๋࣭⭑ atlas : spencer's job is hard, and you're determined to ensure that whatever happens after he comes home is as easy and comforting as it can possibly be
๋࣭⭑ binary stars : spencer x reader (gn)
๋࣭⭑ classification : fluff + comfort
๋࣭⭑ stellar density : 4.5k
๋࣭⭑ omens : a lot of fluff, spencer crying because let's be honest he's got a lot of emotions to get out, non-sexual nudity/showering together, all the cosy things i could think of
๋࣭⭑ message in a bottle : so apparently i write for spencer now ??? i've had so many ideas for him floating around in my head bcs @ambiguous-avery and i keep yapping nonstop about him LMAO (and while you're here, PLEASE PRETTY PLEASE go check out their spencer fics !!!)
๋࣭⭑ taglist ༊彡 masterlist
The knock on your apartment door is gentle, almost hesitant, like whoever is knocking is afraid to disrupt some kind of silence. There’s a moment where it’s completely quiet, the air in and around the apartment holding it breath, giving it space to exist in the late evening hours. The next knock follows just a moment later, a lilting pattern that’s become your secret code. So that you know it’s really him and not something that’s followed him home from work and lives in the dark spaces between your light and his. Your voice is muffled by the heavy door, but Spencer knows what you’re saying, because it’s the same thing every time; door’s locked, come in. There’s a shuffling muffled by wood, a slide of metal on metal, and a quiet snick as the mechanisms inside the lock turn to open the door, gliding smoothly against each other.
The hinges perform their usual creaking dance as the door opens, their soft duet with the footsteps on the floor a familiar comfort to you now. Spencer has a specific rhythm he moves in after long cases, and tonight is like all the others. First, his bag is placed by the door, open and sorted through to assure the contents are ordered correctly. Next, his coat slides off his shoulders, forming an orderly ghost on the rack next to yours. Then, his converse come off, laces neatly tucked away and alighted with your own shoes, matching coloured laces reflecting the light. Finally, after he’s assured everything is in order, he moves from the hall to the main room, in search of you.
Tonight, you’re sitting at the kitchen counter, one leg crunched up in a position that looks painful but probably isn’t. You’re reading something on your phone, no doubt something you’ll tell him about later whether he’s interested in it or not; he’s always fascinated when it comes to your interests. There’s a pot on the stovetop, and Spencer can hear the faint bubbling of it like muted conversation. The stack of pages in his arms is deposited gently on the table, and your eyes finally drift up to meet his, soft meeting exhausted.
“Hi,” you murmur.
“Hi,” he replies, equally quiet.
“Tea or coffee?” you ask, smiling at the way his shoulders slump at the familiarity of the question.
It’s a litmus test you’d created together as an indirect way to check up on the other without giving away details you’re not ready to say aloud. Tea means a little time to decompress, and a quiet evening curled together, soaking in the warmth you bring each other. Coffee means everything is fine, and that you could go for a little more excitement in your evening by means of a new movie or new adventure. When his eyes turn melted and soft at the question, you know the reply before he even gives it.
“Tea, please,” he says, slouching even further.
“What kind?”
Your voice is kind in the way that almost brings tired tears to his eyes.
“Chamomile?” he asks weakly.
You stand from the chair, walking over to him and slinging your arms around his shoulders, guiding his head to the crook of your neck.
“I love you,” you whisper as he shuffles closer. “Go shower while I finish dinner. Take your time.”
“Okay,” he hums, making no motion to move.
“I can wash your hair,” you offer.
“I- I can do it.”
“I know.”
“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”
You step back just a half step, your hands planted firmly on his arms.
“Do you want me to?” you ask.
“To what?”
“To wash your hair.”
For a moment, he’s still, the only sounds being his breathing mixing in time with yours and the low boil of soup. His soft doe eyes flick to yours and away again, dropping to the floor as he nods shyly.
“Are you sure it’s okay?” he asks.
You softly kiss his cheek, turning it a soft pink.
“It’s always okay,” is your reply.
Spencer makes a soft noise, something that sounds like acceptance with the tiniest hint of guilt. You catch the guilt, soothing it away with another kiss, this time to the opposite cheek.
“Go get ready,” you say. “I’ll be right there.”
“Are you sure?” he asks again, because he needs to be absolutely certain he’s not burdening you with things you don’t want to handle.
“Mhm.” He can hear the smile in your tone. “Always.”
Spencer lingers for a moment longer, seemingly unwilling to part from you. He finally does after you squeeze his shoulder, muttering softly to yourself as you shut off the stove. You follow him down the hall, one of your hands resting firm on the small of his back, grounding him through his dress shirt. While he heads right into the bathroom, you make a quick stop in the laundry room, throwing a towel and Spencer’s sleep clothes into the dryer. It chimes happily as you feed it the clothing, the door locking with a determined click when you close it. Back in the bathroom, you bring your own pyjamas inside, setting them on the floor while Spencer meticulously folds his work clothes, a desperate attempt to regain whatever control he feels he’s lost. He hovers, watching you undress like you’ll disappear if he looks away for too long.
“Spencer?” you say.
“I- Yes. Hi.”
You offer a smile, so sweet and tender that the only word for it is loving.
“Where’d you go?”
He pauses, sorting his options and deciding on the truth, because you deserve to hear nothing but the truth.
“Just…” he trails off into a heavy silence, leaving you to fill in the planks.
“Okay,” you say, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “C’mon handsome.”
Spencer blushes pink at your compliment, and with his clothes off, you can see the blush moving down his neck that would normally be hidden. Luckily, you’re too focused on the waster temperature to tease him, your soft murmurs as you search for his preferred temperature; warm enough to remind him he’s safe, but cold enough to remind him he’s still alive. The shower rain is interrupted by you stepping under it, muffling a yelp when you realize the water is way too cold, and Spencer has to try very hard not to laugh at your misfortune. You peel back the curtain and beckon Spencer inside after a few more adjustments.
As soon as he’s inside, you move so that he’s under the water. He sighs audibly at the warmth on his back, pattering rainfall washing away his stress, eyes closed and shoulders curling ever inward. He looks impossible small, as close to a scared child as a grown man can be. You feel yourself melting at the sight, and he physically does when your fingers meet his hair and start working the water through his curls. Each press of your fingers to his scalp soothes him more, and by the time you’re reaching for his shampoo, he’s learning almost all of his weight on you, head resting on your shoulder. The opening of the bottle lid cracks like a firework, loud and unwelcome, but the flood of his shampoo scent makes up for it; warm, slightly sweet, smelling entirely like home and comfort. It’s blissfully comfortable in here, under your touch, under your loving hands.
The only sign Spencer is still conscious is the soft sob he bites back the moment it escapes.
“You’re okay,” you murmur into his ear. “’S okay Spence, you’re home.”
“I know,” he says, voice thick yet not entirely convinced.
“Yeah?” you say, adjusting his head.
He puffs a watery sigh, clearing his throat decisively. He’ll probably talk about it later, but words have no space in here right now. He settles instead of nodding and shuffling slightly closer, basking in your warmth. Each pas of your hands through his curls as you wash the soap out chokes him up a little further, and he’s painfully aware of how helpful the water is in hiding his tears.
When he’s fully cleaned off, you leave him a few minutes to himself for soaking while you go fetch his towel and clothes. You say his name with cautious care when you return to avoid spooking him, the only acknowledgement being the shower turning off and his hand peeling back the curtain before wrapping around himself again. Your arms are spread wide and he walks right into them, collapsing against you as you wrap him in the towel.
“It’s warm,” he comments.
“Mhm. Put it in the dryer for a moment.”
He makes another wounded noise, throat tight. The feeling of your arms around his body, warm and solid, drag and uneven breath out of him. You smile, laughing softly as you towel him dry, only stepping out in order to give him privacy as he changes.
You’re back at the stove when he returns, stirring the pot with a wooden spoon, the steam curling up around your face like a halo. The clean shirt and flannel pants you set out for him also carry the warmth of your dryer, achingly gentle in his heart as he envelops himself further in your domesticity. The stool creaks a little as he sits down, the wobbly leg slamming into the floor harder than he intended. If you’re mad about the sound, you don’t say anything, instead opting to grab the good bowls for the soup, placing one in front of him with a soft clink.
“Open,” you say, bringing the soup ladle toward him.
He’s about to ask why, but when he sees that you’ve made his favourite soup recipe he got for you from Rossi, he opens his mouth for you without question. It burns his tongue a little, but he’s so beyond grateful for the taste of something made with love that he barely even registers the discomfort. When it hits his stomach, a gooey warmth floods him, ocean waves of home tugging at his body until he gives in and floats away.
“Good?” you ask, watching him.
“Very,” he replies, blinking. “It’s hot.”
You giggle. “Well, yeah. It’s boiling.”
You side a cup of water across the counter that he drinks gratefully, soothing his burned tongue and throat.
“Eat here or out there?” you ask, jutting your thumb to the couch.
Spencer evaluates his options with the kind of serious calculation he leaves only for your questions. Eating on the couch means he can wrap up in blankets and keep you tucked close, your head a grounding weight. But, eating on the couch means you’re both more likely to spill, given the liquid nature of soup and the uneven surface properties of your thrift store couch and wonky coffee table. Sitting at the counter guarantees a safter surface, dramatically reducing the chances of a spill. He’ll just have to settle for the only physical touch being your knees resting together under the countertop.
“Here,” he finally answers, still uncertain. “It’s more stable and I don’t want your couch to have soup spilled all over it.”
You nod, accepting. “Get cozy.”
The soup is ladled into bowls and placed in your spots, two spoons following, and two crumpled napkins ending the setup. Then, decisively like you’d read his mind and planned this all along, you slide your chair next to his.
“Scootch over,” you say, nudging him with your hip.
Immediately, his chair scrapes clumsily on the floor to make room, his hand pulling your chair close enough to be content. As soon as you sit, he curls into you, resting his head on your shoulder, damp hair tickling your neck. Your hum reverberates in Spencer’s chest, and he’s fairly certain if kept up long enough, it would have healing properties like a cat’s purr.
“Y’okay?” you ask, ruffling his hair.
“Mhm.” He sighs, heavily, the stress melting from him bit by bit until the knot in his chest feels just a little looser.
“Bad case?”
He shrugs. “Guess so.”
“Nothing wrong with saying that.”
“I know. Saying it just makes it more real, I suppose.”
You kiss the top of his head. “Wanna talk about it?”
“Not really.”
“Is there a happy ending?”
His silence says everything and more. The heavy pause fills the room wall to wall, leaving barely any space for anything else. It crowds you and him out, pressing against his skin until it aches, and until the reminder of his failure is settled heavily in his soul.
“’S not your fault, y’know,” you say as you take a spoonful of soup.
“I was meant to talk him down.”
“And did you?”
“…Not well.”
You frown. “What’s that mean?”
Spencer’s fingers leave the spoon and opt to twist with each other in his lap, nails starting to pick at his cuticles. You give him a few minutes to collect his thoughts before your hands grab his, intertwining his fingers with yours and squeezing tightly.
“I- I did talk. For a while, actually.”
When you say nothing, he continues.
“It was just- his mental barriers are- were very strong. He was able to keep it all locked up tight, and breaking that resulted in a breakdown. I pushed too hard.”
Your hand tightens reassuringly in his.
“It just didn’t matter, in the end. It wasn’t enough for him.”
“Spence?”
“Hm?”
Your hands cup his face, thumbs stroking cheekbones, dipping into dark circles and sweeping along rosy warmth. One thumb passes over a silvery scar, and you smile fondly.
“Did he listen? When you spoke?”
Spencer pauses. “For a while.”
“Then it meant something.”
“He still-.”
“Sweetheart,” you say. “Sometimes people decide they’re going to do something no matter what.”
“I know.”
“And sometimes,” you interrupt kindly. “Someone talking in their last moments makes them feel alive. You don’t have to change everyone’s mind, Spence. You just have to remind them they’re human.”
Spencer goes quiet, the kind where he’s internalizing something, making it rational and real, something more than just a string of words.
“Look,” you say. “All you can offer is comfort. Something to remind them they’re not alone. I know you can do that.”
“Even if it didn’t change the outcome?”
“Especially then.”
You lean closer, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead, lips brushing the furrow in his brow.
“Whatever happened today changes nothing to me. I still love you, I know you did your best, and I’m still right here.”
Spencer heaves a shuddering breath, hands trembling faintly in his lap. You tilt his head up to find his bottom lip trapped between his teeth in an effort to keep it from trembling too. Another forehead kiss and a half-choked sob breaks free, his body crunching in on itself like he’s recoiling from a shot. You lean his body into yours just like in the shower; one hand on his back, the other buried in his hair as his head rests in the crook of your neck. You rock slowly side to side, stroking his hair that’s still slightly damp and slides nicely through your fingers.
“You’re okay,” you murmur.
“I’m okay.”
You nod, squeezing the hug tighter. “You’re okay, you’re home, you’re safe.”
He’s quiet for a moment. Then, so soft you barely hear it, he whispers one word into the skin of your neck.
“Promise?”
Your heart shatters, pulling him tighter to you so that you can envelop as much of him as possible. Your smell surrounds him, warm and safe and you.
“Promise. Always promise.”
Spencer breaks quietly, a rock sinking gracefully to the sea floor, the ripples only big enough for you to see them and follow them to him. You cradle him to your chest, feeling his tears wet your skin as he clings tighter.
“I gotcha,” you murmur, soft and safe and so tender it hurts his chest more than his quiet sobs do.
He nuzzles closer to you, noes pressing to your neck and mouth muffled in your shirt, quieting the last dregs of already quiet sobs. With each slow movement of your body’s pendulum motion, your voice is whispering reassurances, and your lips are pressing gentle kisses to his teary cheeks and his hair. You don’t rush him, and he doesn’t make nay indication he’s moving; you just exist in each other’s orbits, lines of yourself molding into one being, the best part of the both of you tangling together. His empathy and your sympathy. Your rationality to his emotionality. Everything that makes him cry meeting every part of your comfort. Spencer feels softer than he ever has before, because nowhere will ever be as safe as home in your arms.
Finally, after what was several minutes and only felt like half a moment, Spencer’s head tilts up from its burrow in your neck. You hum lightly at the feeling of his weight leaving, letting him pull as far out of your arms as he wants. He sniffles heavily, taking the tissue you hand him and wiping his nose. He uses the backs of his hands to wipe his eyes, knuckles scraping on rough, red skin. Spener clears his throat a few times as your hands finish wiping stray tears, and he laughs a little in embarrassment.
“I’m sorry,” he apologizes.
“God, Spence, don’t apologize.”
“I- okay.”
He sniffs again, looking at his shoes.
“You needed that, hm?” you ask, rubbing the back of his hand with your thumb.
“Actually, crying releases hormones that help with emotional regulation. Many people report fewer negative emotions after crying.”
You’re watching him, fond and soft, listening to every word just to dissipate it all with one statement.
“So yes, you did need that.”
He blushes. “Yea, I did.”
“C’mere,” you say, tugging at his hands until he follows you to your feet. He’s standing a little taller now, like the weight compressing his spine as been lifted.
“What are you doing?” he asks as you loop your arms around his middle.
“That thing,” you offer unhelpfully. “Deep…uh. Deep something, I forget.”
Spencer laughs low in his throat, soft as ever. “Deep pressure therapy?”
“Yeah, that.”
“You know, it’s actually-.”
He’s cut off abruptly by your arms spreading over as much of his back as you can, squeezing him tight to your chest. He’s stiff for a moment, taken aback by the pressure and the abruptness of it all. Slowly, his arms land on your waist, resting there as you scoop him up into the biggest bear hug of his entire life. You eventually part with one last squeeze and a soft kiss to his lips that make them tingle pleasantly.
“Better?” you ask, turning to the table and grabbing his bowl.
“Much.” He goes to sit and take a spoonful of soup, finding both his bowl and spoon are gone. “What’re you doing?”
“Reheating your soup,” you say easily, sticking both bowls in the microwave and setting the timer, the hum loud in the kitchen space.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
You shrug, leaning on your elbows. “I know. I wanted to.”
“Why?”
“For you.”
“Why-.”
“Because you’ve had a right day and because I love you.”
Another pause follows, the air hesitating.
“Why…”
You sigh in mock exasperation, grinning widely. “Do you ever stop asking questions?”
Spencer returns your grin, brighter than he’s looked all evening. “No.”
Just then, your eyes light up like you’ve discovered some secret he doesn’t know about. “I know what you can do, though.”
“What?” he says, excitedly.
“Sit down,” you say, pushing him into the chair. “Let yourself be cared for,” you say with a kiss. “And let me love you like you deserve.”
He gives you a weak glare. “You could just tell me to stop talking.”
“I don’t want you to stop talking, I want you to stop pretending you feel perfectly normal.”
That shuts him up quick, because you are right and there’s only so long he can argue before giving in and letting you win. Before he can think of more to say, the microwave beeps and you’re sliding soup in front of him again, spoon in his hand as he eyes it. The soup is gone in minutes, Spencer not quite realizing how hungry he really was until he finally started eating. Normally, you’d make a joke about slowing down, but tonight doesn’t feel like the night for it.
He sits with his head on your shoulder while he waits for you to finish, the heat of the soup in his stomach and the emotional drain of crying starting to lull him into a half-asleep state. He doesn’t even realize you’re done until you’re tapping his shoulder and he’s stirring with a soft groan.
“Still with me?” you ask lightly.
“Mhm,” he sighs, sitting up and rubbing at his puffy eyes.
“Bed?”
He nods, stretching out like a cat and curling back in. His next question, asked so softly you almost miss it, makes your heart burst in light.
“Read to me?”
You hesitate, not because you don’t want to, but because it’s him. “Haven’t you memorized every book we own?”
He shrugs, starting into your eyes so tenderly they need to make a new word for it.
“Not in your voice.”
The admission makes your soul feel important for the first time in way too long. Spener, the boy with the eidetic memory, who knows every word to every line of every book he’s ever read, thinks having them read to him by you means more than his perfect memory of the pages. You can feel your cheeks flush hot at the knowledge, but if he sees it or not is lost on you.
“Pick something then,” you say instead, gesturing to the shelf. “I’ll clean up.”
“Love you,” he mumbles, kissing your cheek before hopping out of his chair and scurrying to the bookshelf.
The faint sounds of your movement in the kitchen perfectly fill in the stillness between Spencer’s own movements. The clink of spoon on bowl in the pauses as he thinks, the soft hush of water under his breathing as he mutters to himself about each book. Eventually, quiet conversation fills the space, two separate ones who’s answers flood together until the commentary sounds like two people talking to each other. You’re commentating the dishes, chastising the water that flies off the spoons and hushing the bowls that touch too loudly. Spencer is relaying the plot of the book to you, knowing you’re listening just to hear the sound of his voice. He digs through his shelves, unsatisfied, until he finds something tucked behind a copy of The Odyssey; a collection of children’s stories, with a foreword about the history of illustrated novels, gifted to him by his mother. It features her careful handwriting noting his childhood commentary on the margins of almost every page.
“Find something?” you say, startling him a little.
“Jesus, you scared me.”
“Sorry.” You peer closer at the tan cover in his hands, reading the title. “Is that Beatrix Potter?”
He’s quiet, face flushed a deep red, turning the book away in his arms to hide it from your gaze.
“Spencer, these are great. What’s up?”
He shrugs, trying to be casual and landing somewhere in the realm of petrified.
“They’re children’s stories,” he says like that changes everything.
“So?”
“So…I’m not a child.”
“I know.”
He makes a frustrated noise in his chest. It’s not at you, it never is. Rather, it’s t he fact that for all his might he can’t figure out how to put it into words that he should be past the children’s story phase. Yet the fact you’ve still offered to read something he holds such fond memories of makes every argument he had disappear from his mind.
“DO you want to read it?”
Your voice snaps hm back. “What?”
“Do you want me to read it to you?”
Spener swallows anxiously, though he’s not sure why he’s afraid.
“Would you?” he asks softly.
“’Course I would. They’re good stories. Bedisdes, you need something lighter tonight.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Spencer hands you the book, rising to his feet and clearing his throat.
“Just don’t make it weird. Please. I’m not a kid.”
You smile reassuringly. “I know, sweetheart. It won’t be weird.”
Spencer takes your free hand in his, his thumb tracing over the mountain ranges of your knuckles. His footsteps pad lightly down the hall in time with yours, socked feet whispering in rhythm the way they only do because you’ve spent so long around each other. His flannel pyjama pants hush soft too, reeds in the water of your apartment’s oasis. The hall feels both endless and barely a step long, Spencer getting lost in his thoughts as you walk the few steps to your bedroom.
Cracking the door open, you let him in first, watching as he climbs into bed, throwing the sheets over his legs and sighting when he gets comfortable. You close the blinds over your window, lighting the bedside lamp and taking note of how kindly the light caresses Spencer’s face. The edge of his nose is lit up gold, soft eyes reflecting it back too. When he smiles at you, his eyes light up with love amidst the hazel, reminding you exactly why you love him.
“Scootch over,” you say, crawling into bed beside him.
He’s adjusted the pillows your for already, learning them against the headboard so that you can comfortably read. You already know where he’ll move before he does; you register his pillow right in place for your head at the exact moment he throws an arm over you and rests his head on your chest.
“Are you comfy?” he asks when you’re settled in.
“Mhm,” you reply. “Are you?”
Spener answers by snuggling closer with a satisfied groan.
“Good,” you say, ruffling his hair.
You’re about to flip past the foreword when Spencer’s eyes ask you to read it without his voice saying the words. You adjust seamlessly, clearing your throat as you start with the foreword. With your hand carding through his curls and your voice vibrating in his ears, spencer falls asleep faster than he has in years; before you’re finished the foreword, he’s already snoring impossibly soft against your chest, fingers twined carefully in your shirt. You finish the entire first section just in case, but when he doesn’t wake, you set it on the table and turn out the lamp, slowly easing yourself down the mattress until you’re lying comfortably. Spencer doesn’t stir, and it’s not long before you drift off with him after pressing a final kiss to the top of his head.
tags : use the taglist form or send me a comment/ask/dm to be added to spencer reid taglist !!
adores quick kisses, stolen sneakily in passing – to the cheek, to the lips, to his jaw (especially to the curve of his jaw) – when he is always rushing about from apartment to office to the plane, he cherishes any modicum of affection he can get.
he is always fidgeting, so any time he can fidget with something, he will take it. if your fingers are free, they are is prime target; tracing them, comparing them to his own, drawing patterns that feel like equations across your palm.
he finds showering relaxing. He still can’t turn his brain off, but the warm, steady flow of water is calming, helping to separate time at work from time at home, especially after a flight. it’s more effective when you join him, massaging the shampoo into his scalp and him running the washcloth over your shoulders. it’s like meditation.
spencer can sometimes struggle to sleep, that is not a secret. he can toss and turn and stare at the ceiling in bed for hours until his mind lets him fall asleep and stay that way. he’s found pressure helps – a heavy blanket that he can curl up into a ball beneath. as soon as you enter his life, you become that blanket. he will tangle your legs with his, tuck you into his chest, and sleep far more soundly like that – a mess of long limbs wrapped around you.
has a killer sweet tooth, and while he usually has an aversion to shared food, he will share his sweet treats with you. in the early days he does not go so far as to share a fork with you, but further into your relationship he has been known to hold his desserts up to your lips for tasting, fork or fingers, he doesn’t mind.
his favorite late-night indian place becomes your regular spot – it makes sense, given that his strange, unpredictable working hours means planning dates is far from an exact science. it’s comfort and predictability, everything he loves. he stops asking the team to go with him, securing it as your special place.
spencer never lost his love of being read to, and he would ask, sheepishly, in the beginning if you would read aloud when he caught you with a book. the quiet propositions settled into him laying his head in your lap when a tome was balanced in your palms, waiting patiently for your story to begin and your fingers to find his hair.
he’s tall, almost prohibitively so, often slouching or stooping his shoulders so as to not stand out quite so much. he straightens quickly when he sees you across a room, so you might spot him (you do, of course), and stoops only to brush your hairline with his lips when no one is looking.
while tall, he has no aversion to being the little spoon. whether you’re curled against his back with your nose pressed to his spine, or he’s tucked into the crook of your shoulder with his cheek smooshed against your chest, he doesn’t mind. after so long alone, it’s simply nice to be held again.
it would be impossible for him to have written his daily letters to his mother without mentioning you. your name appeared scarcely at first – a slow means of introduction, drops of your habits, fragments of his feelings. by the time he finds the courage to introduce you, diana understands your small intricacies perfectly, can recognise the tiny eccentricities spencer found that you’d become blind to – each loved in equal measure – that it feels as if she had somehow known you for years.
having spent so much time looking after his mother, and in spite of his frequent interjection of fact and statistic, there are few better nurses than spencer. be it a simple cold or a chronic illness, he tends to every whim, every ache, whenever he physically can.
clumsy, clumsy, clumsy. there are few words that describe him better. it’s endearing, in truth, but there are moments where you wonder how your giraffe of a man has made it so far with all of his fingers. cooking, in particular, is troubling. burnt fingertips are usually the extent of your concerns. he is lucky those deep, wet, puppy dog eyes are so sweet as you force his hand under a cold running tap and fetch the aloe vera from the cabinet beside the sink. it’s nothing a kiss better won’t fix.
Hello everyone! This is the first fic that I've really posted on here. Any advice or feedback is more than welcome and appreciated! I hope you enjoy!!! <3
Summary - Despite 100 degree weather and a broken AC unit, nothing could stop Spencer from clinging to you.
Tags & Warnings - Fluff, Not proof read, gn!reader, alludes to sex but no smut written but you can tell he’s a sub. this is me coping with cali's hot ass weather, might be OOC but idc. Pls comment if I'm missing something
WC - 844
Summer. A beautiful time of year when the sun is out, children are giggling as they play tag whilst you walk past them hand in hand with your boyfriend in the park, flowers blooming. It's perfect. Or, it would be if it weren't for the one hundred and six degrees of weather outside with a clingy, cuddly boyfriend. And of course, with your luck, a very broken air conditioner.
Most days, you'd be more than grateful for your sweet Spencer to have a rare day off. He worked oh so hard, but he deserved a nice day to relax (and spend his time with you. It was a very VERY late night for you two when he came home tired and needy for whatever you would be willing to give him).
It's almost lunchtime when you're finally able to bring your body to wake up, attempting to lift your arms above your head to stretch out your aching bones. The keyword was attempt. With your tired eyes barely open due to the bright sunlight cracking through the blinds, it's not the arms wrapped tightly around your torso, the legs intertwined with yours, or even the face shoved into your neck, soft snores and breaths vibrating on unclothed skin. It's the sweltering heat you feel all over your body. The clamminess you feel all over your skin. It's gross, sweaty, and all Spencer's fault. Okay, well maybe it's not completely his fault. After he arrived home late from a week-long case last night, you two were so… distracted by one another that you ran into the window AC unit while trying to get to the bedroom, your lips on one another.
You almost want to smile at the thought. Almost. But your train of thought is immediately crushed when the body on top of yours grasps on tighter, sleepy mumbles coming from Spencer's mouth. You whine, attempting to push his body off of yours.
“Spencer… honey, get off of me… It's too hot to cuddle.”
The only reply you get is a breathy half-snore, half-grumble coming from Spencer. He somehow holds onto you tighter. God, it's so fucking hot in this apartment.
“Mmph- Spencer. Spence. I'm serious. It's way too hot to cuddle right now. Go lay on your side of the bed!”
“Nooo… love you so much… s’not even that hot… oh you're so comfy, angel,” Spencer speaks tiredly into your neck, sighing like a sleepy puppy. You loved him to death, and while it took a while into your relationship for him to get touchy and as cuddly as he is today, having him wrapped around you felt nice.
But not as nice as the opportunity to not be sweaty.
You sigh, nails scratching gently across his back; you could feel it on his skin. He was just as hot and clammy as you. But Spencer couldn't care less. You're in his arms after a week-long case, and honestly? As much as he hated germs and most bodily fluids, he didn't mind your sweat. It's you. And he loves every single part of you.
Surprisingly, you're able to last at least five more minutes before you attempt to remove yourself from the blistering warmth of your boyfriend's skin before you feel the need to use the restroom. ‘Perfect,’ you think. You know Spencer well enough to know that he'd let you up for that, not wanting you to get a UTI, or one of the other hundreds of things that could happen to you if you held it in too long. But hey, it could work. He'd probably spend so much time rambling about it that you'd be able to sneak away from under him.
“Honey… Honey, watch out… I need to pee, scootch over.” And little to your surprise, it works.
Spencer groans, but almost immediately he lets go, scooting over with a sleepy pout. His body is no longer on top of yours, but he lets his hand rest on your stomach still. His voice is still raspy and pleading
“Promise you'll come back?”
“Hmm… Fine. But only if you call someone to fix the AC? I love you, but I'd rather die than cuddle you in this heat right now. No offense.” You chuckle with a smile, pressing a kiss to his cheek before standing up, finally able to comfortably stretch your arms over your head. You chuckle, rolling your eyes at his non-subtle ogling.
“Doctor Reid? Did you hear anything I just said?”
“Hmm? Oh- Uh- Yeah… yeah just… enjoying the view?” he asks awkwardly in an attempt to save himself, already grabbing his phone to call someone to fix the air conditioner.
You let out a snort, rolling your eyes as you toss a pillow at him.
“I'm gonna go take a shower. Call someone to fix the AC. And maybe if you're quick, you can join me. Hm?”
He was on the phone before you could even walk across the room, not turning around to see the big smile on his face. Maybe the heat wasn't so bad.
synopsis: when spencer comes home from a rough case in the middle of the night tired and injured, he wants nothing more than to spend the day in bed with you (and to make you breakfast)
genre: fluff !
wc: 1.6k
notes/tags: another sleepy spence fic? from cherrygarcia-07? its likelier than you think, im so sorry that im always writing him hurt i promise i love him, spencer has Anxiety, puppy coded! spencer strikes again
masterlist // pls reblog if you enjoy it helps promote the fic so much !!
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It was odd. You were sure you’d fallen asleep in a bigger bed than you’d woken up in. Now that you think about it, the bed was colder last night too. You blinked awake slowly, adjusting to the amber glow peeking through the blinds, listening to the distant sound of the world waking up outside. The sun. Of course. That must be why it felt so warm. Yet as you caught up with your consciousness you became aware of a weight over your waist, small, rhythmic puffs of air against the back of your neck. Your lips melted into a sleepy smile as you realised.
Spencer.
He must’ve come home in the middle of the night, careful not to wake you as he climbed into bed beside you. You could picture him, all heavy limbs weighed down with exhaustion and tie discarded on the sofa somewhere in the dark as he shuffled like a zombie into your shared room. It was never easy for him, coming home this late. The team usually stayed overnight wherever they were when a case ended deep in the night, opting to make it home for the morning instead. Whatever case they’d been working on must’ve been harrowing enough that they just wanted to get away as fast as possible.
You stretched as much as you could without stirring him, delighting in his sleepy grumble as he dreamily nuzzled further into you. From the way he had anchored himself to you, you could tell this was a much needed rest. You lay there for a while just listening to him, to the steady sound of his breathing and the occasional murmurs and mumbles that accompanied them, before you found yourself itching with the urge to see his face. Slowly, cautiously, you turned over in his grasp, cringing at every creak of the mattress and each rustle of sheets. Ah, there he is.
There was a graze on his cheek, red and raw and stinging- but he was alive. A cut curved over his lip, dark, dried blood making it look worse than it probably was but it made your chest tighten all the same. His hair fanned out over the pillow behind him, a little stringy like he’d been too drained to wash it. You made a note to do it for him when he was ready. Gently, you let your finger hover over the deep purple beneath his eyes, confirmation that this was probably the first decent sleep he’d gotten all week. Spencer’s cheekbones were always prominent. You always told him it made him look like a statue, carved and chiseled like he belonged in a museum. Yet now as the rising sunlight found them, the shadows beneath them looking darker and more hollow than usual- he looked frail.
You lay there for a while, just observing. It was something he often did to you after a bad case, too hyper vigilant to let himself rest. He needed the confirmation that you were okay, he needed to see the rise and fall of your chest to steady his own. It wasn’t often that it was the other way round.
“How long have you been watching me?” A low voice mumbled. It was thin and gravelly, like he’d been yelling until it broke.
“Hm?” You looked up from where you’d been staring at the split in his lip to find two half-lidded eyes squinting at you. “I haven’t been.”
Spencer let out a small huffed laugh. “That’s funny. I could’ve sworn I’ve been feeling your breath on my face for the past five minutes.”
“Nope. Must’ve dreamt it.” He began to smile but began wincing where his lip clearly stung. You kept your voice gentle as you swiped your thumb across it. “Are you okay?”
He groaned, like he deliberated answering and ultimately decided against it. Instead he lifted his arm from your waist, beckoning you closer against his chest. “Come here.”
You obliged, biting back your insistence and cuddling into him. He’d tell you when he was ready. For now, you allowed yourself to sink into him, feeling his arms wrap around you as you slung your legs over his. It’d been a long case. Too many nights of falling asleep in an empty bed, of not waking to the smell of coffee that always seemed to cling to him. Spencer’s knuckles began grazing up and down your spine, a hypnotic rhythm threatening to lull you back to sleep right there.
He let out a content sigh, mumbling to himself. “I think I’m going to stay home today.”
“What?” Your eyes shot open. In all the years you’d known him, he’d never ever taken a day off for himself. For his mother? Of course. For you? In a heartbeat. But you were convinced he would rather crawl into work straight from his deathbed than to simply exist at home with nothing important to do. Rolling off of him slightly, you propped yourself up so that your face hovered over his, narrowed eyes squinting down at him. “Who are you and what have you done with my boyfriend?”
He pouted, as if the sudden absence of you in his arms was physically breaking his heart. “I got my report done on the jet. I don’t have any paperwork that needs doing.” He reached out, desperately trying to guide you back to him and pouting even more when you stayed put. “I just really want to stay home today.”
“And do what?” You asked, leaning down and giving him a peck on the tip of his nose to appease the big, sad eyes he was giving you.
“Nothing.” He shrugged.
“Nothing?” Your eyebrows shot up, scandalised. “Pigs must be flying.”
Spencer chuckled, wincing as his split lip protested. “The idea of laying on the sofa in my pyjamas with you and catching up on Doctor Who is far more appealing to me than sitting at my desk for eight hours while everyone fails to pretend the past week didn’t happen. And for once, I have an opportunity to do the former.”
“The case was that bad?” You asked softly. You tried to soothe him, gently brushing back his sleep-tousled hair from his forehead, but his gaze dropped.
“Can you please just come here?” His voice was small as his big eyes found you again, his arm reaching for you once more and this time you let him pull you back into the warmth of his chest.
“So I’m not allowed to get up and make you breakfast?” You muffled into his shirt.
His arms wrapped even tighter around you. “I can make my own breakfast. And yours too while I’m up.”
You tried to lift your head up, but you found it pinned beneath his chin, breath fanning over the flushed skin of his neck. “What happened to doing nothing?”
“I am doing nothing.” He retorted, and though you couldn’t see his face you could tell his eyebrows had pinched. After so long, you could practically hear it in his voice, in the way his inflection rose ever so slightly. The perfect foundation for teasing him.
“Well,” you began, smiling against his neck, “‘doing nothing’ implies lying here motionless. Not getting up, not moving, not talking- definitely not making us both breakfast. Literally ‘doing nothing’. Unless of course you meant it figuratively- but that’s not what you said so…”
“Are you-“ Spencer let out a sharp laugh, his chest jostling beneath you. “Are you really arguing semantics with me right now so that I’ll let you make me breakfast?”
“Depends.” Finding your strength, you untangled yourself from his grasp just enough to hover your face over his again. “Is it working?”
“No.” He laughed again, a grin growing on his face much to the misfortune of his split lip. “But it was a very cute attempt.”
A tiny drop of blood emerged from the cut, making you cringe with concern as you lifted your thumb to it and swiped it away. As the sun continued to flood the room, the graze on his cheek seemed darker, angrier where it intruded his skin. Even the way he clung to you felt pained, desperation worsening his aching bones as he fastened you to him like he’d fall apart without you. Whatever happened must’ve haunted him. He was often a little over protective, a little obsessive over your safety. But it wasn’t often that he was afraid to let you out of his sight, especially in your own apartment.
“You want me to come with you?” Your hand drifted to his cheek, sweeping over the raw skin as gently as you could. “Make breakfast together?”
Beneath you, Spencer’s chest deflated like he was exhaling all the terror that had flooded his lungs over the past week. He took your hand from his cheek, bringing it to his lips and pressing a thankful kiss to your knuckles. “Please.”
“Alright.” You flashed him a smile, kissing his lips before pulling away with a teasing glimmer in your eyes. “You can do that thing where you hug me from behind like a koala and pretend to be helpful while I do all the work.”
“What?” He squeaked, following you as you hopped out of bed. “I do not do that.”
You turned the corner into the kitchen, laughing as he followed at your heel like a puppy. “You totally do. I bet you the last pancake in the stack that you do.”
“Deal.” He scoffed. “I can’t wait to eat that last pancake.”
spencer reid x fem!reader ; non bau reader , est./hidden relationship , reader wears perfume , fluff
˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀ w. none! wc. 915
note ; lowk hate the ending but i don't want to rewrite it 😭
Due to the demanding nature of Spencer’s job, he’s up and out the door before you’ve even had a cup of coffee.
Mornings spent at his place usually start with you groggily stirring your cereal with your spoon, too sleepy to even solve the maze on the back of the cereal box, while watching Spencer scramble about the apartment, shoving books and files he brought home to finish into his messenger bag. However, no matter how much of a rush he's in, he’ll always stop in front of the door, and look at you with puppy eyes if you take too long, for a kiss on the cheek goodbye, which always ends up as three or four kisses goodbye.
So it’s much to his surprise when he wakes up to an empty bed and footsteps outside the bedroom door one morning. He lets out a soft groan, pushing himself up and rubbing the sleepiness from his eyes. He turns to the clock on his nightstand and suddenly any remnant of fatigue immediately washed away. “Shit!” He mutters, throwing off the covers, “I slept in!”
“Morning, sleepyhead. It's about time you got up.” You greet him with an amused smile when he runs into the living room, tie loose and shirt untucked after getting ready in record time. He mutters back a “morning” as he quickly shoves his books and files and wallet into his bag. You’re already dressed and packed for work, watching him while leisurely sipping your coffee. He nearly trips while putting on his shoes, and his bag is dangerously close to falling off his shoulder while doing so. You let out an endearing sigh as you walk up to him, putting a hand on his shoulder to grab his attention and slow him down.
He straightens up, and you reach for his tie, carefully undoing then retying his tie. He watches you, lips stupidly parted—it’s such a domestic gesture, and he can't help but feel like an old, married couple. “I told you not to stay up working so late last night,” you say, now adjusting his collar, “that you can finish working at work tomorrow. But of course you didn't listen, and now look what happened.” You look up at him with an unamused smile, smoothing his shirt.
He can only nod, now focused on the way the scent of your perfume clings to the air. Vanilla and jasmine. You go quiet, staring back before furrowing your brows. “I know you’ll be late but you need to eat something—”
“It's fine, I’ll eat at the office.” He brushes a strand of hair from your face, still messy despite all the brushing and styling. But the pretty messy; the imperfectly perfect kind of messy. “Promise.” He adds, and you hum in return.
You lean up and press a kiss to his cheek with an exaggerated mwah! noise. “Have a good day,” you say as you giggle at the faint glossy print on his cheek before wiping it off. He replies with a kiss to your cheek and rushes out the door, knowing the last five minutes of ogling his pretty girlfriend made him even more late. (but it was totally worth it!)
He runs from the elevator to the glass doors of the BAU, slowing down as he enters the bullpen. He smiles at his coworkers as he walks past, taking off his messenger as he reaches his desk when a voice interrupts him.
“Hold it, Pretty Boy.”
Spencer sets down his bag and turns around to see his coworkers’ inquisitive expressions. He wonders through all the possibilities that they could possibly have stopped him for, when he remembers… Is the lipgloss mark still there!? He almost reaches up to check, but what if that isn't the reason why? Or even if it was, that’d just be even more suspicious.
“Why do you smell like a vanilla cake?” Morgan—sitting at his desk—asks.
“What?”
“Did you change your cologne? Embracing your feminine side?” Emily asks, then raises her eyebrows with a teasing smile.
“Wha— No!"
Morgan presses again, “Then why do you smell like vanilla?”
Garcia, who’s leaning against Morgan’s desk, crosses her arms and leans forward with a quizzical expression. “...vanilla and jasmine..”
Spencer subconsciously leans away from Garcia and her suspicious eyes, doing his best to lie to a room of people whose job is to literally detect lies. “I must’ve sat next to a lady with strong perfume on the metro earlier.” He says, but the slight rise in the tone of his voice betrays him, and the trio’s eyes immediately light up.
"You are hiding something.” Emily gasps. “Last time when I asked you if you liked anyone, your voice raised like it did just now.”
“It– It did not!”
“‘Man, just admit it. You can't lie to us.” Morgan crosses his arms, a smug grin growing on his face. Then, Garcia gasps dramatically and her smile grows smug. “Oh baby genius. Your words may be lies, however your cheeks always show the truth.” Spencer furrows his brows, raising a hand to his cheek. Is there still remnants of your lipgloss on his face?
“You're blushing so hard it's almost comical.”
“So you do have a girlfriend!” Morgan sits up, eyes shining with mischievous glee. Spencer says nothing, sitting down and hiding himself behind books and paperwork.
Garcia gasps, “oh my gosh, you totally have a girlfriend!”
Spencer sighs, they are not going to let him live this down.
summary: your boyfriend doesn't like seeing you work so late and tries to get you into bed at all costs.
masterlist
Spencer knew that with you, five more minutes never meant anything exact.
There were mornings when you asked to stay in bed for five more minutes and, when the alarm went off again, you convinced him to remain by your side with insistent kisses and arms wrapped around his waist. There were afternoons when you read together on the couch and begged him to continue the story for just five more minutes, even though you both knew you would end up reading an entire chapter.
But there were also those occasions when you had somewhere to be and assured him you would be ready in five minutes. Then you would surprise him by appearing at the door barely two minutes later, completely prepared.
However, there was one version of those five minutes that Spencer hated.
The one that happened when you were working.
He didn’t know what woke him that night. Maybe some distant noise outside. Maybe the need to use the bathroom. Or maybe that hollow, unpleasant feeling of the empty space beside him.
When he opened his eyes, the room was submerged in darkness. He turned his head toward the bedside clock and discovered it was already quite late.
He let out a tired sigh before sitting up. He rubbed his face with one hand and searched for his slippers by touch. The thin line of light slipping beneath the door told him exactly where you were.
He found you in the same position he had left you in hours earlier; sitting in front of the computer, surrounded by papers, your attention fixed on a task that apparently still wasn’t finished.
When he had gone to bed, you had promised him you would finish soon and come back.
“Five more minutes,” you had said.
Clearly, those five minutes had already expired.
“Why are you still here?”
His voice, rough with sleep, made you jump slightly.
You looked up, and a guilty expression crossed your face.
“Sorry, sweetheart, it’s just... I haven’t been able to finish this. Five more minutes, okay?”
Spencer closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath before nodding. He was still struggling to stay awake, but he crossed the room anyway.
Without saying anything, he headed to the bathroom and took care of his business.
You assumed that after hearing the toilet flush, the next thing would be his footsteps returning to the bedroom. That was why it surprised you to see him appear in the dining room again. And even more when he sat down across from you.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’ll wait here. Five minutes.”
An incredulous smile appeared on your face. At first, you thought he was joking.
But then you met his gaze. Serious, determined, and just a little sleepy.
You frowned slightly.
“Love, go to sleep. I’ll be there in a moment.”
“I’ll wait,” he insisted.
He rested one arm on the table and let his cheek fall into the palm of his hand.
“Besides, I can’t sleep when you’re not there.”
You watched him for several seconds over the top of your screen. At that point, it was impossible to focus completely on your work when Spencer was sitting across from you, making such an obvious effort to stay awake.
He blinked more slowly than usual and, every so often, his eyes seemed to lose focus for a moment before settling back on you. His hair was messy from the pillow, and the marks of sleep were still visible on his face. He looked exhausted. Completely exhausted.
Guilt slowly began to settle in your chest.
“Spencer...”
“Hm?”
His response came a few seconds later, distracted and sleepy.
A small smile tugged at the corners of your lips.
“You know I don’t want to be here.”
He lifted his eyes to meet yours.
“I know.”
“I’d rather be sleeping with you.”
“I know that too.”
You sighed and looked back at the screen. The document was still there, unfinished and urgent, waiting for you with the same indifference it had shown all night.
“But I need to finish this.”
“I know.”
The ease with which he answered drew a brief, tired laugh from you.
Because, of course, Spencer understood.
He understood deadlines. Responsibilities. The anxiety that came from leaving something unfinished, knowing it would continue taking up space in your head until it was done. He himself had spent countless nights awake, chasing a lead, reviewing reports, or analyzing the details of a case long after any reasonable person would have gone to bed.
“I’m not staying because I think you should leave it unfinished,” he said after a moment, with that characteristic calm that always managed to disarm you. “I just want to keep you company.”
You felt something tighten inside your chest. And looking up again was a mistake, because only seconds later you saw his head droop.
It was subtle. Such a brief movement that someone else might not have noticed it at all. His head dipped forward slightly, and his eyelids closed for a second before he quickly opened them again, as if hoping no one had seen.
“Spencer...”
“I’m awake.”
The denial would have been much more convincing if it hadn’t been accompanied by a yawn.
“Sweetheart, it’s past two in the morning.”
“And you’re still working.”
“Exactly. That’s my problem, not yours.”
“Your problems will always be my problems.”
The response was immediate, almost as if he had been waiting to say it.
“Please go to bed,” you murmured.
“In five minutes.”
You stared at him, unable to believe he was using your own tactics against you. He gave you a small, sleepy, faintly triumphant smile in return.
You tried to return to work after that conversation. For several minutes, you forced yourself to focus on the screen, reviewing documents and correcting details that, at that hour of the night, were beginning to seem increasingly confusing. Yet your attention inevitably drifted back to Spencer.
Not even a quarter of an hour had passed before, with a sigh, you pushed your chair back and stood up.
Spencer lifted his head when he heard you approaching, and a small smile appeared on his tired face.
“Finished?”
“Not yet.”
Before he could answer, you stepped between his legs. His hands found your waist almost immediately, as though the gesture was so natural he didn’t need to think about it. You rested your hands on his shoulders and closely observed the unmistakable signs of exhaustion on his face: the messy hair, the heavy eyelids, and that sleepy expression you rarely saw during the day. He was still wearing a gray pajama shirt and flannel pants.
“Hi,” he murmured.
“Hi.”
You leaned down to kiss him. It was a brief kiss at first, barely a loving brush of lips, but when you pulled away only slightly to look at him, Spencer leaned in again. Smiling, you gave him another kiss, slower this time. You felt his arms wrap around you with something close to relief.
They remained like that for several moments, enjoying the silent closeness both of you needed more than either was willing to admit.
“You know...?”
An amused smile appeared on your face before you had even finished forming the thought.
“If I didn’t know you so well, I’d say you’re a pretty manipulative boyfriend.”
Spencer let out a short laugh and shook his head.
“It’s not manipulation.”
“Yes, it is. You sit here, half asleep, refusing to go to bed so I’ll feel guilty.”
“I’m not staying so you’ll feel guilty.”
His tone was gentle, but sincere. The amusement slowly faded from his features as he looked up at you.
“I know you need to finish your work. I understand perfectly. If I were working a case and someone tried to make me leave it unfinished, I’d probably do exactly the same thing you’re doing.”
That drew a small smile from you because you knew it was true.
“Then why are you here?”
Spencer shrugged slightly.
“Because I want you to go to sleep.”
“Honey...”
“I mean it.”
His thumbs absentmindedly stroked your sides as he spoke.
“Tomorrow you’ll be exhausted, your head will hurt, and you’ll spend the entire day complaining that you should have gone to bed earlier.”
Your smile turned slightly sheepish.
“That’s happened once or twice.”
“It’s happened a lot more than twice.”
You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t argue with him.
“I know you want to finish this tonight, but I also know you’ll feel a lot worse tomorrow if you’re still here three hours from now.”
For a moment, you simply watched him in silence. There was something deeply endearing about the way he said those things. They didn’t sound like criticism or impatience. Just concern.
When you saw him struggle against another yawn, whatever resistance remained in you finally crumbled.
“You win.”
Spencer blinked.
You leaned down to leave one last kiss on his lips before pulling away.
“I’ll shut down the computer and put all this away.”
“Good.”
“And then I’ll go to sleep with you.”
Spencer shook his head as he stood up and took your hand in both of his.
“Let’s go now. I’ll help you organize everything tomorrow.”
You knew that when your boyfriend got something into his head, there wasn’t a force on earth capable of changing his mind. So you simply closed your laptop and let him drag you toward the bedroom.
The room was dark, illuminated only by the faint light filtering through the curtains from the street outside. The moment he stepped through the door, Spencer kicked off his slippers and collapsed onto the mattress with a tired sigh. He seemed to have finally reached the limit of his energy. He settled beneath the sheets, rested his head on the pillow, and closed his eyes for a few seconds, as though the simple contact with the bed was enough to convince his body to surrender.
You, meanwhile, walked over to the closet to find something more comfortable to sleep in. As you changed, you couldn’t help glancing back at him from time to time. He was still awake, but barely.
One arm rested across his stomach, and his eyes were half-closed, fighting to stay conscious just to make sure you were actually going to bed.
The sight brought an involuntary smile to your face.
“You can fall asleep, you know.”
Spencer made an indistinct sound that could have been a response or simply a manifestation of pure exhaustion.
When you finished changing, you switched off the last light and walked over to the bed. The mattress dipped slightly as you settled beside him. You had barely rested your head on the pillow when Spencer moved toward you out of pure habit, still caught somewhere between wakefulness and sleep.
His arm found your waist and gently pulled you against him.
It was an automatic gesture. Familiar.
You let out a sigh as you settled beneath the sheets and rested your head against his chest. The warmth of his body, the steady sound of his breathing, and the calm rhythm of his heartbeat were infinitely more comforting than any unfinished work.
Spencer’s hand moved absentmindedly across your back in a slow caress before coming to a complete stop.
“See?” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. “Much better.”
mystery fic revealed! event info here ˋ°•*⁀➷ 【 500 celebration 】
summary: your best friend gets drunk for the first time.
relationship: spencer reid x bombshell!bff!fem!reader
genre: fluff
word count: 3.3k
tags: alcohol consumption, reader pees, MILDLY suggestive thoughts (spencer is a man okay) but nothing explicit, brief suggestive content (mention of sex and offer to strip), cuddling, idiots in love
author's note: it has been three months since i proposed the blind fics ikik but FINALLY here is one!!! hope you enjoy <3
You're reclining on Derek Morgan's couch, head tipped toward the ceiling. With your eyes shut, long lashes fanned across your cheeks, anyone else might suspect that you've fallen asleep in the middle of his party. Spencer, however, is attuned enough to your physiology to realize that you're just blissfully tipsy; your breathing, while slow and even, is still not settled enough to be attributed to anything other than a generous helping of alcohol.
Despite the warmth coating your insides, your buzz is nothing compared to the euphoria that the team's resident genius is currently experiencing. For the first time in his life, Spencer Reid is properly drunk. Stumbling, slurring, uninhibited drunk. He's never been all that interested in alcohol, but he was feeling particularly anxious about tonight's gathering, and decided to nurse a seltzer to ease his nerves. Then, you had walked in, and the can had mysteriously drained itself.
Spencer hadn't intended to get shit-faced, really. He was, foolishly, hoping for some liquid courage to bolster his microscopic amount of confidence in talking to you. It's not that he lacked experience in that department; the two of you actually spoke more than anyone else in the BAU. Unfortunately for him, though, that talk tended to involve lots of intense friendzoning. Not long ago, you went so far as to refer to Spencer as your "platonic soulmate", and he had subsequently faked a virus so he could go home early and mope.
Now, his morbid depression is a thing of the past. Even if he ends up with his head in the toilet by the end of the night, at least he can say that his head was, at one point, resting in your lap. Granted, Spencer doesn't recall making a conscious decision to drape himself across the sofa like this, but he's not complaining in the slightest. Quite the contrary, in fact. Spencer is beyond content, unabashedly studying the features of your peaceful face. His vision is swimming a bit, but even with his impaired perception, he's confident that he's never seen anyone more perfect.
“Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?” he murmurs, voice barely carrying over the thrum of the music. For a moment, Spencer thinks his sentiment hasn't reached your ears, but then your full lips are tilting into an amused little smile.
Your eyes flick open, quickly finding his. His gaze is hazy, his blinking languid as he stares up at you. The dim lights sparkle in your wide pupils, reminding him of the night sky. Spencer thinks that the moment can't get more enjoyable than the pleasure of admiring your beauty, but then you coo, “Aren’t you cute.”
Spencer is far too hammered to note the mocking edge to your words. You're far less inebriated than he is, so you draw the (seemingly reasonable) conclusion that his words are fueled by the slew of alcoholic beverages currently flooding his bloodstream. You're wrong, your praise offered in jest, but it inspires his face to brighten nonetheless. His lips part in a lazy grin. “You think so?”
“Of course I do, silly," you affirm. Spencer's not really sure what's so "silly" about the words tumbling from his mouth, but your voice has that familiar, soft lilt to it as your lips form the word. You sound so pretty, he finds himself not really caring if you meant to insult him. Then, your slender fingers are brushing his flushed skin, sweeping an errant strand of hair away from his forehead. You smooth his hair away from his face before cupping the back of his head. Lost in the feel of your gentle touch, it takes his sluggish brain far too long to comprehend that you're trying to coax his head out of your lap.
Why are you pushing him away? Did he do something wrong?
Spencer flops beside you on the couch, dizzy from the sudden postural change. Only your shoulders are touching now that he's upright, and he's unable to prevent a pathetic pout from crossing his face. Immediately, he mourns the loss of physical contact between the two of you—a mere shoulder won't suffice.
Spencer shoots you a longing glance, incapable of masking his dissatisfaction. You quickly assuage his concerns by declaring, "I gotta go to the bathroom." Pleased that he hasn't done anything to upset you (and fantasizing about the prospect of resting his head in your lap again once you've returned), Spencer relaxes into the cushions. You softly pat his knee before rising from your seat, and in response to your touch, a wonderful warmth tingles beneath his skin. "I’ll be right back."
You haven't even taken a complete step toward the restroom before Spencer's stomach drops. “Wait!" he desperately exclaims. You look at him over your shoulder, brows furrowed in question. His voice borders on a whine as he pleads, "Don’t leave me here.”
You roll your eyes at his pathetic display, stating flatly, "Well, I’m not gonna take you in with me.”
Spencer blinks. “Why not?”
“I don’t need someone watching while I piss, Spence," you scoff, thoroughly entertained by his drunken curiosity. He sounds so genuinely surprised by your lack of invitation, as if the two of you regularly accompany one another to the bathroom. At your refusal, his gaze drops to the floor, and you can practically see the cogs in his mind trying their damn hardest to spin.
He looks up at you through his lashes, still frowning like a petulant child. Innocently, he swears, “I’ll turn around.”
Cursing his stubborn nature, you shake your head incredulously. Knowing that any further rebuttal is futile, you groan, “Fine.” With exaggerated annoyance, you snatch his hand out of his lap and tug him into a standing position. He sways, struggling to find his balance. Once you're certain that he won't tumble to the floor, you start weaving through the crowd, pulling Spencer along behind you.
Before long, the two of you have navigated the throng of partygoers and are entering the empty hallway. With the flashing lights and booming music behind him, Spencer's muddled senses become more aware of the feeling of your hand in his. Your hand is warm, and he hopes that his skin isn't too clammy or callused. He'd hate to disappoint you, even in a seemingly trivial way like this. He's almost tempted to ask, but you always tell him that he needs to worry less about what others think of him, so he resists that urge. Instead, he muses, “I like when you hold my hand.”
“That’s nice, dear," you reply absentmindedly, opening the bathroom door. Spencer's chest squeezes with affection at your response. He's no stranger to your pet names, yet they never fail to fluster him. He hums happily, wondering how he can coax another sweet sentiment from your lips.
As he steps into the cramped restroom, you lock the door behind him. Wasting no time, you grab his shoulders and guide him into the corner. He trips over his own feet as he turns to face the wall, smiling to himself when your grip tightens in an attempt to steady him. “You stand here," you command. "No peeking.”
“Okay," he nods, squeezing his eyes shut. It's not like he can see anything from this angle, anyway, but he figures you'll appreciate the effort.
“Good boy," you praise, squeezing his shoulders affectionately before striding to the toilet. It's fortunate that he's facing the corner; surely, you would tease him if you could see how splotchy his face has become as a result of your compliment.
The rustle of fabric is agonizingly loud in the otherwise silent room. Spencer is keenly aware of the fact that you're only inches away from him with your panties pulled down your legs, and he feels kind of perverted for sexualizing a fundamental bodily function, but it's not the function he's interested in, in his defense. He's so occupied with contemplating your undergarments that he doesn't even realize you've finished until the sink is running.
Spencer swallows thickly, awkwardly shuffling his feet as he turns around. You're utterly oblivious to his stiff posture, too busy drying your hands to psychoanalyze him. He shifts on his feet, preparing to exit the room once you've finished, but he freezes as your fingers dip into the neckline of your top.
Before he has time to question what he's witnessing, you've procured a thin tube of lip gloss. You're swiping the wand over your lips when you meet Spencer's stunned gaze in the mirror. You shrug nonchalantly. "No pockets," you say by way of explanation, smacking your lips together with a pop.
Spencer rubs an eye, nodding in acknowledgement of your reasoning. He hopes that the action looks as casual as you're acting, but he's sure that his amazement is likely written all over his face. He's never been such a… boy around you, but something about the past five minutes has reduced him to precisely that.
Satisfied, you cap your lip gloss and shove it back in your shirt. The sight of you reaching between your breasts was already erotic enough, but then you're adjusting your bra, fiddling with the underwire and ensuring that the cups lay exactly right. Spencer gapes at your reflection, eyes glued to your chest like a fucking pervert. He quickly snaps to attention when you face him, desperate to appear less… ogly.
“How are you feeling, my friend?” you ask, smiling brightly. Spencer forces his bleary eyes to meet yours, as tempted as he is to watch your shimmery pink lips open and close.
“G-good," Spencer stammers in response, coughing a bit in an attempt to clear his dry throat. Your eyes glint with fondness as you beam up at him. His eyes may be struggling to focus, but they still trace your delicate visage with rapt fascination. Suddenly, his self-doubt surrenders to overwhelming, alcohol-inspired bravery. Before he can bite his tongue, he blurts, “You’re so pretty.”
Your lips fold into a tight line, a sight that suggests you're suppressing a giggle. As always, your voice sounds melodic as you reply, “Thank you, Spence," but your words are laced with placation. Maybe he's misinterpreting something, but Spencer's distraught by the thought that you may not believe him.
“I think you’re the most beautiful person," he murmurs, speaking with as much conviction as can be conveyed through slurred syllables. He locks eyes with you, willing you to trust in the sentiment.
“Oh, stop it," you say instead, playfully rolling your eyes and lightly poking his shoulder.
“I’m serious," he complains, voice bordering on a whine.
He's trying to be romantic. Why are you being like this?
“You’re also plastered, hon," you answer sympathetically.
Oh. That's… fair enough.
“But—" Spencer attempts to argue, but then he realizes how lightheaded he feels, and then he starts worrying that he might pass out (or otherwise embarrass himself) in front of you, and then he forgets what he was going to say in the first place. Sheepishly, he admits, "The room is spinning a lil’.”
“Oh, Spence," you grimace. "Maybe we should take you home.”
“Okay," Spencer easily agrees, finding no reason to challenge you when he'd happily follow you wherever you go.
A bit later, you're carrying Spencer through his front door, encouraging his slumped form to inch forward.
“Home sweet home," you grunt, struggling to keep him upright. You have one arm supporting his waist, and the two of you are slowly shuffling toward his bedroom while he leans most of his body weight on your side.
“Mhm," he hums, too thrilled by your presence in his apartment to realize that his tall stature threatens to smush you with one misstep.
“Here, sit," you encourage, though the words have barely left your mouth before he's sprawling across his bed, the mattress bouncing beneath him. Certain that he lacks any sort of dexterity at the moment, you look at his Converse and mumble, "I’ll get those.” You're speaking more to yourself than him, of course; he's halfway to Dreamland already.
You plop down on his floor, guiding his hightops into your lap so you can untie the laces. Not entirely sober yourself, you fumble a bit with the knots before they come loose. Slipping his shoes off his feet, you deposit them in their rightful place in the closet, not wanting Spencer to trip over them in case he gets up in the middle of the night. At this point, he's breathing so deeply that you're almost positive he's asleep until he mumbles, “Thanks.”
“Please tell me you can handle the rest," you say half-jokingly, gesturing to his rumpled clothes. He squints at you through half-lidded eyes, watching as you cross the room to open his dresser.
“Mm, I can do it," he drawls, despite making no effort whatsoever to sit up.
“I’ll get you some water, then," you decide. After rummaging through a few drawers, you find some pajamas and toss them onto the bed. "Put these on.”
“Yes… ma’am," Spencer manages around a dramatic yawn. You snort, ignoring the affectionate pang in your chest.
It's nothing, you tell yourself. You just find him cute 'cause he's being a silly drunk.
Right.
You bustle around the kitchen, filling a glass of water before returning to his bedroom. You chuckle at the sight before you, but your laughter has the slightest hint of exasperation. Your eyebrows furrow as you ask, “What happened to your pants?”
Facedown on the mattress, Spencer grumbles, “Too hot.”
He may be your best friend, but he's a bit too modest to ever be seen in his boxers. Well, except for right now. He managed to change out of his party outfit, but evidently only got so far as tugging on a worn t-shirt before collapsing back onto his bed.
“Oh, you’re gonna be so embarrassed about this tomorrow," you muse. Poking him in the back, you offer, "Here, drink up.”
“Okay," Spencer obeys, slowly rolling over and somehow managing to sit up. He blinks sleepily, staring off into nothingness as he raises the cup to his lips.
“I’m gonna go crash on your couch in case you start hurling," you announce as he drains the glass and sets it on his nightstand. Ruffling his hair, you request, "Sleep on your side, yeah?”
Spencer's face contorts with confusion as he looks up at you. He looks certifiably adorable, with his tousled hair and big brown eyes. “But… I have a big bed.”
“You do indeed," you acknowledge. "Enjoy it.”
“You don’t want to sleep with me?” he says sadly. When you offer him a blank expression in return, he huffs. “Oh. Heh. It sounded like I meant intercourse.”
“Too sophisticated to say ‘sex’, huh?” you tease.
“No!" he retorts. With a dramatic shudder, he clarifies, "It just sounds so… dirty.”
“Uh-huh," you say flatly. Crossing your arms, you pointedly ask, "Why, exactly, are you trying to get me in your bed?”
“The couch is uncomfortable," he replies.
“Right," you hum.
“I just want you to sleep well," Spencer promises, injecting an exaggerated amount of sweetness into his statement. He lifts his eyebrows and shrugs, failing miserably to feign nonchalance.
“Thoughtful," you deadpan. "Total bullshit, but sweet.”
“Nuh-uh! I’m not lying," he insists, far too defensive to be believable.
“Yes, you are," you argue. "You know how I can tell?”
“How?” Spencer asks, crossing his arms defiantly.
You lean down. “‘Cause when you lie, your nose scrunches up the tiniest bit." You tap the tip of his nose. "Right here.”
He glares at you for a moment before relenting. With a hefty sigh, he confesses, “Fine. Maybe I think it would be nice.”
“To sleep together.”
“Yes!”
“You’re practically naked," you point out, gesturing to his bare legs.
Spencer's gaze falls to his boxers, seemingly losing himself in contemplation before he looks up and declares, “I can get completely naked if you want.”
“That was so totally the opposite of what I meant," you chide, reaching up to rub your temple.
“Oh," Spencer mumbles. Without another word, he crawls under the sheets, staring up at you like a child waiting to be tucked in. You stare back, motioning for him to turn on his side. He groans loudly, but obediently rolls over. You move his trash bin to the side of the bed before heading for the door, feeling his eyes on you the entire time. Before you hit the lights, you hesitate.
“Can I borrow pajamas?” you ask.
Spencer drops his head onto his pillow and, for a second, you think he might ignore you. Then, he sighs tiredly and croons, “If you sleep in my bed.”
“Insatiable," you complain. "You’re gonna cuddle me to death, aren’t you?”
His head pops up, his wide eyes finding yours across the room as he replies unconvincingly, “No…?”
You shoot another unimpressed expression in his direction before huffing, “Fine. I suppose I accept your conditions.” You figure that sharing a bed is innocent enough; besides, there's no chance you'll allow him to try anything more in his drunken state. If he wants to make a move, he'll have to man up and do it while he's sober.
With that in mind, you head to his ensuite bathroom to change. A few minutes later, you emerge with a fresh face and a ridiculously comfortable ensemble, his shirt and sweatpants swallowing you. Spencer's curled up, facing away from you. Once again, you think he's knocked out until he murmurs, “Beautiful.”
“You should be sleeping," you chastise, stomach flipping at his compliment.
“I was waiting for you," he replies with a sense of longing that suggests a deeper meaning.
“Well, here I am," you reply, flipping the light switch and sliding into bed beside him. You settle on the far end of the mattress, leaving a generous amount of space between the two of you. Your weight has barely hit the sheets before Spencer sighs.
“Come closer," he pleads quietly.
“Don’t tickle me," you warn, though you don't have any serious reservations about moving.
“Of course not," he promises, sounding absurdly serious. It's as if you've just asked him to keep a government secret.
Something about the quiet calm of Spencer's dark room makes you feel safe enough to shift closer. You're just sober enough to register the significance of this moment, to process that this seemingly innocuous decision holds the power to forever change the trajectory of your relationship.
Still, you shift closer.
You're laying on your back, Spencer's breath puffing against your cheek. It's too dark to see each other, but he's somehow sensed your movement. In one swift motion, he throws his arm over your chest, tucking himself against your side.
He nuzzles his head into the crook of your neck, and you can feel his throat vibrating as he slurs, “See, this isn’t so bad.”
“You’re squishing my boobs," you say flatly in response, not wanting to admit how delightful this arrangement truly feels.
“Sorry," Spencer immediately apologizes, muscles tensing as he prepares to reposition himself.
You find his forearm in the inky black, holding him in place. “No, don’t move.”
“But you said—”
“Don’t argue with me," you scold.
“Okay," Spencer acquiesces. He relaxes into your side once more, his weight pressing comfortably against you.
“Good boy.”
Your praise renders him speechless for a moment, but you can feel his lips tick into a soft smile against your shoulder. After several seconds, he interrupts the silence to declare, “This is even better than holding your hand.”
Your heart swells with adoration. You grin into the dark, in pleasant disbelief at how the night has unfolded. Instead of voicing an equally mushy sentiment, you tease, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you have a little crush on me, Spence.”
His breath catches in his throat, but instead of sputtering a retort like you expect, he exhales in a rush, whispering, “It’s not little.”
hii! i just wanted to say how much i love ur writing like WOW. you literally have such a good way of expressing everything and i love it so much.
alsoo i was wondering if you would consider doing spencer with bau reader and theyre like best friends and SO down bad for each other and everyone can see it except them. and one day morgans teasing spencer saying hes gonna go tell reader how much spencer likes her and gets up to walk over to you and spencer doesnt realize hes joking and punches morgan and hes mad because he loves you so much he doesnt want to ruin the friendship? and then after morgan is hit you and like the rest of the team rush over and are so confused and worried asking wth happened and then u take spencer to clean his hand and its only then that he confesses obv u like him back
spencer reid x fem!reader: derek morgan causes a forced confession (and a possible concussion?)
wc: 2.5k
hi!!! this is so incredibly nice of you to say omg omg
I did slightly alter this request bc i really struggled with imagining spencer punching anyone and i wanted to keep it as in-character as possible, but it's the same premise! i hope that's okay!
The bullpen was humming with chatter and the sounds of printers – nothing out of the ordinary. The morning sun has just risen past the windows, casting a golden filter over the room. Spencer loves this lighting. The way the case files glow metallic instead of just brown. The way the sunglow swirls in the pattern on the carpet under his feet. Sometimes, someone would even turn off the harsh fluorescent lights during this time, allowing him to properly bask in the shades of honey.
She and Spencer went to their favorite coffee shop before work, something they do at least three times a week. He’s just finished his last sip when he looks over at her and sees the way the sun refracts off her hair, painting golden streaks throughout it. She’s laughing with Penelope, and he can’t help but think that she looks like an angel.
His cheeks flush at the thought, and he averts his gaze from the side of her head. He shouldn’t think things like that. She’s his best friend. His best friend, who definitely doesn’t see him as anything more than a coworker she grabs coffee with and sometimes joins for movie nights.
Their moments together are the highlight of his week. The moment she leaves his apartment after a movie, a countdown begins in his head for the next Thursday night – hoping and praying she won’t be too busy to accompany him again. So, how could he tell her that he’s in love with her? It could ruin everything; he could completely lose her as a friend.
Spencer just can’t help himself from dreaming, though. She looks so beautiful all of the time, but especially in the golden morning light. Spencer loves this time of day, but he also hates it for how it illuminates his feelings for her. He tilts his head upward to take just one more glance at her, but freezes and jerks his gaze to the other direction when he meets her eyes. Great, now she knows you’re staring at her like a complete weirdo.
“Damn, Pretty Boy…” Derek approaches from behind him, and he jumps at the intrusion.
Turning around to look at him, he replies, “What?”
Derek flicks his eyes up and nods his head in the direction of her, “You’ve got it bad.”
Spencer clears his throat and diverts his attention back to his desk, hoping to hide his increasingly darkening cheeks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Everyone knows what I’m talking about. It’s getting kinda sad to watch.”
“It’s not sad.” He quickly retorts, “It can’t be anything, because there is no thing.”
Derek chuckles and raises his eyebrows, but Spencer wouldn’t know about the latter since he’s still pretending to work on a case he’s already finished. “No thing? So you weren’t just staring at the side of her head for the past hour?”
“That’s an overexaggeration.” He insists.
“Oh, so you weren’t deep in thought, imagining your future tiny geniuses?” Penelope appears in front of Spencer’s desk, and he has no choice but to drop his head onto the wood.
Voice muffled, he declares, “No! I was not!”
“C’mon, Babygirl,” Spencer naively believes Derek is going to defend him, before he adds on, “You know he has to mentally plan their wedding first!” The larger man reaches out to ruffle his hair, but Spencer snaps his head back up just in time to dodge it.
“I am not mentally planning anything, there is no planning, there is no thing!” He can hear his own desperation in his voice, and he’s sure he sounds a little hysterical.
“Okay, if you’re so insistent that it’s completely nothing, I’ll just go tell her that you’ve been crushing on her for months. No harm done if it’s not real, right?” Derek shifts his feet to face her desk and makes a few slow steps toward her.
Spencer’s face falls, his blood runs cold, “You wouldn’t.”
Even Penelope tells him, “Alright, let's not do that…” and tries to stop his movement by tugging his arm.
Derek slips out of her hold with ease, “I’m helping him! I’ll be his Cupid.” He then winks at the two of them.
He’s getting closer and closer to her desk, and Spencer’s heart is beating closer and closer to his throat. Spencer looks at Penelope with a wild look in his eyes, and she gives him her best empathetic look while shrugging, conveying I tried.
Spencer rises from his chair, warningly saying, “Derek, don’t.”
But Derek keeps going, calling her name as he approaches her desk. Spencer’s feet are frozen to the floor, and the terrified look he sends Penelope tugs at her heartstrings. But there’s nothing they can do; Derek has already started talking to the woman Spencer’s been pining over since he first saw her.
Without thinking or realizing it, Spencer’s fight-or-flight kicks in and chooses flight. He bolts between the desks and jumps directly onto Derek’s back, wrapping his arms around his neck.
“What the – Reid!” Derek exclaims.
“Spencer?” His best friend inquires.
“Spencer!” Penelope calls from across the bullpen.
“I said, please! Do not tell her!” Spencer squeaks.
“Kid, get off me!” Derek attempts to pry Spencer’s body off his own, but it’s difficult to do so with the lanky man wrapped around him like a baby koala.
People are starting to stare. Anderson peeks up from his desk at the ruckus, Emily speed-walks out of the break room, and even Hotch is peering through his office blinds.
Derek successfully loosens the grip around his neck, but doing so sends Spencer’s body falling straight to the floor.
He first lands on his back, which knocks the wind out of him, then his head bounces off the floor like a ping-pong ball. His eyes squeeze closed, he reaches up to his head with both arms, and he shifts onto his side in a fetal position.
Derek squats next to his crumpled body, “Jesus Christ, Reid, are you okay?!”
Spencer attempts to nod, but the sharp pain on the back of his skull prevents him from doing so. He’s dizzy and trying to recall what he knows about concussions. Unbeknownst to him, a large group of his coworkers has circled around him.
Penelope hovers over him, “Spencer! Oh my god!”
Then, an angelic voice swirls in his ears, “Spencer? What happened?”
“I hit my head.” He mumbles, eyes still squished shut.
Delicate fingers meet his cupped hands on the curve of his skull. He focuses on how nice they feel on his skin – warm and soft.
“Can I see?” The angelic voice asks. He thinks he’d do anything that voice asked of him, no matter if it was dangerous or nefarious. So, he eases his grip.
He winces as the delicate fingers brush over the sore spot on his head, whining softly.
“Oh, thank God, he’s not bleeding,” Penelope exclaims.
“He probably needs some ice,” JJ suggests.
“I’ll go and get it for him.” The angelic voice announces.
“Wait…” Spencer slowly opens his eyes and flinches at the brightness. He blinks repeatedly as he tries to make sense of his surroundings. He lays eyes on his best friend kneeling beside him; the sunrays backlight her body, painting a halo around her. She really is an angel, he thinks.
“Hey, honey. How’re you feeling?”
Oh my god, she called me honey.
“You look like an angel.” He murmurs while reaching toward her hair, making her cheeks feel warm. His hand lands firmly against her head, not forcefully, just in a way that showed his current struggle with depth perception.
She looks around at the audience that has surrounded them, debating how to tell them all to leave Spencer alone. Penelope notices her imploring gaze and starts shooing everyone away, “The genius is alive! Let’s give him some space!”
Noticing that his pupils are slightly dilated, she shifts her body to shield the sunrays from shining in his face.
Spencer suddenly realizes that he’s lying on the dirty floor and tries to sit up rapidly.
“Woah, let me help you.” She wraps a hand around his elbow and guides him to a seated position.
The movement sends a searing pain through his skull, but he insists, “I’m fine.”
“You don’t seem fine, Spence…” She gently disagrees. “Please, let me help you get some ice.”
“Okay,” Spencer agrees, so she hooks an arm around his waist and slowly pulls him to his feet. His legs wobble for a moment, like Bambi on ice.
Slowly, but surely, they make it to the break room, and she ushers him into a chair. He’s eerily quiet while she gets a makeshift ice pack for him – a plastic baggie full of ice with paper towels wrapped around it. She feels a little like a school nurse.
Sitting across from him, she gingerly hands him the bag and gestures that he place it on his crown. Spencer follows her instructions, maintaining an eerie silence. He’s pretty certain that he’s not concussed, but he almost wishes he was. Maybe then he wouldn’t have to face this conversation with her.
“So… What was that all about?” She inquires, leaning her elbow onto the table beside them and resting her head in her palm. God, she’s so beautiful.
His eyebrows furrow in confusion, “Didn’t Derek tell you?”
She has a matching crease in between hers. “Tell me what?”
“He didn’t tell you that I…” He lowers his gaze to where their knees meet. His heart feels like it could pound right out of his chest.
“That you…? He was asking me about the case I was working on.”
“Oh.” He can feel the tips of his ears burning.
“Oh?”
“It’s nothing.”
She chuckles, “You tackled Derek in the middle of the bullpen for nothing?”
“I wouldn’t really describe it as a tackle…”
She lightly giggles, and it sounds like music to his ears. How is he supposed to tell her how he feels when doing so risks his opportunity to make her laugh like that again? This is the worst day ever.
“I did hear you say something about not telling me something.”
Shit.
“Um…”
“It’s okay, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.” She shrugs and stands to replace the paper towel on his ice pack. He mourns the loss of her warmth against her knee. “That was just… interesting to witness.”
With her no longer looking at him, he finds the confidence to attempt to tell her what just happened. He runs through a few different speeches in his head, debating how to even begin conveying the truth to her.
She’s returned to her seat across from him before he can settle on anything, leading him to blurt out, “I’m in love with you.”
She flinches at his sudden admission, taken aback by his bluntness. Her hand freezes with his ice mid-air, halfway to his head.
“What?” She breathes out.
He closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to watch her reject him. “Derek said he was going to tell you that – That I’m in love with you and have been for a while… He said he was going to play Cupid.” His voice gets smaller and shakier as he continues speaking.
“Ohhh,” she realizes. “So that’s why you jumped him?”
“I didn’t– Well, I guess I kind of did– …Yes?”
Spencer peeks one eye open to look at her. He sees her smiling?
“Please don’t laugh at me.” He whines, covering his face with his hands. He wants to disappear. He wants to start this whole day over.
“Hey,” She coos, setting the ice on the table and grabbing his wrists, swiping her thumbs over the bones. “I’m not laughing, I’m sorry.”
Her touches simultaneously bring him comfort and make his skin tingle. He’s frozen, scared that any sudden movements will cause her to let him go. He can barely breathe.
He reluctantly drops his hands from his face in favor of looking at her, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said it like that. I probably shouldn’t have said it at all. I embarrassed you, and I’m sorry. I just—Derek was going to—he was going to tell you, and I couldn’t let him and I panicked and I hit my head and now you’re here and I’ve ruined—” He’s panting and his throat hurts and his eyes are burning with unshed tears and he’s digging his nails into his palm.
“Spence…” She reaches forward to stop his attack on his skin.
He wants to twist his hand over to hold hers properly and never let go, but he refrains, figuring he’s made her feel uncomfortable enough today.
“It’s okay. I knew it was unlikely that you felt the same way.” His voice cracks, and he breaks eye contact with her midway through speaking. The grieving process for their friendship has already begun in his mind. No more coffee trips, no more movie nights, no more saving seats for each other on the jet, no more laughter or inside jokes. His entire body is in physical pain, and it has nothing to do with his fall.
“Can you look at me? Please?” She reaches with her other hand to hold both of his, and for the first time, he wishes that she wouldn’t. Or maybe he does, since this is probably the last time she’ll do it.
Her cheeks are flushed, “I’m not upset with you. And I’m not rejecting you. I just didn’t know, is all.”
His eyes widen with hope, and he blurts, “You’re not?!”
“I’m definitely not.”
“You’re definitely not?!” Spencer feels dizzy.
“Spencer,” she laughs, and he could cry at the beautiful, intoxicating sound.
“Right, I should stop repeating everything you’re saying… But what are you saying?”
“I like you too.” She squeezes his hands. His breath catches in his throat. “I have for a while.” Is this a dream? “I thought you wouldn’t ever feel the same way.”
“That would’ve been the most illogical mistake of my entire life.”
She laughs again, and he really wants to kiss her. He seriously considers it until he remembers they’re still sitting in an FBI breakroom.
“Can I take you on a date? Please?” His eyes are wide and so earnest.
“I would love that, Spencer.” She smiles.
This is the best day of his life.
“I wish I could kiss you right now. Is that too forward? That’s so brazen of me to say– I did hit my head–”
Her blush spreads down her cheeks, “Believe me, so do I… But unfortunately, it’s probably best if we don’t. I’m pretty sure Derek and Penelope are eavesdropping through the door.”
A small gasp and a high-pitched “Derek!” softly travels into the break room. Giving Spencer a knowing look, she then rolls her eyes.
She whispers to him, “I’m afraid we do have to give Derek credit for his Cupid skills now, though.”
Spencer groans, “I’d really rather not,” and she giggles.
when spencer was actually saved on the day he was tied to the goal post.
word count 1,850
Warnings bullying, humiliation, nudity (non-sexual, non-consensual — spencer is stripped by bullies), emotional distress, hurt/comfort
⊹ ࣪ ˖ ─────────────────────˖ ࣪ ⊹
The library was Spencer’s favorite place in the school for the same reason it was everyone else’s least favorite: it was quiet, and no one bothered him there.
He was halfway through Surely You’re Joking, Mr. Feynman for the third time — the first two hadn’t been enough to fully absorb the theoretical implications of — when someone sat down across from him.
He looked up: Harper Hillman.
Spencer knew Harper the way he knew most people at this school: by observation rather than interaction. She ran adjacent to the most visible social circle in their year, the one that orbited around the varsity athletes and, at its glittering center, you.
He knew you the same way. By observation. Exclusively by observation, because the gap between Spencer Reid and Y/N L/N was not the kind of gap that got crossed. You were the kind of pretty that made people stupid — not that Spencer was susceptible to that, he told himself, though the fact that he’d catalogued the specific shade of your laugh from across the cafeteria perhaps complicated that position.
Harper was smiling at him. That alone was strange enough to put him on alert.
“Hey, Spencer.”
“Hi.” He closed his book over one finger. “C-can I help you with something?”
“Actually—” She leaned forward, conspiratorial, like she was sharing something precious. “Y/N asked me to come find you.”
The book lowered slightly.
“Y/N L/N?” he said, which was stupid, because there was only one Y/N in their year, but his brain had briefly misfired.
“Mhm!” She hummed“She wants to meet you.” Harper tilted her head toward the window, toward the back fields. “Behind the field house. Like, now — she’s waiting.”
Spencer looked at her for a long moment. The rational part of his brain — the part that had gotten him through every accelerated program, every skipped grade, every social minefield of the past four years — was composing a list of reasons this was implausible.
You had never spoken to him. Not once. You sat three rows ahead of him in AP Chemistry and when Mr. Donovan had paired you together for a lab in September you’d been perfectly polite in the precise way that meant he simply wasn’t someone you’d registered.
Why would you want to meet him behind the field house?
But Harper was still smiling, and the other part of his brain — the sixteen-year-old part, the part that had apparently been paying very close attention to the specific shade of your laugh — was already closing the book.
“Okay,” he said.
He walked across the back field in the thin November air, hands in his pockets, telling himself this was fine. That it was probably nothing strange. That maybe you’d noticed something about the lab last month and wanted to ask a follow-up question and for some reason had chosen to do that behind the field house instead of anywhere else in the school. Or maybe, just maybe you wanted to talk to him about something else.
The rationalizations ran dry right around the time he turned the corner.
You weren’t there.
The football team was.
He counted six of them before the first one grabbed his arm, and by then counting had stopped being useful.
It was over quickly. That was the only mercy.
They moved with the practiced efficiency of people who had done this before, or at least planned it carefully. His jacket first. Then his shirt. They were laughing — not cruel, jagged laughter but the loose, easy laughter of people who thought this was funny, who hadn’t considered the word cruel in connection to any of it.
The rope was cold burning his wrists.
The goal post was colder.
He didn’t fight. Fighting would have been useless and would have made it worse and Spencer Reid had long ago learned to identify the subset of situations where dignity meant stillness. He stood in the November air in nothing but his slacks — they’d taken his shoes too, somewhere in the chaos — and he pressed his back against the metal and he breathed and he did not cry.
Don’t cry, he told himself. Don’t give them that.
“There you go, genius.” Someone patted his shoulder. He didn’t look to see who. “Shouldn’t take too long for someone to find you.”
He was begging them to stop at this point. Pleading for them to change their minds and give his clothes back. They coukdnt care less.
They were still laughing when he heard them call your name.
Harper had blindfolded you in the parking lot, which you’d thought was strange but went along with because she’d said I have a surprise for you, just trust me, and Harper was your friend, your harmless, goofy friend who’d once surprised you with a birthday cake in the shape of a golden retriever, so you’d laughed and let her tie the bandana around your eyes.
She’d led you by the hand across what felt like a lot of grass.
“Harper, it’s freezing—”
“Two more seconds, I promise, it’s so good—”
She stopped you. You heard voices nearby — laughter, the kind that bounced off something metal.
“Okay,” Harper said, and you could hear the grin in her voice. “Ready?”
“Just take it off—”
She pulled the blindfold away.
The first thing you saw was the goal post.
The second thing you saw was Spencer Reid.
The laughter around you continued for exactly two more seconds before your brain fully assembled what it was looking at — a boy you knew from Chemistry, a boy who had never done anything to anyone, tied to a goal post in November without any clothes on, without shoes, his shoulders pulled back at an angle that looked painful, his face arranged into something that was trying very hard to be nothing and not quite succeeding.
Everything went very quiet inside you.
“—pretty good, right?” someone was saying. “You should’ve seen his face when—”
You were already moving.
You had your jacket off before you’d made a conscious decision to remove it. You crossed the distance to the goal post in six steps and you tied it around his waist — it wasn’t much, it was just a jacket, but it was something between him and the cold and the visibility and all these people who thought this was funny —
“Hey, come on, we’re not done yet—”
“Leave.” Your voice came out very flat.
“Y/N, it’s just—”
“Leave.” You turned around, and whatever was on your face was apparently sufficient, because the laughter stuttered and stopped. You looked at each of them in turn — the boys from the team, Harper, everyone who’d walked out here like this was entertainment. “All of you. Right now. I’m not asking.”
Harper opened her mouth. “We thought you’d think it was—”
“I don’t.” You held her gaze until she looked away. “Go.”
They went. Not quickly, not without muttering, but they went — shuffling back across the field with the deflated energy of people who’d expected an audience and gotten something they didn’t know how to categorize. Harper was the last one. She looked at you with something between guilt and defiance, and you looked back until she turned around.
When you heard the sound of laughter fading, you let out a slow breath.
Then you turned back to Spencer.
Up close he was shaking. Not visibly, not dramatically — but you could see it in the tight line of his shoulders, in the way his jaw was set, in the small uncontrolled tremor running through his arms where they were stretched back around the post.
His eyes were wet.
He was trying so hard to hold it together. You could see the effort of it, the exact amount of energy being routed into staying still, staying quiet, not making this worse somehow by reacting to it.
“Okay,” you said, keeping your voice low and even. “I’m going to get you down. Hold on.”
The rope was tight but you worked at it with your fingers, pulling and angling until it loosened enough — it took longer than you wanted, too long, and the whole time Spencer said nothing and you kept talking, low and steady, saying “almost” “just another second” “I’ve got it”. Until finally it gave and his arms came forward and he brought them immediately to his chest like something he’d been protecting.
He didn’t cry. You watched him not cry with a deliberateness that hurt to look at— and then you looked at the rest of the problem.
“I’m going to give you my sweatpants,” you said, matter-of-factly, because making it strange would make it harder for both of you. “I’ve got shorts on underneath. Just — I’ll turn around. Tell me when they’re on.”
He made a very small sound. Not quite a word.
“Spencer.” You said his name directly, and something in it made him focus on you. “It’s fine. I promise.”
You turned around.
You heard the soft sounds of him moving — the quiet that meant he was doing it, getting dressed, taking the small mercy you were offering. You looked at the back fence and thought about how you’d known Harper for four years and apparently not at all. You thought about Spencer sitting in the library every day at lunch, which you’d noticed without ever registering as something that should concern you.
“Okay,” he said.
His voice came out uneven. Cracked through the middle.
You turned around.
He was wearing your sweatpants, which were still a little short on him — he was taller than he looked in class — and your jacket, and he was still shaking, and his eyes were red around the edges in a way that the November wind could theoretically explain. Youve never been more grateful to have been wearing oversized clothes.
“I’m sorry,” you said.
He looked at you.
“I didn’t know.” You needed him to understand that, and you chose every word with care. “I didn’t know what they were planning. All Harper said was I have a surprise for you and I thought—” You shook your head. “It doesn’t matter what I thought. I’m sorry it happened-“ You stopped. “I’m sorry.”
Spencer was quiet for a moment. He looked down at the sweatpants — your sweatpants — and something almost like disbelief moved across his face, like he was recalibrating something.
“You don’t have to apologize for other people,” he said.
“I’m not. I’m apologizing for me.”
He looked up.
“Can I drive you home?” you asked.
Your car was warm. That was the first thing — you turned the heat all the way up before you’d even started the engine and you pointed every vent toward the passenger seat without saying anything about it.
Spencer held his hands in front of the nearest vent and you watched the shaking slowly subside as you pulled out of the parking lot.
He didn’t ask how you knew where he lived. You’d grown up in the same neighborhood, two streets apart, close enough that you should have spoken years ago.
You drove and you didn’t fill the silence with anything because some silences don’t need filling.
When you stopped in front of his house he sat for a moment without moving.
“Thank you,” he said finally. His voice was steadier now, warmed through.
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“I know.” He glanced at you sideways. “I’m thanking you anyway.”
You nodded.
He reached for the door handle and then stopped. You saw him weigh something.
“How did you know my name?” he asked. “I didn’t think you—”
“Spencer.” You said it quietly, and it landed the same way it had by the goal post — grounding something. “You’ve been in my Chemistry class for three months. I know your name.”
He processed that. Some small careful thing shifted in his expression.
“I didn’t think you’d noticed,” he said.
“Yeah,” you said, and let the honesty sit plainly between you. “I should have made that clearer.”
He looked at you for one more moment. Then he got out of the car, and he was wearing your jacket and your sweatpants on his front porch, and he looked back once before he went inside.
You waited until the door closed before you pulled away.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: spencer reid x fem!reader
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.7k
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: early seasons spencer, a lot of data that might or might not be true, spencer rambling, talk about sex but honestly just pure fluff
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: In which Derek Morgan's teasing backfires spectacularly, and Spencer Reid accidentally reveals he's been keeping a very important secret.
𝐚/𝐧: I've been rewatching criminal minds and i can't stop thinking about him
The bullpen is winding down for the evening. The usual frantic hum of phones and keyboards has faded into a low, comfortable murmur—the sound of exhaustion finally winning the long war against urgency. Desk lamps cast small pools of amber light across scattered case files, illuminating coffee rings and margin scrawls in warm, fleeting gold. Somewhere across the floor, the ancient breakroom coffee maker hisses its last, bitter brew of the night, a sound almost like a sigh.
Derek Morgan leans back in his chair, the old springs groaning in protest. He tosses a pen idly between his fingers, a familiar, teasing smirk curving his mouth. “You know, Reid,” he says, loud enough for half the unit to hear, “for a genius, you really don’t know how to prioritize. All those encyclopaedic facts rattling around in your head, and you still haven’t figured out that Saturday nights are for living. Not for whatever obscure Russian novel you’re dissecting this week.”
Across the bullpen, Emily Prentiss looks up with the patient expression of someone who has witnessed this exact argument forty-seven times before. She doesn’t intervene. She’s learned.
Reid doesn’t look up from his case file, though his pen pauses for just a fraction of a second—a tell so small only someone watching closely would catch it. “Dostoevsky is hardly obscure,” he says, tone perfectly even. “And for the record, my Saturday nights are perfectly fulfilling, thank you.”
“Uh-huh.” Morgan chuckles, swivelling toward JJ and Prentiss like a talk show host inviting audience participation. “Tell me I’m wrong. Between the two of us—genius boy and yours truly—who do you think gets lucky more often?”
But before anyone can answer, Reid clears his throat.
“That's an entirely misleading metric,” he says.
Morgan's grin widens. “Oh, is it?”
“Yes, actually.” Reid sets his pen down with a soft click, and the team recognizes the signs immediately: the slight straightening of his spine, the way his fingers begin to tap a staccato rhythm against the table, the subtle tilt of his head as he shifts into lecture mode. He's about to do the math out loud.
“First of all,” Reid begins, holding up a finger, “‘getting lucky’ is a subjective, self-reported measure, which introduces significant recall bias and social desirability bias. People overestimate. Significantly. By as much as forty percent in some studies.” Another finger goes up. “Secondly, you're comparing two data points—you and me—without controlling for variables like opportunity, environment, or personal standards. You have a tendency to equate quantity with quality, which is statistically unsound.”
Morgan groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Here we go.”
Reid ignores him entirely, already mid-stride into the argument. His voice picks up speed—not quite rambling, but close, the way it does when he's genuinely enjoying himself. “Let's say, hypothetically, you sleep with a different woman every week. Generous, but possible. However—” He holds up a finger, ticking off points like a professor during office hours. “—you've also mentioned, on multiple occasions, that you don't ‘mix work with play’ and that you need at least one night to decompress. That leaves Friday and Saturday as your only viable windows. So let's assume sexual encounters occur on Friday or Saturday night. That's roughly two opportunities per week—but even then, not every weekend yields a new partner. You have off weeks. You get sick. Sometimes,” he adds, with the faintest hint of smugness, “women say no.”
Morgan's smirk twitches. “Okay, first of all—”
Reid tilts his head, gaze going distant as he does the numbers behind his eyes. His fingers twitch like he's physically calculating in the air. You've seen him do this a hundred times—map a geographic profile, run a probability tree, recite the entire history of some obscure piece of trivia.
“Accounting for statistical probability of rejection, scheduling conflicts, and the inherent inefficiencies of the modern casual dating landscape—which, by the way, is heavily skewed by algorithmic dating app fatigue—your actual frequency likely drops to one new partner every ten to fourteen days. Optimistically.”
JJ is already grinning, resting her chin on her hand like she's watching her favourite courtroom drama. “I feel like I should stop you both,” she says, “but I really want to hear where he's going with this.”
Prentiss leans back in her chair, arms crossed. “Oh, he's going somewhere. You can always tell when he does the head-tilt.”
Morgan points a finger at Reid, though his voice has lost its edge—there's genuine affection underneath the exasperation. “Alright, fine. Let's say I'm one every two weeks. What's your number, pretty boy? Hm? When's the last time you even—”
“That's not the point,” Reid interrupts, a little too quickly.
He presses on, gaining momentum now. His voice picks up that familiar, rapid-fire cadence—the one that makes unsubs' heads spin and makes the rest of the team feel like they're sitting in on a TED Talk they didn't buy tickets for. His fingers have resumed their tapping, faster now, keeping time with the race of his thoughts.
"Now, consider a person in a committed, cohabitating relationship. Let's establish a baseline: the average frequency of sexual activity for couples in the early stages of domestic partnership—say, the first two years—ranges from three to five times per week, depending on variables like work stress, health, and general compatibility. Let's take the conservative estimate: every other day."
Morgan opens his mouth—to argue, to deflect, you're not sure—but Reid holds up a finger without looking, and Morgan closes it again.
"Now," Reid continues, "multiply that over a four-week month. The partnered individual is engaging in sexual activity approximately twelve to sixteen times per month. The single person cycling through weekly encounters—assuming one new partner per week, which we've already established is an overestimate—is averaging four times per month."
Morgan crosses his arms, jaw tight. He's not offended—they all know him well enough to recognize the difference—but he's definitely recalibrating. "So you're saying—"
He delivers the final blow with clinical precision, but there's something softer lurking underneath.
"And you're not even accounting for quality of experience, emotional investment, or—most importantly—long-term satisfaction metrics," Reid continues, his voice quieter now, less performative. "A single meaningful connection, maintained over time, statistically outperforms high-frequency, low-retention encounters in nearly every category of reported happiness. The Harvard Grant Study—one of the longest longitudinal studies on human development—found that the single strongest predictor of life satisfaction wasn't career success or financial security. It was the warmth and consistency of close relationships."
He pauses. Swallows.
"So, really, the question isn't who ‘get’s lucky’ more." His voice drops, barely above a murmur now. Intimate, almost. Like he's forgotten anyone else is in the room. "It's who ‘get’s lucky’ enough."
For a beat, no one speaks.
Then Prentiss raises her coffee cup in a slow, deliberate toast. "I believe you just got murdered by math, Morgan."
The tension breaks—but not entirely. JJ snickers. Morgan rubs the back of his neck, shaking his head, but there's no heat in it. "Man, I just asked a simple question."
"You asked a misleading question," Reid corrects, but his voice has lost its sharpness. He's retreating back into himself, the way his shoulders curl inward slightly, the way his gaze drops to the case file again. Like he's said too much.
Morgan blinks, his smirk frozen mid-spread. He holds up a hand like he's stopping traffic. "Hold on. Hold on." His eyes narrow, processing, replaying something in his head. "You're talking about you."
Reid's mouth opens, then closes. A faint flush creeps up his neck—not the blotchy, embarrassed red of someone caught in a lie, but something softer. Pinker. The colour of someone who hadn't meant to say as much as he just did. His hand drifts to the back of his neck, a self-soothing gesture he doesn't even realize he has.
Prentiss leans forward, delighted, her elbows on her desk like she's settling in for a season finale. "Reid. Are you telling us you're in a serious, every-other-day relationship?"
"That's… not what I said." He adjusts his satchel strap, suddenly very interested in the grain of his desk. His fingers find the edge of a case file and straighten it unnecessarily. Then straighten it again. The file doesn't need straightening. Everyone knows it. No one says anything. "I was speaking hypothetically. Broad statistical trends. Aggregate data."
"Uh-huh." Morgan plants both hands on his desk and pushes up slightly. His grin is slow, dangerous, and utterly delighted. "You just compared yourself to me. Which means you're the one having sex every other day. With a girlfriend." He drags the word out like he's tasting it for the first time.
JJ crosses her arms, mock-offended, though her eyes are warm. "Spencer Reid, how long has this been going on?"
Reid swallows. Hard. His gaze flickers to the window—not looking for an escape route, but for a moment of stillness. A place to land. When he looks back at the team, they see something they don't often get from him: not deflection, not a lecture, not a rapid-fire recitation of unrelated facts to change the subject.
Genuine, quiet vulnerability.
"Several months," he admits, low enough that they have to lean in to hear.
The word lands like a stone in still water. Ripples spreading outward. Morgan's smirk softens at the edges. JJ's arms uncross. Prentiss sits back slightly, her teasing expression fading into something more careful. More respectful.
No one pushes. Not yet.
But they're all looking at him differently now. Like they're seeing a new version of Spencer Reid—one who exists outside the bullpen, outside the case files, outside the lonely apartment they'd all quietly assumed he went home to every night.
"Kid." Morgan shakes his head, and there's something different in his voice now—not teasing, not needling. Something almost admiring. "I take it back. Every single thing. Every joke, every 'maybe try a bar sometime,' every time I said you'd die alone surrounded by books." He squeezes Reid's shoulder, a brief, grounding pressure. "You've been holding out on us."
Reid ducks his head, but the smallest smile tugs at his lips—shy, yes, but unmistakably real. It's not his knowing smirk or his closed-off court testimony expression. It's something softer. Something private, accidentally spilled. Like he's been keeping a secret so long that the act of letting it see daylight feels physically strange—but not unwelcome.
"You asked about frequency," he says, lifting one shoulder in a half-shrug that's almost bashful. "I just answered the question."
"You really did," Prentiss says, grinning wide enough to crinkle her eyes. "In excruciating detail."
JJ tilts her head, studying him like a case file she's only just realized she misread completely. Her gaze is warm but probing—that particular JJ look that says I see you, and I'm not letting you off the hook that easily. "And for the record," she says, her voice gentle but pointed, "I'm going to need to meet this person. Several months and you never even mentioned her name? That's practically classified information. I'm officially offended."
Reid opens his mouth—maybe to deflect, maybe to recite something about privacy and healthy relationship boundaries, maybe to quote a study on the importance of keeping certain parts of one's life separate from one's workplace—but then he catches something over Morgan's shoulder.
His words die in his throat.
The elevator doors slide open with a soft, mechanical chime—the kind of sound so familiar it usually doesn't register anymore. But tonight, it cuts through the bullpen like a bell.
And there you are.
Standing by the elevator bank, keys looped loosely around your fingers, a worn file folder tucked under your arm. You've clearly just come up from the archives—there's a faint smudge of dust on your sleeve, pale grey against the fabric, and your hair is slightly askew from leaning over old case boxes, a few strands escaping to frame your face. The overhead light catches the curve of your jaw, the concentration in your brow.
You're not looking at them yet.
Your attention is still on the files in your hands—a thick stack, dog-eared and labeled in fading marker. You're flipping through them absently, lips moving just slightly as you read, your thumb holding your place in whatever document has captured your focus.
Reid forgets how to breathe.
It's not dramatic—not in the way movies make it seem. There's no swelling music, no slow-motion montage. Just the sudden, startling realization that he has been holding himself together all evening, and now, seeing you, every carefully constructed wall is coming down.
You look tired.
He notices it first because he always notices it first—the slight droop of your shoulders, the way you're blinking a little too slowly at the pages in your hand. You've been in the archives for hours. Probably forgot to eat. Definitely forgot to drink water.
But you're also smiling. Just a little. A small, absent curve of your lips as you read whatever case file has captured your attention. It's the smile you get when you've found something good—a lead, a connection, a piece of the puzzle that was missing.
He loves that smile.
He loves the dust on your sleeve and the mess of your hair and the way you bite your lower lip when you're concentrating. He loves that you exist in the same building as him, the same world, the same moment.
He loves you.
And now everyone is about to know it.
Reid's flush, which had been fading to a manageable pink, returns with interest—creeping up his neck, flooding his cheeks, brushing the tips of his ears. But here's the thing that makes Morgan's eyebrows climb: Reid doesn't look away. He doesn't duck his head or pretend to read something.
Instead, that small, proud smile stays.
Grows, even.
Morgan is the first to put it together. Of course he is. He watches Reid's face change—watches the shyness give way to something steadier, something almost protective—and then he follows Reid's gaze across the bullpen.
His eyes land on you.
His smirk doesn't just return. It blooms.
"No," he breathes, barely above a whisper. Then, louder, disbelieving: "No."
Prentiss notices Morgan's reaction before she notices you. She glances at him, then at Reid, then follows the sightline like a guided missile. When she finds you—dust-smeared, distracted, muttering to yourself over a case file—her eyebrows climb.
She doesn't say anything. She just tilts her head, watching, cataloging, filing away every micro-expression on Reid's face for later analysis.
But her silence is louder than words.
The bullpen feels suspended. Held breath and half-finished sentences. Even the ancient coffee maker seems to have stopped hissing, as if it, too, is waiting.
Morgan turns back to Reid, slow and deliberate, like a man approaching a wild animal he's just realized is actually a house cat. His expression cycles through about six different emotions in the span of two seconds—confusion, disbelief, dawning recognition, and finally, something dangerously close to pride.
"You told us you were 'helping her with research.'" He makes air quotes, fingers curving with theatrical emphasis. "That's what you said. 'The archives are extensive, Morgan, and she's new, and it's purely professional, Morgan, stop reading into things, Morgan.'"
Reid's flush deepens—creeping up from his collar, brushing the tips of his ears, painting his cheekbones in soft, tell-tale pink—but he doesn't deny it. He doesn't deflect. He doesn't launch into a rapid-fire lecture about privacy or workplace relationships or the statistical unlikelihood of his personal life being anyone's business.
"I was helping with research," Reid says quietly. "That's how it started."
"And then?" Prentiss prompts, leaning forward like she's watching the season finale she didn't know she needed. Her coffee cup is still frozen in her hand, forgotten. She doesn't blink.
Reid's eyes don't leave yours.
The bullpen falls away. The desks, the case files, the amber glow of the lamps—all of it fades into background noise. There's only him. Only the way he's looking at you like you've rearranged his entire understanding of the universe.
"And then," he says, and his voice catches slightly—just a breath, just a fracture, but you hear it. You always hear it. "I realized I didn't want to stop."
spencer reid x fem!bau!reader ; est. relationship , fluff , kisses! , hidden relationship???
˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀ w. none! wc. 361
note ; i didn't know how to end it so it just cuts off 😭😭 (also haha please leave comments i love reading them 🥹)
you'd just finished a case, and your whole body felt like that relief after a huge sigh as you strolled down the hotel hallway, spencer by your side with one hand in his pocket, the other faintly brushing yours in a way that still made your stomach flutter every single time. your heart would beat louder and faster every time you passed one of your teammates' doors, spencer's quiet ramblings echoing loudly off the walls of the empty hall.
but his ramblings slowly faded into nothing as you stopped infront of your room, much to your disappointed; it was inevitable, no matter how slowly you'd walked. you turn to face him, keeping the silence for just a while longer, exchanging small, awkward but endearing smiles.
"well, guess this is good night." you say quietly, as if him not hearing meant you could stay in the dimly lit hall a little longer. he nods, eyes flicking to the ground before looking back up at you with those soft brown puppy eyes. "yup."
you flash him another small smile, "good night, spence," before placing your hands on his shoulders and leaning forward to pressing a soft, chaste kiss to his lips. but as you pull back, his lips hastily chase yours, hands landing on your waist to keep you from moving away. he kisses you slowly, like always, devastatingly slowly. your body instantly melts into his, but only for a moment, because the hallway all your coworkers are sleeping in isn't the most covert makeout spots. especially if you're trying to keep all this a secret.
you finally manage to push him away—though it takes a bit more effort when his lips persistently stay attached to yours. "i have to go to bed," you kiss his cheek with a little "good night, spence", which he mutters back, staring at you like a kicked puppy.
you turn to put in your key, leaving him standing there with a (definitely exaggerated) pout and restless hands, itching to reach out to you again, but as you do so you hear from a few doors down, "can i get a good night kiss too, pretty boy?"
derek get’s spencer drunk by accident, and you’re left to care for him.
Spencer wanted to go home to you after finishing the case, but the others insisted on him coming just for a little, and then Penelope suggested bringing you with them, to which the others immediately agreed.
Spencer hesitated, not because he didn’t want you there, but he wanted to relax with you at home, and bringing you with him would make him have to stay at an overcrowded bar longer than he’d like to.
He ended up caving and texted you. You only saw the message after the team had already arrived to the bar, you agreed to come, but outings weren’t your strong suit either.
When you arrived, the first thing you noticed was how packed the place was, not surprising, given it was a Friday night. You looked around for a little until you saw Penelope and JJ ordering drinks, they saw you and their smiles turned into grins as they waved you over.
“Hey there girl genius! Looking for boy wonder?” Penelope asked cheekily, she was obviously a little drunk, her cheeks a hazy red. JJ seemed to just be a little tipsy as she pointed towards a small round table where Spencer was explaining something enthusiastically to a very confused and slightly bewildered looking Derek.
“Thanks!” You say to JJ and walk over to the round table. As soon as you see Spencer up close you realise something’s weird. His eyes are a little hazy and they brighten up 10 times more when he sees you.
When Derek saw you, his eyes widened and he dashed away, you didn’t bother chasing him, you were worried for Spencer. You’re pretty sure he has never been drunk, ever.
You slide into the booth with him and he immediately starts clinging to you, his head buried in your neck as he slurs:
“You came! I- hic waited for so long! Derek gave me these- hic drinks. Want one?”
So your suspicions have been confirmed, he’s drunk. You looked over at the table, three little shot glasses were empty. How did he get drunk off of those little things?
Realising Spencer was drooling on you, you gently shook him. “Spence? How about we go home? You’re hammered.” Spencer’s looking at you dumbly and just nods with a wide grin, he’s clearly just happy to go wherever you go.
So you two make your way over to your car, which surprisingly wasn’t too difficult. Shooting a glare to Derek over your shoulder, you and Spencer exited the overfilled bar.
Spencer kept rambling about the creation of alcohol and the cause of drunkenness, you were half- listening, mostly concentrating on getting him into the car without accidentally hurting him.
The drive back home was a quiet one, save for the occasional comments Spencer made about a passing object.
“Ooh, a cat! Did you know in ancient Egypt-“
“A street lamp! Did you know they were invented in 1853-“
At home, you dragged him up three flights of stairs and then inside, where you prepared a glass of water and a pain killer.
“Here, you’ll thank me tomorrow.”
Spencer took the medicine and water without hesitation, it kinda worried you how quick he accepted a drink and a pill.
Getting him into his pyjamas was probably the most difficult task of the night, he suddenly forgot you were his partner and kept pushing you off, mumbling he was taken by a very gorgeous person.
You’d be very flattered if you weren’t trying to put pyjamas on a 30 year old man in his boxers.
After about ten minutes of attempts you finally managed to get his pyjamas on. You were putting yours on and suddenly you were being pulled into bed by Spencer.
Gasping, you hit his chest lightly. “Spence! Don’t scare me like that!”
He buried his head into your neck again and mumbled: “Wanted to be close to you-“
“Oh so now you remember me?” You said with a teasing smile as you settled in next to him. He was already asleep, snoring and drooling on you.
You rolled your eyes and turned the night lamp off, kissing his head and whispering:
“Good night you idiot.”
a/n: omg I actually posted something after lowkey disappearing for months (blame school).
a/n: sofia try not to start every sentence with ‘you’, go!
a/n: anyway seriously, I’m sorry for this short ass blurb 🥹
titsay
turnnoffyourmind
stormborns
germansingergirl
tangentwithtanner
