rambling just to you (s.r)
spencer thinks you mind his rambling, and you tell him just how wrong he is
spencer reid x reader
words: 2.4k
cw: fluff, uhh first time writing for spence so pls spare me, lots and lots (too much) infodumping, reader is described kind of as a social person and a people pleaser, self deprecating talk(just for a while, it gets all good)
You've taken it upon yourself your entire life to keep a conversation going. Maybe the other person doesn't wanna talk, but it's too awkward to not say anything so you keep the conversation going. Maybe you haven't talked in a while, or maybe they're giving you dry responses, you still go off on a story of yours, only to a limit of course, to not make it weird.Â
You've always felt like you trained yourself to be interesting or funny so the other person isn't bored. You don't resent it. It's made you a fun person, good to be around, and you quite enjoy it. But sometimes, it's nice to only laugh, or listen. To not have to constantly search your brain for references, or for a further punchline, or a teasing remark. But you attract what you give, so you make yourself content in talking. To enjoy making other people laugh, it's nice, to see someone smile and laugh over what you say but that tiny inkling in your heart always stays.
But life never presents you things you prepare yourself for.Â
And that's exactly what happens when you walk through the doors of the BAU office, prepared for anything they might have for you. But oh you were so unprepared.
He was already so noticeable with his doe eyes and curious gaze. He offers his hand to you, introducing himself as âDr. Spencer Reid,â and you notice curious glances on you both. Emily Prentiss- who is now one of your best friends, shared a knowing look with Penelope, the technical analyst. You didn't know then, but the grin on her face was of someone who had already made a thousand plans in her head regarding her friends.
You only give him a curt smile and go to the conference room. JJ gave everyone the profile as was the usual, but it's your first day so you only follow their lead at first. Hotch gets up from his seat with a âWheels up in 30â, which left you a bit confused, but you deciphered from context it meant as a sign to get going. Soon you're all in the jet, everyone provides their input and you chime in when needed, unsure of when to speak up. But when you notice something important, you finally speak up,
âOne of the victims said that he was given âmedicineâ by the unsub when he was sick, later we found cocaine in his blood. He believes cocaine can cure colds, maybe he's thinking through the Victorian era.â You say, looking over the case file.
Everyone shares puzzled looks, surprised by your comment,
âHow are those things related? Were the Victorians always doing cocaine or something?â Derek asks, and everyone's attention is on you.
âWell, no. It was prescribed as medicine.â Your answer doesn't help, it only causes their faces to look more confused.
Suddenly conscious of all the attention on you, a little bit of nervousness kicks in, but you open your mouth to speak when you're interrupted by the only person who doesn't look puzzled, more likeâŠexcited?
âYeah! Cocaine wasn't known as a drug back then, they thought it had medicinal properties, and it does, but they didn't know its actual use. It was prescribed for hay fever, asthma and even melancholy,â He chuckles a little, taking a breath before continuing.
Everyone's looking at him now, confused, exasperated, and a little bit curious but not enough, you could tell. You tilt your head in amusement, very endeared by his excitement because you get it, you get his excitement to share it. Maybe another time you would've been offended if someone interrupted you, but how could you complain? He was so nice to look at!
âDrugs were also present in a children's medicine that was advertised as a remedy to quiet crying and fussing children, it was fairly popular because well- it worked,â
âMorphine.â You interrupt him.Â
Now everyone's attention was on you.Â
âThe children's medicine had morphine in it.â You elaborate yourself, looking around at everyone but settling your gaze on Spencer, at last.
He gives you a smile, nods accompanying it as he looks around to his co-workers, agreeing to your comment. You smile, grateful to him for this moment. It's not much, but it helps with fitting into the group that's foreign to you.
Hotch breaks the silence as he always does, with facts about the case but at that moment, you two share a look.Â
It hadn't meant much back then to you, but now it holds the most love because it reminds you of your everyday life. You had stopped trying to keep up with Spencer, with his random history, philosophy, mathematical, scientific and facts about obscure foreign films that now you just listen to him tell you about them.Â
You've learnt more since you've met him than you have your entire life. You enjoyed learning, and it was just all the more enjoyable when he was the one talking. You always say how nice it would've been if you knew him during your masters, your degree would've been much more bearable.
But he was here now, and it's just like everyday, or as daily as it could be without the two of you rushing out the door because of a call.
You're making eggs and he's drinking his coffee, his mouth constantly moving, rambling about Greek myths that he had read last night. Naturally, you asked what he had read and of course, he was perfectly content to indulge you,
âYou know Arachne was a weaver. She was better than most and she was prideful and arrogant in her talent. She started bragging about how she could weave better than the gods. So Athena decided to challenge her, but she lost. But things didn't go very well for Arachne either.â He stops for a sip of his coffee.
You don't need to ask, because he will continue soon enough, but you do it anyway, âWhy not?â
âWellâŠâ He says with a smile on his face, âAthena came down as an old woman to teach her to be respectful to the gods. But Arachne didn't listen. So in a fit of rage, Athena turned Arachne into a spider. But,â
Spencer takes a pause for dramatic effect and you chuckle, placing his breakfast plate in front of him, giving him a peck on his lips and sitting down on the couch, your legs draped over his lap, âAthena didn't take her powers, Arachne still was the best weaver.â
âSo what? Now Arachne was just this spider weaver creature..??â You ask in confusion, rubbing your eyes which were still laden with sleep.
âYes!!!â He says, excitedly, âEvery spider you see weaves a web. Her curse was she will never be human, but she will still be a weaver. That's why spiders weave webs.â
Safe to say, your jaw was left hanging as he came to the end of the story, âThat's the story? Oh my god.âÂ
He laughs at your incredulity and you swat him playfully, a teasing gesture, âYou're getting good at this, the storytelling was-,â. You gesture a chef's kiss and he laughs again, a melodic sound to your ears.
âWhy? My storytelling wasn't good before?â He asks, continuing your teasing banter. He had learned over the years to keep up with it, to hear you tease him even if it flustered him. It's always there, passing comments, enough to get him red and smile at you dopily, but he knows it's not as it used to be. You don't do it as often now, and sometimes he thinks it's because you're tired of his ramblings. He worries that he doesn't give you enough space to be yourself, or maybe he takes up too much of the time, maybe he should give you the opportunity to talk first.
âNo, handsome. I love hearing you talk.â Your words are an opposite to his thoughts but it doesn't do much to calm down his running thoughts. He's suddenly somber now, his mind plagued with insecure thoughts so he thinks to let you initiate the next sentence, the next story or the next fact. Anything.
But you're quiet for a while, waiting for him to tell you something. A few minutes pass by and you ask him again,
âI didn't read the one about Perseus, only skimmed it over, will you tell me?â You ask him, this thing routine to you, to ask questions heâs always happy to answer, drawing circles on his wrist and he thinks of it as a ruining action. It is such a specific memory, your fingers drawing sceneries on his wrist that he curses his eidetic memory. He couldn't keep this memory if you're not with him to do it again. But he couldn't help it, so he said quietly, âNo, tell me about you.â
The question is confusing to you,Â
âSpence, you know I don't like to talk much in the morning.â You say, your fingers now tracing the lines of his palm, your eyes focused on where your fingers move, pressing a kiss to his shoulder distractedly.
âI-â He sighs, setting down his coffee and running a hand over his face before leaning his head towards your shoulder.
âBut I always ramble, and not only in the morning. You should be able tell me things too.â
âI do tell you, I tell you everything that I know about Spence. I know that I've told you that story about my grandmother at least four times now, and I always remember that after I've told you, but you never do. You justâŠlisten, even though you probably remember every time I've told you.â You chuckle, a quiet fondness growing in your heart.
He smiles, remembering the story now. He remembers all the times you've said it to him, his favourite was the third time when you had realised halfway through and hid your face in his shoulder.Â
âYeah, but I talk too much. It's annoying. And it's boring. You can stop me if you want.â He says, his voice is quiet now, as if he knows he shouldn't say these things, he should know better than to speak like this around you, but he loves you. And he wants you to talk.Â
Even though now, after a few moments out of his cycle of insecure thoughts, he realises he's wrong. You do talk to him. A lot. Everyday. Stories about your friends, how you saw a video about different types of plastic one day, how your most recent book had Greek gods, so he had taken it upon himself to read up on them. He can always tell when you have something new to tell him, there's a different shine to your eyes whenever you do. If he knows the topic, he shares your excitement, or catches up the next day. You talk to him everyday, and now he feels silly to have complained.
You turn to face him, making contact with his eyes, âNo, it's not annoying. Nor is it boring. When did I ever say that?â
He tries to defend himself, âI know I ramble a lot, and you always listen. And I love you so much for it. But I don't want you to just not talk because of me. I don't wanna always take over the conversation.â
A smile graces your lips and he's more confused than ever, âSpence, listen,â You settle the coffee mug in your hand on the table and take his face into you hands,
âI like it when you ramble. I like listening to you talk, your ramblings are interesting to me. You don't think I wasn't interested in the Arachne the weaver story?â You say, and he smiles again. You're still not used to it, whenever he smiles.Â
âYeah, but you're not usually quiet around people-â
You cut him off, âI like listening to you Spencer. It's half the reason I fell in love with you. I like that I don't always have to be on my toes to keep up a conversation, that sometimes, I can just talk, or not talk, it doesn't matter.â You say earnestly, trying to explain to him just how wrong he is about his assumption, how awful it is that he thinks you're annoyed.
âAnd I love your rambles. You think I would have known about the fact that caterpillars basically dissolve into liquid in the cocoon?â You say and he visibly perks up, a familiar excitement coursing his body,
âAnd-,â There's an inflection, showcasing his obvious excitement, âThe only thing left are the so-called âimaginal discsâ, groups of cells that contain all the information and the mechanism to turn that liquid into the various body parts of a butterfly; the same applies for other insects. and also,â He goes to continue,
âThey retain memories through this process. I know. Because you told me. And because I love you.â He has that doe- eyed look again, the one you dread because it fills you with a kind of fondness that you can't quite contain. It makes you a bit animalistic, in a way where you want to pepper his face with kisses, to see his cheeks turn red and hear that wretched laugh again. You had told him that too, he called it cuteness aggression. It was a fitting name, you thought.
âI love you too.â He says, his lips not too far away before they connect, both your lips taste of coffee, and his is much sweeter than yours, but he doesn't complain, and neither do you, because why would you? You can feel him smiling again, and he breaks away to speak again,
âWhen a caterpillar forms,â You sense another ramble incoming so you kiss him again, but he continues, âthe chrysalis dissolves, but not the tiny bits of butterfly,â interrupted by a kiss again, âthose don't dissolve,âÂ
You sigh and put your foreheads together, âthey just grow into butterflies.â You finish for him.
He would take that sigh another way if it wasn't you, another tease on his behalf, talking over your kisses as if he wasn't starved for them.Â
âIf this is your preferred way of shutting me up,â He says, now he's the one kissing you, âI'd be very glad to keep talking.â And you smile, despite the cold coffee on the table and the not-so-quiet morning, your heart feels warm and peaceful.
