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⋆⭒˚.⋆ margins of you - spencer reid! x bombshell!reader

⟢ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 a birthday dinner lingers into something quieter, where jokes, small gestures, and a ride home start to feel like more than they should. somewhere between teasing and silence, the space between two people shifts—subtle enough to ignore, but not quite enough to forget.

⟢ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 halloween references!!, my idiots are so down bad for eachother it’s not even funny, reader lowkey makes suggestive jokes and morgan lowkey makes a few jokes where he slut-shames reader but it’s all in good fun!!, spencer is so down bad, so is reader she’s just better at hiding it (no she’s not), tooth-rotting fluff

⟢ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 4.4k

⟢ 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 i think this has to be one of my fav that i’ve written for them— i promise things are about to get reallllyyyyy good.

𝐛𝐨𝐦𝐛𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥!𝐚𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

o’keefe’s was glowing in orange and purple, fake cobwebs strung lazily across the corners of the ceiling like someone had thrown them up there in a hurry and called it art. little plastic bats were taped at haphazard angles along the bar, one of them dangling by a single wing like it was trying to escape.

someone had gone all out: miniature pumpkins flickered with battery-operated tea lights on every table, and a massive glass bowl of candy sat dangerously close to garcia and morgan, who’d already waged and lost a silent war over the mini snickers.

it was late. the kind of late where dinner and drinks had blurred into one long, comfortable haze; the restaurant had emptied out enough that laughter bounced off the walls a little too loudly, and every time the front door opened, the growing autumn chill slipped inside and brushed the back of your neck.

spencer sat at the center of it all, cheeks faintly pink—not from the half-glass of wine he’d barely touched, but from the simple, unrelenting fact of being noticed.

it was his birthday, and you had turned it into an event.

a whole night.

a spotlight he hadn’t asked for and didn’t quite know how to wear.

it sat on him strangely, like a coat that was too structured in the shoulders and too short in the sleeves—noticeable in all the wrong ways.

attention, for spencer, had always been clinical: directed at the things he knew, the patterns he could map, the probabilities he could recite. never at who he was when the whiteboard was turned off and the case files were closed.

tonight felt a little different.

“statistically speaking,” he was saying, fingers absently adjusting the soft wool scarf he still hadn’t taken off even though they were indoors, “people tend to select costumes that reflect aspirational identities rather than—”

“reid,” morgan cut in, leaning back in his chair with that trademark grin, arms crossed like he was settling in for a show. “nobody at a halloween party is running a chi-square on their costume choices.”

you leaned forward immediately, chin resting in your hand, eyes glinting beneath the low lighting. the shimmer on your eyelids caught every flicker of orange and purple like it demanded attention on principle.

“speak for yourself, morgan,” you said smoothly. “some of us put actual thought into our costumes.”

morgan’s eyes narrowed at once, already suspicious. “oh yeah? enlighten us, princess. what would you be?”

you tilted your head, the soft knit of your sweater slipping deliberately off one shoulder as you crossed your legs. the black skirt rode up just enough to make the movement feel intentional.

“easy. really sexy nurse. or maybe a sexy cop.” your mouth curved. “depends on the handcuffs available.”

spencer shouldn’t have been staring.

he knew that—instantly. knew it with the same certainty he knew the atomic weight of carbon.

unfortunately, logic had apparently taken the evening off.

his attention kept catching on details like they were clues in a case he wasn’t supposed to be working—the clean line of your collarbone where the sweater had slipped, the slow shift of fabric against your thigh, the way the glitter on your eyelids flashed every time you blinked beneath the colored lights.

it wasn’t just that you looked good—though god, you did, noticeably and unfairly.

spencer forced his gaze back up. his fingers flexed around his glass, knuckles whitening for a heartbeat before he forced them to relax.

he bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to ground himself.

morgan groaned dramatically. “of course you’d go there.”

“what?” you said, all wide-eyed innocence, lashes fluttering just enough to sell it. “it’s a classic.”

“a classic excuse,” he shot back, pointing one finger at you “you just want an excuse to wear something scandalous and call it festive.”

emily snorted into her drink. “he’s not wrong.”

“first of all,” you said, sitting up straighter, brushing your hair back over your shoulder in one smooth motion. “it’s festive and tasteful. second of all, i like looking good. sue me.”

morgan raised a brow, leaning back farther like he had all night to dismantle your arguments. “tasteful and ‘really sexy nurse’ usually don't overlap.”

“oh, please.” you didn’t even blink. “don’t act like you wouldn’t show up as a firefighter with half your shirt already burned off, abs oiled, suspenders hanging low like you’re auditioning for a calendar.”

“that’s different,” morgan said immediately, grin widening.

you narrowed your eyes. “how, exactly?”

“because i’d actually look good doing it.”

the table erupted—but you just let out a sharp, incredulous laugh, leaning back in your chair with the lazy grace of someone who knew she’d already won.

“bold claim from a man whose idea of ‘tasteful’ is a hawaiian shirt unbuttoned to the navel.”

morgan clutched his chest. “that shirt is iconic.”

“it’s a crime scene waiting to happen.”

you leaned forward again, elbows resting against the table, chin propped on your intertwined fingers. your voice dipped into that low, velvet register you only used when you were about to land something devastating.

“tell you what, morgan,” you said sweetly. “next year, you do the sexy firefighter. i’ll do the sexy nurse.”

“we’ll see who gets more stares. loser buys the first round of shots.”

morgan barked a laugh. “you’re on.”

spencer’s fingers hovered awkwardly around his glass, eyes darting between you and morgan like he was watching a tennis match he hadn’t signed up for.

“technically,” he started, voice soft but already gaining speed, “the sexualization of halloween costumes has been increasing since the 1970s, correlating with broader cultural shifts in media representation and—”

“reid,” morgan interrupted again, laughing loud enough to rattle the pumpkins, “you do not have to defend her.”

“i’m not defending anyone,” spencer insisted, ears already turning pink. “it’s just a documented sociological—”

morgan groaned dramatically before he could fully launch into the explanation. “somebody save me from the lecture.”

“someone needs to stop this bullying.” the smile you gave him was smaller than the others tonight—less performative, softer around the edges, the kind of smile you only let slip when no one else was really looking. “thanks, reid.”

the conversation rolled on around the table after that, easy and overlapping. morgan loudly defended his dignity while emily took obvious delight in making it worse, jj laughing into her drink every few seconds whenever garcia added fuel to the fire

it was familiar, rhythmic, the kind of noise spencer usually found comfort in.

the door opened again.

cold air swept inside, sharper now, carrying the bite of actual autumn. it moved through the room in a quick draft strong enough to stir napkins and raise goosebumps along exposed skin.

your shoulders pulled in for half a second as your hands disappeared deeper into the sleeves of your sweater, fingers curling against your palms like you could trap warmth there if you tried hard enough.

spencer noticed before he could stop himself from noticing.

of course he did.

“you cold?” he asked quietly, only for you.

you turned your head toward him a little too quickly, caught off guard.

“no,” you said automatically, the word out before your brain had time to vote. “not cold.”

the lie came out so fast it almost seemed reflexive.

it probably was

one second he was looking at you with that soft, earnest concern that somehow always felt more sincere coming from him, and the next your defenses were already sliding back into place.

you looked down at the table instead, nodding absently along to something emily was saying despite very obviously not hearing a word of it.

your fingers curled tighter into your sleeves.

spencer pressed his lips together, something faintly amused flickering across his face.“you’re still shivering.”

“it’s—” you paused, waving a hand vaguely like you could erase the evidence. “reflex.”

“reflex,” he repeated, the single word warm with disbelief.

“yeah,” you said, doubling down immediately. “i’m trying to be immersive. add to the halloween atmosphere.”

you gestured vaguely around the restaurant. “you know. mysterious woman shivering in the dark. very spooky.”

spencer huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head just slightly.

you liked making him laugh, more than you should.

it always felt weirdly rewarding, like winning some tiny private game no one else knew the rules to.

the way getting him to laugh felt—like you’d won a tiny, private game no one else knew you were playing. “shivering isn’t usually considered immersive.”

“well, maybe you’re just not committed to the experience,” you shot back, voice light, but your shoulder brushed his as you said it.

neither of you moved away.

“i’m fairly certain,” he said carefully, “that being cold isn’t actually necessary for enjoying themed decor.”

“agree to disagree,” you replied.

“i still think you’re cold.”

“and i still think you lack artistic vision.”

his mouth twitched. “that’s probably true.”

and then—before your brain could slam on the brakes, you leaned a little closer.

“unless,” you added, glancing at him from under your lashes, “you’re offering a solution.”

the second the words left your mouth, your entire nervous system short-circuited.

oh—fuck.

it landed exactly the way you hadn’t meant it to: low, teasing, dipped in something that sounded dangerously close to far an invitation.

you felt the shift in the air between you before you could snatch the sentence back—thick, charged, impossible to pretend away.

you cleared your throat quickly, leaning back so fast it was almost suspicious. “i mean—”

too quick. “you don’t have to, obviously. i’m just—y’know. surviving. like a champ.”

smooth.

really incredible recovery.

you resisted the urge to physically throw yourself into traffic.

spencer had gone completely still.

not enough for anyone else to notice— but you did.

his fingers had stopped moving against the stem of his glass in that unfairly distracting way they had been when he was talking to you. his posture locked for the briefest second, eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made heat crawl unexpectedly up your neck.

his throat worked once.

there was something about the way you said things sometimes—when your voice dipped lower without meaning to, when the teasing blurred unexpectedly into sincerity—that made it impossible for him to fully convince himself you were joking.

it never felt like a joke.

and now you were very obviously trying to recover.

he could see it happening in real time: the slight overcorrection, the way you leaned back farther into your chair, fingers fidgeting against your sleeves, gaze darting away and then back like you were checking whether the moment had safely passed.

you were rarely flustered.

usually, you controlled the pace of conversations effortlessly— the distance, the tone, the exact temperature of every interaction.

watching you scramble, even for a second, felt strangely intimate.

“i could—” he started, voice careful, then stopped and recalibrated. “i mean, i have my coat, if you—”

you cut him off almost too quickly. “relax, reid. i’m not gonna make you sacrifice your coat like some tragic victorian gentleman.”

“i don’t mind,” he said, too earnest for his own good.

“what, you think i can’t handle a little cold?”

he smile, narrowing his eyes at you. “i know you can’t. you’re freezing half of the time.”

before you could answer, morgan clapped his hands together once, loudly enough to break whatever strange little bubble had formed between the two of you. “back to the important question—what am i going as?”

you turned your head toward him, but not before spencer caught the last trace of your smile lingering at the corner of your mouth. “something with a missing shirt, apparently.”

and beside you, spencer ducked his head, trying—and failing—not to smile too widely into his drink.

—

chairs scraped softly as the night finally wound down, the warm buzz of laughter fading into the quieter rhythm of coats being gathered and tabs settled.

outside, the cold had deepened—visible now in the fogged edges of the windows, in the quick puffs of white breath from anyone who stepped out too soon.

“alright, birthday boy,” morgan said, clapping spencer on the shoulder as he stood, “we didn’t embarrass you too much tonight.”

spencer adjusted his scarf, sheepish smile in place. “you tried.”

“next year we try harder,” emily added, already shrugging into her coat.

jj gave him a quick hug. “happy birthday, spence.”

one by one, the team drifted toward the door in a blur of overlapping goodnights and half-finished jokes—garcia reminding everyone to text when they got home, morgan loudly insisting he absolutely would not, hotch already mentally halfway out the door.

you lingered near the table a moment longer, pulling your phone from your bag to check the subway schedule like you could somehow negotiate with the cold waiting outside through sheer force of planning.

“you heading home?”

spencer had stepped back toward you at some point, hovering nearby while everyone else filtered toward the exit. closer than the others had been all evening.

“subway.” you lifted your phone slightly. “it’s not far.”

spencer blinked. “the subway?”

“yeah,” you said, like it was obvious. “i do, in fact, function outside of private transportation.”

“i can drive you.” the offer came out simple and no hesitation.

you blinked once. then twice. “you can drive?”

he frowned, adorably offended. “yes.”

you crossed your arms, tilting your head with that slow, dangerous smile. “that’s interesting. because on every single case we’ve ever worked, i’ve been behind the wheel while you sit there like the passenger princess of the bau.”

spencer flushed—actually flushed—his shoulders shifted awkwardly as he shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets. “i—that’s not— you just tend to claim the driver’s seat before i can say anything.”

“uh-huh,” you hummed, dragging the sound out suspiciously. “convenient.”

“i have a perfectly valid driver’s license,” he informed you, overly formal in the way he always got when flustered. “and a car.”

“you have a car?”

“yes.”

“since when?”

his expression flattened slightly. “since always.”

you narrowed your eyes at him like you were genuinely trying to determine whether he was bluffing.

then, suddenly aware of how easy this conversation had become, you looked back down at your phone and tucked your hair behind both ears.

“it’s fine.” you muttered. “the subway’s not that far—”

“i know,” his voice softened just enough to make you glance back up. “i just… i’d rather you not take it this late.”

there it was again.

that quiet sincerity he did so effortlessly.

no dramatics or attempt to impress you. he said things like they were simple facts, and somehow that made them hit harder every single time.

your chest tightened unpleasantly.

you looked away first, fingers curling into the sleeves of your sweater before you could stop yourself.

“…fine,” you said, adjusting the strap of your bag like that would steady your suddenly erratic heartbeat. “but if you crash, i’m haunting you.”

“i won’t crash.”

“you better not.”

that small, crooked smile appeared again—warm and certain and entirely too effective against your nervous system.

after all the goodbyes, you slid into spencer’s car and began the quiet journey back to your apartment complex.

the ride home was quiet.

not the stiff, uncomfortable kind of silence your mind usually rushed to fill before it could settle too heavily between people.

this felt softer

streetlights stretched in long golden streaks across the windshield, flashing over spencer’s hands on the wheel, over the sleeve of your sweater where your arm rested against the door.

you watched the lights move without really focusing on them.

normally, you hated this part.

silence had a way of making your thoughts louder. it left too much room for things to surface—things you were usually very good at outrunning. you were used to filling space before it could fill itself. jokes, teasing, noise. anything to keep things moving.

this didn’t feel heavy.

you shifted slightly in your seat and glanced over at spencer.

he was focused on the road, posture still a little too precise, both hands steady on the wheel like he was concentrating harder than the situation probably required. the heater hummed softly between you, warm air brushing against your hands and slowly thawing the lingering cold from your skin.

you realized, distantly, that you didn’t feel the need to say anything.

that alone felt strange enough to notice.

a small smile tugged at your lips—more to yourself than anything else—and you turned your gaze back to the window.

after a while, you exhaled slowly, turning your head slightly toward him. “you’re very focused.”

he glanced at you briefly, then back to the road. “i’m driving.”

“yeah, i noticed,” you said, a faint smile creeping in. “just making sure you weren’t, like, defusing a bomb over there.”

“i like to be attentive,” he replied, a touch defensive but softer than usual.

“mm,” you hummed. “interesting character development. passenger princess to overachiever.”

he let out a quiet huff of laughter through his nose, shaking his head once.

“that’s not what that phrase means.”

“sure it is.”

the rest of the drive slipped by like that—quiet, with only occasional small interruptions. nothing forced, nothing stretched thin. just enough to remind you the other person was there.

by the time the car slowed in front of your building, you almost didn’t notice how quickly the time had passed.

spencer pulled up to the curb and shifted into park. for a second, neither of you moved. then he glanced over at you.

“hey,” he said, quieter now.

you looked back at him. “yeah?”

he hesitated—just slightly, like he was weighing whether to say it at all.

“thank you,” he said. “for tonight. you didn’t have to organize all of that.”

you blinked.

you held his gaze for a second longer than you meant to.

it’s small, but you feel it—the pause. the moment where you don’t immediately joke, don’t immediately deflect.

normally you would’ve already tossed out something easy by now, something that kept everything moving so nothing had the chance to settle too deep.

you don’t.

it was easier to keep things suspended in that safe, weightless place where nothing mattered too much and everything could be laughed away before it had the chance to stick.

but this sticks. just a little.

because somewhere in the back of your mind, unhelpfully vivid, you remembered making the reservation three days ago and checking it twice afterward even though there’d been no reason to.

you remembered choosing the restaurant because you knew he’d like it, despite telling yourself it had simply been convenient for the group.

you remembered watching him all night without meaning to—making sure he wasn’t overwhelmed, making sure morgan didn’t push him too hard, making sure he was actually enjoying himself instead of just enduring the attention politely.

and although you’d never admit it out loud—the initiative was still there, unfortunately for you.

you shift slightly in your seat, fingers brushing against your sleeve, something in your chest feeling just a little too aware of itself.

“oh, please,” you scoff lightly, waving a hand like it’s nothing. “i needed an excuse to eat good food and make fun of you in a socially acceptable setting.”

spencer smiled faintly, but he didn’t look away. “still.”

you held his gaze a beat too long before looking down briefly, exhaling through a small smile you couldn’t quite suppress.

“it was your birthday,” you said

“you deserve to be… celebrated, i guess.”

the second it left your mouth, you shifted slightly in your seat like you needed to shake the feeling off before it rooted too deeply. “don’t get used to it, though. this is a once-a-year kind of thing.”

spencer’s smile softened.

“i won’t,” he said gently.

you nodded once, small and quick.

the car is still idling under the streetlight, engine a low purr. you’re already half out the door when the impulse strikes—same as before, sharp and annoying.

“wait.”

spencer looked over at you just as you turned back, one foot already on the pavement.

you forced your shoulders into something casual. “i have… a thing for you.”

your hand waved vaguely, like maybe if you committed hard enough to pretending this wasn’t a big deal, your nervous system would eventually believe you.

“stay put. two seconds.”

spencer blinked. “you already—”

“yeah, yeah, dinner was the group gift,” you cut in quickly. “this is round two. don’t move.”

you didn’t wait for him to protest properly.

you slipped out of the car before you could reconsider the entire idea, heels dangling from one hand because somewhere during the drive home you’d officially given up on pretending they didn’t hurt.

the pavement was freezing against your bare feet as you hurried toward your building.

behind you, spencer watched with poorly concealed amusement as you jogged up the front steps two at a time, sweater sleeves falling over your hands while you fumbled your keys from your bag.

your apartment building lobby glowed warm against the dark street outside, all polished marble floors and soft gold lighting. the doorman looked up from his desk immediately when you rushed inside.

“good evening, miss—”

“don’t perceive me right now, miguel,” you called breathlessly over your shoulder, already making a beeline for the elevators.

he laughed under his breath as the elevator doors slid shut behind you.

upstairs, your apartment was dark except for the kitchen light you’d forgotten to turn off earlier.

you dropped your heels near the entryway and immediately went hunting through the disaster zone of your dining table until you found the plain kraft envelope sitting beneath a pile of unopened mail.

for a second, you just stared at it.

you could still back out.

very easily, actually.

you could march downstairs and say never mind and pretend the whole thing had been about… literally anything else.

but instead, you shoved the envelope under your arm and headed back downstairs before your brain could stage a full evacuation.

by the time you stepped back out onto the street, slightly out of breath and clutching the envelope like contraband, spencer had moved from the driver’s seat.

he was leaning against the passenger-side door now, arms crossed loosely over his chest, watching you like you’re the only interesting thing happening in a five-mile radius.

it did deeply unfortunate things to your heartbeat.

you walked up to him and immediately shoved the envelope toward his chest before you could lose your nerve.

“here,” you said quickly. “before i burn it.”

he opens it slowly. pulls the book out. recognizes it instantly—eyes flicking to yours with quiet surprise, then back to the cover.

“meditations,” he says, almost to himself. “the hays translation. this edition is…”

you’d tried. really tried. marcus aurelius is not light reading—short, blunt entries that feel like someone lecturing you on why emotions are optional. you got maybe sixty percent of it before your brain started staging a revolt.

but you kept going. and you marked it up anyway. because apparently that’s what you do when something makes you think of spencer reid: you argue with dead emperors in the margins.

“rare. yeah. i know.” you cross your arms, hip cocked. “don’t sound so shocked. you quote stoic philosophy at crime scenes like inspirational bumper stickers. figured you’d want the fancy version.”

he opens it. starts flipping.

you watched his eyes move across the note scribbled in the margin beside “you have power over your mind—not outside events. realize this, and you will find strength.”

says the guy who never had to deal with garcia’s daily cat videos at 8 a.m. still… you basically live this. annoyingly well.

the corner of spencer’s mouth twitched.

your stomach flipped.

he turned the page. another tab. another note. then another.

the second gets a soft huff of laughter. by the third his shoulders are shaking just a little, silent and delighted.

when he reached the note beside the passage about ignoring the opinions of others, he paused longer this time.

this is the part where i should write something deep about how you never care what people think of your magic tricks. instead i’ll just say: you’re lucky i find the card-in-the-orange thing charming instead of embarrassing.

a smaller, almost offhand note on the very last page—tucked in the corner like an afterthought:

this book is exhausting. you make it look easy. don’t tell anyone i said that.

his thumb pressed to the page, and looks up at you with something so fond it borders on embarrassing.

“you called me annoying,” he says, voice warm. “in pencil. in marcus aurelius.”

“multiple times,” you correct, deadpan. “consistency is important.”

he closes the book. holds it against his chest like it’s suddenly heavier.

“you read the whole thing,” he says quietly. not a question.

“tried. got a solid c+. the man has zero chill about suffering.”

“but you kept going.” his thumb brushes the spine.

you shrug—sharp, practiced. “someone had to fact-check his life advice. clearly he never met you.”

spencer doesn’t laugh this time. he just looks at you like he’s seeing straight through the sarcasm to the hours you spent hunched over the book with a pencil, half-annoyed, half-curious, trying to understand the framework he uses to survive the things you both see every day.

“thank you,” he says. simple. sincere. and absolutely devastating.

you roll your eyes and shrug because it’s easier than swallowing the lump in your throat. “it’s just a book, you own like seventeen thousand.”

“not one with your handwriting in it.”

your stomach flips violently.

you looked away fast—toward the streetlight flickering above you, toward your bare toes against the sidewalk, literally anywhere but his face.

“don’t read too much into it,” you muttered. “i was bored. and possibly tipsy.”

“i’ll read exactly as much into it as it deserves,” he replied, soft but certain.

silence settles again. warm. loaded.

you finally meet his eyes. “don’t lose it. or spill coffee on it. i’ll know.”

he smiles—small, crooked, completely unguarded.

the kind of smile that always felt unfair because it arrived so rarely and somehow always managed to hit you directly in the chest.

“i won’t.”

“thanks for the ride,” you said, already turning toward the stairs before the moment could stretch any further.

you made it to the first step before pausing.

then glanced back over your shoulder, lighter this time.

“night, genius.”

his expression softened instantly.

“goodnight.”

you climb without rushing. the feeling trails after you anyway—quiet, persistent, laced with humor and the smallest, most stubborn thread of something real.

and for once, you don’t try to joke it away before the door closes behind you.

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