Summary: The first time you go out with the team without Spencer, they make it their mission to explain why you should absolutely date him. The problem? You already are. And have been for months.
Words: 4,4k.
Warnings & Tags: fem!bau!reader. secret relationship. mentions of alcohol, injuries, typical cm stuff. neither hotch nor rossi are present because it is a conversation not approved by parents. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).
Note: Welcome to the first fic of my 2k celebration! I had so much fun writing this and I really hope you enjoy it. I missed writing Spencer so badly, my beloved boy♡
Seeing the things you saw every day never got easier. It never dulled. Not truly. No matter how many cases you closed, how many reports you filed, or how many reassurances you whispered to yourself that it was “just part of the job,” the images lodged themselves stubbornly behind your eyes. They resurfaced in the fragile, half-lit space between waking and sleep, where logic dissolved, where the world felt unmoored and memory ran riot. Some nights, they came at you in jagged shards. Faces without names, eyes wide with terror, blood that would not wash from your hands, screams that looped endlessly in your mind, refusing to be silenced. Other nights, the horror didn’t take shape, didn’t insist on narrative. It simply pressed down, a dull, omnipresent ache inside your skull that pulsed with every heartbeat, dragging your thoughts through viscous fog. Hours after the case had technically concluded, you still felt it there, gnawing at the edges of your consciousness, leaving you unsteady, as if your brain itself had lost the ability to process the world normally.
Pretending you were fine, the practiced mask you showed the victims’ families as they sobbed into your shoulder, had long become second nature. But pretending you weren’t in love with your coworker required a level of discipline you could only maintain for so long.
Especially not here, wedged into a booth at a dimly lit bar with the low hum of conversation pressing in from all sides. The room was full of profilers, which somehow made everything worse. Too many observant eyes. Too many people trained to notice the smallest deviations in behavior, the slightest changes in posture or tone. You nursed your drink carefully, letting the cold glass ground you, while Emily sat close enough that her knee bumped yours every time she shifted, and Penelope hovered on your other side like a bright, determined force of nature, utterly committed to the idea that you were going to have fun, whether your nervous system agreed or not.
Morgan and JJ laughed loudly at something Penelope said, and for a moment you let yourself smile along with them, letting the music and the alcohol blur the sharp edges of the day. They kept refilling your glass, kept asking questions, kept dragging you into conversations that required just enough focus to keep your thoughts from spiraling back to the case. It was sweet, really, their way of anchoring you to the present, but it also made the knot in your chest tighten. Because Spencer wasn’t there. And without him across the room, without the subtle weight of his gaze finding you instinctively, you felt off-balance, like you’d lost a familiar point of reference.
But he had taken a few days off. A minor injury, he said, just a cut and a bruise above his eyebrow, the result of protecting you from an unsub who had come too close. Now he was away, tending to his mother, and the world felt off in his absence. It was selfish, of course, to miss him this much. And yet, every instinct in your body longed for him: the quiet presence across the table, the faint scent he left on his coat, the way his nervous energy somehow steadied your own. You traced the rim of your glass absentmindedly, wishing for him to materialize from the crowd, wishing for the familiar tilt of his head, the low hum of thought behind his eyes.
Damn.
“That guy definitely wants something,” Emily said beside you, leaning in with a grin as she gestured toward the bar. You followed her gaze to the man who had been stealing glances at you all night, confidence written into his posture. A moment later, a bartender appeared, setting a sleek, expensive-looking drink in front of you with a nod in the man’s direction.
You barely hesitated before sliding the glass away. “I’m not interested, thanks,” you said, firm but polite, pushing it back toward the bartender.
JJ raised her eyebrows, amused. “Wow. Not even a sip?”
“I didn’t ask for it,” you replied, shrugging, though your fingers curled a little tighter around your own glass.
Penelope gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest. “Do you realize how hot you have to be for strangers to just send you drinks? You’re wasting valuable flirting potential.”
Emily laughed. “She does this every time. Completely unfazed. It’s impressive, honestly.”
“You know,” Morgan said suddenly, eyeing you over the rim of his bottle, a teasing glint in his eyes, “this would be a lot easier if you just had a boyfriend.”
JJ nodded along, grinning. “Seriously. It’d save us all the trouble of watching men strike out all night.”
You rolled your eyes, heat creeping up your neck. “I’m doing just fine without one.”
“Uh-huh,” Morgan said, clearly unconvinced. “Sure you are. You turn down free drinks, avoid flirting, and spend half the night staring at the door like you’re waiting for someone.”
JJ tilted her head, studying you with that calm, perceptive expression that made suspects crumble. “You know,” she said slowly, “you don’t act like someone who’s single.”
Oh.
You laughed, a little too quickly. “There’s no correct way to act single.”
Morgan leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Sure there is. And you don’t fit it. You turn down drinks, avoid flirting, and spend most of the night talking about work or—” he paused, grinning, “—Reid.”
“What? I do not,” you protested.
Emily smiled into her glass. “You do. Constantly. Did you even realize you quoted one of his fun facts earlier?”
“That was relevant,” you said defensively. “And we’re friends.”
“Friends,” Penelope echoed, drawing the word out. “Interesting. Because the way you say his name is not very platonic.”
You rolled your eyes, but your face felt warm. “He’s my coworker. We work well together. That’s all.”
“Oh no,” Morgan said, shaking his head. “You don’t just work well together. You orbit each other. It’s painful to watch.”
JJ nodded. “You finish his sentences. He checks your reactions before he answers questions in briefings. And don’t think we haven’t noticed how you always end up sitting next to each other on the jet.”
“That’s coincidence,” you said immediately.
Except it wasn’t.
Not really.
Coincidence didn’t explain the way your fingers found each other in the narrow space beneath the shared blanket on long flights, skin brushing just once before intertwining. Didn’t explain the quiet weight of his hand resting against your knee when the lights dimmed and everyone else slept. Didn’t explain the chess table in hotel lobbies, the board between you like plausible deniability while his thumb traced slow circles against your knuckles. The way you both froze at the slightest sound, then smiled innocently when someone passed by.
You had learned how to hide. How to make it look accidental. How to pull away a second before it became obvious.
Emily raised an eyebrow. “Is it? Because I’ve taken three different seats to test that theory, and somehow you two still end up shoulder to shoulder.”
Your stomach dipped. You forced a careless shrug, lifting your glass as if this were amusing rather than terrifying.
“The jet isn’t exactly spacious,” you said. “Statistically, proximity is inevitable.”
Penelope leaned in closer, lowering her voice like she was sharing state secrets. “Also, he brings you coffee. Not just coffee, your coffee. No one memorizes an oat-milk-to-cinnamon ratio like that for a friend.”
You opened your mouth, then closed it again. “He’s thoughtful. That’s just how Spencer is.”
“Exactly,” JJ said gently. “Thoughtful. Kind. Loyal. And completely in love with you.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “He is not.”
Morgan smirked. “Kid looks at you like you’re the only stable thing in his universe.”
Emily added, “Like you make the world quieter for him.”
Penelope sighed dreamily. “Like if the universe ever collapses, it’ll be because you weren’t holding his hand.”
You groaned, burying your face in your hands for a second. “You’re all being ridiculous.”
“Are we?” JJ asked softly. “Because I’ve seen him panic when you’re hurt. He forgets procedure. He forgets everything except you.”
Morgan nodded. “I’ve never seen Reid jealous before. Then some consultant flirted with you and suddenly he’s giving me a ten-minute lecture on territorial behavior in primates.”
You stared at your drink. “We’re just friends,” you repeated, quieter now, like saying it enough times might make it true in the way they needed it to be.
Emily clinked her glass gently against yours. “Then you should start to date him.”
You smiled, a reflex more than a reaction, and let your gaze drop to your hands. If only she knew. If only she knew that “starting” had happened months ago, not with a confession or a dramatic moment, but in the slow accumulation of small things. In conversations that stretched past midnight because neither of you wanted to be the first to say goodnight. In the way Spencer learned the exact cadence of your voice when you were tired and adjusted himself accordingly, by speaking softer, moving closer, offering presence instead of solutions.
By the time the night stretched into that hazy, in-between hour where the music grew louder and the conversations looser, the team had clearly decided this was no longer casual teasing.
This was a campaign.
Morgan leaned back in his chair, lifting his bottle like he was delivering a closing argument. “Okay,” he said, grinning, “let’s be logical about this. You have to date Reid, and we have reasons. One: free lectures on literally anything. Guaranteed safety on trivia nights. And if you ever forget a birthday? He won’t. Ever. Man’s brain is a steel trap.”
You scoffed lightly, even as your heart gave an involuntary, traitorous flutter. “I don’t need to date someone for trivia night.”
What you didn’t say was that Spencer already remembered the dates that mattered, without prompts or reminders or jokes made at his expense. He remembered the day your fingers brushed for the first time, both of you startled by how electric something so small could feel. He remembered the anniversary of the case that left you hollowed out, the one that made your hands shake for days afterward. He remembered the exact time you had once texted him I can’t sleep, the message sent in the dead of night when you were sure no one would answer, and how he’d shown up at your door less than twenty minutes later, hair rumpled, jacket half-zipped, eyes dark with concern, holding two mismatched mugs of tea like they were offerings meant to ward off your fear.
And of course, he remembered the first time you kissed. That quiet moment before a case, adrenaline still buzzing under your skin, his hands trembling slightly where they rested at your waist. The way he’d paused, breath warm against your cheek, asking softly if this was okay, as if you might change your mind at the last second. The way the world had narrowed to just the two of you when you hadn’t.
Penelope leaned across the table then, bracelets chiming as her eyes sparkled with unfiltered conviction. Her voice dropped, earnest and conspiratorial all at once.
“Wrong,” she said. “You need to date someone who adores you. And Spencer Reid?” She pressed a hand dramatically to her chest. “Worships the ground you walk on. Respectfully. With footnotes.”
You swallowed because that wasn’t exaggeration. Not even a little. Spencer loved you the way he loved knowledge: with reverence, with humility, with a kind of awe that treated you as something to be understood and safeguarded rather than claimed. He asked before touching you, even after months together, even when your body already knew the shape of his. Asked if he could hold your hand, if he could kiss your shoulder, if it was okay to stay the night. Every question spoken softly, like consent was not just a rule but a philosophy he lived by.
And when you teased him for it, when you smiled and told him he didn’t have to ask every time, he would flush, ears going pink, eyes impossibly sincere as he said, very seriously,
“I never want to assume I have the right to you.”
The memory settled heavy and warm in your chest, almost painful in its tenderness. You stared down at your drink, the ice melting slowly, and wondered how long you could keep pretending this was all just hypothetical.
JJ laughed. “Two, he’s amazing with kids.”
Oh.
Oh no.
You choked on your drink, the burn sharp as it went down the wrong way, coughing as you leaned forward, eyes watering slightly.
“Why,” you managed, setting the glass down harder than necessary, “are we talking about kids?”
Emily shrugged, smirking. “Because I’ve seen him with Henry. He kneels to talk at eye level, explains things like they matter, and somehow turns explaining space-time into a bedtime story.”
Your laughter never came.
Instead, your thoughts slipped traitorously inward, drifting to a quiet night you rarely let yourself linger on for too long. The room had been dark except for the thin spill of streetlight through the curtains. Spencer had been staring at the ceiling, hands folded tightly over his chest, voice unsteady in that way it only ever was when he let himself be vulnerable with you. He’d said he wasn’t sure he’d ever be good enough for a future like that. Not just kids, but the whole fragile idea of permanence. A house. A dog. A life where someone depended on him in ways he might fail.
You’d rolled onto your side then, traced the familiar line of his jaw with your thumb. You’d told him that he was already the gentlest person you knew. That gentleness wasn’t weakness. That it was rare. Necessary.
He’d gone quiet after that. Too quiet. When you looked at him, his eyes were shining, glassy in the dark, like no one had ever named that part of him before. Like no one had ever framed him as enough. And then, hesitantly, like he was testing the safety of the idea, he’d started talking about names with interesting meanings, about how parenting shaped a person forever, about how words and care and patience could alter the entire trajectory of a life. You’d listened, heart aching in that hopeful, terrifying way, knowing how much trust it took for him to even imagine it out loud.
Morgan snapped his fingers sharply, pulling you back to the present.
“Exactly,” he said, grinning. “That man is dad material.”
“Oh my God,” you groaned, pressing your palm to your forehead. “We are not doing this.”
“We absolutely are,” Penelope said. “So, three, picture it. Reid as a husband? He’d over-research wedding venues. Color palettes. Statistically optimal cake flavors.”
JJ nodded thoughtfully. “He’d cry during the vows. And then apologize for crying.”
Emily added, “And then quote something obscure but devastatingly romantic.”
You stared at them. “You’re all insane.”
Morgan grinned. “You’d be insane not to marry him.”
“I am not marrying Spencer Reid,” you said quickly, and stopped. Because the word yet pressed so hard against your teeth it almost slipped free.
Penelope gasped. “Wow. You didn’t even hesitate. That denial was practiced.”
Because it was. Because you’d rehearsed it in your head every time you watched Spencer fall asleep beside you, glasses carefully set on the nightstand, one hand curled loosely in your shirt like he needed proof you were real. Because you already knew what forever would look like with him, and loving him in secret felt safer than risking a world that might take him from you.
JJ smiled into her glass. “Four, you already defend him like a spouse.”
“That is not true.”
“Yes, it is,” Emily said easily. “Every time someone underestimates him, you go feral.”
Morgan laughed. “Remember that sheriff who called him ‘the kid’? You verbally disassembled that man.”
“He deserved it.”
“Exactly,” Morgan said. “Wife behavior.”
You buried your face in your hands again. “He’s my friend.”
“Friends don’t memorize each other’s stress tells,” JJ said gently. “You know when he’s about to spiral before he does.”
“And he knows when you’re pretending you’re fine,” Penelope added. “He brings you books instead of asking questions.”
Emily tilted her head. “You know what that’s called?”
You peeked through your fingers. “Don’t say it.”
“Domestic,” Emily said.
The table erupted in laughter.
Morgan wasn’t done. “Five, let’s talk logistics. You’d never argue over directions. He already knows the fastest route everywhere.”
JJ laughed. “Your kids would be terrifyingly smart.”
“Okay, absolutely not,” you said quickly. “We are shutting that down right now.”
Emily smirked. “Too late. I’m picturing curly-haired little geniuses who quote Shakespeare.”
Morgan raised an eyebrow. “And carry FBI badges at career day.”
You shook your head, cheeks burning, heart doing something dangerously unprofessional in your chest. “This is ridiculous.” And so lovely to imagine.
For a moment, the teasing eased, not gone, just quieter. The music filled the space between you, the bar lights blurring slightly at the edges. You took a slow sip of your drink, staring down at the condensation on the glass.
Penelope smiled at you, gentler now. “We just think you deserve someone who looks at you the way Spencer Reid looks at you.”
Morgan nodded. “Like you’re the best thing that ever happened to him.”
You nodded slowly, still silent, heart pounding.
If they only knew that you already were.
That the man they were trying to convince you to date was the one who kissed your temple before briefings, who texted you goodnight even when you were in the same building, who held your hand in the dark when the world felt too heavy. That you were already his, in every way that mattered.
You took a slow breath, forcing your expression to stay neutral, even as your chest overflowed with something secret and devastatingly sweet.
Because they could give you a thousand reasons to date Spencer Reid.
And not a single one of them would come close to the reasons you already loved him.
The night unraveled slowly, the way nights like that always did, as if no one quite wanted to be the first to admit they were tired. Laughter faded into softer smiles, jokes trailed off mid-sentence, and the table became crowded with empty glasses and half-forgotten napkins, evidence of a shared attempt at normalcy. The music blurred into something distant and indistinct, no longer demanding attention. You said your goodbyes in a haze of hugs, promised Penelope—twice, because she insisted—to text when you got home, and accepted one last lingering look from Emily and JJ. It wasn’t accusatory. Just fond. Observant. It settled in your chest like a question they didn’t ask.
The cold air outside wrapped around you immediately, clearing the last traces of alcohol from your system. You breathed it in deeply as you walked, shoulders drawing up, the city quieter now, lights reflecting softly off damp pavement. By the time you reached your apartment building, the exhaustion you’d been holding at bay finally settled in. The familiar hum of the hallway lights greeted you, and you moved on autopilot, unlocking the door, slipping inside.
Your shoes came off just past the threshold. Your keys landed in the ceramic bowl by habit. You sighed, long and deep, body sagging as if it had finally been given permission to rest.
And then you froze.
There was a light on in the living room.
Not harsh. Not alarming. Just warm and unmistakably familiar. Your heart skipped, then stuttered, then began to race in earnest as you moved further inside, steps slow, breath shallow with anticipation. You didn’t call out. You didn’t need to.
Spencer was there.
He sat on your couch, leaned forward slightly, hands clasped loosely between his knees. A book rested open beside him, forgotten, a marker of a thought interrupted. He looked up the moment you appeared, eyes softening instantly, like he’d been waiting for this exact second. His curls were more unruly than usual, falling into his eyes, and his jacket had been folded neatly over the arm of the couch, as if he’d taken care to make himself small in your space. He stood too quickly, movement a little uncoordinated, nerves evident in the way his shoulders squared.
“Hey,” he said softly.
The sound of his voice wrapped around you and your chest tightened so suddenly it almost hurt.
“What are you doing here?” you asked, even as your body betrayed you, carrying you toward him without hesitation.
“I came back early,” he said, swallowing, fingers flexing as if he didn’t know where to put them.
Your brows furrowed. “Spencer, you were supposed to be with your mom until tomorrow.”
know,” he said quickly, then slowed himself down, forcing a breath. “I was. But you sounded tired earlier. On the phone. And you said your head hurt.” His gaze flicked to your face, so careful. “And you paused before answering, which you only do when you’re trying not to worry me.”
You stopped in front of him, hands already reaching for his sleeves, grounding yourself in the warmth of him.
“So I changed my ticket,” he finished, voice quieter now. “I thought…statistically, after cases like this, you’re more likely to minimize how bad you’re feeling. And I didn’t want you to be alone.”
Something in you melted completely.
You stepped into him, resting your forehead against his chest, breathing him in. His arms came around you immediately, no hesitation this time, no uncertainty. One hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, fingers gentle in your hair, the other settling at your waist. He held you like he was anchoring you to the present, like he knew exactly how fragile you felt.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you murmured, voice muffled against him.
“I know,” he murmured, pressing his cheek lightly against your hair. “I wanted to.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you, thumb brushing tenderly beneath your eye, careful not to touch where you were still sensitive from the headache.
“I want to take care of you,” he said again, quieter this time, like a promise meant only for you.
Your chest ached. Because this was who Spencer Reid was. He loved quietly, deliberately. He showed up. He noticed. He acted.
It was the thousandth reason to love him as you already did.
He pulled back again, eyes scanning your face with practiced concern. “Did you eat something there?”
You huffed a soft, tired laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”
“That’s not an answer,” he said, lips twitching.
“Barely. There’s no real food in a bar.”
He nodded, already turning toward the kitchen. “Okay. I made that instant soup you like just in case. It’s…not burned.”
You watched him move through your space like he belonged there, because he did. His shoes lined up neatly by the door. His glasses case on your coffee table. His presence woven so seamlessly into your apartment it felt wrong when he wasn’t there.
While he reheated the soup, you leaned against the counter, watching the careful way he stirred, the way he tasted and adjusted, brow furrowing in concentration.
“You didn’t have to come back early,” you said again, softer now. “I know you wanted to be with your mom.”
He glanced at you, expression earnest. “I know but she was okay, probably even tired of me talking so much about you. And I wanted to be here when you got home. And I figured…after nights like this, you usually can’t sleep.”
Your throat tightened, the words sitting heavy for a moment before you let them out.
“They were talking about you all night.”
Spencer paused mid-motion.
The ladle hovered above the pot, a thin ribbon of steam curling up between you. His shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly, like his body had registered the information a second before his mind caught up.
“Oh,” he said.
You smiled faintly, watching the way his fingers tightened around the handle. “They think we should date.”
That did it.
His ears flushed immediately, color blooming so fast it felt almost unfair. He swallowed, blinked once, then again, like his brain was rapidly sorting through several possible responses and rejecting all of them.
“Oh,” he repeated, voice cracking just slightly, traitorously.
You stepped closer, leaning into him, resting your head against his shoulder. He smelled like soup and clean cotton. His body relaxed at the contact even as his mind clearly did not.
“They gave me reasons,” you added softly. “Lots of them.”
He resumed moving, carefully this time, ladling soup into a bowl with the concentration of someone defusing a bomb.
“Were they…logical?” he asked.
You laughed under your breath. “Painfully so.”
That earned you a shy smile, the corner of his mouth lifting as he set the bowl down with great care, adjusting it so it was perfectly centered on the counter.
“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “They’re not wrong. I mean—about the logic. Not about the…dating part. Because we already—” He gestured vaguely between the two of you, flustered. “I mean, it would be redundant.”
“I know,” you said gently, reaching for his hand, threading your fingers through his like it was the most natural thing in the world. His thumb brushed your knuckle automatically. “They don’t.”
He nodded, lips pressing together in thought as he handed you a spoon, making sure it wasn’t too hot.
“Maybe we should…tell them someday,” he said carefully, like he was testing the idea for structural integrity.
“When we get married,” you replied easily, absentmindedly studying your bare finger like you could already see it there. Like it was an inevitability, not a joke.
Spencer’s brain left the building.
He froze completely, eyes widening, breath catching so sharply you were genuinely concerned he might tip over. The spoon in his hand clinked softly against the counter.
“What?” he said, voice several octaves higher than usual.
You looked up at him, amused, soft, devastatingly calm. “Imagine their faces when they get the invitation.”
He stared at you like you’d just proposed rewriting the laws of physics.
“You’re drunk,” he said faintly.
“I’m in love,” you corrected, crossing your arms behind his neck, pressing yourself closer. You kissed his cheek once. Then again. And once more for good measure. “So in love.”
He made a small, helpless noise somewhere between a laugh and a gasp, hands lifting instinctively to steady you at the waist. His ears were fully red now, eyes bright, and smile completely unguarded.
“Now I need to know,” he said breathlessly, “exactly what they told you, because this amount of affection is…unusual. Even for you.”
You laughed, forehead resting against his.
“Oh, Spencer,” you murmured. “You have no idea what they already know.”
Mary, a medical student, into the world of underground surgeries, and then a doctor specializing in body modification. - There’s a strange beauty in the freakish. ✨
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