately ignored, terrified of the implications.

It wasn't that he didn't want you there. He wanted it desperately. It was just the fear of you seeing a version, he worked so hard to hide.

You'd witnessed one of his nightmares before, back when you were just coworkers, but this was different. Now he was your boyfriend. He felt a new responsibility for your safety and comfort, and the idea of his own trauma becoming your burden was paralyzing. He couldn't lose you, not when he had just begun to learn what it felt like to have you.

He just had to hope that tonight, with you curled beside him, the ghosts would stay away.

After a long silence, you finally mumbled, "Can I see the moon?"

Spencer lifted his head, pulled from the edge of sleep. "Yeah, of course," he said, his voice raspy. He pressed an apologetic kiss to your temple for the heavy weight of his head. His hands slid from beneath your shirt and went to the telescope, making the slight adjustments. You leaned back against his chest, waiting patiently.

"It should be right there," he murmured, once again tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear as you leaned forward to peer into the eyepiece.

This time, you saw it immediately, just as Spencer's hands found their way back to your waist, giving a gentle squeeze.

"It's so bright! It's a full moon!" you exclaimed, the excitement in your voice so pure it was contagious. You jerked your head back in delight, and he had to pull back quickly to avoid a collision with your skull.

"It is," he chuckled as his thumbs brushed circles against your waist.

"The full moon is going to get the werewolves to come out," you declared, finally turning within his arms to face him. "We should probably close the windows before we sleep or they'll get in."

Spencer couldn't help the laugh that escaped him. "I think the only thing the full moon is affecting is the ocean's tides," he corrected gently, his smile widening when you rolled your eyes.

"We can't ever be sure," you insisted, poking your index finger into his chest. "Don't you wanna look for yourself? It's really pretty," you added, your smile softening as he pulled you just a little bit closer.

His eyes never left your face. "I already have a pretty view in front of me," he mumbled.

A delighted laugh bubbled out of you. "Didn't realize you were that much of a flirt, Spencer Reid."

"I'm not," he stated, the picture of innocence despite the way his hands were splayed possessively on your back.

"You say that to all the girls?" you joked, your eyelashes fluttering slightly as he leaned in closer, his nose already nudging yours.

"The only girl I flirt with is you," he breathed out, before he finally closed the distance.

You automatically smiled into the kiss, as you always did. Pretty much the only complaint he had about your relationship so far was this constant urge of yours to smile whenever your lips met. Though it wasn't really a complaint at all, because he loved your smile more than anything in the world.

You kissed him back, your arms winding their way around his neck, holding him as close as he held you. "Really?" you whispered.

Spencer answered by pressing another soft kiss to your mouth. Then, he did it again, he pulled back, just a fraction of an inch, his eyes searching your face.

"You're a tease," you mumbled, your hands framing his neck to pull him back.

While you had a minor grievance with his habit of pulling away, you suspected he secretly enjoyed you chasing him. And you weren't entirely wrong, but his primary reason was far more Spencer. It was actually his momentary check in.

Are you okay? Are you enjoying this as much as I am? The fact that it also flustered you in the most delightful way was a happy secondary benefit.

You kissed for so long that the rest of the world faded into a blissful blur. At one point, as you shifted in his arms, your back bumped into the telescope. You gasped, turning in horror, expecting it to clatter to the floor, but Spencer's hand had already shot out, stabilizing it. He pressed a swift kiss to your temple.

"Sorry," he mumbled softly, his other hand gently brushing the spot on your back that had made contact with the telescope.

The kiss deepened again. After a moment, he nudged his nose against yours, a wordless request. Despite how many kisses you'd shared, you were so focused on keeping things light that you rarely initiated the shift into something more intense. You were always too worried about him.

He always had to remind you that he wanted all of you.

When you didn't respond, still content with the closed mouth kisses, his hands traveled from your waist to cradle your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks as he tilted your head back just so.

"Open," he whispered against your lips.

A smile spread across your face. "Sorry," you whispered back, finally yielding and he sighed in a relief. Just as his tongue finally slipped into your mouth, making you hum when it met yours, a howl cut through the night.

You turned your head immediately toward the window. Spencer let out a long sigh, dropping his forehead to your shoulder in defeat. Your hand came up automatically, your fingers threading through his soft hair.

"I told you the werewolves were out," you said, a grin in your voice as you coaxed his face back up.

"That was a dog. In fact, that was the same golden retriever you spent ten minutes greeting two hours ago when we arrived."

Your laughter filled the room and he found himself smiling automatically in response. He wasn't actually upset with you. How could he be? The moment had been perfect and there would be countless more. But then again he had just gotten you to open your mouth.

"Eternity is cute, though," you spoke fondly, defending the golden retriever.

"Not when he interrupts our kiss," Spencer mumbled, his voice a soft grumble against your hair as he pressed a kiss to your temple. He pulled you into his arms to shield you from the cool night breeze.

"Eternity is an odd name for a dog, don't you think?" you mused, your words muffled by his sweater. You leaned your chin against his chest, tilting your head back to look up at him.

He glanced down, meeting your gaze. "Possibly. Most male dogs are named Milo or Max, actually," he said, his mind automatically pulling the data. "So the chance of someone naming their dog 'Eternity' is quite low."

You took in the information, a thoughtful frown appearing before it melted into a smile. "It's odd, but I like it," you declared, before sighing contentedly and settling your cheek back against his chest.

One of his hands brushed soothing circles across your waist while the other rose to the back of your head, his fingers once again tangling gently in your hair.

It's odd, but I like it.

He wasn't surprised you liked the name. You had a fondness for the unconventional, for the things that stood just outside the norm.

Maybe that's why you liked him.

He had been called "odd" since he first stepped into a classroom in shoes that were too small for his age, surrounded by students who were years his senior. If someone had asked him to describe himself in a single word, for most of his life, that would have been the one.

Odd.

He wasn't sure there had ever been a time he hadn't seen himself as existing on the periphery. An observer looking into the world of everyone else's lives but never quite crossing the threshold.

But here he was. He had crossed it with you. He was still, in his own eyes, odd. And yet, here you were, not just tolerating it, but liking it. Liking him.

Maybe "odd" wasn't a life sentence of isolation. Maybe the term that had haunted his childhood, the label that had defined his loneliness, could be transformed into something cherished. The thought was liberating.

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head as he smiled to himself. You hummed happily in response, nuzzling closer, and for the first time, Spencer considered that his greatest perceived flaw might just be the very reason he was so perfectly loved.

The next morning ended up being very domestic. He discovered you were quite clingy in the early hours, mumbling incoherent protests and holding onto him, when he first tried to move. He’d finally resorted to gently peeling you from the mattress as you grumbled.

That had been several hours ago.

Now, he was standing in his kitchen, preparing lunch. The scent of pasta filled the air as he stirred the pot of boiling water, when he heard the soft pad of your footsteps behind him.

You’d disappeared about forty minutes prior and he was sure you were up to something. Sure enough, you appeared at his side, slipping into his space as naturally as if you’d always been there.

“Hi. Spencer.”

He felt a smile touch his lips before he even turned his head. “Hey,” he mumbled, his focus still on the bubbling pot.

You leaned in, pressing your warm cheek against his upper arm, your arms wrapping loosely around his waist as you watched the pasta swirl in the water. He was about to ask what you were doing when he heard it.

His eyebrows furrowed. He glanced down at the top of your head, but you hadn’t moved. His eyes then darted to the stove’s control knob, and to the red indicator light that had just gone dark.

“Why did you turn the stove off?” he asked, his tone remarkably plain. He wasn’t even surprised.

You tilted your head back to look up at him, a grin lighting up your features. “Just wanna show you something. Please?” You dragged out the word, layering it with a sweetness he found utterly irresistible.

Spencer let out a sigh, the kind that was entirely for show. He dropped the wooden spoon onto the pot. “Okay.”

Your grin widened in victory as you took his hand. You led him away from the abandoned lunch, through the living room, towards his desk.

You pointed a finger at his desk chair. “Sit down, please.”

He followed your instruction without hesitation. His gaze fell upon your laptop, which was open on the desk directly in front of him. He looked back at you, a silent question in his eyes.

“You know you’re actively delaying lunch,” Spencer remarked as he watched you click on your laptop.

“I know,” you mumbled, your focus entirely on the screen, a furrow between your brows.

“Do you?” he pressed as he leaned back in the chair. “Because if I recall correctly, the last time you stepped into the kitchen, you complained for ten minutes about how terribly hungry you were.’”

You just giggled as you kept clicking away on your laptop. However your smile immediately faded when his hand, which had been resting on your hip, slid down the side of your thigh. He slowly guided you down onto his lap. He could feel the way his touch rendered you momentarily speechless. But despite your obvious nerves, you settled against him.

Your nervous reactions to him never failed to make his own heart stutter in response. Most things made him nervous, too, like the realization that he literally had you in his lap.

“Okay, so,” you began, clearing your throat softly, effectively breaking the intimate silence that had begun to settle around you both. You leaned back into his chest and his arms instinctively tightened around your waist, holding you closer. “I was doing some research last night and I, uh, I found something.”

Spencer leaned in, his chin nearly resting on your shoulder as he peered at the screen. His eyes quickly scanned the brightly colored webpage. “A chess tournament?”

“Mhm,” you nodded. “It’s taking place in three weeks, close by. Just in the grand hall down your street. And it’s at a reasonable time on a Saturday, and look—” you pointed at the screen, “—there’s a fun prize. A bit of money, and a really cool chess set that I think you’d like, though I have no idea what’s special about it.” Your admission was devoid of any judgement. You genuinely didn't have a clue.

You took a soft breath, your earlier nervousness returning. “And I was thinking… if we’re lucky with work, and no cases pull us away, it could maybe work out.” You finally chanced a glance back at him.

Spencer understood the root of your nervousness perfectly, because you were proposing something that he was still struggling with.

Yes, he had talked about it on your birthday. But, he hadn't done any of it in so long that the very idea felt… foreign.

Intellectually, he knew the path to healing meant dealing with the things that caused him so much pain. He could cite various studies and statistics. But knowledge and feeling were two different things, and a stubborn part of him still believed he didn't deserve to do those things.

That old self felt like a stranger. A better man. And since he could never truly go back to being that person, he felt he had forfeited the right to the things that man had loved.

What if he sat down at the board and felt nothing? Or worse, what if he felt different ? What if this attempt to reconnect with his past only ended up highlighting how much he had changed? It would be proof that the damage was irrevocable.

But then… here he was.

He was a new man, at least to himself. And he had you in his lap. You, who had only ever known this newer version of himself, the one he deemed 'horrible', and yet, you were still here.

You liked him enough to be tracing patterns on his chest, your fingers playing with the soft curls at the nape of his neck as you watched him with those wide eyes. He brushed his hand over your waist again as he thought.

He wanted, so desperately, to see you happy.

The idea of attending the tournament with you, of having you there, specifically for him, excited him. For the first time ever, he would have someone in his corner. He remembered the rare tournaments where his mother had been well enough to sit in the audience.

But mostly, he remembered the long breaks between matches, tucked away in a corner alone with a book. He would count the minutes until his next turn.

This time could be different. This time, during those breaks, he could have you. He wouldn't have to watch his opponent share a smile with a loved one across the room with envy. For the first time, he would have someone to make eye contact with.

“It’s okay if you don’t feel like it,” you spoke softly. Your fingers gently brushed another curl from his forehead. You gave him a genuine smile. “It was just an idea. No pressure whatsoever.”

You shifted in his lap, turning more sideways until your socked feet came to rest against his calf. One hand drifted from his hair to his cheek, your thumb stroking a tender path over his cheekbone. It was in this new angle, with the bright desk lamp casting light on him, that your expression shifted.

“Spencer?” you gently turned his jaw with your hand, studying the other side of his face. “Have you been sleeping?”

He felt a jolt of panic. You were about to point out the evidence he’d tried to hide in the dim lighting of his apartment.

His mind scrambled for a deflection, latching onto a physical distraction he knew you usually liked. His hands slid under the soft fabric of your shirt, settling on the warm skin of your waist. He gave a playful squeeze, meant to make you smile.

It worked, for a second. A flicker of surprise crossed your face, the frown momentarily disappearing before it settled back, deeper than before.

“I’ve been sleeping. Don’t worry about me,” he lied.

You didn’t look away. “You have dark circles under your eyes more prominent than I’ve ever seen before,”

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. “Just been preparing for my classes at night. That’s all. I’m fine, honey.”

To his immense relief, you relaxed immediately. The tension left your shoulders as you bought the easy explanation. “Okay, well, stop doing that,” you chided softly. “You need to sleep.”

The moment the words left your lips, the stone of his guilt, which had been forming in his stomach, shattered. The piercing fragments embedded themselves throughout his entire body. He had just lied to you. Straight to your face. You had been dating for two months, and he had already looked into your trusting eyes and deliberately deceived you.

Look at him. What a great boyfriend.

Already setting everything up for failure because he can’t dare to tell you the truth. Can’t tell you that the nightmares are so vivid he’s afraid to close his eyes. Can’t admit that sometimes the memories feel more real than the present.

He felt sick to his stomach. His eyes darted away from your face, back to the glowing screen of your laptop, but he didn’t see the chess tournament announcement anymore. All he saw was the terrifying fear that he was already ruining the best thing that had happened to him in years.

That’s how it started, wasn’t it? With lies. He remembered his father’s behavior in the years before his parents' relationship disintegrated. The excuses about why he couldn't do their traditional reading session with his mother. "I'm swamped with work, son. Another time."

It had been the way his parents bonded. His mother, the brilliant professor before schizophrenia stole her career, and his father, the law student. They had found common ground in 'To Kill a Mockingbird', and so, reading together in bed became their ritual.

But Spencer remembered creeping past the study and seeing his father there, alone, a different book in his hand, choosing solitude over the difficult reality of his wife.

Spencer would eat dinner alone because his father "had a client meeting." In truth, he just couldn't stomach another one of Diana's episodes. He would flee the house, leaving Spencer to handle it alone. By the time the boy had managed to calm his mother, guiding her to sleep, his own food would be cold, and he would sit in silence of the dining room, utterly alone.

That was his father's legacy. He lied, and lied, and lied.

And now, Spencer was doing the same. He had just lied to your face. The only difference was the timeline.

His father had waited years into a marriage strained by immense tragedy. Spencer had managed it a mere two months in. Wasn't that an even more damning indictment? Wasn't he dooming you both from the very start?

He felt so sick to his stomach that he leaned forward, burying his face against the soft fabric of your sleeve, his forehead pressing into the warmth of your upper arm as he pulled you more tightly against his chest.

It was in that haze of guilt that he realized you had spoken. He lifted his head. "Sorry?" he asked softly, meeting your eyes, hoping his turmoil wasn't as visible as it felt.

"So? Would you like to go?" you repeated.

Right. The chess tournament.

Spencer's eyes darted to the screen, before returning to your face. He couldn't bear to dim the light in your eyes.

"Yeah. Sure. I think it could be fun."

Your smile widened. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Spencer affirmed, and the genuine joy that lit up your face made his own smile appear.

"That's great, Spencer," you leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. He smiled, truly smiled, even as his lie settled like a cold stone in the pit of his stomach.

As you pulled the laptop closer, settling it on your thighs to read the finer details of the tournament, you instinctively nuzzled deeper into his lap. Spencer’s arms tightened around your waist in response, his cheek resting against your upper arm.

“You’ll come right?” He tilted his head up slightly, his eyes seeking yours.

“Of course I will.”

[lenatpn]

him spiralling in quiet physically hurts me, dude 🥹 i need him to open up to her fr

[ssa-dado]

YES, MA’AM.

Aaron Hotchner x (acting!!!) section chief reader Genre: Angsty (eventually a happy ending, just not the one you’re expecting) featuring one profoundly ill-advised solo performance Summary: The epilogue to Hotch’s first meeting with the Acting Section Chief might best be summarized as Katy Perry’s Firework (2010), regrettably reinterpreted and staged entirely within the confines of a federal bathroom stall Warnings: MDNI!!! Power imbalance, authority kink, masturbation in the workplace (’Cause baby, you’re a firework / Come on, show ’em what you’re worth / Make ’em go, “Oh, oh, oh” / As you shoot across the sky) Word Count: 3.2k (be proud of me) Dado's Corner: Went back and forth til the very last sec on whether to make this a single long os packed with different scenarios, but I ended up loving their dynamic way too much (shocker). So... we are doing multiple installments!! :D Let me know what you think!! And ofc, I owe at least 3 tiramisù (20×30 cm pans) to @sweetheartsocks & @hotchology <33

masterlist

Rumor has it the new Acting Section Chief has just started their six-month stint - or longer, depending on when Mateo Cruz returns from yet another task force.

It isn’t office humor so much as a calendar entry: 15:25, already sitting on Hotch’s schedule, already unwelcome. The sort of appointment he’s been bracing for since the moment he stepped into the bullpen that very morning.

He frankly could not care less about making the acquaintance of this allegedly brilliant ASAC from the New York Field Office, temporarily installed by some higher-up.

Experience has taught him that such appointments rarely justify the investment. If the appointee isn’t staying long enough to exercise real authority, then they certainly aren’t staying long enough to merit the expenditure of time, deference, and strategic boot-licking that Bureau politics so enthusiastically demand.

It is, quite simply, an inefficient allocation of resources. Resources Hotch would much rather reserve for matters of greater urgency.

Namely, the actual work.

Which is why, when 15:25 becomes 15:30, Hotch is still at his desk.

He finishes the paragraph he’s on. Reviews it. Signs it. Only then does he close the folder and stand, straightening his jacket unhurriedly.

He checks the reflection of his hair in the darkened screen of his laptop - not because this meeting has suddenly become a priority, but because the Acting Section Chief is, technically, his superior, and appearances remain a functional currency.

It would still be unwise to begin on the wrong footing.

He reaches for the small pot of orchids he nearly forgot to buy that morning. An administrative courtesy, nothing more - meant to inaugurate the office rather than commemorate the tenure, though even that is likely to outlast the mandate it is meant to mark.

He allows himself a faint smirk at the thought.

Your name is already affixed to the door, pristine, without a trace of wear.

He reads it once. Then again, committing it to memory for the necessarily ephemeral duration of the meeting. If it fails to stick, there will be a matching placard on your desk. Redundancy is reassuring.

He knocks at last.

He has never been late to anything - at least not where his job is concerned. Even now, he takes comfort in the fact that five (more accurately… seven) minutes late is not late enough to warrant remark.

The door opens.

“Agent Hotchner.”

He does not expect you to open the door yourself.

“Ma’am. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He hopes it will be. Statistically, it rarely is.

You are smiling the same way he is. Polite. Economical. A smile that costs nothing and promises less.

He assumes you will accept the orchids, place them somewhere visible out of courtesy, refrain from asking how often they need watering so as not to appear unprepared, exchange a few lines of administrative small talk, and release him back into the building within minutes.

Efficient. Harmless. No need to sit down-

“Please, sit down.”

You gesture to the chair opposite your desk as you move around it.

…Never mind.

“You know,” you continue, almost conversationally, “no one could stop talking about you and your unit once word got out that I’d been assigned here in Quantico.”

You open a file.

His file. His career. His work. His evaluations. The BAU. His BAU. Familiar enough - except the folder is thicker than he remembers it being the last time someone employed this particular tactic. He briefly considers whether some of it is padding.

Blank pages are an old trick.

“Everyone I spoke to speaks very highly of you,” you add, glancing up. Still smiling.

Hotch cannot immediately determine whether it’s genuine.

He feels, faintly, at a disadvantage. There is nothing in the office to read - no personal effects, no decorative tells, nothing that might suggest how he should calibrate himself to be agreeable, as people so often expect him to do.

The absence of decoration might be deliberate, or it might simply mean you haven’t been here long enough to accumulate them. Either way, it gives him nothing.

“I’m glad to hear the BAU’s reputation preceded us, though I’ve found praise is often situational. We focus on results.”

You raise a brow at that. Disagreement. Not a good sign. “The end justifies the means-”

“Machiavelli.”

You tut. “Not quite. It’s a phrase often attributed to him verbatim, but it’s really a shorthand for a broader idea… that positive outcomes can render morally questionable actions acceptable. Particularly in the exercise of power.”

You glance back down at the file, turning a page.

“Your work appears to adhere to that philosophy far more than it does to the regulations issued by the Bureau, Agent Hotchner. I’ve never seen, in my entire career, a unit with so many… incidents - scandals, if you’ll allow the term. And yet, what everyone insists on discussing are your achievements.”

You’re young… younger. Yes, younger. And yet admirably calm about something that clearly irritates you. You haven’t raised your voice. You haven’t postured. You haven’t tried to loom, the way so many colleagues do when they mistake volume for authority.

Hotch clears his throat.

“The offenders my team and I work with occasionally require… unconventional handling, ma’am,” he says carefully. “And with all due respect, much of what you’ve read are either unsubstantiated reports or matters that have already been resolved.”

You chuckle. “Did you attend the Academy, Agent Hotchner?”

“Yes, ma’am. That’s what makes me an agent.”

You study him in silence, eyes narrowing just a fraction as you tilt your head. He knows what you are doing. He swallows anyway.

“And they didn’t think to teach you not to waste your superior’s time?”

Ah. So that’s what this is about. Five (seven) minutes… really?!

“I sincerely apologize, ma’am. I had a prior commitment and an urgent report I was required to review-”

“So,” you cut in smoothly, “from what I’m hearing, you’re not only unable to manage your unit, but also incapable of managing your own time.”

“That is not what I-”

“I don’t know what Cruz told you, or what any of my predecessors may have implied,” you continue, entirely unbothered by his polite - definitely polite - attempt to interject. “I don’t know whether strings were pulled on your behalf, or whether years of praise have encouraged the belief that your unit merits special consideration because your criminals are louder, bloodier, or more theatrical. Or whether you’re simply a jackass.”

You lean forward, closing the distance just enough to make it unmistakably intentional. His breath catches before he can stop it.

“But let me be very clear.” You smile. “You are not special, Agent Hotchner.”

He feels tight. His face feels tight. His spine feels tight. His clothes feel tight. But most inconveniently, unhelpfully, it’s his-

“I expect excellence from you because I expect it from everyone I oversee. No more. No less.” You let the words settle before continuing. He feels struck by lightning. “And given that you’re already starting on the wrong footing, it’s more generosity than you’ve earned that I’m even suggesting you correct it now. I am not lenient. Don’t fuck it up.”

Your smile doesn’t fade. He remains seated, and against every instinct that has ever kept him disciplined, he finds himself wishing you might be the one to soothe the very fire you so effortlessly set alight inside him.

(That is quite disgusting, Hotchner.)

“I appreciate your candor, ma’am,” he says, still burning. “If there is any aspect of my conduct, or my unit’s, that you find lacking, I would welcome the opportunity to correct it. Immediately.”

Your gaze drops, at last, to the orchids still in his hands.

“This is more of a piece of advice,” you say, exhaling softly. “Next time you feel compelled to bring a gift to a female superior, I would refrain from flowers. They can come across as… frivolous.”

You look back up at him, not unkindly, thank God… but not indulgently either.

“I’m sure that wasn’t your intent, Agent Hotchner,” you add. “But it’s something to keep in mind.”

He inclines his head at once. “Understood, ma’am. They were intended as a courtesy to the office. Not a personal gesture.”

“See that it stays that way,” you gesture toward the corner of the desk. “You can leave them there, by the way. No need to keep clutching the pot anymore, Agent. Your life is spared… I’m not killing you. For now.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Despite himself, he glances down and lets out a genuine chuckle - nervous, if he were forced to categorize it - immediately followed by the belated realization that you are his superior and that any further internal commentary is already drifting into HR territory.

He sets the pot down with care, aligning it with the rest of your desk just enough to look intentional without appearing obsessive, then straightens.

“Good,” you say, rising. “I would have enthusiastically discussed your unit’s budget, but unfortunately - or rather, due to your… flexible interpretation of time - I still have to meet SSA Wright from ViCAP.”

You meet his eyes again. He feels the need to smile at you.

“So I suspect we’ll be speaking again, Agent Hotchner. Preferably on time.”

“Of course.”

He reaches for your hand - not the wisest choice, given the very real risk of betraying himself. 

“It was a pleasure meeting you, ma’am.”

Your hand is warm - unexpectedly soft - despite the firm, unmistakably professional grip. You hold his gaze without wavering. Confident. Grounded. Entirely at ease in your authority. He feels smaller by comparison.

Well. Smaller in the ways that matter. And, inconveniently, not at all in others - depending, of course, on one’s point of view.

“I’m afraid my judgment is still pending, Agent Hotchner,” you say, smiling. “But I do appreciate the flowers.”

Even five (seven) minutes (seconds) later, he manages to flawlessly exit your office without further embarrassment. And yet his mind refuses to disengage, looping back to your gaze, to the way you so efficiently - so composedly - reminded him who was in charge without ever needing to pull rank. It feels… electric.

The recollection alone triggers, regrettably, a series of very pressing matters, all arriving at once and demanding immediate attention.

He offers a polite nod to SSA Wright from ViCAP in the middle of the crowded corridor, already aware he’s about to see you again, just as you said he would. With those eyes. That tone.

Yes - by all means, it necessitates an urgent reassessment of priorities. A workflow problem.

He tells himself it’s nothing more concerning than residual adrenaline. A temporary backlog - or perhaps just a log, if you will - that needs to be managed promptly, discreetly, and, ideally, behind a closed door before some decorated agent notices an… excess of enthusiasm, or a camera records his… stiffness of... purpose.

Then he can return to work. Coherently. As usual.

The restroom is mercifully empty. He makes sure of it.

He slips into a stall, locks it - once, twice, a third time, unnecessarily - and exhales. Guilt and self-reproach fail to dull his awareness of the sounds that follow as he loosens his belt, fumbles with the top button of his trousers, and lowers the zipper, the noise echoing with indecorous clarity in the desolated space.

As if he needed the reminder. As if the matter below his navel required any further emphasis.

Hotch offers a fleeting, grateful thought to whatever executive function governs his prefrontal cortex for guiding him toward black slacks instead of gray that morning.

Because now he has no choice but to register the indisputable dampness blooming beneath his zipper - the leak of precum already soaked through his tight white briefs, rendering the fabric diaphanous, outlining the flushed pink crown of his dick straining beneath.

Had his trousers been lighter, the… evidence would have traveled farther than discretion allows, advertising itself to anyone inclined to look.

The thought freezes him in place. Fuck. 

He stares fixedly at the door. Never - not in more than ten hard, long (inches…) years (years, although he wishes those were inches too) of service, commemorated by a brass plaque on the far-left central shelf of his office bookcase -  has he found himself required to manage an internal situation like this inside a federal building, during working hours. 

The precedent alone should be enough to dissuade him. 

And yet.

He closes his eyes, steadies his breathing. His hand closes over the thick outline and he hisses at once, biting the sound back just in time. A bathroom stall, he reminds himself, is not synonymous with privacy.

Certain activities are… acoustically indiscreet. Enthusiasm has consequences, and consequences have a way of giving the game away to anyone unlucky enough to walk in at precisely the wrong moment.

The only mercy, he realizes dimly, is that he’s already close - that this debacle could be over in less than a minute (a fact that is, in its own way, profoundly humbling). 

He shamefully hooks his fingers into his waistband, pulls his cock free of his briefs, and drags the pad of his thumb over the bead of precum gathering at the head, smearing it across the flushed skin, slicking it with his own pearly arousal.

For a second, he lets himself linger on it - indulges in the simple fact of himself in his grip, the weight, the heat, the flicker of something like… pride.

Then context slams back into place.

The Bureau. He - he - is a senior agent of the Bureau. The badge. The oath. The inescapable truth that even here, even now, he represents it. 

He despises himself.

Disgust sharpens his movements. He rushes, spits hastily into his palm, wraps his hand around the thick base with no patience left for reverence. Still, despite himself, his cock twitches at the contact alone, a breathless moan locking in his throat as his hand begins to glide up and down his shaft. 

Slower than he intended, deliberate strokes from his girthy base to the head and back again.

He leans his head back, eyes closing, mouth falling unconsciously open as he gluttonously picks up the pace, just a fraction.

His thoughts drift, unbidden, to the disappointment seething across your face beneath that brittle composure, to the words you threw at him.

The image makes everything go hazy. 

His grip tightens, his pace turns sloppy at the sheer ecstasy of thinking of you - his superior - right now. His fist quickens at the image of you finding out about this breach of protocol, of rules, of decorum. Of you ending his career without hesitation, without even the mercy of a federal pension.

Just the sound of your heels approaching his office - a sound he would recognize instantly - and the instinctive act of opening the door because you are his superior, and that is what one does. Only to be met with those fiery eyes. 

He isn’t certain whether you are skilled enough to conceal the anger simmering beneath your composure, even now. Or whether you would choose not to bother, because you don’t have to. Because you hold all the authority in the room, and he holds none.

A bead of precum lazily works its way down the underside of his cock. He pinches the head between thumb and forefinger. He’s close now. His dick tightens further around his grip; he can see the thick veins along his shaft pulse as the pressure builds.

A strangled sound escapes him at the exact moment the bathroom door swings open.

Footsteps approach the sink area just outside.

His heart stops.

A couple of stalls down, someone is using the restroom exactly as intended. No urgency. No guilt. No shame. Certainly no federal employment implications. The universe, it seems, remains committed to reminding him of proper use cases.

He looks down at the hardness in his hand. His forefinger keeps moving, absentmindedly, circling the head like he hasn’t quite told it to stop.

He bites his lip and pictures you in his office - backing him toward his chair, forcing him down into it, waiting until the last second to let the mask slip. 

He isn’t a man in that fantasy. He’s a piece. Something you move at will. 

He imagines your hand clamped over his mouth, silencing him as you settle onto his lap. Your skirt rides up. You lean in close and whisper in the shell of his ear that he’s not allowed to touch you until you say so. That you’ll use him until you’re satisfied, and discard him when you’re done.

You don’t bother undressing him. You simply take his dick out, already hard, squirming with anticipation. 

He can only infer your wetness from how easily you grind against him, the needy drag of your folds over his aching head. You move slowly on purpose. Taunting. Always composed. 

It’s only when he feels your puffy clit slide against him that you finally falter too. Your mouth parts. Your back arches towards him. He aches to touch you now, just as you look like this. For a moment, you seem unreal - perhaps because you are. A goddess, lowering herself onto him at last-

His teeth sink into his lip as the first spurt tears free. Water starts running at the sink ahead, loud enough - he hopes - to cover the sound that escapes him as his cock pulses again, and again, leaving him completely wrecked.

He both admires and despises the mess you’ve made of him (and, inevitably, of a federal gentleman’s bathroom stall.)

He’s still half-hard as he staggers to the sink, obsessively scrubbing his hands, soap worked into every crease and cuticle. Some part of him is irrationally convinced that penitence might work like this, too.

He braces himself against the porcelain and stares at his reflection. 

A stranger looks back at him. 

The wear etched into his face does nothing to account for the color still burning high on his cheeks, nor the unyielding pressure lodged squarely in his chest. Even the effort to reassert the familiar order of cause and effect fails him. 

So, with no one left to convince but himself, he finally flees the scene of the crime - already resolving to work at least two hours longer than planned, clinging to the vague hope that exhaustion might coax his conscience into forgiving something he still cannot quite believe he allowed himself to do.

“Jesus, there you are.” Dave peels himself off the wall just outside the bathroom. “I was starting to think the Section Chief had you in a chokehold.”

Never, in his half-century on this earth, has Aaron Hotchner given such serious consideration to the immediate risk of apoplexy.

“I saw you head in there,” Dave adds, nodding toward the bathroom. “Figured I’d wait. How’d the meeting go?”

“She might be onto us already. I - I’ll brief you on the key points back in the office,” Hotch manages.

A pat on his shoulder. “You all right, Aaron? You look a little… off.”

Hotch takes a beat to consider his epitaph. It seems prudent to have one ready.

Aaron Hotchner, 49. Beloved father. Occasionally a husband. Decade-long servant of the FBI. Prosecutor of justice. Philosopher of logic.

Too frenetic. Too indulgent. Far too long for a modest headstone - which is, admittedly, his preference.

Aaron Hotchner, 49. Beloved father. Devoted public servant. Prosecutor of justice. Casualty of poor impulse control.

Perhaps a touch too accurate.

He settles instead for a brittle chuckle - the kind he knows Rossi will read as nervous even if he has the good manners to pretend otherwise. “Oh, Dave,” he says. “I really need to start incorporating more fiber.”

Dave hums. “Join the club, Aaron. Fifty’s a cruel mistress.”

Wise words, Dave.

taglist: @aria-chikage ; @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @crying-ang3l ; @donttrustlove ; @fangirlunknown ; @goorgeousz ; @hayleym1234 ; @ignoreeeeeee ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kiwriteswords ; @kyrathekiller ; @littlemisskavities ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mmmunson ; @msfreedom ; @mxblobby ; @nikt-wazny-y ; @oxforce ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @purechaosss ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softtdaisy ; @softestqueeen ; @thatkidofwarandpeace ; @theseerbetweenus ; @thiswildandpreciouslife ; @todorokishoe24 ; @who-needs-to-sleep

[lenatpn]

authority kink was the understatement of the year LMAO my man was in HEAT.

He tells himself it’s nothing more concerning than residual adrenaline. A temporary backlog - or perhaps just a log, if you will - that needs to be managed promptly, discreetly, and, ideally, behind a closed door before some decorated agent notices an… excess of enthusiasm, or a camera records his… stiffness of... purpose.

howling 😭

acting section chief: discreetly insults aaron and his unit

aaron:

[headkiss]

is it new years yet?

pairing: spencer reid x fem!bau!reader

summary: it takes a bit of christmas magic for you and spencer to finally get together. or: 4 times you and spencer almost kiss around the holidays +1 time you do.

word count: 7.1k

content: so much fluff, mutual pining, probably some bau related inaccuracies, some team shenanigans of course, and a kiss!!

a/n: hi lovelies!!! as always thank u for ur patience with me, i am so excited to finally have a fic for u and to keep up the christmas fic tradition!!! i hope u all have the happiest holidays, this one's my gift to you. thank u to the anons who sent this and this request that helped me with this fic <3

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆.˚

The BAU around the holidays isn’t all that different from the usual in the way things operate. After all, it would seem a bit strange to wear a Santa hat or some reindeer antlers while discussing literal serial crime cases.

There are, however, a few decorations scattered around the office. A tree in the building lobby, another (less decked out) one in the bullpen tucked away by the stairs. Garland wrapped around the upper-level railings, holiday mugs placed in the kitchenette cupboards. That kind of thing.

All thanks to Garcia, of course. Because ‘even people who look at murders deserve holiday cheer!’

She’s your best friend at the office, and for that you get your very own mini tree on your desk. Hers is a little more extreme, her usual collection of trinkets joined by mini Santas and snow globes.

Much like her desk, Penelope tends to change her wardrobe with the seasons. Today, it’s a pair of red tights, a plaid two piece set, and a gorgeous pair of heels that you’re sure would end with a face plant if you were the one wearing them. You tell her just as much as this morning’s greeting.

“I’ll lend you them sometime for a test drive,” she says.

“Do you have a waiver I can sign?” you respond.

She trots off with a giggle and a wink, and you blow her a kiss before turning and sinking into your seat, the rolling chair squeaking beneath you.

You unravel your striped scarf from your neck, unbuttoning and shrugging off your peacoat next. Your wardrobe is not as extravagant as Penelope’s, but you like it, and she assures you it’s ’cute as a button,’ anyways. You’re wearing tights too, a regular sheer black pair with a run on one of your thighs that you hadn’t noticed until you’d gotten into your car this morning, and it was too late to go inside and search for another pair by then.

Over those, a dark grey pleated skirt not quite long enough to hide the rip, and a black sweater that’s neckline is a bit stretched, but not enough to stop wearing it to work just yet.

You tug your sleeves over your knuckles before turning on your monitor and starting on the boring stuff. Emails, case reports, the stuff that people tend to forget about when you talk about being an agent.

It’s a habit of yours to start slow in the morning. Ease yourself into it, in a sense.

Just like it’s a habit to not make a coffee right away, and to look up from your computer whenever you hear footsteps approaching, to fight a silly grin when those footsteps belong to Spencer Reid.

Spencer, with his mismatched patterned socks and sweater vests and messy hair. With his unending supply of facts and the way his tongue pokes out the tiniest bit when he’s really focused. With his lending you books and bringing you a coffee every morning without fail.

Even when you’re away on a case, he finds a way to be the one to give you your first dose of caffeine of the day.

You lose the battle against yourself, a smile spreading as he approaches and sets a paper cup covered in cartoon snowflakes down on your desk.

You’d joined the BAU a few years after him, only worked a couple of cases with Gideon before Rossi came along, and you’d taken a liking to Spencer quickly. How smart he is, how much he cares. He was your desk neighbor, and you’d sort of taken it upon yourself to cheer him up the best you could after Gideon left.

It was small stuff at first. Making sure nobody took his favorite mug from the kitchen, asking him follow up questions when he’d spew out a statistic like it was nothing. You’d even offered to play chess with him (if he taught you), and though it took some time, he’d eventually taken you up on that offer.

So, you became friends. You became friends with the entire team, of course, but it was different with Spencer. In the beginning, it was just something about him, how you felt around him, that you couldn’t name.

Now, on the other hand, it’s feelings feelings. Feelings that you sometimes think might be reciprocated.

Like when he saves the seat next to him for you on the jet, nodding towards it with a gentle, almost shy smile to let you know it’s yours. Or when he hears you cursing at your dried-out pens and wordlessly hands you one of his nicer ones. Even in the way he speaks to you, some days. How he fusses if you get hurt on a case or tells you that your ideas are good in a voice softer than he uses with the others.

Most of the time, you convince yourself you’re reading into it too much. Getting your hopes up.

But then, there’s the morning coffees like today’s. He doesn’t walk in with a tray for the whole team. Just one for you, and one for him. Never anything more.

It makes your chest bloom with hope. A dangerous, beautiful thing that has you spinning in your chair and standing to face him.

Spencer’s cheeks are a little rosy from the cold, his hair windblown and curling around his ears. “It’s a sugar cookie latte today.”

“How is it you always know what flavor to get me?” you ask, picking up your cup and taking a sip.

“Well, I am a profiler.”

“And a Doctor,” you nod, depositing your coffee back onto your desk. “Double smart,” you say, tapping your temple.

He huffs, bashful. “Or maybe it’s just a lucky guess.”

“Spencer Reid? Guess? Never thought I’d see the day.”

He shakes his head. “Okay, fine. I just.. know you.”

And it’s true. Better than you think he does, even. Spencer watches you a lot. Has his eyes on you when you aren’t looking. On the frustrated furrow in your eyebrows when you're stuck, or the way you scrunch your nose when you’re about to sneeze. How you squeeze the armrest (or, when he’s lucky, his arm) when the jet takes off, the way you hold your pencil differently than what’s taught in school.

You don’t know it, but he feels for you the same way you do for him. Ever since you walked in, really. He found you pretty immediately—yes, Morgan noticed, and no, he has not let it go since—but it was you who won him over.

Your words and your actions and your mind.

With every coffee, he hopes he’ll work up the courage to ask you to get one with him sometime, but he hasn’t. He worries too much that it could ruin things when they seem so wonderful already.

He doesn’t want you to stop borrowing his pens and forgetting to give them back, to stop calling him when you’re stuck on the paper’s crossword and have him solve it for you over the phone.

“Yeah. You do,” you say. Quiet and warm. You fiddle with a loose thread at the cuff of your sleeve before following up with a: “Thank you, Spence.”

His eyes go soft at the nickname, just for a second. And maybe it’s the way he looked at you that makes you a little braver this time around. Maybe it’s the way his cheeks are still a little red, despite being inside for long enough now. Maybe it’s the way his hands twitch at his sides, like he wants to touch you.

But whatever it is, it has you leaning in for a kiss on the cheek instead of your usual squeeze of the shoulder or quick hug.

Only, you’re wearing these stupid new shoes that have platforms you still aren’t used to, so you trip a little and your kiss lands on the corner of his mouth. Not his cheek.

You pull back quickly, eyes wide, worried that you’ve just absolutely made everything awkward.

Clumsy and weird. So not what you were going for.

Meanwhile Spencer looks a little stunned and speechless. Spencer, who always has something to say, rendered silent.

“I-” you fumble for the right words. Before you can make things better or worse, the phone on your desk rings. “Um. I should get that,” you say. It almost comes out like a question.

“Of course,” he says, and he’s off to his desk.

“Thanks again,” you try, but by the time it comes out Spencer’s already seated and busying himself with something in his notebook.

You’re lucky that nobody’s around, that the team is still scattered around and getting settled. Because if any of them saw, you’d never hear the end of it.

After you hang up the phone, you drop your forehead onto your desk and wish you had a pillow to scream into. So. Embarrassing.

There, with your arms circled around your head, you don’t see Spencer pressing his fingers to the spot you’d kissed.

-

The almost-kiss (or, the incident, as you’ve been referring to it in your head) is swept away after that. You get a case, work takes over, and you and Spencer are back to normal. It’s just a blip, you think, even though it runs through your head constantly. You try not to wince every time.

If Spencer feels any type of way about it, he does a good job of not letting it show. He still brings you coffee—you’ve stuck to simple ‘thank you’s—still tells you about things he’s read that he thinks you’d find interesting.

Even now, how he guides you along behind the team with his arm looped through yours.

Penelope’s taken it upon herself to be the BAU’s very own Buddy the elf or something, and this time it’s with a planned evening of figure skating under the guise of team bonding.

Hotch had politely declined, saying he’d promised Jack he would take him skating already. Rossi declined as well, albeit less politely. He left you all with a “I’m already plenty bonded. Maybe even too bonded.” but softened the blow by promising Garcia he’d bring her a jar of his homemade spaghetti sauce.

So, it’s you, Spencer, Penelope, JJ, Morgan, and Emily.

It’s an outdoor rink, set up near a huge Christmas tree that spreads a warm glow over it. There’s a hot chocolate stand on one end, the counter to pay and rent skates on the other, and string lights suspended over the entire thing.

“It’s so pretty,” you say. Spencer’s the only one close enough to hear you with all the families and friend groups and couples floating around.

He doesn’t take his eyes off of you, off of the way the lights make your eyes shine or the way the wind twists your hair around its cool fingers, and says: “Yeah, it is.”

You look over at him and grin quickly before tugging him along to catch up with the rest of the team who are already grabbing skates and gearing up.

Morgan’s off first, of course. Showing off and skating backwards and nearly running a woman over before flirting her annoyance away. JJ, Emily, and Penelope aren’t too far behind, their arms linked and heads bent together as they get their footing.

Garcia looks over her shoulder at you and tells you to “hurry up! It isn’t team bonding if we’re all separated!”

Though, you do wind up separated. You and Spencer are easily the worst ones at this.

At first, Morgan takes on the task of teaching Spencer with a tease of “you look like Bambi on ice, kid.” Penelope does the same with you, letting you squeeze her hand and practically drag you along beside her. No wonder she’s a natural, with the shoes she’s used to walking in every day.

JJ and Emily linger around, always side by side whether they’re laughing at your expense or Spencer’s, or about something totally unrelated.

Eventually, you and Spencer are deemed lost causes and left to fend for yourselves while the others do their laps at speeds that make you nervous even watching. So you stick together, your gloved hand grasped in his, and even through the fabric there’s a buzz travelling up your arm.

If you think about it long enough, it feels just a tiny bit like a date. That is, until Morgan laps you and laughs while doing it.

Aside from that, it’s nice. Really nice. Spencer’s hand is a welcome weight in yours, and every so often you drift close enough that your entire arms touch and it warms you from the inside out. You can’t even bring yourself to care about how silly you must look, taking slow, nervous strides.

Not even when you fall the first time, which is entirely your fault, or the second, which is more so on Spencer. You don’t mind that you’re a terrible skater because you aren’t doing it alone. And what a lovely thing it is, to be bad at something with someone else.

Beside you, Spencer smiles to himself when you squeeze his hand a little tighter. It’s the first time you’ve truly held hands. Sure, you’ve reached over and given his a squeeze when he was frustrated. Or he’s held one out for you to climb off the jet, but never for this long.

And yeah, okay, maybe it’s only because you’re both in need of some support at the moment, but Spencer counts it all the same. Your hand is in his and he almost wishes, despite his aversion to shaking hands with anyone else, that neither of you had gloves on so he could feel your skin against his.

Palm to palm, fingers intertwined, his thumb tracing your knuckles. Intimate, like the couples he sees skating by. Romantic like them.

In his distraction, and maybe yours, too, you and Spencer fall for the third time. This one is probably the worst, your paths sort of cross and you trip over his feet and he trips over yours and then you’re going down.

Spencer winds up on his back, and you, somehow twisting to try and catch your fall, end up right on top of him. Your chests are pressed together, rising and falling in tandem, your hands pressed to the ice by his shoulders.

What makes everything else fade away, though, is the way your noses brush when you land. How you can feel his breath on your lips, how he could count every eyelash framing your eyes that search his face.

You see it again, how he looked at you before the incident, the thing in his eyes that made you want to kiss him on the cheek then makes you want to kiss him elsewhere now.

Spencer’s eyes flick between yours, like he’s looking for an answer, and you blink slowly, as if you’re trying to give it to him. He lets one of his gloved hands settle on the small of your back, the other thumbing a stray hair from your face.

Your eyes flutter shut and you think, maybe this time it’ll work. Maybe this is how it’s meant to go.

But instead of Spencer’s mouth on yours someone skates by rather quickly and you get a splash of ice to the face. You open your eyes to find that Spencer’s suffered the same fate, his eyes squeezed shut and his mouth tugged down in a small frown.

You laugh and roll off of him, laying down next to him on the ice, your head lolled to the side to look at him. You brush some of the ice from his face, “Sorry. My gloves are probably cold.”

He grabs your wrist and holds your hand to his cheek, just for a moment, before letting go and twining your hands between you instead.

“I’d much prefer your hand to whatever is in this ice. Gosh, it’s probably so dirty.”

You laugh again, and this time Spencer joins you. And it’s nothing like the incident. It isn’t awkward or strained, it’s so easy, like your breaths mingling is a regular occurrence. Like it’s just who you are to each other.

He tilts his head towards you, too, so you’re facing each other on the ice. Probably in everyone’s way, but neither of you can bring yourselves to move just yet.

“Are you okay?” he asks. “I should’ve asked before.”

“I think I should be asking you that. You didn’t hit your head, did you?”

“No. I’m completely fine,” he says.

Better than fine, he thinks. So much better.

And then there are a few sets of skate-clad feet stopping nearby, and you and Spencer look up to find the team surrounding you. Morgan, shaking his head with a smirk. JJ and Emily sharing a look before huffing.

And Penelope, declaring: “Well, I think this might be a sign it’s time for some hot cocoa.”

-

You find yourself in limbo between cases.

It’s then that the regular office stuff is meant to get done. It’s also when you kill time by playing solitaire on your computer or watching Spencer do some sort of ‘science magic’ trick again. Even, on especially slow days, hiding out in Garcia’s office and chatting.

Maybe sometimes being grilled by her. “So have you made a move on our resident genius yet?”

“Pen! You’re lucky the door’s closed.”

“Just saying, you guys looked real cozy the other night. And don’t tell me he doesn’t feel the same because I know his face and it does not look like that when he’s with me or JJ, or anyone, actually.”

And the thing is, you can’t even tell her she’s wrong. You replay moments between you and Spencer over and over. When you shut your eyes and let the water wash over your scalp in the shower, when your face is squished into your pillow at night.

You don’t want to call it anything specific, too afraid to jinx it or get your hopes up, but there’s something there.

Something that makes your heart ache with hope, that makes you wonder if maybe you could be more than friends and if maybe you’d be really good together like that.

At your silence, Penelope sighs, that damn twinkle in her eye. “You’ve gotta do something before I blurt it out for you.”

“You would not.”

“No, I wouldn’t. But please, put me out of my misery.”

You roll your eyes (fondly, of course) and stand. “Time for a refill,” you say, holding up your empty mug. “Bye, Garcia.”

“Oh! Take mine too? You know, to buy my silence.”

So you walk out with your plain powder blue mug in one hand and Penelope’s rainbow unicorn in the other. You hope Hotch isn’t around to catch you with evidence of where you’ve been instead of at your own desk.

It’s almost Christmas now, and while being in the office might not make you feel the most festive ever, it’s nice to see it glow differently. The lights from the christmas tree, the overcast skies through the windows.

You’re even wearing a sweater that could be perceived as something holiday-ish. Navy blue with white stitching that looks like snowflakes.

The coffee pot in the kitchenette has just enough left for you to fill your own mug, so you put on a batch of decaf for Penelope. She says she can taste the difference, but when you hand it to her, she never does.

You sip your own drink as you wait, lower back leaned against the counter, ankles crossed in front of you.

Spencer walks in to find you like that, and for a split second, he lets himself imagine you in the same position, only in his kitchen instead of the BAU’s. He thinks you’d look perfect there, like a space has been carved out for you all along.

“Hey,” he says. “I can come back.”

“Don’t be silly,” you tilt your head, urging him to come in. “I’m making decaf for Garcia, so you might have to wait if you want another cup.”

“That’s alright, I just…” and Spencer realizes that he’s forgotten what he was meant to be doing in the kitchen. He busies himself by cleaning his mug and setting it on the drying rack.

“Going home for Christmas?” you ask him.

“Don’t think so. I’ll visit in January.”

“Tell Diana I say ‘hi,’” you say.

“I will,” Spencer, delighted that you care enough to say it, smiles softly. His mom is probably the only person who he’s outright told about his feelings for you. About you joining the team and fitting right in and feeling like he was meant to cross paths with you.

He moves to lean against the counter next to you, his elbow kissing your arm. “How about you?”

“Not this year,” you shake your head, mug set down on the counter, fingers tapping the surface. “Just me, my couch, and some cheesy movies, I think.”

“Professionals say that watching cheesy movies is good for you. It can boost serotonin and other feel-good chemicals in the brain.” Spencer rocks back on his feet. “So, it's actually a pretty good Christmas plan. You know, scientifically.”

You watch him as he speaks, a smile creeping over your face and up your cheeks. You love it when he does that, goes on about something right away. It’s his way of saying he hears you, that he’s listening. You've always found it endearing, even on the first day you met him.

“Do studies say anything about watching cheesy movies with company?” you ask.

There you go, Pen. I said something, you think. It’s not necessarily outward flirting, but it’s a door cracked open just enough that it could be, if he wanted.

Before he can respond, Morgan comes in, Emily not too far behind him. Derek looks above your heads, and laughs. Instant and loud. Emily follows his gaze and hums, satisfied.

“What is it?” Spencer asks, genuine confusion on his face, a sweet worry in his brow.

“Look up, pretty boy,” Derek says, pointing at the ceiling. “Mistletoe.”

You look up, too, and sure enough, there it is. mistletoe hanging from the ceiling right above you. Your eyes go to Spencer first, then Morgan and Emily, and back to Spencer.

“Oh. I didn’t-” from Reid.

“Um,” is all you can muster.

“You know what that means,” Derek teases, wiggling his eyebrows.

While you’ve been wanting to kiss Spencer for who knows how long now, that want heightened after coming so close, these are not the circumstances you would have chosen.

The audience has you flustered, and Spencer is actually blushing. Like, pink cheeks and the tips of his ears warm type of blushing.

That’s not the reaction of someone who feels nothing, that blossom of hope tells you.

“You’re supposed to kiss,” Emily adds, poking further. “In case that wasn’t clear.”

“Didn’t we just have another harassment seminar last week?” you say, trying to diffuse the situation. To move it along.

It’s enough to get the pair of them to give up and walk away. Emily murmurs something to Derek on their way out that you don’t quite catch, their laughter fading further away.

“I’ve never been under mistletoe before,” Spencer tells you. “I don’t- I knew of the tradition, it has Celtic roots. Anyways-”

“Spence, it’s okay,” you stop him kindly. “You don’t have to kiss me. Obviously.”

And Spencer hears the whole sentence, in theory, but his mind zeroes in on the words ‘kiss me’ coming from your mouth and he thinks about it. Because of course he wants to.

He thinks you’re beautiful and brilliant and if he was braver, he probably would have kissed you a while ago now.

Spencer starts small, his pinkie brushing against your hand lightly. Yours responds, almost like an instinct, hooking through his like chain links.

You turn your heads towards each other at the same time, your eyes meeting and something passing between you. Something that doesn’t need words. You can just tell he’s thinking the same thing you are. That you’ve opened a book to the same page, read it at the same pace.

Spencer leans down just as your chin tilts up, your eyes flutter shut when his free hand runs a knuckle against your cheek, so soft you could have imagined it. His nose slides against yours, and then-

“We have a case!” Garcia’s voice slices through.

You break apart instantly, but your pinkies stay linked on the counter.

“You guys have gotta see this. Santa gone wild! Conference room!”

She gives you a very pointed glance before rushing off, her heels clicking away. You’ll be hearing about this later, no doubt.

For now, you lean your temple against Spencer’s shoulder, just for a second, before following in Penelope’s wake through the bullpen. He sets his chin on top of your head when you do, and then to his shoulder when you're gone.

Almost, he thinks.

-

You’re away for a case on Christmas. Not the same one, but away is away.

You especially feel for Hotch, who would never let his mindset affect his work, but you can tell he’s disappointed in the way he frowns at his phone after hanging up with Jack. Rossi tried to tell him you could all handle this one, but Hotch isn’t a quitter, either.

At least you hadn’t had anything planned, really. Nobody to see, nothing to do. Though this probably isn’t the most ideal holiday, either, it’s what comes with the territory.

It’s late now, night fading into early morning, and you’re only just getting back to your hotel after the day. A couple team members stayed back, but Emily had taken one look at you and convinced you to go get some sleep.

You’re sluggish as you get ready for bed. Stripping out of the clothes you’ll probably have to put back on tomorrow because your go bag only has room for so much before hopping into the shower. You don’t wash your hair, but you let the hot water seep into your skin, let it beat against your aching shoulders.

You’ve not been keeping track of time since getting back, but you can’t really be bothered to. So, pajamas on, you slip into bed and let the TV softly hum through the room. Silence is hard for you when you’re on a case. Your brain never quiets.

A few minutes later, there’s a knock on your door. You think you imagine it the first time, blame whatever show is playing on the TV, but then it comes again, soft rapping against heavy wood.

Tossing the blankets away, you shuffle over to the door and look through the peephole to see who it is. You’re surprised to find Spencer on the other side, but you open the door for him easily. You’d always open the door when he knocks.

“Hi,” you say, a hint of a question in your voice.

“Hi. I didn’t wake you, did I?” he checks, his hands hidden behind his back.

“No, of course not. It’s hard to sleep when we’re away.” You open the door wider, moving out of the way. “You wanna come in?”

He nods, “Thanks.”

Spencer walks around you, always keeping his back out of your sight, eventually walking backwards through the room once you’ve shut and locked the door.

“What are you hiding back there, Dr. Reid?”

He releases whatever he’s holding with one hand to scratch the back of his neck, to mess with his hair. “Could we- Is it alright if we sit?”

You squint at him, but nod.

As you sink onto the mattress beside him, your bare knees brushing against the fabric of his pants with how you twist to face each other, you realize he’s never seen you in your pajamas.

They’re nothing crazy, a simple pair of shorts and a buttoned top, but it feels exposing in a way. Vulnerable. Especially with him still in his regular clothes. There’s something domestic about it, like you’d been waiting for him to come home to you or something.

“What’s up?” you ask, flicking your gaze from where your legs touch up to his face.

“It’s past midnight,” he says. “I, uh, wanted to give you this,”

Spencer pulls a brown paper-wrapped bundle from behind his back, a curled red bow tied around the middle.

“Are you my secret Santa?” is your first guess, because you always do that with the team.

But he says “No, I got Morgan. But I saw this, and I thought of you, so..” He holds it out, and you take the present from his hands, tracing the bow.

“You didn’t have to-”

“I know,” he stops you. “I wanted to. Open it.”

You look at him for a second before you do, the softness of his eyes and how the TV splashes colours onto the side of his face. The way his smile is barely there, bashful and encouraging all at once.

The present is unwrapped carefully, your fingers pulling the bow undone, the ribbon set aside and not tossed away, because you’ve decided you’d like to save it. Beneath the paper sits a copy of your favorite book, its pages warm and weathered.

There’s a bookmark placed in it, along with sticky notes poking out between the pages. You opt for the bookmark first and find that he’s marked the page listing the copy as a first edition.

“Spencer.”

“I read it,” he tells you. And you thumb the pages, your stomach fluttering because you know this book isn’t something he’d pick up on his own, but he did. For you. “And I, um, wrote some notes. On sticky notes, of course. Didn’t wanna ruin it.”

“I would never think your handwriting ruined anything,” you admit.

He pushes his hair from his face. “So you like it?”

“I think it’s the best gift I’ve ever gotten.” You drop the book delicately in your lap to lean towards him and wrap your arms around his neck. He responds with his around your waist. “Thank you, Spence.”

“You’re welcome,” he says, his voice low in your ear and his arms tightening the tiniest bit around you.

And it feels so intimate, holding him in silence for a few seconds, him holding you, too. Your heartbeats, your breaths, speaking to each other where you don’t have the words.

When you pull away, you don’t go far, leaving your arms around his neck but leaning back enough to see his face. He mirrors you, his fingers tangled in the fabric of your top, yours in the hair at the nape of his neck.

And you think about the past couple of weeks. How things have shifted between you, this new awareness sneaking in through a cracked window. It’s like you’ve come to an understanding without speaking, that there’s something more here, something worth sticking around for.

You think about the book still sitting in your lap. How he presented it as if he’d found it casually but you know first editions are hard to come by. That he spent time looking for it and then reading it and writing his thoughts in the margins.

It’s the annotating that makes your heart sing the loudest, because it’s Spencer opening up to you in a different way. Letting you see inside that gorgeous brain of his. Inviting you into his train of thoughts.

“I love it, Spencer,” you whisper. And you’re talking about more than the gift. You think he knows that.

“Yeah?” he says, just as quiet. You nod. “Good.”

And there it is again, that feeling. You both move closer. Spencer’s thumb is tracing shapes against your back, the hem of your shirt moving up with the movements. Your hand cups the back of his neck, pulling him in. But no, not really pulling; he comes willingly.

Spencer’s nose pokes your cheek first, then he tilts his head so it sits against yours. Your lips part, your breath fanning across his face and he shuts his eyes first this time. Your mouths brush, a whisper away from locking, and then everything goes dark.

The TV flicks off, and the room is bathed in darkness save the sliver of moonlight slipping between the curtains.

“I think the power’s out,” you announce.

Spencer huffs a small laugh and drops his forehead to your collar. “I’m not a fan of the dark.”

“Then stay,” you tell him, lips at his temple.

And he does. Spencer takes off his shoes and his socks, his belt, his tie. He makes himself as comfortable as he can, though he’d bear just about anything to stay with you a little longer.

Soon enough, you’re settled in bed, you, under the covers, him on top of them. Your new book is placed delicately on the nightstand.

You lay facing each other, heads at the edges of the pillows so you can be as close as possible. One of your arms sits atop the comforter, and Spencer wraps his hand around your wrist.

“It’s not just me, is it?” he asks you, so gentle you might’ve missed it.

You know what he means.

“No, Spence. It’s not just you.”

-

+1

That morning, you’d woken up with Spencer still there, his hand still holding onto your arm, his hair smushed into the pillow.

It’s easily the best you’ve ever slept on a case.

It wasn’t awkward then, either. Not even with eye bags and morning breath. Spencer smiled as soon as he opened his eyes, as if realizing he hadn’t dreamt you, that this was real. You walked him to the door so he could go back to his room and freshen up. You held his hand all the way there, and he pulled yours up and pressed a kiss to your palm before slipping out the door.

You’re almost glad it happened in a hotel room first, because you’re not sure you’d survive a full morning of Spencer Reid in your apartment. Even more, you in his.

The case wrapped up that day, too. Much to Penelope’s satisfaction, the team would be home before New Year’s. To really sweeten the deal, you also haven’t gotten called away on another case yet.

So, encouraged by Garcia, of course, the team is out on New Year’s Eve at a bar that’s way too crowded. Well, everyone save Hotch, who wanted to be home with Jack after missing Christmas, which you’re sure he’s still beating himself up over. None of you fought him on it.

Rossi passed too, though he said something along the lines of wanting his first minutes to be spent at home with a nice glass of wine and a good cigar. You tried to fight him on it a little.

Derek somehow—you don’t think you want to know exactly how, considering he’s since wandered off—snagged you all a booth, and you’re grateful for the break from standing in your platforms. Your bare legs stick to the leather seats, but you’re enough drinks in that you can’t seem to care about that.

What you do care about, is the fact that Spencer’s yet to show. You keep looking over at the door like an idiot, hoping the next person squeezing themselves in will be him.

Penelope notices from where she sits next to you, nudging your shoulder with hers, “How about you?”

“Hm?” you hum.

“We’re talking New Year’s resolutions,” JJ clarifies.

“Oh! Um,” you drag a finger through the condensation on your glass. “I want to be braver, I think.”

“FBI not brave enough for you?” Emily asks.

“Outside of work, I mean. But you’re much braver than me, Em.” She waves it off. “I just want to- I don’t know. Try new things and be bad at them. Say what I mean. That sort of thing.”

Garcia grins knowingly. “I love it.”

You shove her gently, playfully, “‘Course you do, nosy.”

“It’s my job to be nosy!”

“Doesn’t look like the office to me.”

They laugh, and you do, too, but you also take the chance to look over at the entrance yet again. This time, you find what you’re looking for.

Spencer stands out in a bar like this. Yes, because he’s tall, but also because he’s still dressed like Spencer. Button up and cardigan. A tipsy grin widens over your face as you wave him over. Down a couple sips of your drink while he weaves through the crowd.

You’re surprised he actually came. You’d hoped he would, obviously, but you can’t remember the last time Spencer came out to a bar with you all, let alone one this full of sweaty people and sticky floors.

More than surprised, you’re ecstatic. And just intoxicated enough to express it.

“Spencer!” you cheer when he gets to the table, practically leaping out of your seat to wrap your arms around his neck. He’s stunned for a second, but squeezes you back, letting you be the one to pull away first. “I thought you ditched us.”

“I’d never ditch you.”

The words aren’t meant for the table, he doesn’t say them loud enough for them to hear. They’re just for you.

Your face softens as you take your seat again, scooching over to make room for Spencer.

“Boy genius,” Penelope starts, “New Year’s resolution, go.”

“New Year’s resolutions were said to have originated over four thousand years ago. Babylonians would make promises to the gods during Akitu.”

“Huh,” from you, fascinated.

“No,” from Emily. “Like, what’s your New Year’s Resolution?”

“Oh,” he flushes a little. “I’ll tell you if it comes true.”

“It’s not a wish, Reid,” JJ says.

“Mine is,” he replies.

His pinkie wraps around yours atop of your leg beneath the table. Those words are meant for you, too.

At about half an hour to midnight, Penelope decides it’s time to dance, and she drags Emily and JJ with her, widening her eyes at you and nudging her chin towards Reid as she walks away. Real subtle.

He beats you to it. “Do you wanna dance?”

“Do you?”

“I’d, um, like to try.”

“Yeah, okay,” your smiles come easily and freely tonight. Not held back by second-guessing or overthinking. It’s nice to let yourself really feel it.

You take Spencer’s outstretched hand and let him guide you towards the dance floor. He stays on the outskirts, out of view from JJ and Emily and Penelope. He wants this moment to be yours, nobody else’s.

So, you dance. Or, attempt to. It’s mostly full of you laughing when Spencer moves awkwardly or bumps into someone. Trying to teach him some tips and eventually just accepting defeat.

The song playing isn’t slow, not at all, but you figure maybe swaying is your best bet, so you take Spencer’s hands and place them on your waist. Take a step closer and put your hands on his shoulders.

“You can’t mess this one up,” you promise. “Just move with me.”

He does, his fingers pressing little divots into your skin through your shirt, his eyes first on your feet, then moving upwards to watch you, to mirror you.

You stay that way until your hands are clammy where they press against his shirt, until your chests are nearly pressed together and the rest of the room sort of melts away. Until you try to say something but decide you want to make sure he can hear you.

“Wanna get some air?”

Spencer nods, letting you drag him through the crowd again to get to the door, both of your hands wrapped around one of his.

As soon as you step outside, everything becomes muffled. The music inside is still audible, but distorted as it filters through the walls. You can hear people cheering and shouting in the distance, can hear the faint ringing in your ears. The way Spencer sucks in a breath when he sees you shiver.

He shrugs off his cardigan and drapes it over your shoulders without a word.

You press your nose into the fabric, the smell, the cool air hitting your cheeks and swirling around your legs sobering you. “Thanks.”

“Looks better on you,” he says, brushing a strand of hair from your sticky temple.

You decide that now is as good a time as any to act on your resolution. That there will never be a perfect moment or opportunity.

“Spencer?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m going to say something.”

“Okay.”

You pivot to face him fully, his hands finding yours and squeezing them. For warmth or comfort, you aren’t sure, but you soak it in either way.

“I told the girls I want to be braver-”

“I think you’re plenty brave-”

“I really like you. As in, more than friends. As in, I think about being with you all of the time.”

Spencer’s eyes soften, warm with the streetlights reflected in them, his face broken up by a sneaking smile, knowing and understanding and so fond you could melt.

“I really like you too, pretty,” he says. Pretty, like a fact. “You must know that.”

“I thought- I had a feeling. That you did,” you smile, suddenly sheepish. “I didn’t wanna assume.”

You shiver again and Spencer moves to pull his cardigan tighter around you, to do up the buttons and run his hands up and down your arms. He doesn’t even say anything, doesn’t even think. He just takes care of you, easy as breathing.

You tug at the hem of your mini skirt absentmindedly. Spencer traces the movement, and you notice.

The countdown creeps through the doors, voices mingling and slipping through the cracks to fall onto the pavement at your feet.

Ten, nine, eight.

“Can I know your New Year’s resolution now?” you ask.

Seven, six, five.

“I’d really like to kiss you,” he confesses.

Four, three, two.

“Finally,” you sigh

One.

He pulls you in with his grip on the cardigan, or maybe you’re the one who pulls him in, cool hands on his flushed cheeks, but either way, you collide right as whistles and cheers of ‘Happy New Year!’ echo around you.

You’re not sure what you’d imagined, but you know the real thing is better.

Spencer’s lips are soft against yours, but they aren’t timid. He kisses you like he’s been waiting as long as you have, maybe even longer. Like he doesn’t only want you, but needs you, too.

His arms shift to twin around your waist, pulling your bodies flush together. The warmth of him seeps into you, one of your hands slipping to the back of his neck to keep him close.

You hardly feel the cold anymore. It’s just Spencer all around.

Neither of you pull away until you absolutely have to, until your chests are heaving and your hearts are racing. Even then, Spencer places one, two pecks on your bottom lip before moving back slightly.

Your breaths dance in the space between your faces. Spencer leans his forehead against the crown of your head. You fiddle with strands of his hair.

“Same time next year?” you ask, still panting a little.

“Can’t wait that long,” Spencer says into your hair. “How about tomorrow?”

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆.˚

thank you so much for reading!! if you enjoyed please please consider leaving a comment and/or a reblog and letting me know! it helps others see my work and would mean a bunch <3

[lenatpn]

“it’s not just me, is it?”

“no, spencer. it’s not just you.”

🥹🥹

[certaimromance]

⭑ The Reid’s Exception.

Spencer Reid x Kindergarten teacher!reader

main masterlist

Summary: The first time you attend the BAU Christmas party with Spencer, everyone notices it immediately: around you, he becomes someone else entirely.

Words: 3,8k.

Warnings & Tags: based by this request. nothing?. childhood friends. pure fluff. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: This is my way of coming back and wishing you all a happy holiday season!🎄<3 xoxo.

Spencer Reid’s earliest memories were not linear.

They didn’t arrive in neat timelines or clearly defined years the way most people’s did. Instead, they came in fragments, sensory impressions stacked on top of one another like transparencies. The smell of old books and pencil shavings. The squeak of sneakers on linoleum floors. The grounding weight of silence that followed him everywhere like a shadow.

And you.

You were always there.

Not as a single moment he could point to, but as a presence threaded through everything else. A constant variable in a life that otherwise felt too fast and loud. When he tried to trace the beginning of you, his mind failed him. You simply existed, already seated beside him at a small desk that was too short for his legs, already tugging at his sleeve because he’d drifted too far into his thoughts.

He remembered the way classrooms felt before you. So overwhelming in their chaos, filled with scraping chairs and overlapping voices that made his chest tighten. And then he remembered how that sensation softened once you started sitting next to him. How the noise blurred at the edges when your knee pressed lightly against his under the desk, a small, unconscious anchor that told his body it was safe to stay.

You learned early that he startled easily.

Not from fear, exactly, but from intrusion. From the suddenness of touch that didn’t announce itself, from hands that appeared without warning. So you announced yourself in a language only the two of you seemed to share. A gentle brush of fingers against his arm before leaning closer. A whisper of his name before tugging on his sleeve. Your touch was never sharp. It was slow. Predictable. Kind.

He remembered your hands most vividly.

They were always warm, even in winter, even when you’d come inside from the cold with pink cheeks and a runny nose, fingers immediately seeking his like they had a homing instinct. You held onto him the way children hold onto railings, not because they’re afraid of falling, but because it feels wrong not to. During assemblies, when hundreds of bodies packed together and the air grew thick and stale, you would lace your fingers through his and squeeze in quiet reassurance, counting his breaths with your thumb like you were teaching him how to exist in the world without it hurting.

No one ever told you not to touch him.

Maybe the teachers saw how he calmed when you did. How his foot stopped bouncing. How his gaze returned to the room instead of disappearing somewhere far away. Or maybe they simply didn’t notice, because you were small and bright and harmless, and he was the strange, gifted boy everyone had already decided was fragile.

Spencer never thought of it as touch.

It was just you.

You leaning against him during silent reading, your head resting briefly on his shoulder as if it were the most natural thing in the world. You sitting on the floor beside him during recess instead of running with the other kids, tracing shapes into the carpet while he explained things he was too young to have words for yet. You pressing your forehead to his when he cried quietly in the nurse’s office after another kid called him a freak.

You were there when the world became too much.

You were there when he forgot how to be small.

By the time Spencer realized most people didn’t live their lives with someone’s hand wrapped around their sleeve, it was already too late. The habit had settled into his bones. Your presence had become synonymous with safety, with warmth, with the idea that closeness didn’t always have to hurt.

And so, years later, when Spencer Reid invited you to a BAU Christmas party, he didn’t consider it an anomaly.

He didn’t stop to question the decision or examine the possible outcomes the way he usually did. Inviting you felt less like a choice and more like a continuation, like picking up a sentence he’d started years ago and never quite finished. He didn’t think about the way your hand would inevitably find his arm when you arrived, or how your fingers would curl around his sleeve with the same quiet certainty they always had. He didn’t think about how his body would recognize yours before his mind ever could, adjusting instinctively, shifting just enough to make space for you.

He only knew that where you were, he could breathe.

“Spencer!”

Your voice reached him before you did, cutting through the low murmur of conversation and soft instrumental Christmas music drifting through the bullpen. Spencer turned just in time to see you weaving through the room, eyes alight, cardigan slightly crooked like you’d put it on in a hurry. You crossed the distance between you quickly, as if drawn by gravity, and slipped into his space without hesitation.

Your hand landed on his arm and squeezed once, affectionate and grounding.

“Oh my god,” you said, glancing around with wide eyes. “Everyone’s so tall.”

Spencer smiled immediately.

It happened before he could stop it, before his brain could catch up and assess or analyze. The tension he hadn’t even realized he’d been carrying all evening loosened, his shoulders dropping a fraction as your warmth settled in beside him. The room felt quieter suddenly, smaller, more manageable.

“They are?” he asked, blinking. His gaze followed yours as he took in the room properly for the first time: Morgan towering near the refreshment table, Emily leaning casually against a desk, Hotch standing straight as ever near the tree. “I mean—yes, I suppose they are. The average height here is probably above the national—”

“Spence,” you interrupted gently, laughter soft and fond as you leaned into his side. Your shoulder brushed his chest, your head tipping toward him in a way that was so unconscious it felt rehearsed. “I’m not asking for data.”

“Oh,” he said, equally gentle. “Right. Sorry.”

You tilted your head against his shoulder for half a second, just long enough for the contact to register, just long enough to remind his body of something old and steady. It was the same motion you’d made as a child when you were tired or excited or simply content to be near him.

“I think I’ve just spent too much time with little humans,” you continued thoughtfully, eyes still scanning the room. “Adults feel…elongated.”

“Elongated,” he repeated, testing the word like it was a new puzzle piece. “That’s a good descriptor.”

You straightened slightly, pleased. “Thank you. I pride myself on my vocabulary.”

Then you looked up at him, your expression softening in a way only he ever seemed to notice. “You okay?”

“Yes,” he answered immediately, the truth spilling out before he could overthink it. Then, after a beat, quieter and more honest: “Better now.”

Your thumb brushed absently over the fabric of his sleeve, tracing a small, unconscious arc. “Good.”

The BAU around you hummed with quiet holiday energy. Paper cups clinking, someone laughing near the coffee station, the faint smell of pine and sugar cookies lingering in the air. White lights blinked lazily along the edge of desks, reflecting off computer screens and tinsel. It was festive in a restrained, slightly awkward way. Very on brand.

You took it all in with open curiosity.

“So,” you said, gesturing vaguely with your free hand, never letting go of him. “This is where you disappear to all day.”

“Disappear is…not inaccurate,” he said. “Although I do technically remain in the same physical location.”

You grinned. “Good to know. And these,” you added, nodding toward the team, “are your work people?”

He nodded. “They’re…important to me.”

Something softened in your expression at that. Your grip on his arm tightened just a little. Not possessive, just protective. “Okay,” you said quietly. “I’ll be good.”

He frowned, confused in the way only Spencer Reid could be. “You’re always good.”

“I mean,” you clarified, smiling, “I’ll try not to embarrass you.”

“You don’t,” he said quickly, the words tumbling out with quiet urgency. Then he hesitated, searching for the right phrasing. “I mean…you’ve never been a source of embarrassment.”

You laughed, warm and delighted, and leaned closer again. “That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

Across the room, the team watched.

JJ’s eyebrows lifted. Emily’s lips parted slightly. Morgan’s grin grew slow and incredulous. Because it was like watching a celestial event. So rare, impossible, beautiful in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

Spencer Reid, fully relaxed.

Spencer Reid, smiling without restraint.

Spencer Reid, being touched without recoiling.

It was like seeing Halley’s Comet.

And neither of you even noticed.

It was crazy.

The moment Spencer finished introducing you—barely managing to get your name out before you were already smiling at everyone—you launched into a story like the words had been waiting just beneath your tongue all night. You stayed tucked into his side, your hand still looped comfortably around his arm, fingers absentmindedly gripping his sleeve as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Your free hand moved constantly as you spoke, expressive and animated, tracing invisible shapes in the air. You talked with your whole body, voice bright with wonder and enthusiasm, the kind that pulled people in without effort.

“So my class is doing this thing where they write letters to Santa,” you said, eyes darting between the team members as if you were letting them in on something important. “Which is adorable, obviously. Like, painfully adorable. But then one of my kids raises his hand and asks if Santa has an email because,” you paused, lips twitching, “‘writing is too slow.’”

You laughed, breathless and delighted, and without thinking leaned your head briefly against Spencer’s shoulder, the motion unconscious and practiced.

Spencer felt it before he processed it.

His hand twitched at his side before lifting and settling gently at your elbow. His fingers barely pressed, just enough to keep you steady, to anchor you where you were.

No tension. No hesitation.

Just instinct.

“Statistically,” Spencer added calmly, slipping into the conversation like he’d always been part of it, his voice low and thoughtful, “children are adapting to digital communication at increasingly younger ages. Their frustration tolerance for slower methods is decreasing.”

You turned to him like he’d just solved a mystery.

“See?” you said triumphantly, pointing at him before looking back at the team, still clinging to his arm. “This is why I keep him around. He makes my classroom chaos sound academic.”

“I think it already is,” Spencer said softly, glancing down at you. “You’re shaping cognitive development during a critical stage.”

You blinked, caught for half a second, then smiled and leaned a little closer. “That’s because you’re sweet.”

Across the room, JJ’s chest tightened a little at the way Spencer looked at you. Completely unguarded, eyes warm, attention wholly yours. There was something deeply familiar in the way he stood with you, like this version of him had always existed and the rest of the world just didn’t get to see it.

There was history there.

Emily tilted her head, studying you with open curiosity. “Kindergarten?” she asked, impressed. “That takes a special kind of patience.”

You nodded solemnly. “And an acceptance that glitter is now a permanent lifestyle.”

Morgan laughed, arms crossing. “You seem… surprisingly cheerful about that.”

You shrugged, squeezing Spencer’s arm again like it was second nature. “They’re good kids. Loud. Sticky. But good.”

Spencer watched you as you talked, the way your nose scrunched when you laughed, the way you rocked slightly on your feet when you got excited. Heel to toe, like you always had. He remembered you doing that in the school library, whispering about wanting a classroom full of color while he folded paper into perfect stars, sliding the prettiest ones toward you without saying a word.

Back then, you’d leaned against him too.

He remembered thinking, even then, that it was easier to breathe when you did. That the world felt quieter when you were close.

“So anyway,” you continued, still glowing, squeezing Spencer’s arm again as if the story itself needed anchoring, “they decided glitter was a necessary addition.”

You nodded decisively, brows knitting in mock seriousness. “Which it is. Artistically speaking. But now I’m finding glitter in my shoes. In my bag. I’m ninety percent sure it followed me here. Like a parasite.”

Spencer hummed thoughtfully, his grip at your elbow adjusting just slightly, protective without being possessive, familiar without being conscious. “That’s consistent with craft-related contamination,” he said, utterly serious. “Glitter has a high persistence rate once introduced into an environment. It’s extremely difficult to eliminate completely.”

Your eyes widened like he’d just confirmed a conspiracy. “I knew it.”

A quiet laugh escaped him before he could stop it.

Morgan finally couldn’t help himself. “Reid.”

Spencer glanced over, distracted but polite. “Yes?”

“You okay there, man?”

“Yes,” Spencer replied without hesitation. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Emily exchanged a look with JJ.

When you eventually stepped away to grab a drink, you did it reluctantly. Like you were peeling yourself out of a place you belonged. Your fingers brushed along Spencer’s wrist as you went, the contact light but intentional, a familiar goodbye that wasn’t really a goodbye at all.

“I’ll be right back,” you said, already half-smiling like you knew you would be.

Spencer nodded, though the words didn’t quite register.

He didn’t track your movement analytically. Didn’t follow the angles of your path or note the number of steps between desks the way he usually did with everything else. His mind didn’t reach for data or probability or pattern.

He just…watched.

Watched the way the room seemed to expand the second you left his side, noise rushing back in where you’d been like air filling a vacuum. Watched the lights feel harsher, the music louder, the conversations less distinct. The warmth at his arm faded too quickly, leaving behind something hollow and unfamiliar, an absence he couldn’t immediately name but felt acutely.

His hand lingered where you’d been, fingers curling slightly, unconsciously, like they were waiting for the shape of you to return.

And the second you were out of earshot—

“You let her touch you,” JJ said gently.

Spencer blinked, still looking in your direction. “She’s always touched me,” he replied, confused by the implication.

“For your entire life,” Morgan added, voice softer than his usual teasing, like he was stating a fact rather than a joke.

Spencer finally looked away from you.

He paused.

Not because he disagreed, but because something in his chest shifted, slow and seismic, like a realization settling into place after years of being ignored.

He thought of scraped knees on hot pavement and you pressing Band-Aids on crooked because you were too young to care about precision. Of science fairs where you’d sat cross-legged beside him, handing him pencils while he talked too fast and too much. Of long nights on the phone after his mom had bad days, your voice low, telling him it was okay to be tired.

He thought of thunderstorms, of you padding down the hallway in socked feet, climbing into his bed without asking, curling into his side like you’d always known you were allowed. Of how you’d held onto him then, too. Like he was solid ground. Like he wouldn’t disappear.

“Oh,” he said softly.

The word barely made a sound.

Across the room, you turned just then, drink in hand, eyes searching until they found him. Your face lit up immediately, the same unguarded smile you’d worn when you were seven years old and had decided that Spencer Reid was your friend.

You walked back without hesitation.

Your hand slipped into the crook of his arm again, familiar as breathing.

“Miss me?” you asked lightly.

Spencer didn’t even notice the moment his hand closed over yours.

But the team did.

The BAU bullpen looked exactly the same the next morning, down to the smallest, most mundane details that Spencer Reid usually found comfort in. The fluorescent lights hummed softly overhead, an unchanging mechanical sound that blended seamlessly with the quiet tapping of keyboards and the low murmur of early-morning voices. Computer screens glowed in muted blues and grays, some already filled with case files, others blinking patiently as they waited to be logged into. A printer whirred somewhere near the back, followed by the faint thump of paper landing in a tray. The ever-present smell of burnt coffee hung in the air, bitter and sharp, curling around the cleaner scent of paper, toner, and industrial disinfectant. Everything was familiar. Structured. Predictable in a way that usually steadied him.

And yet Spencer Reid felt…exposed.

It wasn’t the kind of exposure he could quantify or explain with statistics or probability. It wasn’t logical. It was the subtle, unnerving awareness that something about him had shifted, had been seen, and that the room, unchanged as it was, somehow knew. As he stepped inside, he adjusted the strap of his messenger bag on instinct, fingers tightening briefly around the worn canvas. He could feel it then: the way attention moved toward him, quiet and understated. No one was staring outright. No one needed to. It was in the pauses, the half-glances, the way conversations seemed to soften and bend in his direction. Enough to make his skin prickle, a faint tension humming just beneath the surface.

He reached his desk and set his bag down carefully, aligning it with the edge the way he always did. He nudged it a fraction of an inch to the left. Straightened the strap. Sat down. The ritual mattered. His hands hovered over the keyboard longer than usual before he powered on the monitor, as if delaying might give him time to recalibrate, time to return to the version of himself that fit more neatly into this space.

“So,” Morgan said.

The single syllable cracked through the air like a starting gun.

Spencer looked up, heart giving an unhelpful, traitorous skip. Morgan was leaning casually against the edge of his desk, arms crossed over his chest, posture loose and confident. There was already a grin pulling at his mouth, the kind that told Spencer this was not a neutral observation. Emily had turned fully in her chair, one leg hooked over the armrest, her gaze sharp and assessing in that familiar, almost profiling way. JJ stood nearby with a stack of files pressed to her chest, eyes bright, expression far too gentle to be innocent. No one else in the bullpen appeared to be paying attention, but Spencer knew better. This was a controlled environment. An audience existed whether he acknowledged it or not.

“Yes?” He said, straightening, shoulders pulling back automatically.

“Big night,” Morgan said lightly.

“It was a Christmas party,” Spencer replied. “That’s not statistically significant.”

JJ’s smile widened just a little, like she was trying not to laugh. “You brought someone.”

“Yes.”

Emily tilted her head, studying him. “Someone you’ve known since you were…what, eight?”

“Seven,” Spencer corrected without thinking.

Morgan’s grin deepened, pleased. “And yet none of us have ever met her.”

Spencer frowned, brow furrowing as he processed the implication. “That doesn’t mean—”

“It means,” Emily interrupted smoothly, “that when we did meet her, she was wrapped around your arm like she’d been there a thousand times before.”

Spencer opened his mouth, then stopped.

He paused, visibly recalibrating. This was a question that required precision. Language mattered. Context mattered. He searched carefully for the right explanation, the kind that could translate something deeply intuitive into something reasonable.

“She was comfortable,” he said finally. “We have a long-standing familiarity with physical proximity.”

Morgan let out a low, impressed whistle. “Listen to him.”

JJ laughed quietly. “You don’t even let me touch you.”

Spencer blinked, genuinely confused. “You touch me frequently.”

“On the shoulder,” JJ clarified gently. “For about half a second.”

Emily leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees. “She leaned her entire body on you.”

Spencer felt heat creep up the back of his neck, ears warming in a way he absolutely did not appreciate. “That’s…different.”

Morgan raised an eyebrow. “How?”

Spencer hesitated.

He did what he always did—searched his mental catalogue for the correct word, the right classification—but came up empty. The truth hovered just beyond his reach, too large, too amorphous to pin down with language. It wasn’t about touch alone. It wasn’t about habit. It was something quieter. Older. Something that lived in muscle memory and breath.

“I don’t know,” he admitted quietly. “It just is.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was knowing.

Then Garcia’s voice burst cheerfully from her office, bright and theatrical. “Oh my god. Are we talking about the girl?”

Spencer winced. “Garcia—”

“She was adorable,” Penelope continued, rolling herself halfway out of her chair, eyes sparkling. “Sunshine in human form. And you looked—” she paused theatrically, one hand pressed to her chest, “—unreasonably happy.”

Spencer dropped his gaze to his desk, suddenly very invested in the pattern of the wood grain. “I am happy regularly.”

Morgan snorted. “Reid, you smiled without being prompted.”

“That happens,” Spencer said, voice weaker than he liked.

Emily smiled, kind and knowing. “You held her hand.”

Spencer froze.

“I—” He stopped short, memory rushing in with startling clarity: your fingers sliding into his, warm and sure, the way his thumb had moved without permission, tracing the back of your hand as if it had always known where to go. “That was…not intentional.”

JJ’s expression softened completely. “But you didn’t pull away.”

“No,” he admitted, voice barely above a murmur.

Hotch chose that moment to step out of his office, coffee in hand, gaze sweeping over the bullpen with practiced efficiency. His eyes lingered on the loose semicircle, the half-smiles, Spencer’s unmistakably pink ears.

“Is there a reason work hasn’t started yet?” Hotch asked.

“No reason,” JJ said quickly. “Just…team bonding.”

Hotch’s eyes lingered on Spencer for a fraction longer than necessary, then he nodded. “Reid. Briefing in ten.”

“Yes, sir.”

As the team dispersed, Spencer sat back down, heart beating just a little faster than usual. The bullpen slowly returned to its normal rhythm, the noise settling into something familiar again.

His phone buzzed against the desk.

He glanced down.

Good morning! <3

Did your work people survive me?

Something warm unfurled in his chest, slow and undeniable, spreading outward until it softened the tightness he hadn’t realized he was carrying.

His lips curved upward before he could stop them.

Emily noticed immediately. Morgan did too.

“Oh,” Morgan said softly. “He’s smiling again.”

Spencer straightened abruptly. “That’s irrelevant.”

He typed back carefully.

Yes. They found you memorable.

The reply came almost instantly.

That sounds ominous >:(

A quiet huff of laughter escaped him, softer than he meant it to be. His fingers hovered over the keyboard as he debated his response, eventually attempting one of the strange combinations of symbols you’d taught him.

Around him, the BAU kept moving.

But Spencer Reid stayed smiling at his only exception.

[lenatpn]

SO SWEET

[cherrymz17]

[whisperedmeg]

OPERATION MYSTERY GIRL ⟢ spencer reid x greenaway!reader

summary: when the team realizes spencer has a secret girlfriend, garcia launches a glitter-covered investigation that’s equal parts profiling and meddling. the problem? their “mystery girl” profile is so wrong it hurts — and then the case cracks wide open, whether you’re ready or not. genre: hurt/comfort, fluff tags/warnings: reader is elle's sister, accidentally suggestive comment from spencer lol, garcia being the office gossip, BAU team shenanigans, reader has insecurities over if she’s wrong for spencer/how she’s perceived/her entire personality basically, team dinner at rossi’s, reader is warm fruit’s #1 hater, kissssing, purposely suggestive comment from reader, they’re so down bad it’s gross, no use of y/n a/n: i feel like this hopefully goes without saying, but zero offense is meant to the type of girl described in this fic — i just needed a contrast to greenaway!reader! anywho, this one has been a loooong time coming so I hope you enjoy (and plz appreciate the silly goofy visual aid I made on canva that you’ll find below lol) | GIF by eva @reidgif 🫶🏼

greenaway!reader masterlist 🥀

Spencer’s alarm goes off at 6:15, but you’re pretty sure he’s been awake for ten minutes already and just pretending not to be so he can keep his arm around you.

“Turn it off,” you mumble into his chest.

“I got it,” he says as he reaches for the clock.

You crack an eye open. “Too early.”

He ignores your complaint in favor of dipping his head to kiss your forehead, then your temple, then the corner of your mouth. You kiss him back, slow and lazy, one hand curling in the soft cotton of his t-shirt.

“If we don’t get up now, we’ll be late,” he says, very much not moving to get up.

“You say that like you didn’t design your alarm timing around a twenty-minute buffer,” you reply, sliding your leg over his.

“Sixteen-minute buffer, actually,” he corrects. “We typically spend an average of seven minutes kissing before I spend the other nine between your—”

“Spencer!” you shriek, cutting him off before he can finish a statement like that at six in the morning.

He smirks. “I was just providing data.”

You pinch his side. “Provide less.”

He laughs again, sleepy and warm, and grins like he’s proud of getting you flustered.

You kiss him again. It’s easier now that the part where you pretend not to want to stay has worn off. You just want to stay, and you let yourself.

When you finally peel out of bed, it’s with mutual groaning and the kind of reluctant separation that would be disgusting if it were anyone else. He presses a quick kiss between your shoulder blades as you swing your legs over the side of the mattress; you pretend it doesn’t make your chest do something stupid.

By the time you’re dressed and make your way out of the bedroom, Spencer’s apartment smells like coffee and toast. He’s in the kitchen in a button down and slacks, tie draped around his neck, reading something in the newspaper with a little furrow between his brows. There’s a mug waiting for you — your mug, chipped on one side, living here now without discussion.

You snag a piece of toast off his plate, bite into it, and lean your hip against the counter while he wrestles with his tie. It’s a new one — navy with small, neat polka dots.

“Come here,” you say, setting your mug down.

He steps closer automatically when you hook two fingers in his belt and tug him in. You untie the knot and redo it, straightening it with careful precision. He watches your face like you’re doing something much more interesting than fixing his tie.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing,” he says. “I just… like you here.”

You roll your eyes because the alternative is something mushy, but then you lean in anyway and let your lips find his.

The kiss is soft and familiar and still somehow manages to make your knees a little shaky. He tastes like coffee and toothpaste and home, which is a terrifying thought you refuse to examine this early in the day.

He breaks away first, forehead resting against yours. “We should go.”

“Yeah,” you say, not moving.

A beat passes, then another long kiss. Eventually you both laugh, step back at the same time, and pretend you’re ready for reality to hit.

You grab your jacket and badge off the hook, he grabs his satchel and keys, and you walk out the door together.

—

By the time you pull into the Quantico lot, the radio is off and his hand is resting, casual and warm, on your thigh. You let it stay there until you’re close enough to see the building, then you nudge it away and give him a look that says later.

He gives you one back that says I know.

The practiced routine kicks in — you get out and head inside first, he waits three-and-a-half minutes before doing the same.

Spencer barely makes it to his desk before Rossi appears beside him like a well-dressed shadow.

“Ready to go?” Rossi asks, coffee in hand, already halfway turned toward the bullpen doors.

They’re headed to the academy building across campus, today’s guest lecturers for a criminology training. Spencer always pretends he’s indifferent to that sort of thing, but the second he’s in front of a whiteboard, he lights up.

Spencer blinks, then nods. “Yes. I just need—”

“Your notes are in your bag,” Rossi says. “You sent me five drafts already. Come on, kid, the cadets await.”

Spencer glances in your direction automatically. You lift your eyes just long enough to catch his and tip your chin, a small, private acknowledgment no one else would notice.

He smiles — barely there, but there — and then heads out with Rossi. You watch them go, then drag your focus back to the report in front of you.

You get maybe three minutes of peace.

“Greenawaaay,” Garcia sings, appearing at the edge of your peripheral vision like a colorful mirage.

You don’t look up yet. “If this is about your whipped cream experimentation with Kevin, I already told you I’m not certified in exorcisms.”

“It’s not about the whipped cream,” she says. “It’s much more important than the whipped cream. Which should tell you the stakes here are astronomical.”

You sigh, close the file, and finally turn. JJ and Prentiss are hovering behind her with matching she-already-recruited-us-but-we-don’t-know-what-for expressions. Morgan leans against the nearest desk, arms folded, clearly already in on whatever this is.

“What did you do?” you ask.

“Me?” Garcia bats her lashes. “Nothing. But we’re about to make history. Come on.” She jerks her head toward the hallway. “Top secret meeting in my office.”

You narrow your eyes. “I’m on the clock, Garcia. I have work to do.”

“As do I,” she says. “This is… related to work. Trust me.”

You should say no. You should go back to your paperwork. Instead, curiosity wins and you slide out of your chair.

Garcia herds the four of you down to her lair like a cheerful, bedazzled sheepdog. The door closes behind you with a heavy thud, the lights of her monitors bathing the room in neon. On the far wall, there’s a corkboard you don’t remember seeing before.

At the top, in big, bold letters outlined with glittery tape, it says:

OPERATION MYSTERY GIRL - O.M.G.

Garcia plants herself in front of the board, hands on hips. “Welcome, my beloved profilers and communications liaison, to the inaugural briefing of O.M.G.!”

JJ presses her lips together, clearly trying not to laugh. Morgan isn’t even pretending to not be thrilled. Prentiss looks like she’s just been handed front-row tickets to a train wreck.

“Please tell me this isn’t what I think it is,” you say.

“This,” Garcia announces, pointing dramatically at the corkboard, “is a fully serious, very important investigation into the case of Dr. Spencer Reid’s mysterious secret girlfriend.”

You blink. “You’re kidding.”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?” She gestures dramatically to the board again. It’s already populated with printed photos, sticky notes, and colored yarn connecting pins like you’re standing in front of a conspiracy theorist’s wet dream.

At the bottom is a sheet of paper featuring a stick figure of a woman with a giant question mark over her face. Around it: headings that read EVIDENCE SO FAR, POTENTIAL OCCUPATIONS, and VIBES in Garcia’s handwriting.

You step closer despite yourself.

Under EVIDENCE:

Suspiciously happy like all the time

Volunteering for less overtime than usual

New clothes??!!

His aura just screams I’M IN LURVVV

“Some of this is actually pretty accurate,” Prentiss says, leaning in.

“I’ve been monitoring his behavior for weeks,” Garcia says proudly. “The data doesn’t lie. Our boy genius is smitten, and he is hiding her from us.”

Morgan shakes his head. “He’s definitely hiding something. We’ve been saying that for a while. And at O’Keefe’s the other week, he didn’t exactly deny it. He just said ‘no comment,’ which means there’s definitely a girl.”

“He has a right to privacy,” you point out, mostly because you’re trying not to gnaw through your own tongue.

“Absolutely,” Garcia says. “He has the right to privacy, and I have the right to gossip with my friends about our other friend. Both things can be true.”

Prentiss snorts.

Garcia taps the POTENTIAL OCCUPATIONS column, where there are several options listed already:

Kindergarten teacher

Librarian

Baker

Social worker

“Seriously? You think he’s dating a kindergarten teacher? A librarian?” you ask.

JJ lifts a shoulder. “He does like to read.”

“And he’s good with kids,” Morgan adds. “Makes sense he’d go for someone sweet and gentle like that."

“It’s probably someone outside the FBI,” Prentiss proposes. “Normal job. Normal hours. No guns.”

“She definitely wears super cute colorful cardigans,” Garcia adds, already scribbling it down under VIBES. “And I’d venture to guess that she bakes cupcakes when she’s stressed. Smells like vanilla!”

“Vanilla,” you echo, deadpan.

JJ tilts her head. “You don’t think he’d be into someone like that?”

You shrug like it’s theoretical, like your heart isn’t doing something unpleasant in your chest. “He might be, I don’t know. But I think he needs someone who can actually handle the job. The hours. The… everything. This kind of life isn’t exactly gentle.”

“Exactly,” Garcia says. “Which is why she’s gotta be gentle. She provides a counterbalance. Yin and yang, crime and cupcakes. It’s poetic.”

She writes CUPCAKES under VIBES.

Morgan points his pen at the pinned drawing of the stick figure woman. “Come on, Greenaway. You spend a lot of time with him. Help us out.”

“I do not spend a lot of time with him,” you deny automatically.

Four pairs of eyes look at you.

You lift your hands. “Fine. I spend an appropriate amount of professional time with him. Not my fault Hotch pairs us together a lot.”

“Point is, you know him. So, from a purely hypothetical standpoint,” JJ says, “what kind of person do you think he’d be happy with?”

You stare at the board for a moment, at the fake girl they’ve built out of cardigans and vanilla extract. Then you pick up a pen.

“Someone smart,” you say. “He’d need that. Someone who doesn’t treat him like a walking encyclopedia but also doesn’t get lost or zone out when he goes off on a tangent. Someone who doesn’t flinch when things get ugly,” you continue. “You all know what this job does. You don’t get to just… opt out of the darkness. If you’re with him, you’re in all of it.”

You tap the pen against the board, then force your tone lighter. “And yeah, okay, probably someone nice.”

Garcia grins, scribbling down NICE under VIBES and functionally ignoring the rest of what you said. “See? This is why I invited you. You have insight!”

Morgan grins. “So we’re in agreement. She’s smart, sweet, likes kids, bakes.”

“And probably has no idea how lucky she is,” JJ adds.

You swallow back the instinctive no, she definitely knows she’s lucky and say instead, “Can I go back to work now, or are we building a composite sketch?”

Garcia swats the air. “This is just Phase One, my fine furry friend. We will reconvene later. In the meantime, I expect you all to investigate.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite in it. “Great. Can’t wait to see what Phase Two has in store.”

As you step back, your gaze catches on the stick figure again. On the glitter, the stickers, the ridiculous heading — O.M.G.

According to the board, Reid’s mystery girl should be someone who wears cardigans. Smells like sugar. Teaches kindergarten.

Definitely not someone like you.

You shove that thought down where it belongs, under seven layers of scar tissue and denial, and head back to the bullpen like nothing in here touched you at all.

—

The rest of the morning unfolds like any other day at the BAU, if you ignore the fact that one of your coworkers has unknowingly built a conspiracy wall about you.

You try to ignore it.

You work a consult. You write up a report on last week’s case. You argue with a detective over the phone until he backs down, and when you hang up, Morgan’s watching you like: damn, remind me to never piss you off.

“You good?” he asks.

“Peachy,” you say, tossing the file onto your desk. “Please tell me Garcia found a new hobby in the last hour.”

He grins. “Not a chance. She’s real committed to this one.”

You roll your eyes and open your email.

There’s a subject line from Garcia that reads: “O.M.G. – Phase Two Meeting Tomorrow - Agenda Enclosed!” with three heart emojis.

You don’t open it. You’re not that masochistic.

Around noon, your phone buzzes against your desk. You assume it’s another follow-up from Garcia and flip it over, already cringing. Instead, it’s Spencer.

Spencer: Cadets have already asked 3 questions that make me concerned for the future of law enforcement.

You huff out a quiet laugh before you can stop it, shoulders loosening.

You type back under the desk.

You: important news from the home front: i am currently the unsub in an unsanctioned profiling experiment being conducted out of garcia’s lair

There’s a long enough pause that you can imagine him reading it twice, brow furrowed.

Spencer: …What?

You: penelope has formed a task force

You: codename: operation mystery girl

You: acronym: O.M.G.

You: there’s glitter. so much glitter

You: and specific instructions not to tell you about it. oops

This time, his reply is almost immediate.

Spencer: Why can’t I know?

You: because you’ve been “suspiciously happy” so they’ve decided that gives them grounds to reverse-engineer your love life

You: they’re profiling your “type.” your mystery girl.

Another beat. You can practically feel him flushing through the screen.

Spencer: What have they concluded so far?

You: that you’re dating a bubbly, perfect kindergarten teacher who smells like vanilla

There’s a full minute of silence this time. You picture him in some Academy auditorium, phone in his hand under the desk while Rossi lectures about offender typologies.

Finally:

Spencer: I don’t even like vanilla that much.

You laugh under your breath and stare at that for a second, heat curling low in your stomach for absolutely no good reason as his second text comes through.

Spencer: I prefer more complex flavors.

You roll your eyes at your phone, because of course he somehow made that sound unintentionally sweet and slightly filthy without even trying.

You: stop flirting with me during class

You: you’re supposed to be educating the next generation of the fbi

As if on cue, Hotch’s door opens and he steps out into the bullpen, scanning the room. You turn your phone face-down on your desk.

By late afternoon, O.M.G. has evolved. Every so often you catch someone making a note — Garcia walking by while scribbling on a sticky, JJ whispering something in her ear, Prentiss and Morgan analyzing Spencer’s desk from a distance.

It’s fine. It’s all stupid and harmless and fine.

Your phone buzzes again around four while you’re in the hall heading back from the bathroom.

Spencer: Wrapping up here, should be back soon. Any further developments on the O.M.G. front?

You glance down the hall towards Garcia’s office. The door is closed, a faint glow spilling out from beneath it like a witch’s cave.

You: more of the same

You: i’ll fill you in tonight

You hesitate, then tack on one more message before you can talk yourself out of it:

You: miss you

It’s reckless and feels entirely too honest, but your thumb hits send anyway.

The reply comes before you’ve even locked your phone.

Spencer: I miss you too. See you soon.

You swallow, looking around like the words might be visible in the air, but no one’s looking at you. No one has a clue.

Yet.

—

By the time you make it to Spencer’s apartment after work, your brain feels like it’s humming inside your skull.

You kick the door shut with your heel, toe your shoes off in the entryway, shrug out of your jacket and scarf and hang them on the hook you’ve claimed as your own. Spencer drops his satchel by the couch and heads for the kitchen.

“Dinner,” he calls, opening the fridge. “Option A: leftover lo mein. Option B: grilled cheese. Option C: both.”

“C,” you pick.

He smiles faintly and pulls out the takeout container. It’s all so normal — him moving around the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, you leaning your hip against the cabinets as you watch him. This is your life now: FBI agent by day, domestic lovergirl by night.

You watch him butter bread and portion out noodles like he’s solving a complex equation. He glances up.

“You said you’d fill me in,” he reminds you. “On O.M.G.”

You snort. “Right. Your fan club.”

He raises his eyebrows. You sigh and attempt to pick the least sharp version of the recap you’ve been brewing in your head all day.

“Garcia built a case board,” you say. “There are doodles and glitter tape and stickers. She has lists pinned to it for ‘Evidence So Far,’ ‘Potential Occupations,’ and ‘Vibes.’”

He blinks once. “…Vibes.”

“Vibes,” you confirm. “And according to our coworkers, apparently the ‘vibe’ is that you’re secretly dating a kindergarten teacher slash librarian slash cupcake baker who smells like vanilla and wears colorful cardigans and definitely doesn’t carry a gun or have years of trauma to work through in therapy.”

He pauses in the act of flipping a sandwich. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.” You pick at a chip in the countertop.

“And what did you contribute to the investigation?” he asks.

You shrug like it doesn’t matter. “That whoever you’re with would have to be smart. And able to handle the job. And not treat you like you’re made of glass. Clearly, my influence was minimal.”

The grilled cheese sizzles. The lo mein goes in the microwave. Silence fills in around it, heavy and familiar.

You eat on the couch, plate balanced on your knees, a National Geographic documentary playing low on the TV.

You make jokes at first. You tell him about Prentiss and Morgan’s intense study of his desk for “data collection” and Garcia’s email subject lines. Spencer laughs in all the right places. He looks at you more than he looks at the screen.

But by the time the plates are empty, the jokes have dried up.

You stack the dishes and take them to the sink, rinsing them off like the hot water might scald the thoughts out of your head. When you look up, he’s still on the couch, watching you with that careful focus of his.

“What?” you ask.

“You’re doing that thing,” he says.

“Please specify which thing,” you say. “I have a lot of things.”

“The thing where you brush something hurtful off like it’s funny but then go really quiet and your shoulders get all tense.” He pats the cushion next to him. “Come here.”

“I’m fine,” you say automatically.

“I never said you weren’t.” His voice stays soft, but there’s a thread of seriousness underneath it. “I said to come here.”

You sigh and drop onto the couch beside him with more force than necessary. He shifts closer, thigh warm against yours. His hand finds the back of the couch behind your shoulders, not quite touching you yet.

“So,” he says. “What’s bothering you? And don’t say ‘nothing,’ because we both know that’s not true.”

“It’s stupid,” you grumble, staring at the coffee table.

He gently lifts your chin with his finger. “Okay. Tell me anyway.”

You chew the inside of your cheek, throat tight. You’ve been replaying it all day — the board, the stick figure, the list of traits that are a complete juxtaposition to your entire personality.

“I…” You trail off and try another angle. “The team loves you. They just want you to be happy. It’s sweet, honestly. A massive overstep and an insane invasion of privacy, but still sweet. I understand their curiosity.”

“But,” he prompts gently.

You exhale, sharp. “But… they built you a perfect imaginary ideal girlfriend, and she’s nothing like me.”

He’s quiet. You push on before you can lose your nerve.

“Like, not even a little bit,” you say. “She’s soft and gentle and bakes when she’s stressed and doesn’t know what a glock looks like. She smells like vanilla.” The word tastes bitter on your tongue. “And the thing is, Morgan and Garcia and JJ and Prentiss know you. Like, really well. They’re your best friends. So if that’s the woman who pops into their heads when they think about who’d be good for you—” You break off.

When you look up, his eyes are still on you, open and steady.

“When they eventually find out it’s me,” you go on, forcing the words out, “they’re going to look at you like you’ve lost your mind. Like you traded in a cupcake for… I don’t know. A Molotov cocktail or something.”

“You don’t honestly think,” he says, “that they sat there and consciously decided, ‘Reid should be with someone who is the total opposite of Greenaway.’”

“No,” you say. “I think they didn’t think of me at all.”

The words hang there, more naked than you meant them to be.

He goes very still.

“Not that I wanted them to think of me and figure it out, but still.” You stare resolutely at the coffee table. “And, like, I get it. I’ve spent a long time cultivating a vibe that says ‘do not perceive me unless you want to get bit.’ I don’t exactly radiate ‘nurturing life partner’ energy. It would almost be funny if it didn’t feel like—” You motion helplessly at some vague point in front of you. “Like confirmation,” you say. “That I’m wrong for you. That when they do eventually find out, they’re going to wonder how badly you hit your head.”

There’s a prickling behind your eyes. You blink hard, once, twice. It doesn’t help much.

“And I hate that it’s getting to me,” you say. “I don’t care what people think. That’s, like, my whole thing. I have built an entire personality around not giving a shit. But I…” You flex your hands, fingers curling against your knees. “I care what they think of you. And of you with me. And apparently that’s enough to scramble my brain, because now I’m sitting here wishing I could be some fucking vanilla-cupcake-librarian for you because you deserve someone that sweet and soft and kind, but that’s— that’s not who I am. I don’t know how to be that girl. And I am so fucking tired of being the wrong kind of girl in every room.”

There’s a long moment where the only sound is the TV and your own breathing, too loud in your ears.

Then Spencer moves.

He reaches over, gently pries your hand away from your knee, and laces his fingers through yours. His palm is warm. His grip is firm without being possessive.

“Look at me,” he says.

You do. It feels like standing on the edge of a roof and choosing, deliberately, not to step back.

“You’re right, they do know me,” he says. “But they don’t know what it feels like to be in my apartment at three in the morning when my brain won’t shut off and you stay up with me just so I’m not alone. They don’t know what it’s like to sit in a car with you at a crime scene and have you make the darkest possible joke at exactly the right moment. They don’t know how it feels when I start spiraling and you say, very firmly, ‘Reid, eat something,’ and shove a granola bar into my hand.”

You start to object. “That happened, like, one time.”

“It was three times,” he says. His thumb strokes along the side of your hand absentmindedly.

“They’re still a bit stuck on the version of me that existed before… a lot of things. Before Tobias Hankel. Before Gideon left. Before losing people changed the way I look at everything. They still see the kid who needed to be protected from himself.”

“Sometimes you still are that kid,” you say softly.

“Sometimes,” he agrees. “But I’m also a man who knows what he wants. Who he wants.” His eyes are steady on yours. “And it’s you. It’s been you for a long time.”

Your throat tightens.

“They want me to have someone gentle,” he says. “And I get why. But gentle doesn’t necessarily have to mean cupcakes and vanilla and kindergarten.” He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’re gentle with me in all the ways that matter. You know when to challenge me and when to just… be here.”

“So you’re saying you don’t want a cupcake,” you say slowly.

“I’m saying I don’t want to be handled,” he corrects. “I don’t want to be someone’s fragile project. I don’t need to be saved from my own life by a nice woman in a cardigan.”

He leans in a little, eyes not leaving yours.

“I chose you,” he says. “Not because I’m convinced you’re secretly soft underneath it all and one day you’ll transform into their idea of what my life should look like. I chose you, completely as you are. Sharp and stubborn and infuriating and the only person who’s ever told me to shut up not because you didn’t care what I had to say, but because you wanted to kiss me so badly you couldn’t wait."

Heat flickers under your skin at that memory. Your eyes sting again. You blink hard.

“They love me,” he says with a nod. “You’re right. But they also love you. They trust you with their lives. They’ve seen you bleed for this team. Do you really think that when they find out I’m with someone who understands all of that, who gets it down to the bone, they’re going to… what? Stage an intervention? Tell me I should hold out for someone better?”

You look away, jaw tight.

“If I didn’t want you,” he says, voice even, “I wouldn’t be with you. If I thought you were wrong for me, I wouldn’t let you into this part of my life.” He squeezes your hand. It’s grounding, the pressure. “I’m not going to look at Garcia’s corkboard and suddenly decide I made a mistake. I’m in this because I want to be.”

You swallow, hard. A traitorous tear finally escapes despite your best efforts; you swipe it away with the heel of your hand before it can go rogue.

“This is so embarrassing,” you mutter. “I’m mad at a fucking bulletin board.”

He smiles, small and fond. “You’re not mad at the board.”

He shifts closer, finally letting his arm drop around your shoulders, pulling you in until you’re halfway in his lap.

“I just don’t want to be the wrong choice,” you whisper.

“You’re not,” he says. No hesitation. “You’re the right one. And if that conflicts with our friends’ wild imaginations, then that’s their problem to solve. Not ours.”

You swallow, breathing uneven. He’s so close you can count his eyelashes. You let your head tip against his shoulder as his thumb draws idle circles on the back of your hand.

“Okay,” you say eventually, almost too quiet to hear. “But if they look at me like I’m a bad idea when they eventually find out, you’re in charge of reminding them I’m not.”

“I can do that,” he promises.

You stay like that for a while — documentary murmuring in the background, the universe shrunk down to the circumference of his arm around you and the steady rise and fall of his chest. At some point, he turns his head and presses a kiss into your hair.

“You know Garcia’s going to put glittery heart stickers around my face if she ever adds me to that board,” you mumble against him.

“I know,” he says. “And I’m so keeping it if she does.”

You pinch his side. He yelps, then laughs, then presses another kiss into your hair.

Let them have their glitter for now, you think to yourself. Let them build their wrong profile. It doesn’t change the fact that you’re here, and he’s here, and you’re choosing each other.

—

Rossi’s email hits your inbox on Thursday morning, wedged between a case update and a training memo.

BAU Pasta Night at Villa Rossi: Saturday. 6pm. Mandatory attendance.

You read it twice. There’s something about dinner at Rossi’s that feels less like an invitation and more like a command.

Your phone buzzes with a text five minutes later.

Spencer: Did you see Rossi’s email?

You stare at the screen longer than you need to, then type back:

You: yep

You: guess we’re having pasta this weekend

Once Saturday night hits, Garcia is on Spencer before he can even take his coat off in Rossi’s foyer.

“REID,” she announces, planting herself in front of him with the kind of intensity she usually reserves for hacking and cross-referencing. “You came alone.”

Spencer’s mouth opens. Closes. “Hi, Garcia.”

Morgan appears behind her with a glass of wine, already grinning. “No plus-one, man? C’mon.”

Emily lifts her eyebrows in amusement. JJ’s smile is softer, more sympathetic than nosy.

You keep your face blank and slip past them toward the kitchen, waving awkwardly to Hotch as you pass by the living room, because if you have to stand there and listen to this, you will commit a felony.

Rossi intercepts you with a dish towel over his shoulder and a look that says I got you, kid.

“If you’re looking for a way to escape Penelope’s witch hunt, go ahead into the cellar downstairs and pick out another bottle of red,” he says mercifully. “Barolo or Chianti preferably, but it’s your choice."

“Yes, sir,” you say sarcastically, and take the out.

The basement is cooler, quieter. You let yourself breathe for a minute, fingers trailing over labels, pretending you’re here for the tannins.

Meanwhile, upstairs, Spencer is doing his best impression of a man who is not currently being cornered by three BAU agents and one extremely glitter-motivated tech analyst.

Garcia doesn’t even bother easing in.

“Okay,” she says, clasping her hands. “We have respected your privacy for—”

Morgan coughs. “We have attempted to respect your privacy.”

Garcia glares at him, then refocuses on Spencer. “—for a completely appropriate amount of time. But I simply cannot wait any longer. In my heart of hearts I know you’re seeing someone, and I’m DYING to know who she is.”

Spencer rubs the back of his neck. “This is, uh… really none of your business.”

Emily leans against the counter, entertained. “You’re surrounded by profilers, Reid. Being in other people’s business is kind of what we do best.”

JJ steps in a little. “Look, Spence, you don’t have to tell us anything you don’t want to,” she says, and she means it even though Garcia’s threatening her with dagger eyes. “But we’re your friends. We notice when something changes, and we just want the chance to be happy for you.”

Spencer’s ears go pink. “I—I know. It’s just— It’s private.”

Garcia’s eyes widen theatrically. “So she IS real! Private means real!”

Morgan tilts his head. “C’mon, fess up. You seeing someone, pretty boy?”

Spencer hesitates for an awkward beat, running through the options in his head. He supposes that confirming the existence of a significant other isn’t the worst idea in the world, considering they’ve already pretty much figured it out, and it’s not like he has to tell them who the “mystery girl” is. That’s a boundary line he can draw and stick to. Plus, maybe they’ll chill out on O.M.G. and leave you some room to breathe if they at least have a few nuggets of information to hold them over for a bit.

“Yes,” he admits finally. “I’m…seeing someone.”

Garcia makes a sound like she’s about to ascend. “OHHH MY GOD. I KNEW IT.”

“So,” Emily says. “How long has it been?”

Spencer exhales. “A… while. Things started slow, so it’s somewhat hard to quantify.”

As if he doesn’t know the exact amount of time down to the minute that’s passed since you first kissed him in Ohio.

Morgan’s cheeky grin softens as he claps Spencer’s shoulder. “I’m happy for you, man,” he says.

Spencer nods and looks down, like he doesn’t know what to do with that. JJ’s expression brightens in a way that’s genuinely excited for him.

“Well,” Garcia says, leaning in like she’s about to jump into full-on detective mode. “Tell us about her! I want to know everything.”

Spencer’s eyes flick up. “I—”

“Not actually everything. We’re not asking for her social security number,” JJ clarifies. “Not even her name. Just…are you happy? Is it going well?”

Spencer nods, the corner of his mouth tipping up despite himself. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “It’s…good. Really, really good.”

Garcia’s voice turns unexpectedly soft. “Is she good to you?”

Spencer doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

Emily taps her fingernail against the counter. “What sorts of things do you two do? Do you go out? Stay in?”

“Both,” Spencer says. “We do, uh, normal things.”

Garcia squints. “Define ‘normal,’ because your normal includes reading hundred-year-old Russian novels for fun.”

He gives a small, helpless shrug. “We… we go on walks. Run errands. Go out to eat. There’s this little Italian restaurant in Georgetown she really likes. But… we also stay in a lot. We cook together sometimes. Talk. Read. Watch movies.”

“What kind of movies?” JJ probes.

Spencer thinks of you engrossed by a classic horror film or picking apart some terrible romcom with surgical cruelty, pointing out every dumb decision while somehow still being fully invested. He does not say that out loud.

“Uh, anything, really,” he says instead. “She made me watch Pulp Fiction recently, and I showed her a documentary about black holes last weekend. She… likes indulging my interests.”

Emily’s eyes flicker with satisfaction at that. JJ files it away. Garcia is practically vibrating.

Morgan jumps in next. “So, you planning on bringing her to one of these things eventually?”

Spencer’s throat bobs. “…Eventually.”

“In the meantime, I need more. What does she like?” Garcia presses. “What’s her favorite—food, music, whatever. Give us something, Reid! One harmless little detail.”

Spencer’s brain scrambles for something that feels safe. Something that won’t point to you. Something small.

“She… she has a bit of a sweet tooth,” he admits. “Brownies, cake, cookies… you know. But she hates warm fruit. Something to do with the texture. We went to a diner once where the waitress gave us free slices of pie, and she picked out all the fruit and just ate the crust and ice cream.”

Emily laughs. “That’s unhinged.”

Garcia clutches her heart. “Oh, a woman with a quirk! I just know I'm going to adore her already.”

Spencer’s eyes flick toward the cellar door for the briefest of seconds — instinctively, as if his gaze is trained on you like a magnet — before looking back at his nosy friends with his signature awkward, tight-lipped smile.

“Yeah,” he says. “I have a feeling you will.”

—

When you come back upstairs with a bottle of Barolo, the evening has already moved into that easy, warm groove: plates clinking, voices overlapping, Rossi refilling wine glasses.

You laugh at something JJ says. You argue with Emily about her taste in horror movies. Spencer watches you like he’s trying to memorize your face. As if he hasn’t already committed every inch of it to memory.

By the time the pasta plates are cleared and Rossi heads into the kitchen to grab dessert, you’ve almost forgotten about O.M.G. entirely. The team has, mercifully, taken it easier on Spencer after the conversation you missed while seeking refuge in the wine cellar.

Whatever he said to shut them up, it must’ve worked, you think to yourself.

Rossi returns to the dining room and sets a slice of apple pie in front of you. “Made from scratch,” he boasts.

You eye it. The apples are glossy and soft. Wrong texture. Wrong temperature. But the crust looks deliciously sugary and flaky and you’re not about to insult Rossi in his own home mansion, so you manage a polite “Thank you” and pick up your fork.

Across the table, Spencer freezes.

Not a subtle freeze — no. It’s a full, wide-eyed, deer-in-headlights freeze.

He clears his throat too loud. Knocks his fork against his plate. His foot finds your ankle under the table with a series of frantic little nudges.

You glance up, confused, eyes clearly asking what the heck is your problem.

He’s staring at your plate like it’s an unpinned grenade.

His mouth opens. Closes. He tries again, smaller, more desperate: “Uh—”

What? you mouth, eyebrows raised.

His eyes flick back and forth — pie, you, pie, you — like he’s trying to telepathically beam a message directly into your skull. But there is, unfortunately, no universal signal for if you eat your pie like a feral raccoon our coworkers are 100% going to figure out our secret so please just be normal this one time, so you just stare at him blankly.

Weirdo.

You gently kick his foot away — more confused than annoyed — and turn back to your plate.

And then you do what you always do.

You begin to push the warm apples to one side of the dish with the edge of your fork, methodically separating fruit from crust like you’re field-stripping a firearm.

Spencer’s face goes beet red in anxious anticipation, but the room doesn’t go silent all at once.

It’s staggered. Like a line of well-spaced dominos, toppling one after another in perfect succession.

Garcia notices first. Her whole face lights up, brows practically shooting up to her hairline. A strangled noise catches in her throat, and her hand clamps over her mouth like she’s trying to keep herself from screaming.

JJ freezes mid-bite, fork suspended, eyes wide and snapping to Spencer.

Morgan’s grin falters into disbelief. “No way,” he says, like he’s arguing with reality.

Emily’s jaw goes slack. “Oh,” she breathes. Then her eyes sharpen, bright with dawning glee. “Ohhh.”

You look up at the sudden weirdness and find four faces locked on your plate like you’ve just confessed to arson.

“What,” you ask carefully, “is happening. Why are you all staring at my pie.”

Morgan points his fork at your dish and turns to Spencer. “Reid,” he says, voice pitched with amusement, “didn’t you literally just tell us your girl does that? That she won’t eat warm fruit?”

Spencer shuts his eyes for a second — brief, pained — like he’s watching himself die in third person. When he opens them, he looks straight at you.

Pure apology. Pure guilt.

He winces. “I… I didn’t know there was going to be pie.”

Something in you goes cold and then hot at the exact same moment you catch up to what’s going on.

For half a second, your brain offers you the classic Greenaway solution: vanish. Run and never look back. You can practically feel the panic trying to crawl up your throat, because this is what you were dreading — the second everyone knows, they get to have opinions. They get to look at you and Spencer like a math problem and decide you don’t add up.

Except… they’re not at all looking at you like you’re wrong for him.

You scan the room. Garcia’s smiling so big it looks painful. JJ’s gaze is warm, not sharp. Emily looks like she just won a bet she never told anyone she made. And Morgan is staring like he can’t believe you got one over on him, but there’s no anger in it — just that big-brother okay, show me you’re serious energy. The only person in the room who looks horrified is Spencer, who’s clearly just trying to cope with the fact he accidentally revealed your relationship in maybe the stupidest way possible.

You take a breath, feel your pulse in your throat, and then — because you’re not going to let all of your control over this situation be ripped out of your hands — you say:

“Congrats everyone, you cracked the code. Yes. Reid and I are together.”

Garcia explodes.

“MYSTERY GIRL IS YOU,” she shrieks, half out of her chair. “It’s been you this ENTIRE time. Oh my GOD. I made a board! I made assumptions! I said cupcakes and cardigans when in reality, Mystery Girl was right in front of me in boots and a leather jacket and—”

“Garcia,” Hotch warns.

JJ’s earnest expression is the first thing that cuts through the chaos. “This makes so much sense,” she says.

“Yeah,” Emily agrees. “The second you say it out loud, it’s like— of course. How did we miss that?”

Morgan sits back, still staring between you and Spencer like he’s recalibrating. Then he lets out a laugh — half disbelief, half delight. “Man,” he chuckles, shaking his head, “I thought you were cuddled up with a librarian or something. Meanwhile you’re out here dating the most terrifying Greenaway sister,” he says, then winks at you like he’s trying to make sure you know he means it as a compliment.

You lift your chin. “Say that again and I’ll throw this pie at you.”

Morgan grins, hands up. “See? Exactly what I mean.”

Rossi sips his wine with a chuckle. “About time you bozos figured it out.”

Garcia whirls on him. “You KNEW?!”

Rossi’s mouth quirks. “What can I say, I’m good at my job.”

Hotch sets his fork down with the resigned patience of a man who has filled out a lot of paperwork on this exact subject already. “I’ve also been aware for some time,” he says evenly.

Garcia makes a noise that sounds like she’s dying. “BOTH of you knew?!”

Spencer clears his throat, still pink, still looking like he wants to apologize to you in six different languages. His eyes don’t leave your face.

Garcia’s hands clap together like she’s calling court to order. “O.M.G. never stood for Operation Mystery Girl,” she announces, breathless with triumph. “It stood for OH MY GREENAWAY all along.”

JJ’s gaze meets yours. “For what it’s worth,” she says, "I'm really happy that Mystery Girl is you.”

Emily lifts her glass in a small toast. “Me as well,” she adds. “This is good. This is really, really good.”

Morgan’s grin softens into something fond and protective. “As long as you’re both happy and nobody’s getting hurt,” he says, “I’m happy for you. Both of you.”

Garcia’s voice goes thick, emotional, and she tries to bulldoze right through it with dramatics. “I’m so happy,” she declares. “I’m also a bit devastated I wasn’t included in the secret circle of knowing earlier, but mostly I’m happy because you two are…” She gestures wildly. “You’re you. And it’s perfect.”

Something in your chest steadies instead of cracks.

“Okay,” you say, exhaling. “Cool. Great. Everybody get it out of their system?”

Garcia points at your pie plate, still half-disassembled. “Not even close. I’m sorry,” she gasps, “but I can’t get over that THIS is what did it.”

You deadpan. “My beef with pie is never-ending.”

Rossi claps once, satisfied. “Alright. Now that the children have finished screaming, eat your dang dessert.”

Laughter rolls around the room again, warmer now, less sharp.

Under the table, Spencer’s shoe nudges yours.

You nudge back.

And when you finally escape an hour later, the night air is cold and quiet, and Spencer grips the steering wheel like he’s trying to drive his guilt into the pavement.

You watch him from the passenger seat, heart weirdly calm.

He doesn’t say much on the drive. Neither do you. The secret is out, the world didn’t end, and for now, that’s enough.

—

Back at Spencer’s apartment, the quiet hits you like a soft wall.

No Garcia shrieking. No Morgan cackling. Just the click of the lock, the hush of the hallway outside, and Spencer standing there with his keys still in his hand.

“You okay?” you ask, toeing your shoes off.

Spencer exhales — sharp, like he’s been holding it since the pie incident — and sets his keys down with exaggerated care. Then he turns to you, eyes wide in that way they get when he’s trying not to catastrophize and failing.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

You blink. “You don’t need to be.”

He shakes his head. “But I am. I’m so sorry. For all of it. For telling them the fruit thing. I didn’t realize I was outing us. I—I didn’t know there was going to be pie.”

“I gathered that,” you say.

He steps closer, hands hovering at his sides like he wants to touch you but doesn’t want to assume it’d be welcome.

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” he continues, words tumbling now that the gate’s open. “It was stupid. I thought giving them a hyper-specific detail would give them something to fixate on and shut them up, and that one seemed harmless enough, but then I saw the pie and I—” He swallows. “I really did try to warn you.”

“You did,” you say, leaning back against the wall. “You were practically doing Morse code against my ankle.”

“I panicked,” he admits, cheeks flushing. “And then it all happened so fast and you looked—” He stops, eyes flicking over your face like he’s searching for hurt. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. I know you hate being… perceived.”

He takes one more step. You can feel his warmth now, close enough that it seeps into you.

“I keep thinking about the other day,” he says quietly. “How scared you were for them to find out.” His throat bobs. “And then I was the one who—who basically handed them our secret on a silver platter.”

You tilt your head. “On a pie platter, actually.”

He looks pained. “Please don’t make jokes right now.”

“Spencer,” you say seriously. “I’m not mad at you.”

He lets out a breath, but it’s not quite relief yet. He’s still braced for impact.

“And I’m not mad that they know,” you add, watching him closely. “I mean, I’m a little embarrassed that my downfall was pie of all things, but—”

His mouth finally lifts, small and uncertain.

“But,” you repeat, “it’s okay. I’m fine, really.”

You push off the wall and close the space remaining between you, because you’re tired of him hovering at the edge of you and want him to feel how not-mad you are.

His hands find your waist the second you’re close enough, careful at first, then firmer when you lean in like you belong there.

“Are you sure?” he whispers.

You nod. “I’m sure.”

“Because you could—” He swallows. “You could decide this is too much. Too exposed. And I wouldn’t blame you, but I’d…” His voice cracks just slightly. “I’d miss you.”

Something in your chest goes tight and hot.

You slide your hands up his arms, feel the muscle under his sleeves, the faint tremor he’s trying his best to hide. You clasp your fingers behind his neck and pull him down until his forehead nearly brushes yours.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you murmur.

His eyes flutter shut for half a second, like the words physically steady him.

“You’re not?”

“No,” you say, and you let yourself mean it. “I told you, I’m not mad. I’m not running. The worst thing that happened tonight is that our coworkers found out I have psychopathic dessert habits.”

He huffs a laugh.

“Besides,” you add, because you can’t help it, “you looked kinda hot when you were trying to telepathically get me to eat my pie like a normal person.”

His eyes open, startled. “I— what?”

“You did,” you insist, deadly serious. “Somehow, panic is a good look on you. Big fan.”

His cheeks go pink, but now it’s in a good way.

“You’re unbelievable,” he murmurs, shaking his head like he’s trying to hide the smile.

“And you,” you say, sliding your thumbs along his jaw, “are catastrophizing.”

“I know,” he admits. “I just… I care about you.”

The words hang there, heavy and honest and dangerously close to a bigger truth, but you don’t let it scare you. Not tonight.

You kiss him instead.

It’s slow at first — soft, testing — like you’re proving something to him with your mouth: I’m here. I’m fine. Then it deepens, because Spencer never stays soft for long once you give him permission. His hands tighten at your waist, pulling you in until there’s no space left to misunderstand.

His mouth is warm, familiar, and still somehow new every time. You feel him exhale against you, a quiet sound that sinks into your skin.

When you pull back, he looks at you again and cups your cheek like you’re something precious.

“I’m glad you’re okay with this,” he says.

“I’m okay,” you say, and kiss the corner of his mouth. “I’m… actually kind of relieved.”

His brow furrows. “Relieved?”

You roll your eyes, because you refuse to be poetic about it. “Yeah. It’s out, and they didn’t—” You falter, just a flicker. “They didn’t look at you like you were making a mistake.”

His expression softens.

“No,” he agrees. “They didn’t. I told you they wouldn’t.”

You nod once. “And you were right. So, I’m good.”

“Good,” he echoes, but his thumb keeps stroking your cheek like he doesn’t want to let the moment go.

Your gaze drops to his mouth again. His eyes follow it, and his breathing changes — subtle, but you know him by heart now.

You smirk and lean in closer until your lips are brushing with every breath. “And hey, now that the team knows, we don’t have to pretend we’re not together every second of the day anymore,” you tease.

His voice goes a little rough. “We still shouldn’t, uh, do anything at work, you know.”

“Obviously,” you say, like you’re offended he even suggested it. “But we’re not at work right now, are we?”

He shudders softly as his hands slide from your waist to your lower back, drawing you closer like he’s been waiting all night to do this without consequence.

“No,” he murmurs. “We’re not.”

You kiss him again, deeper this time. He gives in completely, following your lead with that sweet, earnest hunger that always makes you feel a little wicked and a little adored at the same time.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing differently. He rests his forehead against yours, eyes half-lidded.

“I’m still sorry,” he whispers.

“Don’t be,” you say. “It’ll make a good story someday.”

His throat works. His hands tighten on you like he needs the confirmation in his bones.

You press your mouth to his once more, slow and sure, just to make the point stick.

“Case closed,” you murmur against his lips.

Spencer’s smile turns soft and helpless. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Mystery solved.”

ᝰ.ᐟ

this fic is part of the greenaway!reader universe/series! you can read more about this pairing here ♥️

PSA: likes do very little for promoting posts on tumblr! if you'd like to support a fic, please reblog!

[lenatpn]

cat’s out of the bag FINALLY 🤧 this was really adorable, i always love the ‘the team finds out’-trope and you nailed it. 11/10 fr.

also, please refer to it as ‘the pie incident’ forever. that cracked me up LMAO

[sitcom-thoughts]

“Spencer’s best era is post-prison” “early seasons Reid is slept on!” “No one talks about Jesus hair Reid” “glasses Spencer is the peak” WRONG!!! HE’S BEEN HOT THE WHOLE TIME!!!!

[spencilweidblog]

these two pics side by side are ab to make me cry?? still the same but only entirely different

[lenatpn]

no you don’t understand, i’m actually sobbing?? omg

[reidslovegia]

A Reid Christmas Morning

Pairing: dad! spencer x mom! reader

Summary: You wake on Christmas morning to the best gifts you could ever have. Your sweet husband and two little children.

w/c: 1.1k words!

Content Warnings: spencer and reader are parents, they have a little girl and a little boy, some kissing, use of angel as a pet name, a suggestive comment, but overall super cute!

a/n: this is so late but i've been struck by some horrible illness which i think might be the flu so i haven't been able to move, and this is shorter than i originally planned. HOWEVER it is still super cute! hope you all enjoy!

Ficmas 2025 Masterlist

The first thing you feel when you blink open your eyes, is your husband's arms encircling you tight, and his soft breath against the back of your neck. His large hand rests against your stomach, and twitches slightly as he himself drifts into consciousness. He lets out a sleepy hum and kisses the back of your neck. The moment froze and everything was still so peaceful as you felt him murmur against the back of your neck.

“Merry Christmas angel,”. His lips brush the back of your neck again, and he squeezes you against his chest. “Looks like I was right when I said it would snow last night. There was a high probability, and the storm was predicted to be heavy lake effect snow.”

  Through the curtain, you could see the soft sheen of white covering everything, from the bare tree branches to the grass- and that's when you hear it. The soft giggles, and little pitter patter of tiny feet across hardwood floors. The giggles come closer and closer until your bedroom door is thrown open and two little pajama-covered bundles flung themselves on your and Spencer's bed.

“Daddy, Daddy,” Charlotte, your four year old giggles as she climbs all over Spencer, followed by Oliver, your two year old. “It’s Cwismas morning!

You smile at her little lisp and reach out to stroke her little cheek. 

“There’s my girl, and there’s my boy,” Spencer says happily as he plants kisses on their cheeks.

As your husband sits up and scoops up both Charlotte and Oliver in his lap, as he shoots you a sweet smile over their heads, and your heart stops. It’s funny how just a smile from him still made your stomach fill with butterflies.

“It is Christmas morning,” Spencer smiles as he strokes Charlotte's cheek, and reaches out to squeeze your hand. “And you and Oliver were very good this year… so I think there may be some presents under the tree.”

“Pwesents daddy?” Oliver blinks up and touches Spencer's cheek. “Santa?”

Charlotte giggles, and taps Oliver.

“Daddy always tells the story of St. Nicholas after presents, right mommy?” she says as she smiles at you.

You smile and reach over as Spencer continues stroking her hair.

“That’s right Charlotte,” you say gently as you press a kiss to her head. “Daddy always tells us the story. And he is such an awesome storyteller, huh?”

Your eyes meet Spencers and you swear even after all this time his cheeks still pinken at even the slightest compliment. 

“That’s right!” Charlotte squeals. “Daddy always does all the voices!”

Spencer smiles sheepishly as he places a kiss on Charlotte's forehead, then Olivers, and then of course, your own.

“Well… I have to do all the voices,” he says gently as he pulls you in closer to him, and your little ones. “It’s more historically accurate that way.”

Your lips turn upwards as your eyes meet his-soft and waiting. You're about to steal a quick peck before both Charlotte and Oliver begin chanting and giggling about presents.

“Alright, alright…to the living room, Reid clan,” you giggle as you swing your red flannel pajama clad legs over the side of the bed. “It’s gift opening time! And don’t forget, I need a family picture of us in our matching pajamas.”

You loved this little tradition you had started before the kids were even born. You’d buy matching Christmas pajamas for you and Spencer, and then continued the tradition when both of your babies were born. This year it was all red flannel. You smile as you look over at your two little ones clad in the flannel, Charlotte's messy bedhead hair all over, and Oliver's small little smile as he plays with the sleeve. Then you look at Spencer, and melt even more because there was nothing sweeter than seeing your husband with his messy curls, matching with his babies, and of course you.

“Yes! C'mon Oliver, let’s go!” Charlotte shrieks as she practically yanks Oliver off the bed, to scamper after her as she races downstairs to the living room.

“Be careful!” Spencer calls out, as he stretches and stands up. “No running on the stairs please!”

You laugh slightly, shaking your head, as you stand and make your way over to your husband. Spencer immediately softens and reaches out his arms as you melt against him. He rests his chin on the top of your head and lets out a soft hum. You can feel his heart beating against your head as you lay it on his chest. For a moment, everything was still and you could enjoy the peace of your husband's arms, and his heartbeat, before the hectic day ahead.

“Mmm…” he murmurs against your temple as he places a gentle kiss there. “One more second before we’re subjected to wrapping paper being thrown around at us.”

You giggle and you squeeze him tighter- and then the moment was broken by two little voices in a chorus from downstairs yelling, “Mommy, Daddy!”

Spencer presses one last lingering kiss to your temple and then grabs your hand to lead you down the stairs.

“It’s present time,” he says softly. “And maybe there’ll be something for you too…later,” he murmurs as he shoots you a sly grin. “Because someone has been very, very good this year, like always.”

You giggle, and lean up to press one last kiss to his lips. His hands immediately move to cup your cheek, one thumb sweeping back and forth in a way that makes your toes curl. His hand was so gentle as his other hand slipped down to find purchase on your hip, his other thumb drawing circles into the skin there.

When you two finally break apart, breath lingering in the space between your mouths, Spencer steals one last sweet peck.

“Before we open the gifts..” he murmurs against your lips, “...I just want you to know, you gave me the best gift I could ever have. You gave me a home. You gave me love. You gave me a family. Our two beautiful children. I…I never will need anything else.”

“Spencer,” you breathe out shakily as your eyes turn glassy. “You always say stuff like this. And then the kids wonder why I look like I’m crying.”

“I say it because I mean it,” he whispers, thumb still sweeping against your cheek. “I mean it with everything I am.”

His lips find yours once more, as soft giggles drift up the stairs from the living room. This moment- with your husbands lips on yours, and your children awaiting- this was all you needed for Christmas. For always.

****

a/n: thank you thank you thank you for reading!!! week three of ficmas is now completed, flu and all! if you enjoyed, pls pls pls reblog and like!

love love love

-gia

[whoswitchybabyanyway]

sacrifice

the donor dilemma | main masterlist

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader

word count: ~2k

summary: locked in a dark garage with a gun, a predator, and entirely too much emotional leverage, you and spencer weaponize proximity, devotion, and acting skills to stay alive

includes: part 10, gun violence and hostage scenario, kidnapping and forced compliance, “relationship testing,” pregnancy-adjacent peril, knees on concrete (rude), personal space violations (extremely rude), fake romance becoming uncomfortably convincing, Spencer Reid offering himself as tribute, prolonged tension, and a sort of cliffhanger again (sorry, not sorry)

The garage settles around you in a thick, humming quiet. The Volvo ticks softly as the engine cools—little metal heartbeats in the dark.

Then the click of a door breaks the stillness.

The unsub slips out of the backseat. The interior light flares for a single bright second, catching the hard line of his jaw, the sweat shiny at his hairline. He keeps the gun angled at you the whole time—clean line of sight, practiced grip. Not a panicked amateur. Someone who’s thought this through.

He shuts the door. The light dies. The garage swallows you again.

Your pulse thunders once—deep, steadying—before you clamp down on the adrenaline.

Training slides into place like a second skin.

Stay aware.

Stay breathing.

Stay alive.

Your door yanks open.

Cold air rushes in—tainted with motor oil and concrete dust.

He doesn’t touch you. Just lifts the barrel and tilts his chin.

A command carved from silence.

“Out.”

You don’t move right away.

Not fear—calculation.

You sweep the garage with one quick pass:

—distance to the interior door (too far),

—line of sight to Spencer (clear),

—angles for cover (none),

—escalation risk (sky high).

One steady inhale.

His voice snaps again. “Out.”

More forceful. Testing your boundaries.

Before you move, Spencer shifts in the driver’s seat—hands lifting instinctively, like he wants to follow.

It’s barely an inch of motion, but the unsub sees it.

The gun lifts. Presses. A warning made of steel.

“Hands on the wheel,” he orders.

Spencer stops instantly. For a heartbeat, you watch him swallow everything—fear, instinct, rage—like stuffing lightning into a jar. His eyes flick to you, sharp and worried but steady.

You give him the smallest nod.

I’m okay. I’m thinking. Stay with me.

Then you step out.

A slow, deliberate exit—controlled, careful, each motion lifted from training manuals and muscle memory.

Your shoes hit concrete.

You straighten with your hands visible, spine steady, gaze locked on his. Not submissive—just survivable.

He steps closer, close enough you can smell him—sweat, copper, and something chemical beneath it. Bleach clings to his clothes. Someone who scrubs things. Someone who prepares for aftermaths.

His stance is textbook. Grip perfect. Elbows tucked.

You catalogue him in pieces:

—early 30s, maybe,

—build average but balanced,

—eyes alert, not frantic,

—pulse steady in his throat,

—anger low, simmering, not explosive.

A thinking predator.

Not an impulsive one.

That’s worse.

He jerks the gun left, herding you toward the center of the garage. You go, slow and predictable.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Keep it easy.”

His voice is smooth in that marble way—polished, cold, nothing underneath.

Your mind clicks through possible profiles faster than your heartbeat.

–Methodical

–Comfortable with threat

–Calculating

–Prepped

Not sloppy enough to underestimate.

“On your knees.”

You sink to your knees exactly where he tells you. The concrete bites through your skin. You let it. Pain keeps you present. Fear keeps you alive.

The barrel presses to your skull now, a constant, unyielding reminder of the rules in play. Every muscle in your body tenses, coiled and ready, yet forced to stay still.

The unsub steps back slightly, giving you a long, appraising look. His eyes linger on the way you swallow, on the subtle tremor in your hands. He smiles—small, tight, satisfied.

“Good,” he murmurs, voice smooth and clinical, like he’s reading from a script written just for this. “Now… he comes.”

You glance over to Spencer—he’s frozen in the driver’s seat, eyes wide and mind racing. The unsub tilts the gun.

“Walk. Slowly,” he commands. “Kneel in front of her.”

Spencer exhales shakily, body stiff as he exits the car. Every step he takes toward you is deliberate, measured, echoing faintly on the concrete.

“Spencer…” you whisper in the tiniest fraction of sound, not even sure he hears you. He glances down, catches your gaze for a heartbeat, and nods.

Hotch’s voice crackles suddenly in your earpiece, low and steady, tethering you to the plan. “Team is three minutes out. Keep him talking. Stall.”

Spencer kneels exactly where the unsub instructs, eyes locked on yours, fingers trembling slightly at his sides. Your hands tighten in your lap, the closest thing you have to a lifeline.

The unsub circles you both like a predator inspecting prey. His footsteps drag a little. Not uncertainty—ritual. He’s done this before, pacing the same invisible orbit around other terrified bodies. “Perfect,” he murmurs. “See how they trust each other? How they believe in… that bond?”

His lips curl slightly. “It’s beautiful… until it’s broken.”

A shiver crawls down your spine. He’s not just toying with you. He’s studying the fear, the connection.

He stops circling.

Just stands there behind you both, close enough that you feel the faint rise and fall of his breath—a cold shadow stitched to your spine. The muzzle drifts—your head, Spencer’s chest, back again. A pendulum choosing its sacrifice.

“Tell me,” he says softly. “Which one of you should die?”

Spencer’s breath hitches, barely audible. You know that sound. The one he makes right before he leaps without looking.

“Me.”

The word is immediate. Sharp. Automatic. There is no hesitation, not even a flicker. It rips out of him like instinct, like reflex, like something wired into the architecture of his bones.

“Spencer–”

But he shakes his head once, firm, eyes never leaving the unsub.

“If someone dies,” he says quietly, voice steady despite the tremor threading through it, “it’s me.”

There’s something devastating in the way he says it—not heroic, not grand. Just truth. Simple and clear as breath.

The unsub exhales a delighted little sound. “Ah. There it is.” He steps closer, gun glinting faintly in the dark. “That moment right there—that’s what I look for. The breaking point. The revelation. When love stops being soft.”

His eyes glitter in the low light. “And becomes sacrifice.”

Spencer’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t look away from the barrel pointed at you.

You feel heat crawl through your chest—fury, terror, something primal and protective. It almost makes you nauseous. Your hand drifts over your stomach before you can stop yourself. 

Hotch whispers through the line: “Two minutes. Perfect work. Stall.”

“You don’t need her,” Spencer says, voice steady. “If you’re trying to prove something, hurt me. I’m the one who—”

The unsub laughs—sharp, cutting, amused.

“You misunderstand.” He taps the side of your head with the muzzle—light, taunting, like knocking on a door. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

He steps around, crouching so he’s eye-level with both of you. Close enough that you can taste the chemical sting of bleach on his breath.

“I want to watch what you two do to each other.”

Cold ripples through you.

Spencer’s breath stutters—barely—but you feel it more than hear it.

The unsub’s smile widens, thin and satisfied.

“So let’s try that again,” he murmurs. “This time… you both answer.”

The gun settles between you like a conductor’s baton waiting to cue the next movement.

“Which one dies?”

Your heart lurches. Not because of the question—but because Spencer’s hand, trembling and disobedient, shifts just barely toward you on the concrete, like he’s trying to reach you even now.

Hotch comes through again—static laced with tension. “Sixty seconds. Do not let him escalate. Keep control of the conversation. Stall.”

Your pulse kicks. Your training screams. The unsub leans in closer, eyes hungry for the crack, the crumble, the unraveling.

You lift your chin.

And you stall.

“Why us?” you ask, voice low, steady enough to sound like surrender… or curiosity. “What makes us the ones you pick?”

The unsub stills. His eyes sharpen. Interest hooks him by the throat.

Then—slowly, deliberately—he turns back toward you.

You just bought more time. 

A smile blooms across his face, sharp and shiny as broken glass.

“Oh,” he breathes, delighted. “Finally. Curiosity.”

He steps closer, boots echoing in the cavernous dark. Your dress whispers as you shift back on your heels. Spencer subtly angles himself a fraction forward, like his body wants to put itself between you and the threat whether it’s smart or not.

“You want to know why I picked you?” the unsub murmurs.

He crouches, eye-level now, gun dangling at his side but never truly wandering away from center mass.

“It was easy,” he says.

“Couples like you—” his eyes flick to your ring “—you glow.”

Your pulse kicks. You can feel the ring press against your skin, cold and suddenly heavy.

“You give yourselves away,” he continues. “A look across a table. A smile you try to hide. The little tells people show right before they commit. You were practically screaming it.”

He leans in closer—so close you catch the sterile, chemical bite of bleach clinging to his breath.

“I chose you,” he whispers, “because I wanted to see how deep your devotion really went.”

His gaze drags between your faces, hungry for reaction.

“And look at you now,” he hums. “Down on your knees together. Perfectly posed. Ready to bleed for each other.”

“We're outside, getting in position,” Hotch says through your ear piece.

“Such a sweet couple,” the unsub murmurs, crouching like a preacher gone rotten. “Newly engaged. So in love. It’s almost inspiring.”

You nearly roll your eyes at him. You're not sure if it's your better judgment or the nerves that keep you from doing it.

“Show me,” he says softly. A whisper wrapped in razor wire. “Lovers don’t look like hostages.”

They do when they are hostages, you think.

The unsub’s smile flickers—then sharpens.

The muzzle rises again, cold metal kissing the side of your skull with a horrible, intimate precision. The chill sinks through skin and bone, sinking all the way into your teeth.

“Show me,” he repeats. 

The pressure increases—just a hair, just enough.

Your breath stutters.

And the tears come.

They bubble up fast, unbidden and perfect, like you reached into your chest and squeezed the moment until the fear spilled over. Hormones help; adrenaline does the rest. Your vision goes blurry around the edges as one tear slips hot down your cheek.

You let out a trembling breath—thin, broken, the kind meant to hook predators by the throat.

Spencer reacts instantly.

Not recklessly—beautifully.

He moves a fraction closer, like gravity itself has tilted toward you and he can’t help but fall. His knee scrapes forward on the concrete. His hands twitch like he wants to reach for you but knows he can’t.

And then—soft as a confession—

his forehead touches yours.

Just barely.

Warmth.

Pressure.

A fragile point of contact that feels like it shouldn’t mean anything…

but your pulse spikes anyway.

And for one dizzy second, you forget this is supposed to be an act.

The unsub inhales, delighted. “Yes. Yes. Perfect.”

Spencer opens his eyes—so close you can see the flecks of gold in them, the way they shake on the edges. He looks wrecked. Terrified. Like the idea of losing you is physically ripping him apart.

He whispers, “I’m right here.”

It sounds too real.

Too soft.

Too much.

But you know the truth. And all you can hope is that the unsub doesn’t.

“Look at me,” Spencer murmurs. “Not him.”

So you do.

You let your shoulders ease, let your breath tremble in a way that looks lovesick. You angle your body toward him like he’s an anchor in the storm rather than a man who keeps sticking himself between your chest and a gun.

“Spencer,” you whisper—soft, trembling, perfectly timed.

His eyes widen, just enough to look real.

The unsub notices.

He prowls closer, head tilting like a wolf sniffing out a fault line. He hums, delighted. “There it is. Emotion.”

His gaze slides over you both, hungry and bright. Then it stops—lands squarely on Spencer.

“Kiss her.”

@divineantiquities @psychicbouquetblaze-stuff @beeliiii @beardedhotchner @blacksnake13, @poetpiastri @pinkpantheris @cynbx @kimmis-stuff @blanchetteesqwibbles @moonz33 @janesalvaretelochanarcheron @frickin-bats @marcelaferreirapinho @blog-du-caillou @jackierose902109 @viviandarkbloom11 @person-005 @tommyriddleobsessed @jencole214 @bisexualmiserybaby @killedbythehuntress @frankiebeeslyshouse @princess-ofthe-pages @cozywithacurse @sun-fiower-seed @holholliday @dreamsarebig @pacmil @itspalaly @gruffle1 @trini-cass

[deerfawnn]

part 5: hope against hope

— ★ you get hurt on a case and it's your first time ever being injured in the field. as always, spencer is there for you. maybe in ways that feel like more than just a friend.

pairing: spencer reid x sweetheart!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: blood, stitches + iv's and needles in general, also, lots of mentions of luis ( though his name isn't mentioned, just what happened to him ), a/n: last time i'm including a case in this series, because i suck at them. the summary is sooo vague. i'm sorry :( but point is reader gets stabbed - spencer takes care of her yayyyy !!! hope you enjoy this <33 gif credits to @reidgif <33

masterlist

The moment Spencer was summoned to the briefing room, he had a bad feeling about the case. The murders were aggressive and random, and his mind was already profiling a man full of rage with nowhere to release it.

With that in mind, Spencer walked through the dark warehouse. It had only been five minutes since the unsub had vanished into this labyrinth of crates and shipping containers.

This was your first major field pursuit of an unsub, which is why Spencer was intently listening to his ear piece where you communicated with Luke. It was a good pairing. Luke guided you through the physical aspects of the job, the parts that didn't come as naturally to you as the profiling did. Spencer understood that and he appreciated Luke for it, even though a small part of him wished he was the one at your side.

Spencer moved silently, slipping behind a large storage box as the scuff of a boot echoed nearby. Then, Emily called the unsub’s name, demanding his surrender. He followed the sound, his own weapon held ready as he hurried around a corner. The unsub was cornered against a fence. Emily had him in her sights. As Spencer began to speak, attempting to calm the unsub down, his eyes betrayed him. They darted past the trembling figure, past Emily, searching the dark behind her.

Where were you? Your comms had gone silent.

The unsub, sobbing, let his knife clatter to the floor. But Spencer’s heart was still hammering against his ribs.

Meanwhile, thirty yards away, you were leaning heavily against a stack of wooden pallets, your breath coming in shallow gasps. The initial shock had been a cold numbness, but it was receding, replaced by a fire that radiated from your thigh. You stared, almost disbelieving, at the dark stain blooming through your trousers.

“Hey, look at me. Look at me,” Luke was saying, his voice was filled with concern he tried to mask. He was already ripping a strip of fabric from the hem of his own shirt. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

His words were drowned out by the roaring rush of your own blood in your ears. You could feel the warmth of it soaking the fabric of your pants.

“Wheres Spencer?” you managed to whisper. It was the only thing your mind could latch onto.

Luke didn’t look up from his task, his hands firm as he wrapped the makeshift bandage around your leg. “He’s okay. He’s fine, I promise.”

He pulled the fabric tight to stop the bleeding and a gasp was ripped from your lips. The pain was blinding and for a second the warehouse swam before your eyes.

“Where’s Spencer?” you asked again, the words tighter this time, as you bit down hard on your lower lip. A fresh wave of fire shot up your leg and you couldn't suppress the sharp jerk of your body, your head thumping back against the wood behind you. You squeezed your eyes shut, swallowing back a scream. You didn't want to seem like a baby in front of the team, but this was your first injury on the job, your first physical interaction with the violence you so often studied from a distance. The sight of your own blood was making the world tilt.

Luke, his hands still applying pressure, looked up at your pleading tone. He understood in an instant. Without a second thought, he turned his head and yelled into the empty space of the warehouse. "Reid!"

On the other side of the warehouse, Spencer had just finished helping Emily secure the unsub’s cuffs. The man was sobbing, but Spencer was still distracted and his head whipped around at the sound of his name. Emily followed his gaze and she gave him a nod. "Go. I've got it."

He didn't need to be told twice.

Spencer rushed towards the sound of his name, his long legs eating up the distance. The moment he turned the corner, his heart plummeted. There you were, slumped against the crate, paler than he'd ever seen you. Luke was kneeling, tightening a makeshift bandage around your thigh. But it was your face broke his heart. Your eyes were screwed shut, your brow furrowed in an attempt to suppress your tears and appear strong.

He hurried over, his voice breathless with fear. "What happened?"

The moment he spoke, your eyes fluttered open and a relieved expression formed on your face. "Spencer."

Spencer met your eyes immediately.

"Hi," you whispered, your voice shaky.

"Hey, honey," he spoke softly, the endearment falling from his lips as naturally as breathing. It was the one his mother had always used, whenever he scraped his knees in school or missed his father. He dropped to his knees beside Luke, his fingers moving to help apply pressure. As he tightened the fabric, his touch was as gentle as he could make it, but the movement still jostled the wound.

You let out a sound of pain. A sound that stopped Spencer's heart dead in his chest. He could see how deep the cut was, the blood was soaking through the cloth almost as fast as they could press.

Spencer’s eyes met Luke's over your head. "I barely noticed," Luke mumbled. "He must have done it in passing, just reaching for whoever was closest."

Your head lolled back against the wood again, your eyes closing as a wave of dizziness took hold.

Spencer nodded at Luke. "We need to get her to the hospital."

He could see the terror etched into every line of your body. Your knuckles were white where you gripped the rough wood of the crate and your breath hitched in tiny gasps.

His voice was soft trying to calm you. "We're going to get you help, okay?"

Your eyes snapped open, wide with dread. "Don't leave me."

"I'm not going to leave you," Spencer reassured you immediately. "I'm right here. But I'm going to have to pick you up, and it's going to hurt. I'm sorry."

His heart fractured a little more as a single tear escaped, tracing a clean path through the blood on your cheek. He reached out, his thumb brushing it away.

"Okay," you whispered, placing your trust in him completely.

Luke gave the bandage one final tug before standing back, clearing the path.

Spencer slowly slid one arm beneath your knees. "I need you to keep your eyes open for me," he instructed softly, using his other hand to gently push the hair back from your forehead. He waited until your tired eyes found his. He offered you a reassuring smile, and though it was a struggle, you managed a weak one in return.

"You're okay," he whispered, a mantra for both of you, as his other arm slid under your back.

Then he lifted you.

A sound of genuine pain left your mouth. "I know, I know. I'm so sorry," he whispered. For a horrifying split second, the warm feel of your blood against his hands catapulted him back to a prison cell. Back to his friend bleeding out in his hands. His breath hitched.

This is different, he told himself. It's just a thigh injury. She is going to be fine. He repeated it like a prayer as your head lolled weakly against his shoulder, your eyelids fluttering shut.

"Hey. Hey!" he said, his voice louder, filled with a fear he couldn't completely hide. "Eyes open. Look at me."

"Sorry," you breathed, forcing them open again. Your hand came up, fisting tightly in his vest, as you tried to keep yourself awake.

Spencer tightened his hold, cradling you and carried you out of the gloomy warehouse. Emily had the SUV right at the entrance, the engine running. She had already transferred the unsub to Tara and Rossi, her entire focus now on her injured agent.

"Reid, with me. Luke, follow us," she ordered, her gaze sweeping over you with a concerned look before she yanked the car door open for him. Emily held it wide as Spencer carefully maneuvered you inside. The movement jostled your leg and a sharp hiss of pain escaped your lips. As he tried to settle you, your hand weakly fisted in his shirt.

"Can you come with, please?" you whispered, another tear slipped down your cheek.

Spencer didn't hesitate this time. "Yeah. Of course," he whispered back.

He climbed in after you. He helped you shift, arranging you so your legs were stretched across the seat and your head was cradled in his lap. "God, it hurts," you choked out, your face pressing into the fabric of his trousers.

"I know, honey. I know," he murmured, already in motion. He wrestled his way out of his vest, minimizing the disturbance to you before letting it drop to the floorboard. Finally free of the barrier, he could give you his full attention.

His gaze fell to his hand. It was stained, your blood a dark crimson against his pale skin. The sight unlocked memories he kept chained in the deepest part of his mind. He clenched his jaw, forcing them back. This is different. You're going to be okay.

His clean hand came up to cup your face, his palm cool against your even cooler cheek. His index finger tapped your temple. "Open your eyes for me," he whispered.

You obeyed slowly, your eyelids fluttering open to reveal a pain hazed gaze. You watched him as he softly brushed his thumb back and forth across your cheekbone.

"I didn't see him," you confessed, your voice filled with shame. "It was my fault."

"He was fast," Spencer countered immediately, his voice leaving no room for argument. "It wasn't your fault." His eyes darted down to the bloody bandage on your thigh, then out the window, mentally calculating the remaining blocks to the hospital. His touch on your face remained, while his other, bloody hand remained a fist on his own thigh.

He happened to glance up and meet Emily's eyes in the rearview mirror. She held his gaze for a moment longer than necessary and he saw a dawning realisation in her eyes. Recognising something he hadn't meant to display. He looked away quickly, his focus returning solely to you.

His thumb continued its gentle path across your cheekbone. The gesture coaxed a weak smile on your lips. "Tell me something," you whispered.

Spencer leaned in closer, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Tell you what?"

"Anything," you breathed.

You couldn't articulate it, but through the haze of your own panic and pain, you could feel his. You saw the tightness around his eyes, the way he kept unconsciously opening and closing his bloodied fist. You'd even noticed a smudge of crimson on his neck but bit back the urge to tell him, not wanting to amplify the terror you saw flickering in his hazel eyes. You were trying to bring him back to you.

Spencer watched you for a second, his mind scrambling for something. "I thought about your idea... about me participating in chess tournaments," he said, a soft smile touching his lips as he brushed away a fresh tear tracking down your cheek.

"Really?" you asked, a spark of happiness cutting through the pain.

Spencer nodded. "Mhm."

"So? Are you going?" You managed to grit out, your hand lifting to grip his wrist, the one cradling your face, holding onto him tightly.

"Not sure yet," he whispered. He wanted to reach over and brush the hair from the other side of your face, to offer more comfort, but a glance at his other hand stopped him. The distance in his eyes must have been obvious.

"Tell me more," you whispered, pulling his focus back to you.

He was struggling, his thoughts a jumbled mess of fear and adrenaline. And then, in his desperation to distract you, he said something he hadn't planned to share. "I listened to all those albums you had in your car."

The confession had its intended effect. "My CDs?" you asked, surprised enough that your grip on his wrist tightened less from pain and more from shock.

"Yeah. I went to one of the music stores close to my apartment and had a listen," he admitted, a shy smile returning to his face. He could see the joy in your eyes.

"Did you like them?" you asked, the words gritted out between clenched teeth as the car hit a minor bump.

Spencer hated making you talk through the pain, but the alternative, seeing your eyes slip shut, was unthinkable. If you lost consciousness now, he would't be able to handle it. You let out a pained groan that strangely morphed into a pained giggle as you realised his answer.

"That's okay," you whispered.

"I liked a couple songs," he offered softly, and the admission, small as it was, made you smile again.

"I guess we have polar opposite music tastes," you said, squinting your eyes as a fresh wave of pain radiated from your leg.

Spencer gently brushed his thumb just below your eyelash, a silent plea for you to keep your eyes open. For the rest of the ride, he listed every single song he’d listened to from your collection and pinpointed the one or two he’d genuinely liked.

At one point, your hand, trembling with pain, lifted and your fingers gently touched the side of his neck. He stilled, letting you, though he wasn't sure why.

Emily pulled up to the ER entrance. She handled the forms at the front desk while Spencer carried you inside and settled you onto the white sheets of a hospital bed. Your whispered, "Please stay," was all it took. He sat in the chair beside the bed as the doctors started working. The procedure contained a deep cleaning and a series of stitches. But it was a painful one, requiring Spencer to hold your hand, which he did without hesitation, his fingers laced tightly with yours, his other hand brushing the hair back from your damp forehead. When it was over, the painkillers pulled you under and you fell into a deep sleep.

Spencer sat in the room for a long time, his gaze locked on the dried blood still on his palm and under his nails. Finally, he rose on shaky legs and retreated into the attached bathroom.

The door clicked shut. His eyes met their reflection in the mirror and he froze. In one jerky motion, he ripped his tie loose, gasping for air as if it were strangling him. He braced his hands on the edge of the sink, his head hanging low, shoulders trembling. He couldn't bear it a second longer. He twisted the faucet on, thrusting his hands under the scalding stream. He scrubbed, his breath coming in ragged pants, rubbing his skin raw with the cheap hospital soap until the water swirling down the drain ran a sickening orange.

He forced himself to look up again. Away from the blood in the sink. And then he saw it. A smeared mark on his neck, just below his jawline. A remnant of your blood.

The memory of your touch, your fingers gently brushing that exact spot in the car, flooded back.

You hadn't been seeking comfort for yourself in that moment. You had seen the blood on him. You had seen the panic he was trying so desperately to hide, and even through your own pain, you had tried to wipe it away. To comfort him.

Shame crashed over him. His own pain had so literally been written on his face, that the person bleeding out in his lap had felt compelled to offer him comfort.

The feeling was so suffocating he hooked his fingers and popped the top two buttons of his shirt. His eyes dropped back to the sink, still seeing the ghost of that orange tinged water. With a trembling hand, he cranked the faucet on full blast, the roar of the water drowning out the silence and, he hoped, the screaming in his own mind. He wasn't sure how much time had passed, only that the water had long since run clear and his hands were raw.

When he finally walked back into your room, his tie was gone, left in the bathroom. The top two buttons of his shirt remained undone.

The team had come and gone while you slept, their visits containing concerned whispers and glances directed at both you and him.

It was late, when you finally stirred. The first word from your lips was a drowsy, "Spencer?"

He didn't reply at first, slumped half asleep in the uncomfortable chair, his head resting against the wall. It was the rustle of sheets as you moved that jolted him awake. He was on his feet in an instant, leaning over the bed rail.

"Hey," he whispered.

A soft smile touched your lips. "Hi. You stayed."

"Of course I did," he whispered back.

During the evening, he coaxed you to eat a few bites of bland hospital food. Later, a nurse arrived to hang a new bag of IV fluids. The moment the medical cart rattled into the room, your eyes found Spencer's. You looked at him with a deliberate sweetness.

"Could you get me one of those really tasty strawberry tarts from the cafeteria?" your voice a little weak. "I've been craving one."

Spencer nodded immediately. "Yeah. Of course." He was just glad to be useful, to have a mission that could momentarily silence the guilt whispering that he should never have let you out of his sight in that warehouse.

He didn't know, as he hurried from the room, that your request had been a plan of yours. You remembered the files and the trauma surrounding needles. You didn't want to subject him to watching that needle go into your arm, not after everything he'd endured. You sent him on a quest for a pastry not because you wanted one, but because you wanted to protect him from seeing it.

When Spencer returned, a small paper bag containing the strawberry tart in hand, the IV was already securely taped to your arm. You’d pretended the tape was slipping, requesting a larger bandage from the nurse. Just to ensure he wouldn't have to see the needle.

Later, as the night went on and pain made your sleep restless, you tried to send him home. "Spencer, you should get some real rest," you'd insisted, but he simply shook his head. Instead of leaving, he returned with a chess set.

"It'll help keep your mind off it," he explained, setting the board carefully on your bed table before settling himself on the edge of your mattress.

And it was nice. The focus required to follow his explanations provided a welcome distraction from the throbbing in your leg. Your genuine confusion and disastrous moves made him laugh. You were scheduled to stay overnight and a part of you was deeply relieved that he hadn't left. The thought of facing the long hours alone felt daunting.

During a lull in the game, you fiddled with a bishop, your gaze fixed on the chess game instead of him. "I'm sorry if I was too much of a crybaby back there," you murmured.

Spencer's head snapped up, his eyebrows furrowing in genuine confusion. He reached out, his hand covering yours that held the chess piece. Gently, he guided your move, placing the bishop on a square that put his king in checkmate.

"You weren't a crybaby," the juvenile word sounding foreign on his lips.

"I've just never gotten hurt in the field before," you offered, the words feeling more like an excuse for your own perceived vulnerability.

Spencer made his next move, deliberately placing his own piece in a position that surrendered the game. You saw it and raised a knowing eyebrow but held your tongue.

"Your reaction was perfectly okay," he said earnestly. He met your eyes, ensuring you heard every word. "And even if you had acted like 'that,' as you say, it would have been normal. There is no definitive or correct reaction to pain and fear."

A weight seemed to lift from your shoulders, just by hearing the sincerity in his words.

The next morning, Emily took the initiative to drive you home, with Spencer insisting on tagging along. Your apartment filled with well-wishers from the team, despite your reassurances that you were perfectly fine. After Emily helped you settle onto your couch, Spencer lingered by the door, his hands shoved in his pockets.

"I'll, uh... I'll check up on you soon," he promised.

You were already half-asleep and could only manage a drowsy, "Thank you," before you drifted off.

True to his word, he called you throughout the day and into the evening. You assured him you were fine each time, but he still ended every conversation with a quiet, "I'll come by soon."

He kept that promise the very next afternoon, appearing at your door with a bag of groceries and a chess set. He spent hours with you, his patience endless as he guided you through another game, all while meticulously ensuring you took your pain medication on time.

At one point, he insisted on changing your bandages. You sat on the edge of the couch while he knelt on the floor before you, a fresh roll of gauze and medical tape laid out beside him. He carefully took the end of the old bandage between his teeth to tear it, his hands gently supporting your thigh.

"Thanks for your help," you said softly, watching the concentrated furrow in his brow. "You really didn't have to come over."

Spencer shook his head, the bandage still held in his teeth as he carefully cradled the back of your knee to lift your leg. He began wrapping the clean gauze. "I don't mind," he mumbled around the fabric.

You reached out and gently took the bandage from his mouth, your fingers trembling slightly when they brushed his lips. His eyes flicked up to yours for a moment, before he quickly looked back down. "Funny how the tables have turned," you smiled.

The comment made him chuckle as he slowly lowered your leg back to the couch, though he remained kneeling on the floor. "Okay?" he asked softly, nodding toward his handiwork.

"Yeah," you said, your voice warm. "Thanks." You then reached for his hand, tugging gently to pull him up to sit on the couch beside you. He settled in, his shoulder brushing yours.

"Wanna play another round of chess?" he asked.

"No," you answered plainly, letting your head loll back against the cushions. "I keep losing. I'm sick of it."

His chuckle was a reward in itself. "You should lay down," he murmured.

"That's all I've been doing," you complained, a pout forming on your lips.

Spencer didn't reply. Instead, he shifted, his hands carefully guiding you to lie back on the pillows. Then, he gently lifted your legs, settling them across his lap. The weight of his hands on your shins were profoundly comforting and made you suppress a delighted smile.

"You'll be back on your feet soon," he said, a soft smile playing on his lips. "Literally."

You let out a sigh, one that couldn't quite suppress your smile as you settled into the pillows. It didn't take long for the cozy atmosphere to lull you to sleep. You figured you hadn't been out for long, but when you stirred, the space on the couch beside you was empty.

You sighed, pushing yourself upright.

Crap.

Of course he'd left. He'd been taking care of you all day. He had a life, a job, a world that didn't revolve around your convalescence. Another sigh escaped you as you ran a hand through your hair, staring blankly at the ceiling. Your apartment felt profoundly boring and lonely without his presence. You were just considering taking another nap when the lock clicked and the door swung open.

Spencer stepped back in, balancing a cardboard coffee carrier and a small plastic pharmacy bag.

Your face lit up, joy you didn't try to hide. "Spencer! I thought you left."

He offered a soft smile, toeing off his shoes by the door. "No, I just went to refill your prescription and get some coffee." He set the bag of medicine on the coffee table.

"You're doing way too much for me," you sighed, a mixture of gratitude and guilt in your voice.

"Not at all," he countered simply. He handed you a coffee, and you took it happily, the warmth seeping into your hands as you took a grateful sip. You let your head fall back against the couch cushions as he settled beside you, the familiar weight of him an immediate comfort.

For a little while, it was perfect. You fell into easy chitchat. Him describing the nice bakery he'd found near the pharmacy, you recounting the odd dream you'd had. You were in the middle of a sentence when the trill of his phone interrupted you.

"Sorry," Spencer murmured, already reaching for it.

You shook your head, a silent it's okay, but you watched his face closely. You saw the subtle shift, a slight tightening around his eyes as he listened. He sighed, the sound heavy with resignation. "Yeah. I'll be there soon."

He ended the call. The silence that followed was louder than the ringing had been.

It was a case.

You sighed, the feeling of impending loneliness a cold weight in your stomach. You knew you weren't cleared for duty and you knew what that meant. He was leaving and you were about to be alone for an indefinite amount of time.

Spencer’s shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly as he slipped the phone back into his pocket and turned to you, his eyes already full of an apology. “It’s a case,” he said, the words heavy with a disappointment that mirrored the sudden drop in your own heart.

You tried to offer a brave smile, but it felt weak on your lips. “I guessed so.”

The cozy evening you’d envisioned, curled up on the couch with him, a movie playing in the background, evaporated into thin air.

Spencer's gaze swept over the medications on your coffee table. “Remember,” he began, his tone softening into that instructional one he used when he was worried. “Two of these white pills you have to take in exactly three hours, okay? Set an alarm.” He picked up the bottle and pointed to it, as if you could possibly forget.

His eyes then drifted to the bandage peeking out from under your fuzzy brown shorts. “And I don’t think you’ll need to change the bandae until I’m back, so please… don’t try to,” he insisted, giving you a stern look. He knew your stubborn independence.

He wasn’t done. “I stocked your fridge with groceries. Everything on the low shelf is ready to eat. If you want something hot, order in. Don’t try to cook,” he instructed, his eyebrows furrowing with concentration. “You can’t be standing for that long, it’ll cause you too much pain .” He trailed off, mumbling to himself, “I don’t think there’s anything else…”

You couldn’t help the fond grin that spread across your face. “Thank you, Spencer,” you said, your voice warm. “I’ll be fine. I’m a big girl, I promise.”

A faint blush crept up his neck at your words, as if he’d just realized how thoroughly he’d been fussing. He ducked his head for a moment before looking back at you.

“You be careful, though, okay?” you said, your tone shifting to one of soft concern. You leaned forward slightly, your fingers gently finding the fabric of his sleeve. “I don’t want you joining me on this couch as a patient.”

He nodded, his gaze dropping to where your hand rested. “I’ll try to come back as soon as I’m done with the case,” he promised quietly.

A comfortable silence settled between you. He was just watching you, his hazel eyes tracing the lines of your face as if committing them to memory. You held his gaze.

“You scared me, you know?” The confession slipped out. He seemed almost surprised to have said it aloud, as if the words had been sitting on his tongue for days, waiting for this vulnerable moment.

Your heart squeezed. “Sorry,” you whispered, though a small part of you swelled with a bittersweet happiness at the depth of his care.

“You don’t need to apologize,” he immediately countered, his brow pinching with guilt for having made you feel responsible for his fear. “I just… I don’t like seeing you hurt.”

“Trust me,” you shook your head, gesturing with a wry smile toward the small pharmacy on your coffee table. “Neither do I.”

A chuckle escaped him. It lightened the mood, pulling you both back from the edge of that heavy emotional cliff.

“Thank you, though, Spencer.” Your voice was soft, pulling his gaze back to yours. The reality of his imminent departure was a cold weight in your stomach and you found yourself already missing him.

“I mean it,” you continued. “You’ve done so much for me these past few days.” You tilted your head, curiosity stirring as you noticed his eyes, now moving deliberately, across your features as if studying you. You weren't sure he even heard you.

You held his gaze, a nervous flutter in your stomach. The old habit to bite your nails surfaced, but instead, your fingers, still tangled in his sleeve, tightened their grip. It was close to digging into his skin, though he knew you would never intentionally hurt him.

He watched, mesmerized, as the late afternoon sun streamed through the window, catching your eyes. You saw the same golden glow gilding the edges of his brown curls.

Spencer’s heartbeat was frantic. He knew this was a life changing decision. And perhaps you knew it, too. The fact that you were holding his gaze so steadily, something you so often broke out of nervousness, was all the confirmation he needed.

Your nails were just about to press into his arm when he moved.

His hands lifted, coming to frame your face. His fingers were cool against your warm skin as he leaned in, carefully closing the distance between you. When his lips finally met yours, a sigh escaped you, your shoulders slumping in pure relief. Your free hand came up to rest over his wrist, your thumb stroking the delicate skin there as you kissed him back.

His lips were incredibly soft. A giddy part of your brain chimed in. You already knew Spencer Reid was a soft man at heart, why were you surprised? Then, he let out a happy hum against your mouth, a sound of happiness that made you smile, momentarily breaking the kiss before you eagerly returned to it.

He hummed. Spencer Reid hummed during a kiss.

The realization was utterly delightful.

Spencer continued to cradle your face, his thumbs gently stroking your temples. He could taste the faint trace of the coffee he’d brought you earlier on your lips, mingled perfectly with the sweet vanilla of your lip balm.

When he pulled back, it was only far enough to search your face, his eyes wide and uncertain. But all he found was a dazed smile, your eyes fluttering open to meet his, equally full of happiness. You both smiled simultaneously.

“Wow,” you whispered. You closed your eyes again, leaning your head more fully into his palm. His thumb automatically began to stroke your cheek.

“A good ‘wow’?” he whispered.

“Definitely,” You smiled.

Spencer felt a matching grin spread across his own face. He could hardly believe what he had just done. He had kissed you.

He had kissed you, and you had kissed him back.

Not just allowed it, but actively participated, your hand on his wrist pulling him closer. And you were happy. Radiantly so.

“I finally got my birthday wish,” you whispered, the confession slipping out.

Spencer’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. One of his hands brushed back a strand of your hair. “You wished for this?” he asked, his voice full of wonder. He wasn't entirely sure what to name ‘this.’

“Well, sort of,” you giggled. “You were pouting at the birthday party the team threw for me, and for a moment, as I blew out the candle, I thought about what it would be like to kiss you.” You grinned, a little sheepish. “It wasn't a really conscious wish. But I think it counts anyway. I mean, I got it.” You were rambling now, but you found you didn’t mind, not when he was looking at you like that.

Spencer’s smile was radiant. He couldn’t quite believe he had actually done this. That you were sitting in front of him, watching him with such a delighted smile. That you had enjoyed the kiss. That you had wanted it.

That you had wanted him.

His heart felt too big for his chest, racing as he looked at you. He was about to say something. Tell you how long he’d wanted to kiss you.

( It was ever since that one time he’d seen you giggle with Tara, a random thought had struck him as you pressed a hand to your mouth to stifle a loud laugh. He had noticed then how soft your lips looked. And that small detail had haunted him ever since, because all he could do afterward was stare whenever you talked to him. )

But then, his eyes darted down to the watch on his wrist. His expression shifted in an instant. “Oh, wait, I need to—” His hand slipped from your face as he stared at the time. “Oh no.” He was late. Very, very late.

You followed his gaze to the watch. “Oops,” you grinned, utterly unrepentant as you watched him spring into action. He stood up quickly.

“Don’t forget what I told you,” Spencer said in a rush, slipping on his shoes and hoisting his satchel bag over his shoulder. His movements were frantic, but his eyes kept returning to you. As he hurriedly tied his laces, he glanced at you and halted for a second. You were on the couch and you were pretty. So pretty, sitting there with kiss swollen lips, your index finger and thumb touching your bottom lip in delight.

You were still smiling and he was completely smitten.

He was smitten with you. Delighted that he’d kissed you. He was on cloud nine, and even the rush to a crime scene couldn’t diminish the feeling. He could practically float all the way to Quantico.

"I'm so sorry. I promise I'll clean the floor when I come back," Spencer said apologetically, actually tiptoeing across your living room. "You have no idea how many pathogens are on a city sidewalk. I really am sorry," he mumbled, an endearing ramble starting as he closed the distance between you.

You just watched him, utterly charmed by the entire approach.

"But I just... I need to do this again," he whispered. His hands came up to frame your face once more as he leaned down.

This time, when his lips met yours, you couldn't contain the wide smile that broke out, making the kiss soft and a little lopsided.

"I love your smile, I really do," Spencer mumbled against your lips, pulling back just enough to speak. His breath was warm on your skin. "But I need you to stop smiling so I can kiss you properly." His voice was heavy with a breathless sort of wonder, as if the mere act of kissing you was the most exhilarating thing he'd ever done.

You quickly schooled your features, pressing your lips together to stifle the grin, though the joy still shone brightly in your eyes. "Right, sorry," you whispered, leaning in to meet him halfway. He leaned down even further, a considerate gesture so you wouldn't have to strain your injured thigh too much.

When he finally pulled away, his pretty lips were slightly parted, his breathing uneven. "Why did I do this right before work?" he groaned, the question half muffled as he gently tugged on your bottom lip with his thumb, a gesture that made you smile all over again.

"Asking myself the same question here," you whispered.

Spencer sighed and leaned his forehead against yours for one precious second. "I really am late," he mumbled, before stealing one last soft peck, making you smile immediately.

He straightened up abruptly, as if tearing himself away by force. "Okay. Don't forget your meds. And the food. I'll—I'll see you when I come back," he said, his words slightly stuttering as his eyes drank you in one last time, sitting there happily, your fingers once again touching your lips in awe.

His usually fast mind seemed to slow whenever it came to you, as if the world itself had slowed down. And somehow, he worried his eidetic memory might fail him, because he couldn’t stop staring. As if he was afraid he’d forget the sight of you sitting there so prettily.

You smiled softly up at him. "I'll see you then."

The simple promise made him pause, his feet seemingly rooted to the spot as he just stared, completely smitten. Then, with a visible effort, he quickly turned. "Okay. B-Bye-bye!" he stuttered, finally hurrying out the door.

You were left alone, a soft smile gracing your lips, while on the other side of the door, Spencer was walking down the hall with a matching smile, his mind a thousand miles away from the case that awaited him.

[lenatpn]

giggling

[corollaim]

underneath the tree | s. reid

summary: you decorate the christmas tree with your family.

relationship: girl dad!spencer reid x wife!reader

genre: fluff

word count: 1.2k

tags: literally just fluff and them all loving each other :’)

a/n: EEK!!! new universe unlocked! it’s my first time writing dad!spencer but he’s already so special to me… 

You’re standing in your living room, opening a cardboard box full of ornaments when your five-year-old daughter, Lydia, practically throws herself inside the container. She rummages through the various packages of ornaments, deciding on a sparkly green sphere. She removes it from the box and turns to assess the tree, trying to find the best place to put it.

You begin a sort of assembly line, passing sets of ornaments to your husband, Spencer. He arranges them on the coffee table, considering his options with a careful gaze. Meanwhile, Lydia is circling the tree, scrunching her nose in contemplation.

“Whatcha thinkin’, Lydibug?” you ask, giving her a sidelong glance as you continue to unpack ornaments. She blinks hard and looks up at Spencer, ignoring your question. Sensing her stare, he turns to face her, waiting expectantly for her to speak.

“Daddy, I have problems,” Lydia declares with a pout.

The two of you have to resist the urge to laugh at her seemingly existential statement. Spencer swallows back a chuckle and crouches down in front of her.

“What's the matter, hon?” he asks softly, using that sweet tone he reserves specifically for her. Lydia looks up at the tree and frowns, stretching her arm as high as she can reach and pointing for emphasis.

“Wanna put it up there.” She waves the ornament in front of Spencer's face like it wasn't obvious to him what she was referring to. She sighs heavily, adding a despaired, “Too high.”

“That is a problem,” you remark sympathetically, hiding a smile at how cute you find the whole ordeal. Without giving Spencer much time to assist her, Lydia approaches you, tugging at your pant leg. You look down at her with a fond expression. 

“Mommy, Daddy's not helping,” Lydia stage-whispers, gesturing to Spencer with an exasperated expression, as if to ask you, “Can you believe this guy?”

You level a disapproving glare at Spencer, indulging your daughter’s flare for the dramatic. 

“You heard the little lady. She demands assistance,” you say. Spencer laughs, which makes Lydia huff indignantly.

“Gee, I dunno, I’m pretty tired. I don’t really feel like reaching all the way up there,” he replies, pretending to stifle a giant yawn. Lydia props her free hand on her hip, looking at him with an expression that eerily mirrors the one you had just shot him. 

“Try bribing him,” you whisper-yell, speaking to your daughter behind your hand. At your suggestion, her face lights up, as if she’s just been blessed with the most brilliant idea. She skips across the room, planting her little feet in front of Spencer and gazing up at him adoringly. He’s already looking down at her with a fond smile, but she raises a finger to poke his knee anyway, demanding his attention.

“Yes, dear?” he asks, unable to hide the amusement in his voice.

“Daddy,” Lydia addresses him.

“Lydi baby,” he replies.

“If you help me… I will give you…” she bargains, drawing out each phrase for suspense. After a moment, she goes in for the kill. “A hug.”

Spencer narrows his eyes, exaggeratedly pondering her offer. He even goes so far as to scratch his chin, looking quite thoughtful. Eventually, he concludes that her deal will suffice, and extends his hand for her to shake. She takes his large hand in her little one, and he surprises her by pulling her off the ground and lifting her onto his shoulders. She squeals with delight, carefully cradling the green ornament in one hand, while her other hand grips his hair for support.

Spencer steps closer to the tree, allowing Lydia to hang the ornament. You watch the whole ordeal with a warm heart, adoring the sight of your two favorite people. After Lydia’s positioned her decoration just so, she pats Spencer on the top of the head, thanking him for his support. Then, she becomes distracted by the feeling of his hair in her fingers, and busies herself with braiding a chunk of his curls.

“Having fun up there?” you call. Lydia nods vigorously, not looking up from what she has decided is a very important task. She makes quick work of his hair, humming with satisfaction as she completes the plait. She looks up, seeking your approval, and realizes that she towers over you from this vantage point.

“Mommy, you’re little,” she muses. 

“I know, bug. Daddy’s tall,” you respond with an understanding nod.

“I’m tall now,” she replies solemnly. 

Once again, you’re met with the challenge of stifling a chuckle in response. As you battle the giggles, Spencer strides around the apartment, ducking his shoulders and spinning in circles, all the while making ridiculous airplane noises. Lydia laughs gleefully, shouting directions.

Suddenly, Spencer halts in front of the sofa.

“Oh no! Going down!” he cries, shaking his shoulders and bouncing Lydia around. She shrieks with enjoyment as he collapses on the couch, depositing her safely on the throw pillows. They lay there for a moment, laughing together. Then, Lydia unfolds her little legs from beneath her and hops off the sofa, skipping across the room to join you in front of the tree.

Once more, she starts digging around in the box of decorations, and Spencer sits up, watching her with a look of faux offense.

“Hey, wait a second! Where’s my hug?” he calls. She pretends not to hear him, humming a holiday tune to herself as she wanders around to the back of the tree.

“Santa’s watching,” you remind her. “Don’t be mean to Daddy.”

Lydia sighs with exaggerated reluctance, addressing both of you as if you are children.

“How is Santa able to watch every kid, all the time? Sounds suspicious,” she huffs.

“Okay, maybe he’s not always watching, but he knows if you’re good,” you assure her.

“And another thing,” she starts, launching into a ramble not unlike her father’s. “The logis… is… how do you say it?”

“Logistics,” Spencer offers.

“Logis… mm… istics. Don’t add up. The songs say Santa comes down the chimney at midnight, but he can’t possibly be going down every single chimney at the same time! So whose chimney is the song about? It’s all very confusing,” she rants. “And another ‘nother thing! Mommy would never kiss Santa Clause. She loves Daddy too much. Right, Mommy?”

“That’s right, bug,” you reply, looking at Spencer affectionately. He’s still sprawled on the sofa, looking rather dejected about not getting that hug he was promised. Satisfied with your response, Lydia nods approvingly. She then crosses the room and flops on Spencer’s chest in a lopsided hug.

“I love you too, Daddy,” she promises in a soft tone.

He returns the embrace and you join them on the sofa, observing the barely-decorated tree with an amused glance. It may take an absurd amount of time to finish hanging ornaments with all of your shenanigans, but you would be perfectly content to spend the rest of your life in this moment.

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

[nereidprinc3ss]

be my angel

in which BAU fem!reader was injured on the job, but is refusing painkillers at the hospital. spencer thinks he knows why.

fluff (+a little angst) warnings/tags: established relationship, hospital stuff, reader got beat up by an unsub, discussions of spencer's past addiction, mentions of period cramps, reader ends up being administered some sort of painkiller a/n: another draft i found in my literal hundreds of pages of abandoned wips and fixed up cause it's cute, I hope you like!!!

Spencer is tearing through the hospital. They all keep saying you’re going to be okay, but what does that even mean? Why is nobody telling him anything? He’s not even sure he heard what the orderly at the front desk said, but his feet are carrying him with a strident purpose through the winding white halls, so he has to assume he at least subconsciously knows where he’s going. 

Finally he spots Penelope, a beacon in her candy-colored clothing, speaking to a doctor in hushed tones. Penelope sees him approaching and turns away from the doctor, looking harried and exhausted. 

“Is she okay? What happened?” Spencer demands, before either of the others can say a word. 

“She’s okay,” the doctor assures. “She was beat up pretty bad—concussion, broken ribs, some bruising that looks worse than it is. There was a clean shot through her arm, but—” 

His blood runs cold. Nobody told him you were shot. Why had nobody told him you were shot? 

“I need to see her.” 

The doctor frowns, glancing between the two agents. 

“I’m sorry, are you her spouse?” 

“Yes. No, not yet, I just—I need to see her, please. Now.” 

“Sir, unless she—” 

“Just let him see her!” Penelope practically yells. “She wants him here, believe me.”  

The doctor clenches her jaw and scribbles something on her clipboard. 

“Okay. Maybe you can try to convince her to accept some painkillers.” 

Spencer’s frown deepens. 

“She’s refusing pain management?” 

“We gave her as much ibuprofen as we could, but she refused anything stronger than that. She has to be in a lot of pain right now, and there’s no background of addiction.” 

“I’ll talk to her,” Spencer says, already twisting the silver door handle. He has a sneaking suspicion as to why you denied pain treatment, and it makes him feel incredibly guilty. More than he already did, after this entire debacle. 

The sight of you, bloodied and bruised and obviously suffering has his heart splintering right down the middle. Whatever meager semblance of a smile he can scrounge up and offer is reflected back to him on you—which only makes him feel worse. As always, you’re putting on a brave face. 

“Hey,” Spencer says quietly as he closes the door behind him. 

“Hi,” you croak. “How do I look?” 

He approaches, sitting on the edge of the bed and pushing your hair away from your face. 

“How do you feel? The doctor told me you wouldn’t accept pain medication,” he murmurs. 

You sniff. 

“I feel okay. Did she tell you it’s not as bad as it looks?” 

But your voice is so small, so wavery and weak, that he knows you’re lying. 

“Sweetheart...” 

You’ve been holding it together since the unsub beat you nearly unconscious. You held it together as he ran away, even got a couple shots in before he turned around and returned fire. You held it together while you sat against the dirty truck, bleeding out, not sure if your team was coming, and you held it together in the ambulance, and for the past thirty minutes in this hospital bed. But all it takes is one gentle word from Spencer, with that concerned, solicitous look in his eye, and the floodgates are opening. Tears spring up in your eyes and begin silently falling down your dirtied cheeks. 

“It’s okay!” you attempt to reassure him, affecting cheeriness even through the tears. “It doesn’t hurt. I’m fine!” 

He says your name soft and low and he tries his best to keep his tone even though he is liable to burst into tears or start yelling at someone (not you) at any minute.  

“I know that’s not true. You have broken ribs and a gunshot wound. I know how badly it hurts to breathe and how it feels every time you move your arm. That is too much damage for over-the-counter anti-inflammatories. You need real analgesics.” 

“I don’t,” you whisper. Your teary eyes make his whole body ache. He squeezes your hand—the one that’s not connected to the wounded arm. 

“Because of me?” You stare at him blankly, as if you’re shocked he was able to put two and two together. “I promise you don’t need to worry about that.” 

You sniffle. 

“But what if—what if they give me the drugs and I get all weird and it’s, it’s like... triggering for you, or something?” 

“It’s been a really long time since I’ve worried about that. I’d rather see you a little tired and out of it than in extreme pain and trying to pretend you’re not. You getting the pain relief you need in a medical emergency is not going to make me relapse.” 

“But I really think I could go without,” you begin, voice already tightening around a cry. “I’ve—I’ve had period cramps that were worse than this.” 

Despite himself, he chuckles. Goes back to stroking your hair. 

The laughter fades quickly. All the pain you’re in is so evident in your eyes. The dissociative glassiness, the tension around them, the bloodshot quality—he's seen it many times before, and he hates it on you. 

“Will you please tell them you’re ready to take something? They won’t give you Dilaudid. It’s too strong. They’ll give you something that I’d have no interest in anyway.” 

“Not funny,” you whisper. 

He ignores this. 

“Will you let me call the doctor back in?” 

You take a deep, shuddering breath—or at least, you try to, before you’re loosing a sharp squeak that deteriorates into a little sob. The ribs. 

Spencer doesn’t bother asking again, just gets up and begins to walk away as efficiently as his legs will carry him. You need painkillers and he thinks it might be fastest to just fetch the doctor or a nurse from the hallway. 

“Wait,” you plead.  

He stops. Reminds himself that you need him right now—not his medical opinions. Spencer turns back around and approaches again, crouching by your bedside this time. 

“What, honey?” 

“I don’t...” 

You trail off, overcome by something like fear in the width and shine and nervous dart of your eyes. Spencer knows, everybody at the BAU knows, that showing fear to a serial killer will get you killed that much quicker. During your time alone with the unsub, which is a can of worms Spencer literally cannot psychologically open right now, you had to put on your bravest face. Even while you were being beaten within an inch of your life. Even when you thought you were going to die, alone, and that your team—that Spencer—wasn't coming back for you. Because that’s the kind of thing you have to do to cope when you’re at rock bottom. But you were terrified. Petrified. That doesn’t just go away—and Spencer knows it’ll be bumping against the surface until it finds a way out.  

He has to remember that just because you look unafraid and you act unafraid doesn’t mean you aren’t. 

“You were so brave,” he manages after he’s sure he can say it without incident, swiping moisture from your cheek. “You did everything exactly right.” 

“I know,” you whisper, chin trembling. Spencer knows you, and he knows this kind of trauma well enough to know that you’re thinking, I did everything exactly right, and it wasn’t enough. I did everything exactly right and this is what I have to show for it. 

“But nobody needs you to act like it wasn’t hard, okay? You don’t need to pretend like it doesn’t hurt. You were so, so brave, angel. You don’t have to be brave anymore.” 

Your eyes squeeze shut, sending a new wash of tears over your tacky cheeks. A few moments pass. You say nothing. He hopes you’re not going to hide away inside yourself like he did. 

“Will you please, please, let me get the doctor?” 

At least this time you don’t immediately say no. 

“Will you come right back?” 

“Of course.” 

Finally, you nod your hesitant assent, and Spencer presses a careful kiss to your forehead. 

A few minutes later, the doctor—who was shocked that Spencer was able to so quickly change your very made-up mind—is back, and so is Spencer. It only takes a moment for them to determine the best course of action for you and soon the fist around his heart is loosening its grip as he watches some of the agony melting from your eyes. 

“Better?” he murmurs as the nurse who’d administered the drugs leaves, fanning his thumb over the underside of your wrist. You nod, already appearing sleepy. 

“Can you lie down with me?” 

He smiles at the way your words slip against each other, simply relieved that you’re able to relax and no longer in extreme pain. 

“Hospital beds aren’t rated for two people.” 

“Spencer.” 

It’s enough for him to climb onto the bed—not that he was ever going to deny you what you wanted to begin with. The fit isn’t exactly perfect—he's a bit too long and combined the two of you are just slightly too wide—but with some finagling it’s comfortable enough. Spencer has slipped his arm underneath you and your head is on his shoulder and he’s so glad to have you in his arms and so grateful that you’re okay he does something almost like praying in his head as he kisses your hair. 

“Hey. Ask me about my bruises.” 

“Why? Do they still hurt?” 

“You should see the other guy.” 

It’s dumb and it doesn’t make sense because you didn’t bother waiting for him to actually set the joke up—but he smiles dryly nonetheless. 

“Can you please give me... I don’t know, 36 hours before you start making jokes about almost dying?” 

“Clock starts now.” 

“Thank you.” He feels your lips curve into a half-conscious smile against his neck. It’s a wonderful feeling. “How are your ribs? Breathing feels okay?” 

“Mhm. Love breathing.” 

“Mhm. And your arm?” 

“Like I got shot.” 

“Well, that’s pretty much unavoidable. But not as bad as before, right?” 

“Right. Spencer?” 

“What, my love?” 

A little pleased puff of air warms his shoulder. He carefully rubs your hip. 

“Will you tell me how brave I was again?” 

He takes a silent, very deep breath.  

“You were incredibly brave. And smart, too. I’m really proud of you for how you handled that situation. I’m so sorry you had to go through that, but I don’t think anyone could have handled it better. Especially when you chose to stay put by the truck, instead of chase him. I know that wasn’t what you wanted to do, but it was the right choice.” 

“I thought you guys maybe weren’t coming,” you murmur, no hint of sadness in your smushed, flat voice—like you’re barely awake. “I waited half an hour and I thought you weren’t gonna find me.” 

“Angel, I will always find you. We didn’t stop looking even once, as soon as we noticed you were gone. I’m just sorry I wasn’t with Emily and Rossi when they got to you.” 

“’Nelope told me... she told me you got really angry and scary.” 

He stares at the ceiling and considers this. 

“I could see... how what I was feeling would be interpreted that way. I was pretty angry. But not at Penelope or any of them. I was mostly just scared.” 

“I’m sorry I scared you,” you whisper. “And I’m sorry if I made you mad.” 

“You did not. I wasn’t mad at you. And it’s not your fault that I got scared. You were just trying to do your job. None of this is your fault.” 

“She also said that you said fuck like... three times.” 

“Mm... doesn’t sound like me,” he evades. You giggle, and the sound is more a relief than any drug he could take.

“No, seriously, I’m so mad I missed it. I love hearing you swear. Tell me what you said—and you have to cause I’m all messed up so I get whatever I want.” 

He sighs in mock annoyance. 

“Well, she’s wrong. I only said fuck once. I used fucking as an intensifier twice.” 

You hum. 

“Sexy.” 

“Alright,” Spencer laughs, flushing as he moves his hand to your shoulder. “Go to sleep before I tell them to up your dosage, weirdo.” 

[pun1shedbylove]

may i feel said he

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader description: spencer spends the holiday party quietly twisting himself up over you until finally, you break through his walls. later, in the snow and the quiet, everything catches fire between you. genre: smut but the yearning kind & some fluff (MDNI) w/c: 4.6k warnings/tags: sub spencer (offically taking sides, but i'm sure you could've been able to tell), first time between reader and spencer, spencer reid is not a virgin but acts like one, i cannot explain enough how in love he is (genuinely he is a wreck), like some form of praise kink (it's written in between the lines), he is just so needy. slight biblical references, no use of y/n. it's all sweet until it gets intense idk a/n: i actually hate this. all my small amount of skill left me. it's okay i'm gonna be brave and post anyway masterlist // please reblog to support the fic if you enjoyed!

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Spencer spends most of his time waiting, turning the things he wants over on his tongue, never quite letting them leave his mouth. He often spends nights wrapped around the various universes he could exist in, ones where he does do what he wants to do, ones where he isn’t quite so vulnerable, a hot glass attracted to the cooling quality of snow. He thinks a lot. He desires a lot. He says a lot, reads a lot, works a lot. Things happen to him; it’s rare that he ever happens to anything else.

In another life, he’s solid. In another life, he isn’t pulled apart by fantasy and longing that holds him from his throat.

He goes to Rossi’s holiday party because he loves his friends, his job, you. You’ll be there—across the table, out of reach, one hundred small decisions away. Maybe if he mindlessly sticks his long legs too far out beneath the table, he’ll brush against you and experience you for a moment. He won’t ask for much this Christmas—he never does—but he might be bad just this once and wish for a new memory of you to sleep beside.

Passion is warm but burns if the prospect of you hangs on too close. He’s always been slightly masochistic this way. It all sounds melodramatic to him, yet his groveling whittles away the moment you walk through the door with a small gift bag in hand. Snowflakes cling to your hair and cardigan, winter stained on your cheeks. In this reality, he can only ever exist in a state of admiration when you come near. He doesn’t know if that part of himself will ever change. Even when the gravity of Jupiter pulls his blood downwards and his fist closes, he is a man of sacrifice and belonging. Desire is the second strongest force he knows, and though it seems wicked and destructive, it comes from a place of devotion. Today, your beauty isn’t comparable to anything he can call to mind, and worship is not out of his realm of possibility.

Rossi takes the gift from your hand and sets it on the table. Emily and JJ greet you with a hug. Spencer stands a few feet away, hands awkwardly shoved in his pockets. A smile spreads slowly across his face as you walk toward him. He waves, hesitant, then stiffens when you pull him into a hug, too. He is made by touch, animated by your nearness.

This morning, while getting ready, he debated the green wool sweater—and he’d been right. It’s definitely making him too hot.

“Hi! Merry almost Christmas!” he exclaims, pressed against your shoulder, grinning the way he used to when he came down the stairs to find presents under the tree. He can feel the chill clinging to you.

“Merry almost Christmas to you!” A moment later, you pull away, and the space between you returns. “Have you been outside? It’s beautiful. It started snowing on my way over.”

He wants to spread his warmth to you, push it out through his hands, drag them up and down your arms. Snow melts against your shirt, leaving small dark droplets behind.

“Actually, I’ve been tracking the weather since last week to see if it was going to snow today. We should get approximately four inches.”

“Really? I love the snow. It reminds me of—”

Your name is called from across the house, and if he didn’t also adore Emily, he might resent her for it. It’s over as quickly as it begins. Salt, smoke, wind, ocean, wine, sex. He’ll tell you in every language.

You send him a small, apologetic smile before you leave and brush your hand across his arm. He imagines his body like train tracks, carts carrying need back and forth, always set in motion by the same signal. Distance makes the heart grow fonder. He thinks he’s pathetic—but maybe only in an I’ve-always-been-half-empty-and-you-make-me-spill-over way, not an I-can’t-survive-without-you way. His mother would like you. He writes about you, though he isn’t sure he can ever quite capture you.

Dinner’s great. Everything is great. Here, in this house, with these people, Spencer is alive, awakened, no longer fearful. Someone might leave later, but he’s been working on staying in the current. He’s asked to speak, and he shares, lets himself be heard because he knows his voice is wanted and his body is invited to take up space. 

Light presses against the inside of his mouth. Your lips curve around your fork and wineglass and laughter. Magic is real.

“Reid,” Rossi starts, chuckling, the table alight, “the first time I met him, I thought he was some new robot specifically designed to recite statistics.

“I’m still not totally certain he isn’t a robot,” Emily adds, and Spencer isn’t sure any of them would want to know how much he sometimes feels. It would ruin the illusion. He doesn’t mind the teasing anymore. Jokes—that’s what they are. It took him a while to learn the difference, but he has.

“Artificial intelligence technology is actually improving rapidly enough to—”

“Not helping your case, pretty boy,” Morgan grins, bumping his shoulder into Spencer’s. He knew sitting next to him would be risky—still, Spencer’s happy where he is. Content. He could be closer to you.

You rest your chin in your hand, spectating with a sparkle Spencer thinks might be just for him. He has an overly active imagination. 

Your lipstick matches your wine. He wants to kiss you, to test which one lingers longer—purely academic, he tells himself, a kind of experiment. You are beautiful, and he has never known a moment of peace. It takes very little to unmake him. No one needs to know how much of an animal he really is.

“I don’t know. Look at him now. Pink. Can a robot do that?”

The words barely reach him. What he notices instead is the soft tap against his leg. A foot. A warning. He doesn’t look down, doesn’t confirm who it belongs to. He decides it’s you, telling him to stop staring, to stop unraveling in public. It might not be, but he holds onto the idea anyway. He won’t be standing for a while.

“What—no, I’m not—”

“Leave the boy alone. We all love you, Reid. Tin man or not.”

────────────

You ask him if he wants to go outside with you. You like it quiet, too. 

Yes, he’ll go outside—he probably was going to soon, anyway; yes, you are the same as him; yes, he’ll go outside; no, he can’t promise he won’t scare you away.

A sigh of relief comes out of you as a cloud. “I adore them all, but god, they can have a lot of energy."

He smiles, quiet and unguarded, and he has been since you asked him to breathe with you. “Yes, they most definitely can.”

“I couldn’t imagine myself being anywhere else tonight, though.”

Maybe he can. He’s where he wants to be in some way.

“Me neither.”

He rocks back and forth on his heels, feeling the cold bite the tips of his ears. A lot of feelings hit him all at once. It wraps around his veins, chokes him out. He thinks that if he had sex earlier than he did and more often than he did, he wouldn’t be so wound up and sensitive to something as little as your presence. It’s just a lot for him.

“Are you okay?” You ask him delicately. No, not delicate. You have never been delicate or breakable. Just cautious. Purposeful with words and meaning.

“I… Yes. Of course. Just thinking.”

“Spencer Reid, not saying what he’s thinking. That’s a first.”

The words aren’t intended to sting. They sound like invitations, but he’s never been great at picking up on things unsaid.

“Do you want to know?”

“I always want to know.”

It’s the Christmas spirit, something old and timeless that makes him blunt. Or it might not be that at all, just his exhaustion. He’s tired of being quiet about what rules him. You rule him. It seems you want a piece of him, but he doesn’t know which one. He has to ask. He has to grow up a little. If he wants you to bite him, he has to tell you. Don’t you deserve to know? 

“I’m thinking… I’m thinking that I don’t… I don’t really want to stay much longer. I had fun, but I just…” Words are so tricky, so heavy and deceiving. “I suppose what I’m thinking isn’t really… Okay to think? I’m sorry.”

You turn towards him, and this—this is it. It’s now or never. You get it out of him now.

“Don’t be sorry. I don’t think you’re capable of thinking anything wrong, Spencer.” 

You’re incorrect about that, and it relieves him to know that the only example of perfection in the world slips up a time or two. He can be very, very wicked when he’s alone. Or when he’s next to you. Or away from you. Always. Consistently a bit terrible. 

“I can. I am right now.”

He knows that you know that you can pull it out of him. 

“Let me be the judge of that.”

“Okay. I’m thinking it’s… Very, very cold. Remarkably cold. And that it might be more efficient to find somewhere warm and quiet, though if you’d rather stay out here, that’s fine, I can do that. I just—” He exhales, and you can see the cadence of it through the air. “I’ve had a good time. A better time than I usually have at Christmas, which is… Notable. But I’d like to go home now.”

He hesitates, then adds, softer, more careful. More restrained.

“And I’d like you to come with me. Not for any specific reason—I don’t really care what we do or don’t do. I just know I want to be with you. More than anyone else. At least for the rest of the night.” 

The next breath is sharp, an inhale, a confession that slips but stabs.

“I’m sorry, no, that’s a lie. I don’t like to lie to you. To anyone. But especially you. I don’t care what we do—if we do anything at all—but I want something in particular that’s not okay, allowed, or appropriate to want. And I’m really sorry. Sorry enough to quit my job if this is making you uncomfortable. Am I making you uncomfortable?”

This is what you’ve been waiting for—a breach in his unwavering wall of respect, of care, of carefulness. If he touched you right now, he would find something that felt similar to fire. 

“No. You’re not making me uncomfortable at all.”

“I’m… Not?”

“No.”

The frank tone of your voice gives him nothing. He’d be lying to say he isn’t perversely entertained by the pain of it all.  

“What am I… Then what… I can’t…” Please don’t play with him. It’s so hard on him. You know he’s weak in this way—unless you like him weak, and then he’ll be weak, and he’ll let you treat him however you like. He’ll be a toy, be whatever you want. You know this. You’re equally rotten, just in a different way.

“Thank you for telling me. Really." You like to make him use his brain, leave him guessing.

He thinks you might just leave it at that—get him to spill what’s been tugging at him for months and then leave him vulnerable and hard. You don’t owe him anything—it’s not like that—just… He always imagined this differently. 

You put your hand on his arm. He almost flinches.

“I’m going to go inside and say that I’ve really, really had a good time, but that I have to get home to feed my cat. And I’m going to get in my car, and you’re going to leave after me, and get in your car. I know where you live.”

He’s stunned for a moment, and he lets his stuttering settle inside of him before he opens his mouth. It takes a minute.

“Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes."

The possibility of you takes root so deep inside of him that his lungs start to malfunction. Snow lands on his skin and sizzles, melts, drips down into his mouth. Crack. Right down the middle.

────────────

“Tell me how you want this to go. I don’t… Everyone assumes that I know everything, but I know nothing. Nothing.”

He’s never done anything that possessed him, and that’s never been so devastating. Dreams are flaky, and he’s learned time and time again to never count on something that might slip away with a concept so mundane as time passing. He doesn’t want to swim forever. He doesn’t want to need hope anymore. He wants you to crush him with constancy.

“I want you to just be you. I’ve never asked for more than that, Spencer. I never will.”

He’s pushed against the wall, wet with vines sticking out from his skin. They’re crawling up, across the ceiling, around the corner, into every crevice of his apartment. There is nowhere that is untouched by his desire. You are the sun. He will keep growing until the roof crumbles down on him.

“I usually know how to be that. I don’t know if I do right now. I’ve never been in this situation.”

You smile at him, and he’s not exactly sure why. He would do horrific things to make you stay like that.

“That’s the thing. If you just let yourself flow, you can’t be anything but yourself. Even if you don’t know what you’re doing," you say, pressed against him. He thinks he's having a heart attack.

It’s not really clear when you finally start kissing him. You’ve been intimate for so long, in each other’s skin, infecting and consuming and planting signs that read “this is mine now,” for so long. The inside of your mouth tastes like peppermint, and you’re twinkling, his Christmas tree lights reflecting off your skin. It’s easy for him to get lost in it all. He’ll be sucking on his own lips, tasting the top of his mouth for months after this to savor you again.

Your fingers struggle with the buttons of your cardigan, the corresponding holes not quite wanting to work with you. You swear underneath your breath, and it’s sensual how you wrestle. His throat works. He wants to swallow the things you let escape, and he wants to help you undress even though his hands are too shaky and he’s not sure that oxygen is getting to his brain quickly enough, or enough at all. 

It isn’t a problem. He can’t get himself to move at all. His dreams have surprisingly been accurate; the first time you fuck him, he ends up falling off a cliff or something similarly dramatic, such as melting into a pile of molten lava.

You’re undressing in front of him, for him, trembling. You must be cold still. The only thing he can move is his eyes up and down across your body as button by button falls away, your shoulder, your collarbone, your stomach being revealed to him. You’re doing this for him. For him. He is going to come in his pants.

The sound of your cardigan hitting the floor reverberates throughout his body, and that’s when he finally moves. He kisses you again, kisses you until he’s certain his lips will bruise—because he needs evidence that you were here, that you took him. He is needy, and he’s never been anything else. Everything he’s ever been has resulted in this moment of vulgarity and innocence, and it’s for you, take it, just take it.

Your fingers find purchase in his hair. He might be clueless, but this he knows: you are like him, but greater. Your thumb presses down on his pulse. This is familiar. This is what he likes to do when he thinks about all the things he could do to you, or have done to him. You feel his heartbeat through his neck, and if you pressed just a little bit harder, you could break skin and enter him, creep into the hollow where life flows. He has never known himself to be dirty, but what overtakes him is certainly unholy. You are warm—so warm, and this is his true life force. You shiver because you need. 

His blood is in two places: where you’re pressing down, and where his appetite resides. All of his warmth is trying to make its way inside of you. He’s sorry, but not sorry enough to stop.

Beautiful. He says it in his head. He says it out loud. He says it again. “You’re so beautiful. I’ve always thought so.”

“Take my clothes off, Spencer. Take your clothes off.”

Yes, yeah, okay. He likes it when you demand things of him. Yes, he will do that. 

He unclasps your bra with one hand, gliding his fingers down the curve of your shoulder, then your inner arm, your waist, your spine. You are reminded that he has magic fingers. Fingers of a pianist or a surgeon or an artist. It’s all so much. It’s so many days of disastrous wanting slammed into an attempt at gentleness. 

His belt clinks softly as you slide it through the loops in his jeans. He’s so hard. Really, really, really, if he doesn’t breathe, he is going to ruin it all, ruin every moment of patience, and come before you even touch him. Stickiness coats his upper stomach as you bear him to the air. You look, lick your lips, react in a way that is nothing but primal. This is biology, activation of the autonomic nervous system, divine intervention, human autonomy. He has never been so turned on in his life. It is not the sight of your skin itself, but that you're willing to show him this level of vulnerability.

“Are you okay?” You ask, your eyelashes a foot long, and your pupils oversized as you look up at him. “Is this okay?”

“Yes.” It’s embarrassing, so embarrassing, how desperate he is. “Yes. It's okay. Are you okay?”

“More than okay. I just need you inside of me, Spencer.”

You don’t have sex in his bed, somewhere conventionally comfortable and socially acceptable. Nothing about you or him has ever been ordinary; your connection wouldn’t be, either.

Knees crack against the floor. This is secret. The storm quiets, and lightning only goes off when something new is discovered. Static charges often stay idle. He cups you in his hands, feeling the wondrous weight of you in his palms, brushing his thumbs against your nipples where you call for him. White flashes behind his eyes. He hurts, it hurts, his theory is correct: he’s a masochist.

“Oh, god,” he whines, because he can’t do anything else as your hips buck against his. Your back falls parallel to the floor, your hair fans out underneath you, you feel an ache that takes root somewhere so deep that you don’t know exactly where it comes from. He falls on top of you.

Your hand wraps around him, and he thinks he wails. He doesn’t know. His forehead falls against your shoulder.

“Jesus, Spencer. Look at you. So pretty.”

His cock twitches in your grip. He’s making a mess, summoning all the strength he has inside of him to wait for you, even though you haven't done more than hold him.

“You can’t—Please don’t say that. Please.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t—I want—to come with you. I—oh—I want to feel you when I…” It’s dirty. It’s so dirty the way you’ve broken him down. “I want to be closer.”

That’s when it all falls apart for you. A hurricane tears through your body, leaving you wind-blown and pink all the way down. You hope he sees.

He is prey; he is the lamb, you are the wolf. It’s a dynamic he enjoys and will take with him the next time he goes to sleep. This may have existed inside of him forever. You push him back with your eyes, and he’s useless when you show yourself to him. Voyeurism is an act of submission.

Oxygen doesn’t come to him as easily as he would like it to; he has to search for it, draw it in, attempt to clasp it in his hands, even if it’s doomed to slip through his fingers like the wetness that lingers on your inner thighs. He is awful. Please, please, please, pleasepleaseplease.

His back hits the floor, the cold seeping in instantly, biting him, rendering him futile. You are hot and so close.

“You’re shaking.” Your breath ghosts over his face, invades him through his mouth. He’s caged in by your hair cascading down above him, creating walls, keeping him close in a way he’s only ever dreamed about.

He can be intimate with you in two ways now. First: with your body smothered against his, closing any room for lies to be situated. Second: with his mouth and mind wide open, spilling guts, spilling things that he doesn’t even know he’s thinking. He will tell you.

“I’m terrified.” Horror encapsulates him mostly. You are dripping.

“It’s just me,” you say, dropping your forehead against his instead of your sex. You love him first.

“That’s why.”

The first time he feels you, God reaches inside of him, stealing his warmth, giving it to you, giving you everything, giving you what has never been his. He would’ve done it himself, but he really can’t move, can only buck his hips pathetically underneath you like a dog and express through his hold on the back of your neck that this isn’t just sex for him, it will never be just sex; you are his life; you are his love; he gives his everything to you; he trusts you to take him as he is and not run away with it—but if you did, he probably wouldn’t mind.

You like him all the way in. He likes it, too, to feel you more than you feel yourself. Love burns, sparks, smokes. He decides to take your lips—this one thing—and is glad when your mouth muffles his sounds. He is sorry for the walls and for the art that has to hear the debauchery you are making of him. It’s pathetic, and he will turn over when he wakes up, but he will be rebirthed and entwined, cracked at the edges, honeyed and marked. You make a human out of him.

Maybe it’s the tenderness that makes it all disgusting. His jaw slacks so much that he thinks it might break, and if it did, all it would mean is that he could fit more of you in. You are a flood, a creator on him, a hand choking his throat, a body choking his cock.

You kiss his mouth, cheek, nose, throat, area just above his heart.

“I’ve wanted you. Wanted this.”

“You’ve always had me. If I just met you today, you would’ve had me.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is. It is.”

“Fuck.”

He counts your breaths. They progressively get faster, the rise of your chest shooting his heart downwards, more blood downwards, more passion into the jerks of his body. Seeing you live gets him off. He’s sick, but he is molding into someone he’s glad to be. He’s grateful to be the one loving you right now, always. He’s grateful to be the one causing your eyebrows to scrunch together, your eyes to squeeze shut, your lips to wrap around the syllables of his name.

Spencer might be crying. You are so good. He does whatever you ask of him.

He zeros in on the pitch of your cry, on the way you tighten around him, on the arch of your back, the frequencies of your pants. It’s divine. You’re all he wants to fill his mind with. Tonight, tomorrow, whenever you ask him to go home, his mind will loop, run racetracks around you, drink this moment until his liver dies, crumples, kills him from the inside out.

The only sight you want to see for the rest of your life is him destroyed by you. He’s always been like this, hasn’t he? He’s been trying to show you. At least you know now.

“Look at me, Spencer,” you say. You want to know this part of him. Capture it. Take it from anyone else.

“I can’t,” he gasps, so overcome with what you’ve given him that he can’t use any other sense except touch. You have rendered him boneless.

“You can. Let me see you. Please.”

Dangerous. So, so dangerous. It is dangerous what he will do with a ‘please.’ It’s suicidal. Homicidal.

He opens his eyes. One light blurs into two, and three, and he’s in a world of color, of radiancy. You trap your fingers between his against the floor. Dimensions split, slam into each other, crack the insignificant earth right down the middle. Shakespeare wasn’t being dramatic.

You ask him a second thing:

“I want to hear you come.”

At this, he truly, for the first time in his life, understands what religion is like. He understands why people pray each night, drop to their knees, devote their souls. Spencer does what you say.

It never really ends. It starts inside of you, gives you what you ask for as deeply as you want it, then splits in two opposite ways. It curls his toes and wraps around his heart, squeezing, suffocating, poking holes, making room. Come in. See what you’ve done.

It pleases him more than his own orgasm when you come. You tighten, try to suck more out of him. Then you collapse.

Here: damp, dead, teeth either clenched so tightly together that they shatter or so torn apart that you could fit a whole fist in between, limbs twisted in a new formation that can succumb to the entry of another soul, living more purposefully than ever before.

“You.”

The windows are frosted. He thinks it might still be snowing.

“No,” he mumbles back. “You.”

────────────

“Do you want to go outside?” You roll over, back on top of him, the intensity lulled to a drip through the fingertips.

“It’ll be cold. Colder than earlier. Dark.” His throat is scratched, and he’s hot, still stripped of self-control. It’s not a weariness he minds. You slip your cardigan back on and button it more easily than you had taken it off. "Very dark."

“Are you scared?” you ask, tracing your finger down. He’ll never stop being in awe.

“Yes.”

The dark, awkward social situations, handshakes, being laughed at, schizophrenia, loss, missed opportunity. He’s scared of a lot.

He sits up, steals one more touch, looks out the window. “The forecast was inaccurate. We’ve clearly accumulated more than four inches of snow.”

“Good.” You stand up, pull him with you. “Just for a minute.”

Your excitement ignites him again. Next time, he’ll give you his fingers, his mouth—whatever you want—and lick the back of your teeth. He’ll make it snow forever if you keep smiling.

Moonlight makes the snow seem to glisten. You weren’t lying before; it’s beautiful. You’re beautiful. It’s all beautiful to him now. He’s still warm, and goosebumps rise on your arms, the back of your legs.

“See. Not so bad,” you say. Snowflakes stick to your hair and sweater like before. He loves you a lot. It doesn’t need to be told.

“No, it’s nice. Really nice.”

You catch a snowflake on your fingertip and watch it melt.

“Okay,” you murmur, wiping the wetness on your sleeve. You didn’t need very long. “I’m ready.”

"That was quick. Are you sure?"

"Positive."

He is nothing if not grateful. Nothing. You slide the door open. He stands there, watching as you wait for him to follow. He's fully disarmed.

“Coming, Spence? It's freezing."

[lenatpn]

i… don’t even know what to say. or what to feel, honestly. this was so beautiful and intimate and wonderful.

He writes about you, though he isn’t sure he can ever quite capture you.

At this, he truly, for the first time in his life, understands what religion is like. He understands why people pray each night, drop to their knees, devote their souls. Spencer does what you say.

your way with words is impeccable.

[ethelcainlover223]

NERDDDD (I say with barely controlled lust)