2enty, she/her, infp, taurus. english isn't my first language, nor do i want it to be 🇧🇷 ₍^. .^₎⟆
writer (like in theory); requests open, question mark..?
𖦹 spencer reid's lover. 999. busyhead. delusional. aspiring crazy cat old woman. president of the Tummy Ache country. flicts. wasteland, baby!'s n°1 fan. slowly going insane. afraid of heights and of men. chronically nervous & perpetually yearning. do you remember crying for all them horses?
ok random but the jj and spencer drama in s7 (?) is a sensitive topic for me actually because i swear no matter how much i love spencer i will defend her until the day that i die and i would write an essay about the whole thing if only i had the brains to do so
in which the robbery of spencer's beloved table prompts some conversations usual to long-term best friends and to kindergarteners, probably.
tags: pre relationship / fluff ? i never know how to do this; high school au !! nerd spencer reid & fem cheerleader reader !!! spencer is most likely neurodivergent and certainly a loser; i dunno it's just nice and sweet and they have no clue what to do with it; penelope mentioned yay !! probably ooc but i dont think i care anymore ♡ gif by @/reidgif !!!
w/c: 2.5k
a/n: hi it's been a while idk what to say this is awkward. i love u and i miss u and i hope u still wanna read this stupid little series ?
prev part | universe masterlist | meet the reader
First day of freshman year:
Spencer Reid walks into the library during lunchtime to hide from the chaos in the cafeteria, and runs to the back of the room only to encounter the ideal table; Between a window and the shelf with chemistry & physics books, above such a rare, perfectly leveled area of flooring, with a surface smooth enough to avoid his clothes snagging and small enough for others to instinctively pass it by.
He proceeds to spend almost every single lunch period, for all of three years, rooted to that very table.
Today:
Spencer Reid walks into the library during lunchtime to hide from the chaos in the cafeteria, and runs to the back of the room only to encounter someone who is not him, sat at said table.
He stops. He blinks. He triple checks, makes sure he's looking at the right spot — not that he'd need to, it's muscle memory at this point. Thirty-six steps from the door and a right turn and there it is. There you are, in all your audacious glory, shamelessly stealing his spot as if it meant nothing. (Which it kind of does, though he refuses to accept it.)
Your shoulder rests against the wall, head bowed over an open book and legs crossed under the wood as if you didn’t know who it belongs to. Your hair — the first thing he saw and recognized to be yours, though he'd deny it for eternity if anyone dared asking — is tucked behind an ear and your fingers worry at the corner of the page and your foot bounces absentmindedly in a steady rhythm.
A container filled with yoghurt and what seem to be blueberries sits unopened beside your phone and earbuds. Your bag leans against his favorite chair. He feels faintly ill.
Still, he can't help but note:
Observation #1 - There are eighteen tables in the library. Seventy two chairs. His mind calculates it instinctively — only a 5.56% chance you'd randomly sit at his table.
Observation #2 - You're supposed to be in the cafeteria like you've basically always done — at the biggest table with the prettiest girls in the pinkest outfits between the giggliest conversations. In no one's books are you the type of person to spend lunch in the library.
Observation #3 - He isn't at all familiar with this specific flavor of anxiety.
Spencer exhales, shallow and uneven. Retreat seems like a logical option; so does standing perfectly still until the bell rings. He clears his throat like it's enough to rid it of that lump of agglomerate nerves and… jealousy?
The sound is quieter than he'd expected, but your foot stills; your fingers stop playing, and slowly, you look up. You smile when your eyes meet his — as if you were, like, actually happy to see him or something. “Hi, Spencer.”
Like usual, he thinks of an answer until it's too awkward to reply. He fidgets with his cuticles. Your brows furrow, lips tilting as the concern he’s almost used to softly takes over your expression, “Are you okay? What, did Jason do somet—”
“No, no,” he cuts you off, shaking his head and looking away. “It's just, uhm…” He starts, voice soft not only because of the Shh signs on every wall. “You’re in my spot.”
“Oh. Right.” You say in a breath, looking around the table. “Well, it doesn't have your name anywhere on it—” you laugh, he doesn't, “—but, uh… if you insist.” It's not anything but lighthearted, yet he can't help the feeling when you start collecting your stuff, getting ready to move. He’s not worthy of your inconvenience.
“No, I— I'm not asking you to leave,” he startles himself with a step, foot moving above creaky hickory before he can stop it. Then, quieter and forcefully less eager, “I can share. I don’t mind it.”
You shrug, biting back a smile as you instead gather your things more neatly together, making space on the table for little old him. He's still talking as he settles on the opposite end from you. “I'm just surprised because there's rarely ever anyone else here— actually, in three years, this has only happened twice before. This table's smaller than the rest, and the placement isn't really convenient for most people— I mean, all of the books on those shelves,” he gestures to the surrounding ones, “are close to new, because no one really reads them except for me, and when it starts getting warmer, the sunlight can hit your eyes uncomfortably if you're sitting on that side… either way, I prefer this side because it's closest to the trash can and I can have my back turned to the librarian's desk to avoid accidental eye contact. Also, I've never seen you at the library before. I thought you were supposed to be in the cafeteria with the rest of the, uhm… the cool kids. Really, students in popular groups are less likely to dedicate enough time to studies and the fact that you'd be willing to sacrifice your lunch hour to—”
When he sees the wide eyes above your equally amused smile, he straightens his back and clears his throat. There’s a crack in his voice when he adds, “Sorry.”
He stares at the beautiful grain where his things now sit and he, not unnaturally, wishes he could bury his head into a hole. The trashcan's near, he said it himself, and he's not sure it'd be any less comfortable than the silence you currently give him as a reply. That little laugh that soon follows from you doesn't necessarily help, either.
And then it's your turn to surprise him, though with that kindness he's not yet familiar with. With a crooked smile and a soft, soft voice, “Why would you wanna avoid eye contact with Ms. Tina? She's super nice. She doesn't even get mad at me when I talk in here.”
He knows it's because most of the time there are so few people in the library to be bothered by it, that she doesn't even give herself the effort. You chuckle to yourself like a reply to his mind, like you know exactly what he's thinking. He picks on some of the dead skin around one of his nails and only when it hurts can he be sure this is really happening. After a beat, he murmurs, “Well, I... I'm not exactly fond of eye contact with anyone, really.”
“Ah, yes.” You nod, eyes falling back to your page with a breathy mumble, “Of course.”
And a little laugh sends you both off into silence.
Spencer, between glances in your direction, tries to look for the title of the book in your hands, but it lays on the table too awkwardly for that — either way, he doesn't think the words on it are the kind to warrant that smile plastered across your face. Your left hand index finger twirls around itself a strand of hair. Your gaze circles around to the beginning of the page once or twice, and he looks away then out of fear that you'll see him staring.
One would be shocked by just how much can be seen from the corner of an eye — pretty much everything you've done has been observed and processed by Spencer from mere glimpses. When you tuck your legs up to your chest and lie the side of your face on your knees, his interest in the ridges of the wood only increases — though he could describe every one of your following actions with immense accuracy.
Your eyes turn their focus (apparently rebelliously so) toward the peeling polish on your thumbnail, though it seems intentional when you move onto examining his expression for a moment, during which he finds himself unable and/or unwilling to move. And then you begin staring at his textbook and at the model of molecules illustrating the hard cover. You frown at it. You chew on your lower lip and take a breath, you tuck that curl behind your ear and you blink far too many times.
You barely even move when the murmur leaves your throat, “If you really wanna know… the cool kids went off campus for lunch with their boyfriends and I wasn't in the mood for third— well, more like… ninth wheeling again.”
“Oh,” he exhales, not hiding the way he looks at you anymore because normal people keep eye contact during conversations. “You’re— uh, you don't have a boyfriend?” is all he can really say, and he curses himself for doing it. “Sorry.” Spencer Reid can't talk relationships is totally something one could correctly say here, but Spencer Reid can't talk to people might be a better fitting statement.
“I like to put it as having real standards, unlike them— but yes, yeah, I'm, ah, ‘m single. Alone,” you mumble with a sheepish laugh.
“Well, I,” he starts, though it's a rare occasion where he pauses to think his words through. “I wouldn't say you're alone. I mean, you have more friends than I'd ever dream of. That's not loneliness.”
“Romance isn't everything. Yeah, yeah, I know, whatever. I'm not, like, depressed because of it or something. It's just a little inconvenience that gets rubbed in my face whenever I'm around them all, you know?”
He's doesn't think he knows because he isn't that often willfully surrounded by people who love each other — he's not that often willfully surrounded by people. He merely nods and hums as a response. After a breath, stupidly, he muses, “Many people here… want you, though,” not sure how to say it, he coughs over the phrase awkwardly.
“I'm not desperate enough go out with any of the guys on the team… if that's what you mean.”
“Yes, that, but— not only that. Loads of boys do,” and he stops himself from listing all of the names he's overheard over time. “They talk loudly in the locker room.”
You giggle again, shaking your head. “I think that's all, like, very gross. Them, I mean. Teenage boys say weird, gross things. No offense. I don't know that I'd ever date the kinda guy who talks about any girl so loudly in the locker room.”
If anyone told Spencer like a month ago that he'd be having lunch (or pretending to have lunch — neither of you has taken a bite yet) with someone like you while chatting about boyfriends, he would’ve condemned them for lying. You also seem to realize the absurdity of the situation and, with a shyness so rarely seen from you, you whisper, “That's so stupid, right? Sorry.”
“No, no,” he's quick to counter. “It's not stupid. It's a good thing, no? You, uh… you know your worth,” is what he guesses to be the right answer.
“I meant the fact that I'm sharing this with you. You, like, barely know me and you just wanna read your book and eat in silence—” you gesture to the copy of Solid State Chemistry and its Applications and the aluminum wrapped sandwich beside it “—and I'm complaining about how boys aren't romantic enough and I doubt you could care any less.”
“I don't mind it.”
“You should, though,” you chuckle.
“No, I'm just… glad someone's talking to me.”
Spencer worries it's pity that fills your eyes for that second of silence, when your smile fades softly and your head tilts to the side, but you speak soon enough to direct his mind elsewhere. “You can talk, too, you know.”
“No, I've never…” he shakes his head, “I'm not— no, I can’t talk about that. I have nothing to say.”
“You can talk about other stuff.”
“Yeah, like what? You want to hear me talk about… solid state chemistry?” he says in a scoff.
“If you wanna,” and you shrug.
He smiles softly, yet keeps his eyes down, and, while formulating an egregiously polysyllabic response, he realizes what he wants is simply to avoid being a bigger bother. He presses his lips together, considers stapling them so; yours can't seem to stay closed for more than a minute.
“We could talk about something else, then, I guess. What's your favorite color?”
He dares another proper look at your face, “Hm?”
“Do you have a favorite color?” and it's like you asked his opinions on the most important of political topics.
Spencer scratches his head and stares at the ceiling and furrows his brows to dig into his own brain, to look through memories, recent or not, that can help him discover or decide the great things about himself as a person. “I don't think I do, no,” is all he can really muster.
Your neck turns at an angle then, and you laugh in sync, short and sweet. “Really?”
“Yeah, really. Why?”
“You totally do, though. Everyone has a favourite color,” you mumble, amused. “I mean, like, if I were to guess…” you narrow your eyes and he’s not sure what to do under such scrutiny, “you look like your favorite color is, like, purple, maybe. You know that one little purple scarf you wear a lot? I think it's, like, in your pallette, or something. Even if it’s not your favourite, you should wear it more often, I think.”
That might be the first time he's heard inside of this building someone confirm his existence as something other than a strange, disturbing anomaly. You don't seem to realize what you're saying or how it makes him feel. Selfishly, he wishes he could ask you to stop talking, so that he can process the unknown concepts of being seen and acknowledged and considered by other people, and of having to stop to process something. Your words echo in his ears in a way that makes him wonder if he's becoming stupider.
“You're probably, like, a… an autumn, maybe? I, actually, I don't know anything about that color analysis stuff, so I don't know if I sound stupid, I probably do, but Penny is huge on all of that, so I hear it a lot. I think I'm, like, a… light spring…? She told me once, but I don't really get it. It's a stupid name, something like that.”
It's not like he didn't know he was real. He's always known he's a human, obviously. What he wasn’t too sure of was the fact that others knew he's a human. Red pools around the edge of his fingernail as another bit of skin goes, and the confusion in your voice when you ask, “Sorry, did I say something wrong?” has enough of a pull on Spencer to get him out of his own head.
“Hm?”
“You’re really quiet. Did I say something?”
“No, oh, no, no— don't worry, no. It's just— I'm just… confused, I guess. Sorry, why are we talking about colors again?”
“Oh, no, it's just, like, a thing,” you shrug. He tries to mirror your smile but he doesn't know how much of a grimace it looks like. “‘Cause that's one of the first things people ask someone to get to know them… in, like, pre-k, maybe, but— oh, well. It's a topic as surface level as it gets, I think.”
“Oh. Yeah.” He relearns how to nod after a while. “Yeah, that makes sense… I guess I do like purple.”
“Really?” You beam, just as proud as you are happy.
“Mhm.”
“Yay! Guessed right. Okay— uhm… what's your favourite animal, then? Wait, no, should I guess, too?”
