summary: you agree to girls’ night to celebrate your first week back at work and end up a little too drunk, a little too honest, and very much forced to confront how serious your relationship with spencer has gotten.
genre: fluff tags/warnings: reader is elle's sister, alcohol consumption, drunken girls’ night shenanigans with Penelope & Emily & JJ, and they are nosyyyyyy, knight in shining armor spencer reid, drunken attempt at seduction lmao but nothing explicit happens, deep relationship talk, tooth-rotting sweetness, no use of y/n. 6k words
a/n: GIF creds to @reidgif 🫶🏼
greenaway!reader masterlist 🥀
By the end of your first week back at Quantico, you’ve realized two things.
One: you are still very good at your job.
Two: being back at your job means everyone around you suddenly has opinions about what you should be doing with your Friday night.
You’re halfway through slowly packing up your things when Garcia appears at your desk with a mischievous grin on her face.
“No,” you say immediately.
She puts a hand to her chest. “That is so rude. I haven’t even spoken yet!”
“I can feel your schemes in the air, Penelope.”
JJ stands nearby, bag in hand, looking far too calm for someone participating in an ambush. “We’re going to O’Keefe’s.”
You finally glance up. “And?”
“And,” Garcia says slowly, as if speaking to a child, “you’re coming with us! It's girls’ night.”
This is not the first time, nor will it be the last, that your teammates have tried to force you out with them. You say yes more often now than you used to, because, against all odds, they’ve somehow weaseled their way into your life as genuine friends, but you’re not exactly what one would call a reliable attendee. Especially not on a night like tonight, when all you want to do after your long-awaited return to functional society is eat takeout on the couch with Spencer, take a long hot shower (also with Spencer), and pass out (again, with Spencer).
You stare at them. “Funny, I don’t remember agreeing to that.”
Emily, leaning against the edge of a neighboring desk with her arms folded, lifts one shoulder. “That’s because we didn’t ask. We’re telling.”
You grimace and lean back in your chair. “I just got through my first week back, you guys. I’m exhausted.”
Garcia softens. “Exactly. You got through your first week back! We need to celebrate, honey.”
You glance over toward Spencer on instinct, and he’s already looking at you. Garcia follows your line of sight and lights up.
“Oh, good idea. Reid! Tell your girlfriend she should come with us.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “Don’t you dare.”
Spencer, who should most definitely understand the danger he’s in, simply pushes back from his desk and says, very calmly, “I think you should go.”
You blink at him, utterly betrayed. “Et tu, Reid?”
Morgan lets out a bark of laughter from across the room. Emily actually smiles. Garcia clutches her chest.
Spencer, to his credit, has the decency to look a little apologetic. “You made it through your first week back,” he says. “You should celebrate.”
Emily nods toward him like he’s finally said something useful. “See? Even Boy Wonder thinks you need a drink.”
“And fries,” Garcia adds. “And female companionship. And a chance to talk about something other than work or the deeply haunting state of Reid’s current hairstyle.”
You drag a hand down your face. “Why are you all like this?”
“Because,” JJ says, “you’re our friend, and you’re back, and we want to hang out with you.”
Garcia nods emphatically. “Exactly. You survived a gunshot, surgery, physical therapy, what I can only assume is the world’s clingiest boyfriend, and your first week back on the job. You can survive one night of dive bar drinks with the hottest women the FBI has to offer. Women who happen to adore you, I might add.”
You blink at her. “This is emotional terrorism,” you say with a deep sigh.
Garcia beams. “So that’s a yes!”
“It’s not a—” You stop. Exhale. “Fine. One drink.”
JJ smiles immediately. Emily looks pleased in the most annoying way possible. Garcia claps once like a Disney villain.
Emily reaches over and grabs your bag off the floor before you can change your mind. “Great. Let’s go, ladies, before Greenaway remembers she has free will.”
You stand with a huff that’s mostly for show and shrug into your jacket. Spencer is already there by the time you straighten, close enough that nobody else would clock the way his hand brushes your elbow.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
“No, Brutus.” You give him a look. “You betrayed me.”
He chuckles softly. “I’ll come pick you up later,” he says. “Whenever you want to leave.”
You glance up at him. “I can just take a cab home, Spence. You don’t have to do that.”
“I know I don’t have to,” he says. “I want to.”
Garcia is already halfway out of the bullpen. “Greenaway! Move your brooding little booty. We’re leaving.”
You roll your eyes and sling your bag over your shoulder.
Spencer catches your wrist for one brief second, just enough to turn you back toward him.
“Have fun,” he says softly.
Then, before you can say something sarcastic and ruin it, he leans in and presses a quick kiss to your temple.
He steps back like he didn’t just do that in the middle of the office, and you stare at him.
“What?” he asks.
Morgan passes behind Spencer and lets out a low, entertained whistle.
“Shut up, Morgan,” you and Spencer shout at the same time, still looking at each other.
Morgan just grins wider and keeps walking.
Spencer nods toward the door. “Go. I’ll see you later.”
Emily appears at your side and pushes you out of the bullpen and toward the elevators with an arm around your shoulder. “That was disgusting.”
Garcia grins. “No, it was adorable. Big difference.”
JJ presses the down button and smirks. “I’m suddenly much more interested in our topics of conversation this evening.”
The elevator opens with a ding, and Garcia ushers everyone in with entirely too much enthusiasm. You step in last, turning just in time to catch one more glimpse of Spencer standing by the bullpen doors, hands in his pockets, watching you leave with that soft, wrecked look he never quite manages to hide anymore.
—
The familiarity of O’Keefe’s hits you all at once the second you push through the door.
Warmth. Noise. The sticky smell of beer and fried food. The hum of conversation layered over a game playing on one of the TVs in the corner and music from the jukebox near the bar.
“Oh, thank god,” Garcia sighs, pressing one hand dramatically to her chest as she leads the group towards a booth in the back. “A room full of alcohol and bad decisions. I’m home.”
You exhale through your nose at that and sit down, accepting your fate for the evening.
“Okay,” Garcia says, clapping once as the waitress appears. “We need mozzarella sticks, fries, and something colorful with lots of tequila in it.”
Emily glances at the drink menu. “No tequila for me tonight. Jack and coke, please.”
JJ laughs and hands the menus back in a neat stack. “I’ll just take a beer.”
You look down at your own menu without really reading it. “Whiskey, on the rocks.”
Garcia hands over the menus with a satisfied sigh. “Perfect. We’re off to an excellent start.”
Emily glances at you. “You still have time to fake a migraine and leave, you know.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
The drinks come, and feel your shoulders unclench by accident after your first sip.
You realize this feeling is another thing nobody tells you about getting injured badly enough to disrupt the whole architecture of your life. Everyone focuses on the obvious parts — surgeries, scars, whether you’ll be okay, whether you’ll be normal, whatever that means. What no one really prepares you for is how strange it feels to start participating in your own life again once the worst of it is over. How bizarre it is to sit in a bar on a Friday night, in jeans and boots and lipstick with your girlfriends around a wooden table, and realize the world kept spinning while you were busy focusing on surviving.
There’s also the more humiliating part, which is that you haven’t done this in what feels like forever. Drinking, or hanging out with friends, or just simply sitting still and talking and existing without a doctor asking whether your pain is sharp or dull or a man you love watching your face too closely every time you stand up. The whole thing feels weirdly high stakes for something as stupid and simple as greasy fries and cheap liquor.
Garcia raises her glass. “To Greenaway,” she says, voice softening in a way that makes you self-conscious, “being back at work and a semi-willing participant in girls’ night.”
Emily lifts her glass. “A triumph.”
JJ’s smile is warm when she reaches in with hers too. “To Greenaway.”
You look at all three of them over the rim of your glass. “This is disgusting,” you mutter, which is about as close to thank you as you’re willing to get.
You let your glass clink against theirs anyway.
For a while, the conversation behaves itself. Garcia launches into a story about a disastrous blind date with a man who described himself as “alpha-adjacent,” which makes Emily nearly choke on her drink. JJ talks about Henry’s current refusal to sleep unless one sock is missing, which Garcia insists is “actually very chic of him.” After a waitress drops off the fries and mozzarella sticks, Emily tells a story about a truly alarming hostel she once stayed at in Prague, and before you know it, you’re contributing your own horror story about a motel in Kansas that smelled like mildew and bad choices.
Penelope points at you with a fry. “See? This is nice. You’re socializing,” to which you roll your eyes in response.
By the time you’re halfway through your second whiskey, the room feels warmer, the edges softened just enough that you stop noticing how many people are around you and start noticing smaller things instead. The exact shade of Emily’s lipstick. The glitter worked into Garcia’s eyeliner. The way JJ laughs with her whole face when she actually lets herself. The fact that you’re here at all.
You’re halfway through a story about the world’s most idiotic suspect trying to outrun Morgan during a case in Vermont last year when your phone buzzes against the table.
You look down, and Spencer’s name glows up at you from the screen alongside a text preview:
How’s it going? I hope you’re having fun.
Your mouth twitches before you can stop it.
Emily clocks it instantly. “There it is.”
You look up. “There what is?”
“Your face,” Garcia says, delighted. “You have a face!”
You cock a brow suspiciously. “Everyone has a face, Penelope.”
Emily leans back, arms folded. “No, she means your Spencer face.”
You stare at them. “My what.”
“Your Spencer face! You get this, like, very specific look on your face when you talk to him, or hear other people talking about him, or anytime you even think about him. Sorta smug, sorta soft, very in love. It’s adorable,” Garcia explains.
You pick up your phone and groan, “I hate all of you,” before typing back under the table:
i’m… surviving. no rescue required yet but it’s minute-by-minute
Three dots appear almost immediately.
Glad to hear it. Love you.
“It’s undeniable,” Garcia says, catching your expression. “That is, without a doubt, your Spencer face.”
You slide your phone face-down onto the table. “Say that one more time and I’m leaving.”
Garcia leans both elbows on the table and gives you a look that’s far too bright to be trustworthy. “Okay. So. Since Reid has officially entered the chat—”
“No.”
“—we have questions.”
“Absolutely not.”
Emily lifts a shoulder. “You had to have known this was coming.”
Well, she has a point there.
Garcia starts firing off questions immediately. “How clingy is he? Are you moving in together? Who fell first? Who said I love you first? Did he cry when you said it? Did you cry? Was there background music? Candles? Rose petals? Should I be offended that I wasn’t invited as a witness?”
JJ snorts into her beer.
You put your glass down carefully. “You all need professional help.”
“Don’t worry, I have a therapist on speed dial,” Garcia says. “What I don’t have is information.”
Emily tilts her head. “C’mon, Greenaway. You can’t really expect us not to be curious about our two coworkers who are dating.”
The thing is, they’re not wrong to be curious. The Spencer they know isn’t the same Spencer you know. They know the version of Spencer with brains and facts and a perpetually crooked tie, the one who hides half his personality behind statistics and awkwardness until people make the mistake of thinking that’s all there is to him. But you, by some impossible stroke of luck or an undeserved & pre-determined string of fate, have been granted the privilege of knowing there’s so much more. And somewhere along the line, without asking permission, he stopped feeling like a part of your life and started feeling like the shape of it.
Maybe that’s why this line of questioning makes your skin feel too tight — because they aren’t asking about a silly little coworker crush like they had been at that margarita night Garcia hosted many months ago. Now they’re asking about your actual life. About something real enough that if you look at it directly for too long, the brightness and warmth nearly blinds you.
“You gave him a key to your place, didn’t you?” JJ asks, breaking you out of your trance.
The table goes quiet for half a second.
You look at her. “Who told you that?”
JJ shrugs. “No one had to. When he first came back to work after you got shot, he was so worried about leaving you alone all day, so I went with him to check on you at lunchtime. He let himself into your apartment with a key on his usual keyring, and he looked very comfortable doing it.”
You look down at your drink. “You people are so invasive.”
Garcia points at you triumphantly. “Aha! That’s not a denial!”
You take a long sip of whiskey that does absolutely nothing to save you.
“It was… practical,” you say, which immediately sounds like a lie, even to you. “I gave it to him when I was still stuck at the hospital so he could bring me things from my place. Then he didn’t want me to be alone while I was recovering, and…” You lift one shoulder. “He still has the key.”
Emily’s mouth curves. “Very practical.”
“Shut up.”
“So,” Emily says. “How serious is this thing, really?”
You could dodge. You should dodge. You should say something glib and slippery and let them all chase their own tails around it.
Instead, because your second glass of whiskey is now treacherously empty and because these women have somehow figured out how to disarm you with minimal effort, you hear yourself say, “Um. I guess it’s… pretty serious. Yeah.”
Garcia actually slaps a hand over her heart. “Define pretty, please. Pretty pretty please!”
“God, I don’t know, you guys,” you say with an exasperated sigh. “Serious enough that, yeah, he has a key to my apartment. Enough that I can’t remember the last time I spent more than, like, four hours without talking to him, outside of when we’re asleep. Enough that everyone in this room is apparently allowed to bully me about him.”
JJ leans forward slightly. “Do you see a future with him?”
You look at her, then at the table, then at your empty glass. The honest answer rises before you can kill it.
“Yeah,” you say quietly. “That’s kind of the problem.”
Garcia goes so still you’d think someone muted her with a remote. Emily’s brows lift. JJ just watches you.
You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Not, like, a problem-problem. Not in a bad way. Just… I think he got serious about it before I realized I was letting him get serious, and then I was already in it too, apparently, before I’d even noticed that was happening, and then one day I looked up and he was just…” You stop, irritated by the catch in your own voice. “Everywhere. In every corner of my life.”
You swirl your glass against the table and stare at the condensation gathered on the rim, trying very hard not to think about how exposed you feel right now.
Then, because the alcohol has successfully eliminated your usual filters, you add, “He’s annoyingly good at staying, through pretty much anything. And… I think he’s teaching me how to be good at staying too.”
Garcia makes a strangled noise and beams at you.
“Oh my god,” she whispers. “You are in love-love.”
You roll your eyes. “That’s not exactly breaking news.”
“It’s not,” JJ says gently. “Anyone with eyes can see it nowadays. But it’s still nice to hear you say it out loud.”
You stare at her — at all of them, really: Garcia glowing with vindication and affection, Emily pretending not to be touched, JJ looking so proud it hurts, and another thought arrives uninvited: they love you too. Not in the way Spencer does, obviously — not in the all-consuming, low-voiced, hand-at-your-waist way. But still, in a real way, in a way you don’t think you’ve ever been loved by friends before. In the show-up, drag-you-out, celebrate-your-first-week-back, make-fun-of-you-until-you-stop-deflecting way.
You laugh despite yourself, because what else are you supposed to do with this? These women, this bar, this absurd line of questioning, this life that somehow expanded around you while you were busy trying not to die?
Garcia pulls your focus back to the conversation at hand. “Now I need to know if he’s actually romantic or if this is all just the natural result of extreme pining and good bone structure.”
You shake your head and reach for another fry. “Yes. Fine. He can be romantic,” you admit.
Garcia leans so far across the table you’re worried she’s about to fall into the mozzarella sticks. “In what way?”
You hesitate, because how do you explain Spencer as a boyfriend? How do you explain that privately he’s still Spencer, still dorky and earnest and too smart for his own good, but also softer than anyone would guess, and sharper too? That he remembers everything you say and acts like that’s normal? That he takes every tiny thing he knows about you into consideration before planning dates? That even the physical things with him somehow feel impossibly specific, like he’s learned your body with the same frightening thoroughness he learns everything else? That he can be so maddeningly practical one second and then look at you like you’ve just hung the moon in the sky with your bare hands the next?
Eventually, you say: “He notices things.”
Emily’s expression shifts first, like she gets exactly how loaded that answer is.
Garcia, predictably, wants more. “Such as?”
“Everything,” you say. “If I’m cold. If I’m tired. If I’m trying to pretend I’m not either of those things. He remembers stupid little things I say and then acts on them weeks later like that’s normal behavior. Like, last week, he bought me this ridiculously expensive brand of coffee beans from a cafe on the other side of the city because I mentioned them once in passing. He keeps my favorite pens stocked at his desk and in his bag because he knows I chew on mine until they stop working.”
You grimace. “Yeah, well. Don’t encourage him. I can’t handle much more of it and still keep my dignity intact.”
Emily props her chin on her hand. “How bad?”
You look at her. “What does that mean.”
“On a scale from one to ten, how embarrassing is he as a boyfriend?” she asks with a shrug.
“Honestly?” you say. “Pretty bad.”
Garcia crows in triumph. “I knew it.”
You look away. “I mean, I’m sorta embarrassing too.”
That catches all three of them off guard. You feel your face warm and immediately regret opening your mouth. But it’s too late now, so you plow forward.
“I miss him when he’s in the next room,” you mumble. “Which is humiliating and codependent and probably very concerning.”
JJ gives you a look that is somehow both sympathetic and deeply entertained. “That doesn’t sound concerning. It sounds sweet.”
Garcia puts both hands over her heart. “You are so disgustingly gone. I love it.”
You lean back in the booth and look up at the ceiling like maybe some god out there in the universe will mercifully strike you down before this gets any worse.
The strike never comes.
—
At some point after their humiliating interrogation, the conversation drifted. Garcia got louder. JJ got funnier. Emily, somehow, got both meaner and more affectionate at the same time. Somebody put more money in the jukebox. A second basket of fries appeared and disappeared. Then another round showed up, and then maybe another one after that, and after a while, keeping count lost its appeal.
Garcia made a passionate argument about who from the BAU would last the longest in a zombie apocalypse (“Survival isn’t just about brute strength! It’s also about adaptability and vibes!”). JJ reached that dangerous stage of tipsy where everything struck her as deeply, genuinely hilarious, including your comparison between Rossi in reading glasses and the Tootsie Pop owl. Emily had one elbow on the table, chin in hand, and the sort of lazy, amused smile that meant she was enjoying everybody else’s nonsense immensely.
The whole room has
gone pleasantly soft around the edges. Warmer. Louder. The lights above the bar blur into dull gold halos. Every time Garcia laughs, it seemed to set off the whole table half a second later. Your own body has gotten looser too, the good kind of loose — shoulders unclenched, thoughts less guarded, the usual sharp corners of you sanded down just enough.
But beneath all of it, quiet and constant, is the simple thought that if you asked, Spencer would come pick you up in a heartbeat.
You didn’t realize how much you were counting on that until the room tips one degree too warm and the thought of trying to get yourself home without him suddenly felt both very impossible and completely undesirable.
So you text him.
come get me?
And, because he’s Spencer, his reply comes almost immediately.
You got it. On my way.
The fuzziness only intensifies after that, but you’re at least mostly aware of what’s happening around you. Garcia has somehow moved on from zombies to explaining why she could absolutely win a bar fight if motivated by love. JJ is smiling into the rim of her drink. Emily has abandoned subtlety entirely and is now openly enjoying your slow descent into drunken sentimentality, which is rude but expected.
Then O’Keefe’s front door opens, and there he is.
Spencer pauses just inside the bar for half a second, scanning the room. His shoulders ease the second he spots you, that familiar little drop in tension so slight most people would miss it. You don’t. You never do.
He makes his way over, tie gone, coat on, hair a little wind-mussed from the cold outside. He looks tired in that way only he can: wrung out around the eyes but still put together, still handsome even under shitty bar lighting and the accumulated weight of a work week.
He stops beside the table and waves awkwardly to the entire group.
“Hello,” he says.
You tip your face up, far too happy to see him for someone with any pride left. “Hi, baby.”
The entire table goes silent.
Spencer’s brows lift the tiniest amount. Then his mouth softens into that look — that one that always makes your pulse jump.
“Hi,” he says softly, just to you.
Garcia clamps both hands over her mouth. Emily looks delighted. JJ’s expression has gone so calm it circles back around to dangerous.
You point a finger at all three of them. “Don’t.”
“No one said anything,” JJ says, holding both hands up defensively.
Garcia lowers hers from her mouth just enough to whisper, “Yet.”
Spencer, because he is either merciful or trying very hard to be, just asks, “You okay?”
You nod a little too emphatically. “M’great.”
Emily deadpans, “She’s drunk.”
“I’m not drunk,” you say, while reaching for Spencer’s hand and missing on the first attempt. “I’m just… friendlier than usual.”
Spencer takes your hand himself and laces your fingers together before you can fumble again. “Of course.”
He says it so gently that it almost makes you emotional, which is very much not helping the situation.
Garcia, meanwhile, has given up all restraint. “She told us things.”
“Penelope,” you warn.
Spencer’s gaze flicks from her to you, faintly alarmed now in the way of a man who knows there are degrees of terror in your mind and that drunken honesty ranks highly among them. “Things like…?”
Emily takes pity on him, sort of. “Nothing classified.”
JJ sets her glass down. “We mostly just confirmed what we already suspected.”
Spencer, still holding your hand, blinks once. “Which is?”
Garcia leans in, beaming. “That you’re absolutely, totally, completely obsessed with each other.”
You look at the tabletop. The wood grain is suddenly fascinating.
“Ah,” he replies with a soft chuckle.
JJ hands you your purse from where you abandoned it at the opposite end of the booth. “Text us tomorrow so we know you’re alive.”
Garcia points at Spencer. “Take care of her, loverboy.”
He nods. “Always.”
You wish, briefly, for the floor to open up and swallow you whole. But instead, Spencer helps you stand with such absurd care it’s almost offensive. His hand settles lightly at your waist as he steers you through the bar, and your body goes willingly.
—
The night air outside is cold enough to bite.
It hits your face sharply but clears none of the pleasant fuzz in your head. The city glows around you in smeared halos of headlights and neon and streetlamp glow, and Spencer guides you toward the curb where his car is parked, one hand still warm at your back.
He opens the passenger door and looks at you with that quiet, attentive expression that makes you feel both cherished and mildly threatened.
“You good?” he asks.
You lean against the car and squint at him. “They interrogated me.”
Spencer’s mouth twitches. “That does sound like them.”
You point at him. “It’s all your fault.”
“My fault?”
“You made me go!”
He waits while you lower yourself into the passenger seat and leans in just enough to buckle you, and the whole thing is so stupidly sweet that you have to look away and pretend the dashboard is wildly interesting. He closes the door once you’re settled and walks around to the driver’s side.
When he gets in, he glances over at you as he starts the engine. “I didn’t make you do anything. I just encouraged a night out with your friends.”
“Still Brutus,” you mutter, which is met by a low chuckle and shake of the head from Spencer.
The rest of the drive home is quiet in a good way. Spencer keeps one hand on the wheel and the other resting open between you, and somewhere around the second red light you lace your fingers through his.
He looks over.
“What did they ask about?”
The questions blur together in your whiskey-soaked brain. “Everything,” you say after thinking for a moment. “They were very nosy and a little deranged.”
You turn your head to look at him properly. His profile is too familiar now — the slope of his nose, the soft concentration in his mouth, the line between his brows that shows up when he’s listening carefully.
“They asked what you’re like as a boyfriend,” you add.
Spencer glances over, faintly amused. “And?”
“And I had to say things.”
His brows lift. “Tragic.”
You nod dramatically. “Exactly. It was.”
By the time he parks outside your building and gets you upstairs, your thoughts have all softened into a single, inconvenient ache.
He helps you out of your coat, sets your purse down on the table, gets you water without asking. You sit on the edge of the bed while he moves around the room, toeing off his shoes, unbuttoning his cuffs, setting his watch on the nightstand.
He’s tired. You can see it in the slope of his shoulders and the care he’s no longer even trying to hide. He’s always gentler with you when he’s exhausted, as if all the extra effort it usually takes to conceal the full force of how much he cares has finally burned off.
You watch him longer than you mean to, and he catches you.
“What’s up?”
You shake your head. “Nothing.”
Spencer’s expression shifts. He comes over and kneels in front of you, hands resting lightly on your knees.
“What is it?” he asks softly.
And there it is — that awful tenderness. That exact, patient attention that always seems to make honesty feel both easier and much, much worse.
You look at him and find, with some irritation, that the words do not want to come out in anything resembling order.
“They asked…” You stop, frown, start again. “Um. They asked if this is serious.”
Spencer’s face softens so visibly it’s almost unbearable.
“Oh,” he says.
You nod, suddenly more nervous than you were in the bar, which makes no sense because it’s just him. Just Spencer, the man who has a key to your apartment and alphabetizes your spices and picks you up without hesitation and tells you he loves you at least five times a day.
But that’s exactly why it’s so nerve wracking, maybe.
You look down at the front of his shirt instead of his face. “And I told them yes.”
A beat of silence.
Then, quietly: “Okay.”
You let out a breath that sounds more annoyed than relieved. “No, see, that’s not enough.”
Spencer’s left hand moves from your knee up to your chin, guiding your face up just enough that you have to meet his eyes.
“What do you need me to say?” he asks gently.
“I—” You stop. Try again. “I don’t know. Something normal. Or not normal. Just…” You gesture vaguely between the two of you because apparently language has abandoned you. “They asked and I said yes and now I’m in my head about it because we’ve never actually said so out loud in those words, and I know that’s stupid because, like, obviously we’re serious. Duh. We say I love you. You have a key to my freaking apartment and we haven’t spent a night apart by choice in months. I know what this is. But I just—”
You stop again, mortified.
“It’s not stupid,” he says.
You swallow. “It’s not?”
“Not at all.” His thumb brushes once across your cheek. “And yes. We’re serious.”
The simplicity of it makes your throat go tight.
Spencer gives the smallest, softest little playful shrug. “I mean, think about it. You have a key to my apartment too.”
You almost laugh. It comes out sounding too close to a sigh.
Spencer watches your face for a second, then adds, quieter, “I think about it all the time, you know. How serious this is for me. How serious you are to me.” He glances down for half a second, then back up. “But I didn’t know if saying that would make you feel pressured, so I was trying very hard to let you get there however you needed to.”
Something in your chest folds in on itself.
It’s not even the serious part that gets you, not really. You already knew that. It’s the rest of it — the fact that he’s been thinking about it too; the fact that he’s been intentionally careful not to crowd you into saying something before you were ready. It’s so unfairly him that, for a second, all you can do is stare.
You look at him for a second too long, then reach for the front of his shirt and tug.
He comes without resistance, mouth brushing yours, soft and warm and patient.
The kiss deepens slowly. His hand slides to your waist and yours goes into his hair, because you like the little sound it pulls from him. You slide your other hand down his chest, mouth skimming his jaw, and in your softest, most shameless voice, you ask, “Are you going to fuck me now, or do I need to make a more persuasive argument?”
Spencer closes his eyes and laughs softly against your cheek. “No, angel, I’m not.”
You blink. “Rude.”
“You’re drunk,” he reminds you softly.
“I’m also charming.”
“You are,” he agrees.
“So—”
“So no.”
You grumble. “You hate joy, Spencer Reid.”
“I love joy,” he insists. “I’m a huge fan of joy. I’m less of a fan of taking advantage of you when you’ve had too much whiskey.”
You squint at him. “What if I said ‘make love’ instead? Does that move the needle at all?”
Spencer actually breaks at that, shoulders shaking with a laugh he tries and fails to suppress.
“No,” he says, still smiling, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck. “It doesn’t.”
You sigh dramatically. “This relationship is so one-sided.”
“That is an absurd statement and you know it,” he says with a laugh, and leans in again — one long, slow kiss that leaves your knees weak and your head warm. When he finally pulls back, he brushes his thumb over your bottom lip. “Try again when you’re sober. I’ll do anything you ask.”
You smirk. “Anything? That’s a very dangerous offer.”
Spencer stands, mouth twisted in an exasperated grin. “Go brush your teeth, silly girl.”
You glare. He waits. You lose and grumble dramatically as you trudge into the bathroom.
Eventually, exhaustion starts to take hold. Spencer helps you out of your clothes, hands you one of his old shirts, gets you under the blankets. He climbs in beside you after turning off the lamp, and the room goes dark around the warm shape of him.
You roll toward him instinctively, your body finding his like a puzzle piece. His arm settles around you as you lay your head on his chest and tangle your legs with his. The two of you fit together too easily now, which is still a bit alarming if you think about it for too long.
For a minute, neither of you says anything.
Then you murmur, already half gone, “You liked when I called you baby.”
Spencer’s chest rises under your cheek with a silent laugh. “Maybe a little.”
You smile into his shirt. “Knew it.”
“You’re not going to start calling me that all the time now, are you?”
“God no. You know how I feel about using pet names.” You tilt your head just enough to look at him in the dark. “But… maybe sometimes.”
Spencer’s hand slides up your back, slow and warm. “I’ll take it.”
His breathing evens out under your ear. Yours follows a second later.
“Sweet dreams,” he whispers sleepily. “Love you.”
Your heart still flutters in that same embarrassing way it did the first time he said those words.
“Love you too,” you whisper back.
Tomorrow, you’ll wake up and remember enough of this to want to throw yourself violently into the Potomac. You’ll remember the bar and the interrogation and the pet name and the failed attempt at seduction and the deeply incriminating declarations of emotional seriousness.
But that’s a problem for tomorrow’s version of you. Tonight, Spencer’s body is warm against yours, his mouth is still soft from kissing you, and the awful, frightening shape of your future no longer feels quite so awful or frightening when it’s lying here breathing beside you.
Serious, you think, right before sleep pulls you under.
Yeah.
That sounds about right.
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!
i cannot overstate how good it feels to watch older movies where the actors were still allowed to look kinda weird and not be conventionally attractive. like it is genuinely healing
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My name is Mahmoud Al-Halaq, from Palestine - Gaza - I am 29 years old. This message is addressed to every person who carries compassion, kindness, and love in their heart. After 470 days of war on Gaza, the destruction that has occurred, the displacement we have faced, moving from one place to another, and the loss and death of loved ones and friends, I found myself alone without a home or place, and even the prices of food are astronomical. The world has changed so much that life has become gloomy and boring. Therefore, I ask for your help in rebuilding myself, my life, and my family's life anew. You are our remaining hope in life. If there were an opportunity to work, I would not waste a minute nor ask for help from anyone, but I urgently need assistance for my family, my children, and the women to rebuild what has been destroyed and crushed in this devastating and painful war. Thank you for your time and support; we draw our strength and resilience from your support. 🍉
Hello, my name is Karina. I'm organizing this campaign for Mahmoud Alhallaq, whose previous campaigns have been shut down or have had their
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