𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: spencer reid x fem!reader
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.4k
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: hurt/comfort, I think, either that or fluff, mid-ish seasons Spencer, some very mild violence, mentions of blood and injury, protective Spence
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Spencer Reid has never moved that fast. Not in the field. Not in training. Not ever. But when a grieving father shoves you into a kitchen cabinet during an interview, Spencer is across the room before anyone can blink—hand on the man's chest, voice like steel, all that quiet intensity finally aimed at someone who deserves it. The team is stunned. Morgan is asking questions. And the secret you and Spencer have been keeping for months is about to come crashing down.
You’d been bracing for this the second you stepped through the door.
The victim’s mother had the same wild, searching look you’d seen a hundred times before—the desperate need to blame anyone, anyone, other than the abstract monster who took her daughter. Grief curdling into rage at the nearest warm body. You’d taken point instinctively, not because you were the senior agent, but because Hotch’s gaze had already flicked to you in silent question. Can you handle this? You gave a single nod. I’ve got it.
“Mrs. Hartwell, I know this is unbearable. But every piece of information you can give us—her schedule, anyone new she mentioned—”
“You don’t know anything.”
Her composure shatters on the word. Her hands claw at the air between you, fingernails catching the kitchen’s fluorescent light like small, dull blades. “You stand there with your fancy credentials and your clinical words. My Maggie is gone.”
You hold your ground, even as your pulse kicks hard against your ribs. Don’t flinch. Don’t feed the spiral. You’ve seen grief turn feral before—watched it coil and strike like a cornered animal. You’ve also seen what happens when you back away: it tells them their rage is justified, that you’re afraid of the very pain you’re asking them to relive. So you stay. Soften your voice, but not your stance. “I understand. And I’m so sorry. But the small details—her routine, anyone new in her life—those could be the thing that brings her home.”
That’s when the father snaps.
He’d been vibrating in the corner, a burly man with red-rimmed eyes and fists clenched so tight his knuckles have gone bloodless. You register the shift in his weight a half-second too late—the draw of his arm back, the pivot of his hips, the ugly twist of his mouth.
There’s no room to dodge.
His palm catches you high on the shoulder—a glancing blow meant to shove, not strike. A warning, maybe. Or the last thread of restraint from a man who hasn’t slept in days. But the momentum is brutal. You slam backward into the kitchen counter. The granite edge bites into your lower back, a hot wire of pain that lances straight up your spine. Then your head whips forward and then back—the crack of your skull against the upper cabinet is a sound you feel more than hear. A wet, hollow knock that echoes inside your own skull.
White-hot splinters through your vision, stars collapsing and reforming behind your eyes. Your teeth click together so hard you taste enamel. Then copper, hot and sharp, blooming across your tongue.
The room tilts.
Your knees buckle.
You catch yourself on the counter, one hand slipping on a forgotten dish towel as the world lists sideways. Warmth trickles from your scalp down the nape of your neck, a slow, alarming heat that doesn’t match the sudden cold in your fingers. You blink, and for one long second, you can’t remember where you are. The faces in front of you are smears of colour and grief.
Before you can even draw another breath, a blur of motion cuts through your peripheral vision.
Spencer.
Not the lanky, cardigan-clad genius who stammers through small talk and apologizes for existing in someone's personal space. Not the man who once spent ten minutes explaining the migratory patterns of monarch butterflies because he couldn't read your social cues, who carries paperback novels in his satchel like other men carry wallets, who still flushes when you hold his hand in the dark of your apartment where no one can see.
This Spencer moves like a spring uncoiling. Like something kept on a very short leash just got loose—all that coiled tension, all those suppressed instincts, snapping into terrible, beautiful focus.
He crosses the kitchen in three strides you don't consciously track. One moment he's across the room, and the next he's there, inserting himself between you and the father with a speed that makes Hotch's head whip up from across the room.
His right hand shoots out, palm flat against the man's chest, and shoves. Hard enough that the father's back hits the wall with a dry, echoing thud—the kind that rattles the framed school photos hanging nearby. A child's smile. Maggie's smile. The irony doesn't escape you. Neither does the way Spencer's arm doesn't tremble. He's not straining. He's planted—weight distributed, centre of gravity low, the stance of someone who's been trained to hold his ground and forgotten to mention it.
"Keep your hands off her."
Spencer's voice is low. Stripped of its usual breathy pitch, stripped of the tentative upward lilt that turns every statement into a question. The stammer is gone. The apologetic half-smile is gone. In its place is something you've only ever seen in glimpses—when he reads a case file a little too closely, when he stares down an unsub who's made the mistake of threatening a teammate.
It isn't a plea or a warning.
It's a fact. Delivered with the cold certainty of a ballistic report. The kind of voice that makes seasoned interrogators lean back in their chairs.
"Reid." Hotch's voice cuts across the kitchen, not unkind but pointed. A reminder. We're still here. We're still watching.
Spencer's spine straightens almost imperceptibly. His chin lifts. When he turns toward the unit chief, his expression is perfectly neutral—open, cooperative, the eager young agent who quotes statistics and fumbles with his words and never, ever pushes back against authority.
Hotch studies him for a long moment. That gaze—the one that sees everything, the one that's made unsubs confess just by existing—sweeps over Spencer from head to toe, cataloguing, assessing. Whatever he finds must satisfy him, because he gives a single nod.
"That was an assault on a federal agent."
His words come precise and clipped, each one landing like a hammer strike. No rambling. No tangential footnotes about statistical probabilities or legal precedents. Just steel. The kind of voice you've heard Spencer use exactly once before—on a hostage negotiator's training tape Hotch made the whole team watch three years ago. The one where a twenty-something Reid talked a man off a ledge in under four minutes, then vomited behind the squad car afterward.
"You raise a hand again, and I will personally ensure you spend the next forty-eight hours in a holding cell while we decide how many additional charges to file."
His jaw is set. A muscle ticks beneath his eye—the only sign that he's even breathing. The father is twice Spencer's width, built like a man who's swung a hammer for a living, shoulders rounded with years of manual labour and grief gone toxic. And yet he shrinks. His mouth opens, some bluster forming on his tongue—a denial, maybe, or a defence—something about not meaning it, about his daughter, about grief making him crazy.
Spencer cuts him off.
"Don't."
The word snaps through the air like a rubber band breaking. Sharp. Final. It lands in the small kitchen and seems to suck the oxygen out of the room.
"Not a word." Spencer's voice hasn't lost its edge. If anything, it's sharper now—honed to a fine point. "You're going to sit down, and you're going to calm down. If you so much as look in her direction again, we're done here. And your daughter's best chance walks out that door with us."
The man sits.
It's not graceful. His knees buckle more than they bend—a controlled collapse masquerading as obedience. His back slides down the wall until he's a heap on the linoleum, head in his hands, shoulders shaking. The fight drained out of him in less than ten seconds.
The mother makes a sound—something caught between a sob and a gasp—and Hotch is already there, guiding her to a chair, murmuring something about cooperation and finding Maggie. His voice is low, practiced. The same voice he uses for panicked witnesses and grieving families a hundred times a year.
But you're not watching any of that.
You're watching Spencer's hand drop from the man's chest. You're watching his shoulders rise and fall once, twice—a deliberate breath, the kind he uses to ground himself during panic attacks, the kind he taught you to use after nightmares. You're watching the way his spine stays rigid even as his fingers curl into a loose fist at his side, knuckles still pale.
He's shaking.
Not much. Not enough that anyone across the room would notice. But you're close enough to see the fine tremor running through his forearm, the way his throat works on a swallow he's trying to hide. He just threatened a man twice his size into silence with nothing but his voice and his presence—and now he's trembling like a leaf in a windstorm.
Only then does Spencer turn.
His eyes find yours—and for a split second, the mask cracks. Beneath the steel is something raw, almost frightened. You did that to him. You realize it with a small, stunned jolt—the way your pain becomes his panic, the way he'd burn this whole house down if it meant you walked out unscathed. It's not a protective instinct. It's something deeper. Something that lives in his bones now, whether he's named it or not.
His fingers are cool against your heated skin as he tilts your chin toward the light—the overhead fluorescents, merciless and buzzing, the kind that make everyone look washed out and exhausted. He doesn't seem to notice. He's examining your head with the same hyper focused intensity he brings to cold cases and obscure scientific journals. But his touch is different. Softer. The pads of his thumbs brush the skin just below your hairline, following the ache you hadn't realized was radiating outward from your skull.
Feather-light. Almost reverent. Like you're something precious he's been trusted to handle.
His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, coming away with a thin smear of copper. You watch him look at it—that single red line across his skin—and something in his expression fractures. Just for a second. Just enough for you to see. The mask doesn't just crack; it shatters, and underneath is something raw and unguarded: a man who has spent his whole life being too much or not enough, who has finally found something he can't bear to lose.
"You're okay," he murmurs, quiet enough that only you can hear.
It isn't a question. It's the same declarative certainty he used on the father—that same steel-and-ballistic-report finality. But this time, it's wrapped in something tender. Something that sounds like I need you to be okay dressed up as a fact. Like if he says it enough times, with enough conviction, the universe will have no choice but to comply.
You nod. Just once. Small.
His throat works as he swallows—a visible, effortful thing, like he's pushing down something that wants to claw its way out. Rage, maybe. Or relief. Or something else entirely, something that doesn't have a name yet, something that's been living in the space between you for months.
Then he blinks.
And the Spencer the team knows clicks back into place. The tension in his shoulders doesn't fully release—it's still there, a wire pulled taut somewhere deep—but he smooths it down, tucks it away into whatever internal compartment he's built for exactly this purpose. His expression cycles through three micro-corrections: softening the jaw, relaxing the brow, lowering the shoulders. A man putting on his own face again, like adjusting a mask before stepping through a door.
You've seen him do this before. In interrogation rooms, when a suspect hits too close to home. At crime scenes, when the victim looks like someone he loves. In the quiet hours of the night, when nightmares leave him gasping and he has to remember how to be a person before the sun comes up.
But you've never seen him do it this fast.
His hand finds your lower back. Warm. Steady. A pressure that says I'm here without a single word as he guides you a step away from where the father sits slumped against the wall, weeping quietly into his hands. The shift is subtle—just a few inches—but you notice. Of course you notice. He's positioned himself between you and the room.
Behind you, Derek Morgan stands frozen mid-step, one foot forward, having lunged a second too late. His eyes are wide—not afraid, exactly, but stunned. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. He looks like a man who just watched his nerdy little brother body-slam a bully twice his size and isn't sure whether to be proud or deeply concerned.
"Did… did Reid just physically intimidate someone?"
The question hangs in the air. Not accusatory. Just genuinely bewildered. Like he's asking the universe to confirm that his eyes aren't deceiving him, that the laws of physics haven't somehow inverted, that Spencer Reid—who once apologized to a door he walked into—just made a grown man shrink.
A slow, incredulous smile spreads across Emily’s face. The kind she gets when she's witnessed something she'll be holding over someone's head for years. Her eyebrows have climbed so high they're threatening to disappear into her hairline.
"I think he just threatened a civilian with federal prison and gave him a time-out." She tilts her head, watching Spencer angle his body between you and the room—a human shield disguised as casual concern. "That's… actually impressive. In a terrifying sort of way."
She says it lightly. But there's something underneath. A question she's not asking yet. Her eyes linger on the space between you and Spencer—on the absence of distance, on the way he hasn't looked at anyone else since he turned around. Emily has spent too many years in deep cover, has read too many micro-expressions, to miss the way Spencer's hand is still hovering near your back, even though the threat is neutralized.
Curious, her expression says. Very curious.
JJ's gaze flicks between you and Spencer, her reporter's brain cataloguing every detail. The hand on your back. The way your weight has shifted slightly toward him. The blood on your lip that he hasn't let you touch again. She doesn't say anything. But her eyes narrow—just a fraction—and something shifts behind them. Noticing. Filing it away.
She's going to ask you later. You can already tell. Not at the scene. Not where anyone else can hear. But later. In the bathroom of the jet, maybe, or while you're both pretending to sleep on the flight home. JJ has a way of making questions feel like kindness, like she's not prying, just checking in.
Spencer’s thumb has started moving. An unconscious back-and-forth, a tiny circle, a soothing pattern he probably doesn't even realize he's making. The heat of his palm seeps through your shirt, grounding you in a way that has nothing to do with the pain still pulsing behind your eyes.
"You need ice," he says finally, practical now, his voice climbing back toward its usual register. But his eyes haven't left yours. They're scanning—forehead, temple, cheekbone, lip—with the same intensity he'd bring to a crime scene, cataloguing every shade of bruise, every smear of blood. "And probably stitches. One suture, maybe two. The temporal region bleeds disproportionately to the severity of the injury because of the superficial temporal artery, so the amount of blood isn't necessarily—"
But Morgan isn't done.
"Reid," he says slowly, drawing out the name like he's testing the weight of it against his tongue. "You just put a man against a wall."
Spencer stiffens almost imperceptibly beneath the attention. His hand flexes against your lower back—a nervous twitch, fingers curling like they're searching for something to hold onto—before he remembers himself and lets it drop to his side. The absence of his palm is immediate. You feel it like a missing step on a staircase, like a word left hanging at the end of a sentence, like the hollow ache where a tooth used to be.
He clears his throat.
"He was a threat to a federal agent." His voice is carefully neutral. Clinical. The kind of tone he uses when citing case law or explaining blood spatter patterns to a room of sceptical local PD. But there's a faint flush creeping up the back of his neck—the one he gets when he's been caught doing something embarrassing. Or something revealing. "Protocol permits reasonable use of physical intervention to prevent further harm."
Morgan crosses his arms. His head tilts—that slow, assessing angle he uses when he's already figured something out and is just enjoying the process of watching someone squirm. The ghost of a grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. Not mean. Just knowing.
"Uh-huh." He draws out the syllable, lets it hang in the air like smoke. "And the part where you haven't let go of her for three minutes straight? What protocol is that?"
Spencer opens his mouth. Closes it. His ears are turning pink now, visible even under the horrible kitchen lighting—that particular shade of red that creeps up from his collar and stains everything in its path.
His hands are now shoved deep in his pockets, like he's physically restraining himself from reaching for you again.
You watch him cycle through approximately four different responses in the span of two seconds.
It was three minutes and seventeen seconds—too defensive, too precise.
She was injured—too obvious, too flimsy, too easy to poke holes in.
“That's not protocol, that's—” He stops himself before he can finish that sentence, but the word hangs in the air anyway, unfinished and damning.
That's personal.
Morgan lets the silence stretch, patient as a cat at a mouse hole. His eyes flick to you—just for a second—and there's something softer there now. Not pity. Understanding, maybe. The kind of look that says I see you, I see both of you, and I'm not going to make this harder than it needs to be.
But he's not going to make it easy, either.
"You know," Morgan says, feigning casual, "I've known you for years, Reid. Watched you freeze up around witnesses. Watched you stammer through interviews. Watched you apologize to furniture." He pauses, letting the contrast sink in. "I've never seen you move like that. Not unless someone on this team was about to get shot."
Spencer's throat works. His hands are still buried in his pockets, knuckles pressing outward against the fabric—a white-knuckled grip on nothing. "Situations evolve. People adapt. It's not—" He stops. Swallows. "It's not indicative of anything beyond the immediate circumstances."
"The immediate circumstances," Morgan repeats slowly, tasting the words. "Right. So if it had been me who got shoved, you'd have done the same thing?"
The question lands like a grenade with the pin pulled.
Spencer's eyes dart to Morgan's face—searching, analysing, trying to figure out the trap. Because it is a trap. You can see it. Spencer can see it. The only correct answer is the one that incriminates him.
Yes, he could say. It would be a lie, and Morgan would know it's a lie, and the lie itself would be a confession.
No—well. No would be even worse.
Spencer says nothing. His silence is louder than any answer he could have given.
Morgan's grin softens into something gentler. Something almost fond. "That's what I thought."
"I don't know what you think you're implying—" Spencer starts, but Morgan holds up a hand, cutting him off.
"I'm not implying anything, kid. I'm observing." He takes a step closer, dropping his voice so only the three of you can hear. The kitchen feels suddenly smaller, more intimate, like the walls have leaned in to listen. "I'm observing that you just went full tactical on a civilian. I'm observing that you haven't looked at anyone else in this room for more than two seconds at a time." He ticks each point off on his fingers, slow and deliberate. "And I'm observing that you're standing so close to her right now that if I took a picture, it'd be Exhibit A in a 'why the hell didn't we notice this sooner' slideshow."
Spencer's jaw is clenched so tight you can see the tendon in his neck straining. His hands have come out of his pockets—when did that happen?—and they're hanging at his sides, fingers twitching like he's fighting every instinct to reach for you again.
"I—" He stops. Starts again. "It's not—"
He can't finish the sentence.
He can't say it's not what you think because it is what Morgan thinks. It's exactly what Morgan thinks, and maybe more, and maybe worse, and maybe the most terrifying thing Spencer has ever had to name out loud.
You and Spencer Reid were paired the day you met at the FBI Academy, and neither of you ever really chose to be apart again. He cries when you cry, you laugh when he laughs, and he falls in love only when you do. You mirror each other without trying, orbiting the same gravity, bound by something deeper than choice. Like the sun and the moon—forever aligned, forever drawn—yet never granted the stillness of an eclipse.
Warnings & Tags: this series will go through almost every chapter of every season but it's going to rewrite them! i will stray from the canon quite a bit at times. suggestive themes and eventual explicit. extra slooow burn. friends to something weird to lovers. lack of communication. situationship of more than ten years.
Note: Honestly this is my new hobby and my perfect excuse to watch the show for the thousandth time:) so don’t worry, it won’t affect the posting of my other fics <3
summary: you show up to the bureau wearing his sweater
The first thing Spencer notices that morning isn’t the case file in his hands.
It isn’t Morgan talking, or Garcia rambling through the speaker, or even the faint smell of stale coffee lingering in the bullpen.
It’s you. Specifically what you’re wearing. Or what you’re not wearing. Because that is definitely his sweater.
His brain catches it in pieces at first. The oversized sleeves. The slightly worn cuffs. The exact shade of dark gray he remembers because he bought it during a lecture tour in Boston three years ago. The one that’s softer than it should be because he’s washed it too many times.
And it’s on you. Spencer stops walking mid-step.
“Reid?” Morgan nudges him. “You good, man?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Because now you’re turning around, completely unaware, balancing a cup of coffee in one hand and the sweater shifts slightly off your shoulder.
His sweater. On your shoulder. Spencer’s brain, usually operating at a terrifying speed, completely stalls.
“…that’s my sweater,” he says under his breath.
Morgan follows his line of sight. Then grins. “Oh,” Morgan mutters. “Oh, this is gonna be fun.”
⸻
You don’t notice Spencer at first. You’re too busy trying not to spill your coffee while flipping through notes, muttering to yourself about timelines and inconsistencies.
It’s only when you feel someone hovering nearby that you look up. And there he is. Standing way too still. Eyes locked on you or, more specifically, on the sweater.
“…hi?” you say, a little confused.
Spencer opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.
“That’s—” he gestures vaguely, like words are suddenly optional, “—you’re wearing—”
You glance down. Oh, right. His sweater.
You’d grabbed it last night without thinking. You’d stayed over, fallen asleep halfway through one of his rambles about cognitive bias, and when you left in the morning, it was just there. Comfortable. Familiar.
You didn’t really think about how it would look walking into the BAU.
“…yeah,” you say, suddenly a little self-conscious. “I, um—hope that’s okay? I meant to bring it back but I was running late and—”
“You can keep it.” The words come out too fast. Too immediate. Spencer freezes after saying them, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.
Your eyebrows lift. “Keep it?”
“I mean, not keep it permanently, unless you want to, which would be statistically improbable given normal clothing rotation habits, but—” he stops, exhales, visibly trying to reset his brain, “—it looks… good.”
There’s a pause. A very noticeable pause. Because Spencer Reid just said something looks good. And he is not looking at your face. He is very, very focused on the sweater. On how it fits you. On how the sleeves fall past your hands. On how it’s unmistakably his and somehow… better on you.
Your lips twitches, “You’re staring,” you say softly.
“I’m not—” he immediately looks up, which is worse, because now he’s looking directly at you, and his ears are turning pink, “—I just recognized the fabric composition.”
“Oh, of course you did,” you tease.
Morgan snorts loudly from across the room. Spencer glares at him for half a second before looking back at you, clearly trying to recover.
“…you didn’t have to bring it back,” he says, quieter now.
Something about the way he says it, less flustered, more honest, makes your chest tighten just a little.
“I know,” you reply. “But I wanted to.”
His gaze flickers, just briefly, to the neckline of the sweater again.
“…you can still wear it,” he adds.
Now you really smile.
⸻
The rest of the team catches on quickly. Garcia notices first, obviously.
“Oh my God,” her voice crackles through the speakers. “Is that boy genius couture I see?”
You choke on your coffee. Emily leans over her desk, squinting. “Wait… is that actually Reid’s?”
JJ looks between the two of you, already piecing it together, a knowing smile forming.
Spencer, meanwhile, looks like he’s about to combust. “It’s just a sweater,” he insists.
“Your sweater,” Morgan corrects.
Spencer adjusts his satchel strap. “Clothing items are frequently shared among—”
“—people who are dating,” Emily finishes.
Silence. Spencer blinks. You raise an eyebrow. Morgan grins like he’s just won something.
“…we’re not—” Spencer starts, then glances at you, falters, and immediately loses all confidence in the sentence, “—I mean, not officially, not that labels are necessary for—”
You step closer to him. Not enough to make a scene. Just enough that your shoulder brushes his. He freezes instantly.
“…you okay?” you ask, voice soft, teasing but gentle.
He swallows, then nods, “…yes.” But he doesn’t move away. And he doesn’t stop looking at you.
⸻
Later, when the bullpen quiets down and everyone’s distracted with their own work, Spencer finds himself standing beside you again.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just… lingers.
You glance up. “You’re hovering again.”
“I’m not hovering,” he says automatically.
“You are,” you smile. “But I don’t mind.”
That seems to short-circuit him a little.
“…okay,” he says.
There’s a small pause.
“…it suits you,” he blurts out.
You tilt your head. “The sweater?”
He nods, “I like it better on you,” he admits, quieter now.
That catches you off guard. Because Spencer doesn’t say things like that casually. You study him for a second, really look at him.
At the way he’s trying so hard to stay composed. At the way his fingers twitch slightly, like he wants to reach out but isn’t sure if he should. So you make it easier.
You gently tug at the sleeve. “Maybe I’ll keep stealing your clothes, then,” you say.
His eyes widen slightly. “You can,” he says, almost immediately.
Then, softer, “…anytime.”
Your heart does something stupid in your chest. And for once, Spencer Reid doesn’t try to explain it away with science. He just stands there, a little flustered, a little breathless and very, very aware that you’re still wearing his sweater.
wanna kiss his face (with an uppercut) ➶ ˚ | spencer reid
୨ৎ masterlist. series masterlist.
୨ৎ summary: trying to figure out spencer reid was impossible. (un)fortunately for you, he's been dying trying to figure you out too. or... part four of my spencer reid smau <3
୨ৎ pairing: spencer reid x film girl!reader
୨ৎ warnings/tags: smau, miscommunication, language, #desperatespencerreid, penelope is TIRED, reader is TIRED, a mere sprinkle of angst
୨ৎ a/n: woahza two parts in one weekend who let me lock in?? spencer js wants his wife back and she's not having it 💔 anyways this one is pretty much back to normal length so hope yall enjoy <33 p.s if I repeat songs pls ignore I don't remember what I put in each part :)
lab.rat
♫ You're Just a Boy (And I'm Kind of the Man) ➤ Maisie Peters
liked by: kingofthe_lab, spence_reid, penelopee_garcia, and 3 others
lab.rat: girls night outtt <33
kingofthe_lab: thank GOD we don't have work tmr omg my head is pounding
⤷ lab.rat: hm i wonder why 🤔
spence.reid: fun fact hangovers can be worsened by genetics :) some genes are responsible for enzymes which breaks down the alcohol byproducts acetaldehyde!
⤷ lab.rat: 👍
lab.rat
♫ Rose-Colored Boy ➤ Paramore
liked by: kingofthe_lab, spence_reid, penelopee_garcia, and 7 others
lab.rat: beautiful morning <33
kingofthe_lab: idk how you can manage to be productive i'm literally laying on my couch watching gossip girl 💔
⤷ lab.rat: i rlly needed to get out of my apartment lwk 😓
⤷ kingofthe_lab: don't tell me it's bc of HIM
⤷ lab.rat: omg no what
⤷ kingofthe_lab: idk somebody's pants r on fire 👀👀👀
⤷ lab.rat: hello??
___________________ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐
lab.rat
♫ She Plays Bass ➤ beabadoobee
liked by: spence_reid, kingofthe_lab, penelopee_garcia, and 5 others
lab.rat: late night bookstore run!
spence.reid: I found that copy in one of the vintage bookstores I went to! I hope you like it :))
⤷ lab.rat: wait YOU sent me it? 😭😭
⤷ spence.reid: if you don't like it that's ok?
⤷ lab.rat: no it's nice thx Spencer :)
⤷ spence.reid: of course !!
kingofthe_lab: i'm so fucking scared....
⤷ lab.rat: ME TOO 💔
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spence.reid
♫ Heaven Knows I'm Miserable ➤ The Smiths
liked by: d_morgan, penelopee_garcia, j.jareau, emily_prentiss, lab.rat and 9 others
spence.reid: it's been hours please let me go home
penelopee_garcia: idk you'd probably be home sooner if you weren't texting your gf instead of doing paperwork!
⤷ j.jareau: wait they're on speaking terms again?
⤷ emily_prentiss: apparently it's complicated
⤷ penelopee_garcia: oh spencer ur gonna have to explain this later
⤷ spence_reid: do I have to?
___________________ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐
lab.rat
♫ A Certain Romance ➤ Arctic Monkeys
liked by: spence_reid, kingofthe_lab, penelopee_garcia, and 8 others
lab.rat: what a lovely view <3 p.s, thanks for the flowers ;)
kingofthe_lab: WAIT WHAT"S HAPPENING??
⤷ lab.rat: ummm wouldn't you like to know weatherboy !
⤷ kingofthe_lab: YES I WOULD LIKE TO KNOW WEATHERBOY??
spence.reid: p.s translates to post scriptum in latin, meaning "after the writing" :)
⤷ lab.rat: wait I learned this in high school latin 🥹🤞
⤷ spence.reid: ALSO greek mythology attributes the red color of roses to the death of adonis, where aphrodite tripped on the thorns while running to him !!
⤷ penelopeee_garcia: huh what a funny way of saying "hey hope you like the flowers"
⤷ emily_prentiss: freak4freak over here damn
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lab.rat
♫ drop dead ➤ Olivia Rodrigo
liked by: spence_reid, kingofthe_lab, penelopee_garcia, j.jareau, and 11 others
tagged: spence_reid
lab.rat: a lovely view indeed !!
kingofthe_lab: WHAT THE FUCK???
⤷ lab.rat: #loveitoverhere
⤷ kingofthe_lab: omg i'm so confused rn what is going on I don't even know where to start
⤷ lab.rat: uhhhhhhh idk!
spence.reid: I really liked pride and prejudice :)
⤷ lab.rat: I KNEW YOU'D LIKE IT HAH
⤷ penelopee_garcia: r we ignoring the elephant in the room....
⤷ emily_prentiss: HELP HE ACTUALLY DID IT???
⤷ j.jareau: I feel like a proud mother rn oh my god
⤷ aaron_hotchner: good for reid :)
spencer reid series ☆ i wanna share an apartment, a room and a bed
☆ summary: spencer reid decides to rent his guestroom to a university student and she becomes the most interesting topic in his apartment. we all know that when spencer reid's curiosity is sparked nothing can stop him, but what happens if he starts to feel something else for this girl?
☆ pairings: Spencer reid and Cécile Jones (spencer reid x fem!oc, rommates, friends to lovers, slow burn, mutual pining)
☆ status: IN PROGRESS!!
chapter 1 the guestroom
chapter 2 the tears
chapter 3 the guilt
chapter 4 the team
chapter 5 the grudge
&more
☆ tags: rommates!au, friends to lovers, slow burn, mutual pining, spencer reid x fem!oc, season 2, in a universe when tobias hankel doesn't exist (im lazy), glasses reid, tw revenge porn and misogynistic language/behaviour (not from spencer) + nightmares and panic attacks, fluff, minor angst, (im deciding whether im comfortable with writing smut)
tags will be added if needed as the story goes on + every chapter has its own tags
Heyyy, I'd love a latte with hazelnut/coconut drizzle (one or both, whatever you decide) and whipped cream!
Maybe one where reader is Garcia's childhood best friend and they end up traveling near her on a case? And Spencer notices how pretty she is and yadda yadda kissy kissy
Also I did see your most recent post, take your sweet time I'm in absolutely no rush, I'll probably forget about this the second I send it anyway <3
𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒅 (𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒌𝒆𝒆𝒑 𝒊𝒕 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔)
a/n: wowwww the way this absolutely wrote itself. I LOVED THIS REQUEST!!! seriously this was the fastest i’ve ever written a fic before. ty for the req i hope you love!! receipt is at the bottom!!
summary: spencer meets garcia’s childhood best friend and promptly forgets how to act like a normal human being. between phone calls and sneaking around, what starts as a crush turns into something a lot harder to keep hidden.
content warnings: spencer reid x fem!reader, lots and lots of smooching, slightly suggestive moments if u squint real real hard, otherwise just disgustingly tooth-rotting fluff
The case wrapped up clean.
The unsub had been apprehended with no further casualties, hostages rescued. The team had made it back to the precinct, packing up their things as they prepared to leave.
“Okay, now that we’ve got the bad guy and all of the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad things are over, I have one tiny request.” Garcia announced to the team.
Hotch glanced over his shoulder as he zipped up his go-bag. “What’s that?”
“Could we please stay for dinner?” She asked, eyebrows raised hopefully. “My best friend growing up lives right down the road from here, and I haven’t seen her in ages. I’d love for her to meet all of you.”
Hotch looked around, assessing the reactions of the team. The accomplishment of a job well done seemed to outweigh their tiredness as everyone shrugged and nodded.
Before long, Spencer was trailing behind the group as they strolled up to the restaurant. The air was starting cool as the sky dimmed, and the aroma wafting out the doors was making his mouth water.
“Oh, hi!” He heard Garcia exclaim suddenly. He couldn’t really see through the crowd of people, with the team and the patrons coming and going from the restaurant, so he shoved his hands in his pockets and waited his turn to be introduced.
“It’s so good to see you!” Garcia chattered. “These are the people I’m always telling you about. This is Hotch, and Emily, and Rossi, Derek, JJ, and—“ she paused, peering over everyone’s heads. “Reid! There’s Reid, in the back.”
He turned his head as everyone shuffled aside, creating an opening, and he pulled his hand out of his pocket to wave and then—
Oh. Oh, wow.
“Hi.” You smiled, and it almost knocked him off his feet.
He blinked, hand awkwardly half-raised before he reminded himself to look slightly less like a deer in headlights.
He straightened, clearing his throat. “Hi.”
You were…
For once, his brain actually ran out of words.
Beautiful. Gorgeous. Stunning. Radiant. Breathtaking. Captivating. Alluring. None of them seemed to truly encapsulate you.
The group was soon ushered inside the restaurant and sat at a table. Conversation began to flow as you and Garcia caught up and you got to know the team.
“Oh, you actually said that?” Your jaw dropped as you looked at Emily.
“Not only did she say it, she said it in front of the entire Sacramento Police Department!” JJ interjected, causing the table to burst into laughter.
Spencer couldn’t help but watch you as you threw your head back, shoulders shaking with laughter. Your laugh was infectious, he thought. He wanted to be the reason you laughed like that.
Wine and chatter flowed around the table as you dicussed JJ’s children, Rossi’s career as an author, Derek’s most recent date.
He was mid-bite when you turned to him. “So, Reid, what about you? I hear you’re the resident genius.”
He nearly dropped his fork, chewing quickly. “Um, well, I guess you could—“ he coughed, trying to swallow before continuing. “I mean, it depends how you classify ‘genius.’ My IQ is statistically above average, I have an eidetic memory, and I read at an average speed of…”
He trailed off, noticing the rest of the table had gone silent. He cleared his throat. “Um, yes.”
You nodded approvingly, eyebrows raised with a slight smile as the group chuckled.
The meal began wrapping up, plates slowly clearing and wine glasses emptying. Spencer watched you still as Garcia turned the conversation back to you, actively reminding himself not to stare.
“So, tell me.” Garcia said, leaning in to you. “Are you dating anyone?”
Spencer felt like a puppy who had just heard the word “treat.” He stared hard at the tablecloth, trying not to seem invested in the answer.
“No, not since that guy from the bank.” You replied, smoothing your shirt.
“Thank God. He was so… average.” Garcia answered. “You could do so much better.”
Someone accidentally nudged his shin under the table. He shifted, heart fluttering at the knowledge you weren’t involved with anyone. Not that he would ever do anything about it, but it was nice for the moment to not have to imagine you with anyone else.
Checks rolled out, everyone paid, and the group made their way to the door.
A chorus of goodbyes echoed across the group outside the restaurant. Garcia pulled you into a tight hug. “Keep in touch.”
“Of course.” You replied as you pulled back, looking to the rest of the group. “It was so great meeting you guys.”
The sentiment was returned and you waved, flashing that brilliant smile one more time. “Have a good flight!”
You turned on your heel, and Spencer felt a pang in his chest at the thought of not seeing you again. Oh, well.
A hand grabbed his arm with a vengeance, and he turned to face the culprit.
“Ow! Garcia, what are you doing?” He pulled his arm from her grip, rubbing at the irritated skin.
“For a genius, you really are acting like an idiot!” She whispered. “Go get her number!”
His eyebrows pulled together in confusion. “What?”
“Did you not feel me kick you under the table when she said she was single?” She asked, exasperated. “I’m setting you up! Go ask her for her number! Now!”
She punctuated her demand with a little shove in your direction, and before he knew it, he was calling out.
“Hey!”
You turned around, already about fifteen feet away. “Hey?”
He glanced back over his shoulder briefly before half-jogging over to you.
He swallowed. “Um, I wanted to, uh—“ He cleared his throat, forcing himself to look up at you. “I wanted to ask if I could maybe… get your number.”
A smile twitched at the corner of your lips. “Really?”
His heart dropped. “I mean, only if you want to. I just— I think you are really nice, and pretty, and—“
“You think I’m pretty?” You interrupted softly.
He paused, meeting your shining eyes.
“Yeah.” He breathed. “I do.”
You pulled your bottom lip between your teeth, rustling through your bag. Spencer thought, briefly, that there’d never been a time he so badly wanted to watch someone bite their lip like that in slow motion on repeat. He wanted to tattoo the image on the inside of his eyelids.
Chill out. He reprimanded himself as you handed him a napkin with your number scribbled on it.
“You can call me.” That smile turned his brain to static once more as you waved sheepishly, a rose tint coloring your cheeks in the dim light. “Bye, Reid.”
The whole interaction had him heckled mercilessly on the flight home, but he didn’t mind too much. The teasing was all worth it the second his gaze landed on that ink-stained piece of tissue.
He waited about three days to call you. He almost hung up on the fifth ring, convinced you wouldn’t answer, when your voice crackled through the speaker.
“Hello?”
“Hi, hi. Um, it’s Spencer. Reid. Garcia’s friend?” He sat up straighter, as though you could see him.
“Oh, hey!” He could hear your grin in your voice, and it made him smile reflexively. “How are you? Read any good books lately?”
“Yeah! You know, I just re-read The Count of Monte Cristo in the original French. It’s fascinating.” He replied animatedly, settling back into his couch.
That first phone call lasted nearly forty-five minutes.
The second was nearly an hour.
Before long, he got in a routine of calling you ever other day, and then every day. Eventually, Spencer Reid, ever the technophobe, found himself texting you every chance he could. He even bought a used laptop so he could video chat with you on WhatsApp.
It wasn’t just your physical appearance. Spencer was attracted to so much more than that. Your kindness. Your humor. Your patience. Your laugh. Your intelligence.
You told him about your life, your family, your job. He eventually opened up to you about his mom, some of his trauma. And you listened to every word with heartfelt kindness.
After a few months of this, the man who relied so heavily on statistics felt that it was just dumb luck you actually gave him your number.
“So, I’ve been thinking…” You said one night on a video call.
He raised his eyebrows at the screen. “Yeah?”
“What if I flew out and stayed with Pen for a weekend?” You asked. “You and I could actually… you know, spend some time together. In person.”
Spencer hesitated, turning the idea over in his mind.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see you. God, did he want to see you. Three months of only having you over a screen was slowly becoming torture. His dreams were becoming increasingly plagued with the idea of holding you, kissing you…
He shook his head, clearing his thoughts.
“I’ll take your silence as a no,” you said jokingly, but he could hear the dejectedness in your tone.
“It’s not a no, it’s just…” He paused. “How are you going to keep it from Garcia if you’re staying with her? Won’t she wonder where you’re going?”
Privacy was very important to Spencer. He loved his teammates like family, but truthfully, he valued keeping your relationship between the two of you, at least for now. He wanted to navigate the idea of you without any outside influence or opinion.
He’d had that conversation with you early on, given your relationship with Garcia, and you had been fine with it.
“I can make something up, give her a fake reason I’m in town.” You shrugged. “I just really want to see you, Spencer.”
He felt a strange swell of pride in his chest at the thought. “I really want to see you, too.” He replied softly.
A mischievous grin crossed your face. “Besides, it might be kinda fun. Sneaking around.”
He fought a smile at the idea. “Yeah? When would you fly out?”
And so the plan was set in motion.
You texted Garcia not long after, saying you needed a place to stay for a weekend for your great-grandmother’s funeral. She agreed, albeit her excitement dying a little at the addition of your need to spend time with family members in town, but you assured her you would reserve some time for her, too.
Sure, you felt a little bad about the lie, but it would have to do for now.
Two weeks later, Spencer was checking his phone every five minutes for a text signifying you’d landed.
Buzz.
He scrambled for it so quickly it was almost comical.
“in your city :)”
He bit back a smile at the message before quickly typing his reply:
“See you soon.”
When four p.m. rolled around, Spencer found himself walking up to the park.
There you were.
Sitting on a wooden bench, people-watching. The afternoon sun was beating down on the world, but around you, it looked like a halo.
You. Real. Not on a screen for the first time in months. And this time, not as a stranger.
Your head turned at the sound of his footsteps, and you broke into another one of those steal-his-heart smiles.
“Hi.” You said, looking up.
“Hi,” he echoed, a little breathless.
He stepped closer as you stood, and then you were both right there.
You hesitated. He paused. Should he hug you? Was that too much too soon? He hadn’t had any sort of physical contact with you before, outside of your fingers brushing his when you gave him your number.
A small, nervous laugh from you. “I didn’t know if we were, um—“ you gestured.
“Yeah, me neither.” He huffed out a laugh. He took you in for another moment before asking, quietly, “Can I hug you?”
“Yes. Please.” Your answer was immediate.
His arms enveloped you, and then you melted into him.
He exhaled slowly against the top of your head, nerves and tension melting away as he held you. Real and warm and solid against him, not just a memory and a voice through a speaker.
You pulled back just a bit, hand staying on his arm.
“I missed you,” you breathed.
His eyes flicked down to your mouth before he could stop himself. “Yeah, I— me too.”
You gazed up at him, the corner of your mouth twitching. “You can.”
“I can what?” He asked.
“Kiss me.”
“Oh.” He mentally chastised himself for being so obvious.
Then immediately mentally high-fived himself the second his lips touched yours.
The kiss was soft, and new. His hands came up to cradle your face, a little clumsily.
But somewhere, distantly, in the static that was currently filling his brain, he thought this must be nirvana. A state of perfect peace, liberation, and completion. This must be the glorious thing and the pinnacle that everyone dreams of acheiving.
He doesn’t know how long he stood by that bench, kissing you, but he knew that he would spend every waking second waiting for the next one.
The rest of the weekend felt… unreal.
He took you to his favorite local coffee place. You perused the shelves of his frequented bookstore, fingers laced together. He showed you his apartment, which all too quickly felt like your little corner of home in an unfamiliar city.
And every once in a while, another kiss.
Maybe it was more often than that.
He absolutely committed himself to relishing every single moment you were there. You spent nearly all day Saturday at his apartment before you finally convinced him you had to spend some time with Garcia, or she would get suspicious.
“I’ll stop by tomorrow before I have to leave.” You said, toeing your shoes on by the door.
He swallowed, the notion weighing heavy on him. “Sounds good.”
You stopped. “Oh, hey. I still have your sweater on.”
He shrugged, looking down at you. “It looks good on you. Keep it.”
You flushed, eyes dropping shyly to the floor. “Thank you.”
He kissed you one more time, really breathing you in, before he opened the door for you and watched you walk away with a wave.
Sunday had arrived all too quickly.
You were outside his door, bags in hand. You handed his folded sweater back to him gently.
“I did wear it all night.” You smiled half-heartedly. “But you can have it for now. I need a reason to come back and steal it again.”
Spencer pursed his lips, fighting back the emotions threatening to rise up in him.
“It was… really good to see you.” You said softly, gazing up at him.
“Yeah.” He nodded. “It was.”
There was a pause.
“You’ll text me when you land?” He asked.
“Obviously.”
Another pause. You looked at each other for a moment.
He was very appreciative for his eidetic memory in this moment, because he couldn’t forget you standing here in his apartment.
“We should do this again sometime.” Your voice was watery through your joking tone. “I really liked sneaking around with you.”
Spencer didn’t answer you. He just leaned forward, capturing your mouth in a kiss. Warm and sweet and over all too soon.
A thin laugh from you as you parted, eyes brimming with tears.
“I’ll see you.” He said softly.
You nodded, brows crinkling. “Bye, Spence.”
And you were gone.
On Monday, Spencer wore the sweater to work. You really must’ve worn it all night, because it smelled just like your perfume, bringing him a small amount of comfort knowing this weekend hadn’t been a fever dream.
He tried to work, his focus drifting between thoughts of you and the occasional buzz in his pocket.
“How was your weekend?” He overheard Emily ask Garcia as she walked in.
“Oh, it was great. I really love getting to see her, but she was super in and out the whole time. Lots of visiting to do, she said.” Garcia replied.
Her footsteps faltered by his desk.
“Reid?”
“Yeah?”
“Where did you get that sweater?”
He froze, risking a glance up. Garcia’s face was twisted in confusion.
“This? It’s mine.” He replied, trying to keep his voice smooth. Casual.
“No.”
“What do you mean? It’s mine.”
“No, I saw…” she trailed off. Spencer swore he could see her eyes light up, growing wide as it clicked.
Uh oh.
She gasped. “Oh my gosh!”
“Wait—“ Spencer started.
“Oh my gosh!” She repeated, louder this time. “You! You dirty dog!”
“It wasn’t—“ He leaned in, trying to do damage control. “It wasn’t like that. We’ve been… long distance.”
“I knew it!” she shouted, spinning in a circle. “I knew something was weird when she wouldn’t tell me where she kept disappearing to!”
Spencer winced. “We didn’t want to—”
“You lied to me,” she gasped dramatically, clutching her chest. “Oh my gosh, you’re in love with her.”
His cheeks were on fire. “I— what? No, I didn’t say—”
“You didn’t have to,” she said, grinning. “You’re wearing the sweater.”
He blinked. “It’s my sweater.”
“Exactly.”
And later, when his phone buzzed again in his pocket, he didn’t even try to hide it.
“miss you already :(”
“Miss you more.”
“Call you tonight?”
Across the room, Garcia watched him with a knowing grin.
And for once, Spencer didn’t mind being figured out.
spencer reid x cyber!agent!reader
description: someone new arrives between the walls of the behavioral analysis unit.
wc: 1.9k
Observe, catalogue, interpret. To analyze something so intriguing, you would have to look more closely and deeply to understand.
The bullpen is constant with energy as you enter. Controlled chaos by voices overlapping, sharp buzzes of a landline phone, and the rhythmic clicking of keys pressed down.
Taking a few steps inside, you’re already scanning the place. Dynamics and postures of your new co-workers. Before you were transferred to the behavioral analysis unit, your old unit chief briefly explained to you what your new team is all about.
You walk around to get a feel in the new environment. Even though you deem yourself as a nice person, your straight face does not make up for that thought.
It felt like someone was following you, or stealing glances. As you slowly turned your head, it looked like glitters and sparkles had formed into a human.
Behind her were a few other people who were staring.
"Hi, you must be the new agent that Hotch was talking about? He's waiting for you upstairs in his office." Her hands were clasped together, as if she was trying to contain her excitement.
You give her a nod, your expression remains the same as you take her in.
Bright clothing, perhaps optimistic, and exciting jewelry that's clearly not your style but matches her personality. She talks fast and is expressive.
Clearing your throat, you take note of that small piece of information.
"Thank you," you reply as she's still smiling like it's not 9 in the morning whereas you could have rescheduled this meeting just to catch up on some reading.
"So, which room is his office?" You ask her politely, not that you were in a rush to get away. It was way too early for a conversation.
Walking up the stairs, the big, clear glass gives you a view of your new boss working on a file. As you approach his door, you stay still for a moment before knocking.
You take a peek inside through the glass. His posture and impassive expression. Taking a breath in, you mold your hand a fist and hesitate. You knock on his office door twice.
“Come in.”
The voice is steady and controlled. Not loud or soft, just careful. Opening the door, you walk in. He didn’t notice your presence, even with the clambering noises that were going on downstairs.
You shut the door, gently. It closes with a soft click, softening the busy world with just a hum of noise. Taking a brief scan of his room, your eyes fall on his nameplate. Aaron Hotchner. Hotch. Okay, you thought to yourself, this is the first step in creating a good first impression.
Hotch stops reading and looks at you. Placing down the file and closing it properly, he gestures to you to sit on the chair in front for a proper meeting.
Taking your seat, he kept eye-contact. Clearing his throat, he takes out another file from his desk drawer and starts to go through the information. You look down quickly and catch your name on the paper.
A brief pause settles between you, filled only by the faint sound of the bullpen below and the muted hum of the building itself.
“Your file came in highly recommended,” he says, eyes not leaving the page as he flips it once. “But recommendations don’t matter here as much as the work and effort you put in.”
Nodding your head.
“I understand, Agent Hotcher, but I am willing to do this job.” You say, your voice unwavering with your persistence.
He nods his head in understanding and looks through your information.
“It says here in your files that you specialize in cyberattacks regarding security breaches. Although, this won’t get you in the field. Instead, you’ll be working with our tech analyst, Penelope Garcia. She handles databases and analyzes digital evidence we need, such as phone records and surveillance.”
You thought this was the end but it seemed as though the next thing he was about to say was a slight warning.
“Your transfer is approved and finalized. I just have some concerns about your work environment. Your file mentions that you used to work independently at your old job, but that’s not how we work things around here.”
Keeping your posture poise and straight, you tried to keep a straight face because you knew exactly what he was talking about.
Hotch’s gaze stayed steady, patient in the way that suggested he already knew everything about you just from the file.
“You’re used to operating alone,” he said, finally closing the folder and setting it aside. “Making decisions without checking in. Moving fast because you didn’t have to account for a team.”
It wasn’t phrased as an accusation, but it landed heavily on you.
A faint shift in his expression followed, as if he already calculated how much of a problem that might become.
“That doesn’t work here,” he continued. “Not because we don’t trust skill, but because mistakes here don’t get passed by so quickly as a small mishap. They don’t just affect files or cases. They affect people.”
The room felt smaller after that, the hum of the building below suddenly more noticeable.
He leaned back slightly in his chair, still watching you.
“Garcia is exceptional,” he added. “But she’s your partner in the technical space. That means communication. Transparency. And accepting that someone else may see something you don’t.”
A brief pause followed, measured rather than uncomfortable.
Then, a subtle shift.
“You’ll have to learn to adapt,” he said simply, as if it wasn’t really a question. “Or this won’t last long.”
He tapped the edge of your file once, signaling the end of that point, then slid it back into place.
“I understand your persistence in working with the behavioral analysis unit, I just need you to understand that sometimes it’s best to work with a team. This also means I have to see it happening.”
He ends his ‘speech’ as he closes the file to secure it back into the drawer. The silence stretches for a while before someone knocks on the door.
“Come in.”
“Hotch, I- oh.” He stops mid-sentence when he notices you.
Spencer Reid straightens, fully stepping into the office now, a file tucked under his arm and another clutched in his hand like he forgot which one he actually needed. His eyes move quickly taking you in, cataloguing, just like what you did downstairs.
“You’re the new agent,” he says, not asking. His voice is softer than expected, but quick, like his brain is already three steps ahead of his mouth. “Statistically speaking, transfers into the BAU tend to happen when people who have high immersive training and experience are chosen, so-” He stops himself, blinking. “I’m sorry.”
“Reid. The file please.”
“Right, um, the geographic profile from the Milwaukee case? Garcia flagged an inconsistency in the time stamps, and I think it might help us move forward with it.”
He doesn’t leave right away, instead he stands right next to you. You feel his gaze on you.
“You paused before knocking. You also looked at the nameplate longer than most people would. Not to read it because you already knew who he was. I only know because I was kind of curious about why you were standing in front of his door for a while. Uhm.. I just wanted to let you know that what you were doing a while back was mapping the environment, trying to get a feel around here,” he says suddenly.
Hotch holds up a finger to indicate Reid, to stop talking for a second.
A small awkward pause. Awkwardness just might be your new friend in this journey.
“It’s okay, Agent Hotchner.”
Hotch’s eyes move from Reid to you.
“Dr. Reid isn’t wrong,” he says. “We all have our ways of getting settled in.”
You look at the agent, or doctor, next to you. He seemed to be a bit intimidated from your staring so he looked away. Okay. You thought.
The tapping of his fingertips on the side of his pants is what gave you a glimpse on what the work relationship would be in the future. A rollercoaster of highs and lows.
“Okay, I’ll just,” He pauses, walking backwards and points to the closed door behind him.
You look towards Hotch and give him a facial expression with your eyebrows raised and lips firmly pressed together in a thin line.
When the conversation ends, Hotch rises first, signaling the meeting is over without needing to say it.
You descend down the stairs back into the bullpen, the controlled chaos returning.
All eyes, which you assume is Hotch’s team, turn as you walk down the stairs.
This time, you don’t scan them the same way you did when you first walked in. The woman who greeted you earlier straightens slightly, like she’s been waiting for this moment. Her energy hasn’t lowered. If anything, it’s much more electrified now, curiosity barely contained.
There were two other women standing next to her giving each other glances, but it wasn’t a sneer. More so of a ’new girl in the bau boys club’ type of glance. A blondie and a woman with brown medium hair who represented a kind of calm comfort.
Hotch steps forward, grounding the room instantly.
“Everyone, this is our newest agent. They just transferred. I believe Penelope has already met her from what I saw.”
The rest of the team looks towards Penelope and her 'i know i'm guilty, please stop looking at me' face.
You could introduce yourself plainly. Efficient. Forgettable. You could give them something to work with.
“Morning,” you say, voice even. “I assume at least half of you have already decided I’m either difficult to work with or not a team player.”
A beat then a reaction.
The bright woman smiles wider, like she’s just been handed something delightful.
The man leaning back on the chair lets out a quiet, amused breath. And the quiet observer? He looks at you properly this time.
You continue, just enough to keep control of the narrative.
“You’re not entirely wrong on that assumption,” you add. “But I’m here to do the job.”
Now the silence means something different. Not uncertainty. Consideration.
After a brief introduction by everybody, it felt that everything had settled in, but there was something missing.
Derek nods once. “You’ll fit in fine.” he says, his voice confident.
“I sort of took a look into your files and traits such as yours are valuable. Did you know 86% of employees' lack of collaboration or ineffective communication are setting themselves up for workplace failures," Spencer says like it’s a normal thing anybody could say when they meet someone new.
The rest of his team give each other blank stares at each other. You guess this is how a regular day-to-day basis looks like here.
"It's actually important to be active these days because having characteristics such as being reliable and engaging is actually flexible in cases."
Jennifer, or JJ as she introduced herself, huffs out a breath and gently pats Spencer on the back and gives him a look with her eyebrows raised. His lips pursed awkwardly, as he looks around.
His fingers tapping rhythmically as he tries to sneak in a glance towards you without making it obvious. It only makes the silence worse when you catch him with each stare he gives.
The tension breaks. Not fully, but enough. Whether they realize it or not, they’re not the only ones profiling.
You’re profiling them right back.
a/n: cyber!agent!reader seems closed off and nonchalant because they are 😄 reblogs are appreciated ! I’m also so scared to post this so any comments or feedback would be cool 🫠
i've never known (someone like you) ｡⋆✧˚ | spencer reid
୨ৎ masterlist. series masterlist.
୨ৎ summary: spencer reid is unlike any guy you've ever met, which might be why you find yourself falling for him a little bit every time you see him. he couldn't possibly feel that way about you though, right? or... part 2 of my spencer reid smau series!
୨ৎ pairing: spencer reid x film girl!reader
୨ৎ warnings/tags: smau, fluff, language, penelope (and derek) are chronically online bc I said so, jemily crumbs because canon said so,
୨ৎ a/n: this took crazy long to release MY BAD GANG <3 (school's nuts and I lwk got distracted with my peter parker series sorryyyy) this is also a TAD shorter than the other part just bc I finished this at like midnight on a crisp Tuesday night when I have school in the morning.
spence.reid
♫ This Night Has Opened My Eyes ➤ The Smiths
liked by: d_morgan, penelopee_garcia, j.jareau, emily_prentiss, lab.rat and 9 others
spence.reid: at the movies (again) :))
penelopee_garcia: SPENCER REID. WHO IS THAT NEXT TO YOU???
⤷ spence.reid: a new friend :)
⤷ penelopee_garcia: is it a GIRLfriend
⤷ spence.reid: no?? she's just a friend i go to the movies with
⤷ d_morgan: okay i see you pretty boy
⤷ spence.reid: ???
___________________ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐
lab.rat
♫ Calling After Me ➤ Wallows
liked by: kingofthe_lab, spence.reid, penelopee_garcia, and 6 others
lab.rat: long day at the lab but at least I have caffeine 😋
kingofthe_lab: I cannot believe ur little boyfriend walked all the way to our building to give you coffee
⤷ lab.rat: ok NOT my bf but someone's jealous they don't have an awesome friend who brings them coffee in the mornings :))
⤷ kingofthe_lab: he memorized ur coffee order and everything are we srs
⤷ lab.rat: he has an eidetic memory it doesn't take a lot of effort to memorize ANYTHING
spence.reid: was the coffee ok?
⤷ lab.rat: ugh yes it got me through my day thank you 🤞
⤷ penelopee_garcia: omg this is her??? she's so pretty spencer oh my god I can't believe this
⤷ spence.reid: GARCIA?? didn't hotch say not to stalk my personal life?
⤷ penelopee_garcia: yes but not the point YOU HAVE A PRETTY GF
⤷ lab.rat: aw shucks spencer you talk to ur coworkers abt me 🤭
⤷ spence.reid: wait not like that I promise
⤷ lab.rat: oh I was joking!
⤷ penelopee_garcia: so was he <33
spence.reid
♫ Calling After Me ➤ Wallows
liked by: lab.rat, d_morgan, penelopee_garcia, j.jareau, emily_prentiss, and 4 others
spence.reid: finally on the way home!!
lab.rat: yay!! are we still on for dinner later?
⤷ spence.reid: of course!
⤷ d.morgan: oh so this is why you're skipping drinks with us
⤷ spence.reid: I don't drink alcohol anyways?
⤷ d.morgan: no it's ok have fun with ur gf
⤷ spence.reid: I never said she was my girlfriend @ lab.rat pls believe me
⤷ lab.rat: ok I believe you :))
⤷ penelopee_garcia: HE LIES HE LIES
___________________ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐
lab.rat
♫ Glue Song ➤ beabadoobee
liked by: lab.rat, penelopee_garcia, kingofthe_lab, and 7 others
lab.rat: dinner and an adventure w/ @ spence.reid :))
spence.reid: I had a great time!!!
⤷ lab.rat: me toooo :) also you didn't have to get me flowers 😭
⤷ spence.reid: in the victorian era, flowers were actually used as a means of giving messages to the recipient! each flower symbolized a different emotion or meaning :)) also you mentioned liking sunflowers
⤷ lab.rat: you're actually kidding you remembered?
⤷ spence.reid: I remember a lot of things
⤷ lab.rat: fair but I also only mentioned it like once 😭
⤷ kingofthe_lab: I love when little weirdos are in love with each other
⤷ lab.rat: oh my GODDD
summer: you start to compare yourself to spencer and get distant, he notices and asks you about it
You hadn’t meant for it to turn into this.
At first, it was just little things, moments you brushed off with a quiet laugh or a shrug. Spencer would ramble about obscure statistics or quote entire studies from memory, and you’d smile, nod, and try to keep up. You wanted to keep up.
But somewhere along the way, it started to sting.
Because he wasn’t just smart, he was effortlessly brilliant. The kind of brilliant that made rooms go quiet, that made people stare, that made you feel like you were standing next to a lightning storm with nothing but a candle.
And you? You stumbled over your words sometimes. You forgot things. You needed explanations. You weren’t… him. So you pulled back.
At first, it was subtle. Taking a little longer to respond to his texts. Sitting a little farther away on the couch. Laughing less during his tangents, because now they made something twist uncomfortably in your chest instead of warming you.
Spencer noticed. Of course he did. He noticed the way you stopped asking questions. The way your eyes would glaze over, not out of boredom, but something else—something heavier. He noticed how your hand no longer automatically found his. And it scared him.
—
By the third day, he couldn’t take it anymore.
You were sitting at his apartment, knees pulled to your chest on the couch, staring at nothing in particular while he stood in the doorway, watching you like you might disappear if he blinked.
“Did I do something wrong?” he asked quietly.
You flinched. That alone told him everything.
“No,” you said too quickly, shaking your head. “No, Spence, you didn’t—it's not—”
He crossed the room in a few quick steps, crouching in front of you. “Then what is it?” His voice softened, but there was urgency underneath. “You’ve been distant. You won’t look at me. You barely talk to me anymore. That’s not nothing.”
You pressed your lips together, your gaze dropping to your hands. “It’s stupid.”
“I decide that,” he said gently.
Silence stretched between you. And then it broke.
“I feel dumb, okay?” The words came out sharper than you meant, your voice cracking almost immediately after. “I feel so dumb around you.”
Spencer blinked, like the sentence didn’t compute, “What?”
“I feel like I’m embarrassing you,” you rushed on, the dam fully broken now. “Like—like you’re this genius and I’m just… me. I don’t understand half the things you talk about, and I have to ask you to explain stuff, and I just—” Your voice wavered. “I feel like I’m dragging you down.”
His expression shifted from confusion to something deeper. Hurt. Not at you, but at the fact that you believed that.
“Hey,” he said softly.
You shook your head, pulling your hands away when he tried to reach for them. “No, Spencer, just—just listen. I know you don’t mean to make me feel that way, I know you don’t, but I can’t help it. You’re so smart, and I’m not, and it makes me feel like I don’t belong with you.”
The last part came out barely above a whisper.
And that made his chest ache. Because now it wasn’t just insecurity. It was you questioning him.
“Look at me,” he said gently.
You didn’t. So he reached up, cupping your cheek carefully, guiding your face toward his. His touch was warm, grounding, impossibly soft.
“Look at me,” he repeated.
This time, you did. And the moment your eyes met his, you felt it, that overwhelming sincerity, the quiet intensity that made it impossible to look away.
“You think I’m with you because of your IQ?” he asked softly.
You hesitated. “I just… don’t get why you would be.”
Something in his expression broke. Not anger. Not frustration. Just disbelief.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured. The nickname alone made your chest tighten.
“You are not dumb,” he said, firm but gentle. “Not even remotely. You just don’t have the same type of intelligence that I do, and that’s okay. Intelligence isn’t one-dimensional. There are multiple forms—emotional intelligence, interpersonal intelligence, creativity, adaptability—”
You let out a small, watery laugh. “You’re kind of proving my point.”
He shook his head, a soft smile tugging at his lips as his thumb brushed under your eye, catching a tear before it could fall, “No, I’m not. I’m explaining why your point is wrong.”
You sniffed, but didn’t look away this time.
“You understand people in ways I never could,” he continued. “You read emotions, you notice things I miss entirely. You make connections I wouldn’t even think to look for. Do you have any idea how valuable that is?”
You opened your mouth, then closed it, “I… don’t know.”
“I do,” he said quietly. “I see it every day.”
His other hand found yours, lacing your fingers together before you could pull away.
“And even if you didn’t,” he added, softer now, “even if you were completely average in every measurable way, it still wouldn’t matter.”
Your brows knit together. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t love you for what you know,” he said simply.
Your breath caught.
“I love you for who you are. The way you laugh at things that aren’t even funny. The way you always know when something’s wrong with me before I say anything. The way you make everything feel… quieter.” His thumb brushed over your knuckles absentmindedly. “You make my brain slow down. Do you know how rare that is for me?”
Your eyes stung again, but for a different reason now.
“You make me feel safe,” he whispered. “Not impressed. Not challenged. Not intellectually stimulated.” A small smile. “Safe.”
The word settled somewhere deep inside your chest.
“I’m not embarrassed by you,” he added, his voice firmer now. “Not for a second. If anything, I’m constantly in awe of you.”
You blinked. “Of me?”
“Yes, you.”
He leaned in slightly, resting his forehead against yours.
“You are not dumb,” he said again, softer this time, like he was trying to etch it into your bones. “You are thoughtful, kind, intuitive, and so much stronger than you give yourself credit for. And you are perfect to me. Exactly as you are.”
Your breath hitched.
“I just…” you whispered, “I don’t want to feel like I’m not enough for you.”
His grip on your hand tightened slightly.
“You are more than enough,” he said immediately. “You always have been.”
Silence fell between you again, but this time, it wasn’t heavy. It was warm, careful, healing.
“I’m sorry,” you murmured after a moment.
“Don’t apologize,” he said softly. “Just… don’t shut me out like that again, okay? If you feel like this, you tell me. We figure it out together.”
You nodded, leaning into him slightly, “Okay.”
He smiled, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.
“Good,” he murmured. “Because I really don’t like those three days where you pretended I didn’t exist.”
You let out a small laugh, the tension finally easing from your shoulders, “I didn’t pretend you didn’t exist.”
“You took four hours to respond to my text,” he countered.
“I was thinking.”
“You sent ‘okay.’”
You smiled, shaking your head as you rested against him. And for the first time in days, the voice in your head quieted. Because maybe, just maybe, you didn’t have to be brilliant to be worthy of someone who was. Maybe being you was already enough.
Spencer Reid x Shy Female Reader
WORD COUNT: 1100+
Summary: You bring Spencer something for dinner during a particularly stressful case. One thing, though—nobody else knows you exist.
Content Warning: Spencer is overworking himself and forgetting to eat, reader has a sister and a niece/nephew (not specified), pet names
────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────
You and Spencer have been dating for nearly three years, and throughout that time he's visited your workplace more times than you can count. Usually to spend your lunch breaks with you, sometimes just so he can sit and be in your company as you work.
Which your boss is completely fine with, for some reason unknown to you.
Oftentimes you find yourself wishing you could do the same for him, on the nights where he doesn't come home until stupidly late, but every time you bring up maybe bringing him lunch on your days off, he shoots you down entirely. Like a bird out of the sky, or some other stupid simile you can't be bothered trying to come up with.
It's quite different for him, being a federal agent and such, working with sensitive subjects and often in harsh environments, so you suppose it does make sense that he would want to keep you away from all that. Still, you can't help but feel a little hurt and slightly embarrassed every time he denies your requests.
And yet...
"You sound tired," you comment softly, stirring the pot of chicken soup in front of you.
"Mhm."
"Have you eaten anything yet?"
There's no response, which is answer enough for you.
"Lovey, you need to eat," you say with a sigh, putting down the spoon you were stirring with and lean back against the counter beside the stove.
"I know," he mumbles quietly.
You pull your bottom lip between your teeth, eyes turned down to the ground. "I'm making chicken soup, I could bring you some for dinner, if you'd like?" you suggest weakly. "And some of the bread I finished making earlier. You know, I could sit with you for a while."
Before he's even responded, you're bracing yourself for rejection.
"That would be nice," he sighs.
Immediately, the tension in your body melts away, a tiny smile making its way onto your face.
"You want me to bring one of those cinnamon rolls you like, too?"
"Yes please..." His voice is so quiet, you're sure he's practically falling asleep at his desk.
"Okay, I'll be there in ten minutes."
────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────
Spencer doesn't really think about much when he hangs up the phone. Only that he's really hungry right now, and that he really likes your chicken soup.
The fact that his coworkers don't even know you exist doesn't cross his mind once. Only when you're actually walking into the bullpen, does he realize he should've given them a bit of a heads up, because everyone is looking at you now.
No horrible looks, of course, they're only curious of who you are and why you're here, but you've never particularly liked people looking at you. It makes you feel all anxious and jittery.
Your eyes quickly scan the room (definitely taking note of all the people watching you) and when you finally find your target, a small smile makes it onto your face, despite the discomfort.
He pulls another chair over to his desk as you make your way over, walking just a little faster usual, and place one of those reusable supermarket bags in front of him.
"Hey there," you murmur, bringing his hand to your face so you can press a soft kiss to the back of it. This time, he doesn't even mention how many stupid pathogens can be passed through your hands.
"Beautiful girl," is all he says, quiet and uncharacteristically drowsy, as he reaches into the bag and pulls everything out. Two perfectly warm thermoses, a brown paper bag with some of your fresh bread inside, and two saran-wrapped cinnamon rolls that you've already heated.
You chuckle softly, taking your share of the food and offering him a hunk of warm bread.
Spencer bites off a chunk of the bread and really takes a look at you, now that you're distracted with your own soup. You're wearing a baby pink milkmaid dress, the same one you wore to your sisters baby shower last year, and a white cardigan with little flowers embroidered all over it.
He gifted you the plain cardigan, you were the one who added all the flowers and personal touches.
"I really appreciate this," he hums, finally opening the thermos of soup and spooning some of it into his mouth with one of the metal utensils you brought with you.
"I'm always happy to bring you food when you need it, lovey. Even when you don't necessarily need it, I'll come running," you say in a low voice, sipping your own soup straight from the thermos. "I wish you'd let me do it more. Even when you're not starving and sleep deprived."
He chuckles at the playful lilt in your voice, but knows you're actually being completely serious. "Maybe we can make this a more regular. On the nights I can't be at home—"
"And who might this be?" someone asks, appearing suddenly enough for you to jump a little.
You turn your head the smallest fraction to find another man leaning against Spencer's desk, a (seemingly permanent) smirk breaking through the tired, clouded expression everyone here is sporting.
"Uhm—hi—erm..."
You glance over at Spencer, who is, for the most part, paying no attention to the encounter, simply sipping on his soup and gnawing on his bread like he hasn't eaten in weeks.
"I'm Y/N," you manage, in a voice soft enough to bring serial killers to their knees (now there's an idea), wiping your hands on the fabric covering your thighs and sticking one of them out.
The man hums, eyes flicking between yourself and the man seated beside you. "I don't think Spencer's ever mentioned you before."
Your smile falters slightly, but doesn't disappear completely. "I'm his girlfriend," you say, "and I never really expected him to talk about me here. He said he wouldn't, anyway."
"Girlfriend?" he asks, as if it's the craziest thing he's ever heard. "You. Are Spencer's girlfriend? Spencer has a girlfriend?"
That seems to grab the aforementioned mans attention.
"Morgan. Is it really so hard to comprehend," he asks, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you close—as close as he can, with the chairs in the way, "that I could find a beautiful woman to love me?"
Ah. Derek Morgan, that explains it.
"You know that's not what I mean," Morgan argues, the smile not leaving his face. "And now, if you don't mind, I'll be around. Telling everyone. That you've got a gorgeous girlfriend, and kept it from us."
Neither of you have a chance to argue before he's gone. You're honestly surprised he didn't ask exactly how long it's been, but you're sure he wouldn't have liked the answer, so you don't push it.
"...this is great soup, by the way. I love you."
You chuckle, red coloring your face. "Thanks. I love you, too, baby."
🧁 spencer reid and genius!reader relationship headcanons
⋆.˚ when they first start dating, they keep it secret for soooo long. spencer doesn't understand why at all, but you're so embarrassed at how quickly and how hard you feel for the boy you claimed to have hated for so long
⋆.˚ you encourage him to wear his glasses more, and to just become more comfortable with himself in general
⋆.˚ spencer's really grateful to have someone that keeps up with him (that sounds so patronising, but honestly, 187 IQ everyone), and someone who even teaches him things. you bond over your love of literature and trade interpretations
⋆.˚ he LOVES trying to make you smile. you've garnered a bit of a reputation for having a perpetually straight face so making you break is his favourite thing ever
⋆.˚ you share your little nerd shows with each other
⋆.˚ you love travelling together, especially going to historical sights. your honeymoon would totally be to somewhere like the colosseum or the arcopolis of athens
⋆.˚ would compete over who could figure out the unsub. it was an unspoken rule, but you both knew it existed
⋆.˚ you can exist in very comfortable silences with him. there's never the need to some empty space, because he never made you feel as though your mere presence wasn't enough
summary: deciding to act on penelope’s advice, you go out for drinks with friends.
relationship: spencer reid x fem!reader
genre: comedy (?) (idk it’s not really fluff or anything)
word count: 2.7k
tags: spencer is *not* in this chapter, it’s purely for plot development, introducing some ocs because reader is a social butterfly and friends with everyone, oc being a yucky alpha male, he misgenders other oc, best friend banter, sexual references (not explicit though), VERY dialogue-heavy chapter
author’s note: first time writing ocs for cm fics, this is so wild
A few weeks later, you’re having a much-needed night out with your favorite people: Elsie, your next-door neighbor, and Cam, Elsie’s college roommate. The two of them are your closest friends outside of the BAU, and have been by your side since you first moved to the DC area several years ago. Naturally, they know all about your recent breakup, and you’ve just filled them in on Penelope’s advice.
In the weeks since you and Spencer split, he’s clearly been attempting to orchestrate some divine intervention to talk to you. It obviously wasn’t coincidental that Hotch had you both working on the geographical profile the day after you caught Pen up to speed; you had left her lair, only to find Spencer and Morgan conspiring in the bullpen.
It’s pretty obvious that Spencer would like to win you back, what with the constant coffee deliveries to your desk, the incessant texts, and the mischievous plotting that results in sitting next to you on the jet. Perhaps someone else might see all his efforts as romantic, but from where you’re standing, you see every little action as confirmation of your suspicions. Spencer is terrified of being alone, and is only desperate to have you by his side once more for his own needs. The more you sit with Garcia’s (questionable) advice, the more tempted you become to leave Spencer in the dust and enjoy your newfound freedom.
You’re snapped out of your thoughts as Elsie tosses her blonde locks over one shoulder. She leans over the table and declares conspiratorially, “I gotta say, I like this Garcia gal. When are you ever gonna introduce us?”
You scoff, pressing two fingers to Elsie’s forehead and lightly shoving her back into her seat. “So you can proposition her? Never.”
It’s a well-known fact by practically anyone who knows Elsie that she’s very sex-positive. If anyone can offer you some sage advice about initiating a casual relationship, it’s her. You love her exactly how she is, but you’re not about to throw Garcia to the proverbial wolves when you consider the possibility of the two of them together to be chaos incarnate. In your humble opinion, Elsie’s much better off flirting with someone you don’t consider a good friend.
Elsie gapes at you in exaggerated offense. “I resent that!” She slaps a hand over her heart for dramatic effect, but quickly relents and ducks her head to sip her drink. Waving a hand dismissively, she says, “She sounds fun, is all.” Then, because she can’t resist showing her interest, she throws in, “You should invite her out with us sometime.”
“I’ll think about it,” you say flatly, not even remotely trying to sound genuine.
“Like you’re gonna think about her advice, right?” Cam pipes up from the corner of the booth. There’s a tinge of excitement in their voice, and they watch you expectantly over the edge of their glass as they take a long sip of some alcohol-slash-Cherry Coke concoction.
You gape at them. “Since when are you Team Throw-Yourself-At-The-Closest-Person?”
“Since you wasted almost an entire year on Mr. Commitment Issues,” Cam quickly retorts. You offer them a flat stare, causing them to wriggle under your gaze. Shifting in their seat, they tuck a thick curl behind their ear and declare, “I just think Penelope has a point. It could be fun to explore something casual for a little bit before jumping into the next like, big thing. You’re young, what’s the rush to get tied down?”
“The rush is that I don’t do hookups,” you argue firmly.
Elsie makes a disbelieving expression and tuts, “Never say never.” She points a finger in your direction as she pipes up, and you swat at her hand, coaxing an amused huff out of her.
Cam nods sagely, as if they’re a regular on the dating scene. In reality, they’ve been with their girlfriend for over two years, but that doesn’t stop them from musing, “Yeah, there’s plenty of fish in the sea. Plenty of horny fish. You would have no shortage of interest if you wanted to try it.”
“I cannot believe you guys are all for this,” you say incredulously. Admittedly, you had been entertaining the idea, but having your friends’ support feels like permission to actually try it. Something about sleeping around is simultaneously thrilling and horrifying, though maybe it wouldn’t be the worst idea to date casually before jumping into another serious relationship… You shiver, confessing, “I would feel so… slutty.”
“We’re just trying to welcome you to the twenty-first century,” Elsie playfully admonishes. She reaches across the table, grasping one of your hands between hers as if she’s about to deliver a harsh truth. “There’s no shame in having a little fun. Flirting with hot people is fun. Sex is fun. Have fun.”
Patting your hand in tender encouragement, she pulls away.
You worry your bottom lip as you contemplate their suggestion. Draining the last of your drink, you say softly, “I guess I can think about it.”
Cam nods, a satisfied smirk crossing their face. Suddenly, they rise from the booth as they suggest, “Don’t think too hard.” They ruffle your hair before collecting the empty glasses from the table. “You’ll hurt your gorgeous genius brain, and the only pain it should be feeling is with a hangover tomorrow.” They pop a hip, shooting you a pointed look.
A tentative smile parts your lips as you tease, “Only if you’re buying.”
“But of course, milady,” Cam confirms, offering a deep curtsy before they straighten and angle themselves toward the bar. “BRB.”
As they depart, Elsie turns to you and announces, “I’m gonna use this little intermission to go pee.” As she slides out of her seat, she croons, “Don’t miss me too much!”
The transition from their interrogation to the abrupt silence in the booth threatens to give you whiplash. You breathe out a heavy sigh, relaxing back into the plush seat as your mind replays the past several minutes of conversation.
It isn’t long before a familiar, deep voice is interrupting your thoughts. “I thought that was you sitting here all alone.”
Your head snaps up, and you’re met with the sight of your longtime friend, Harrison. It’s been a long while since you’ve seen him in-person, and you’d be lying if you said he didn’t look really damn good. You had always known him to be attractive, ever since you first met in undergrad, but this was more of a fact than a personal observation. With his sharp jawline, towering height, and perfectly white smile, anyone can see that he’s a gorgeous man. You’ve never felt any sort of romantic pull toward him, but it feels something like fate that he’s appeared moments after the whole “fish in the sea” conversation.
“Hi, Har,” you greet him, the warmth of the alcohol in your system bringing an easy smile to your face.
“Hi,” he echoes, returning your smile. He juts his chin toward the empty seat across from you and asks, “Mind if I sit?”
“Go for it,” you affirm.
As he sits, he slides a tall glass in your direction. Noticing your furrowed brow, he clarifies, “This was for one of my buddies, but it looks like you could use it.”
You use the tip of your index finger to gently push the drink back toward him. “You don’t have to entertain me,” you assure him, “I’m here with friends.”
Harrison blinks at you before assessing the otherwise empty booth with an amused smirk. He makes an exaggerated show of glancing around the bar before joking, “...Imaginary friends?”
“Bar and bathroom,” you clarify simply, hiking a thumb over your shoulder in the direction of the restroom.
“Ah,” Harrison acknowledges your explanation with an understanding nod. Clasping his hands on the table, he says decidedly, “Well, I can keep you company till they get back. How are you?”
“Good,” you reply distractedly. While you’re well aware that it’s rude to not offer him your undivided attention, your mind can’t seem but help wandering back to your conversation with your friends. Your stomach twists as Harrison flashes a bright smile at your response, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d mistake that twist as a pang of lust.
“Good,” he echoes in answer. Cocking his head, he asks, “How are things with, uh… what’s his name?”
You’re pretty sure that Harrison has liked every social media post you’ve ever made that included your now ex-boyfriend, so it seems a bit strange that he wouldn’t remember his name. He’s usually good about recalling even the most minute details of your life.
“Spencer,” you offer, his name tasting bitter on your tongue. Readjusting in your seat, you vaguely respond, “They’re… fine.”
“Just fine?” Harrison asks, quirking a brow. With a dramatic sigh, he quips, “Uh-oh.”
You’re not sure why you feel so ashamed to admit that things have ended between you and Spencer. It’s not that speaking it aloud would make it more permanent; you’ve already etched your current predicament in stone by discussing it with Penelope and your other friends. Yet there’s something seemingly monumental about telling this to Harrison, of all people. Ripping off the Band-Aid, you announce, “We broke up.”
Harrison’s eyebrows lift in a surprised expression. Immediately, he says, “Damn, that sucks,” though he doesn’t sound all too sympathetic. With another smirk, he offers, “Need me to kick his ass for you?”
You stifle a laugh, appreciating his protective sentiment but finding the concept of them fighting in your name absolutely absurd. You wave a hand dismissively, declaring, “That’s alright.”
Someone approaches the table, and you don’t have to look up to know that it’s Cam, returning with your drinks. They loudly clear their throat, pinning Harrison with an unimpressed, flat look. If he can sense the agitation radiating off of them, he doesn’t let on. Instead, he greets them with a casual, “Oh, hey. Cameron, right?”
“Uh-huh,” Cam mumbles, paying practically no attention to Harrison as they turn to you and ask, “Where’s Elsie?”
Your gaze flits between your two friends. The animosity between them is blatantly obvious, though you’ve never seen Cam so outwardly annoyed by his presence. You know that they’re not his biggest fan, but they’ve never really offered more of an explanation for their disgust than the fact that he’s a “typical member of the male species”.
“Bathroom,” you answer. “Are you gonna sit—”
Before you can finish your inquiry, Cam places the drinks on the table and turns on their heels. “I’ll go check on her,” they announce before making a beeline for the closed restroom door.
Cam is halfway across the room, a distant mass of black clothing and studded jewelry, before you’ve processed their sudden exit. You breathe, “O-okay,” before turning back to face Harrison.
“I don’t think she likes me very much,” he notes, a hint of humor glittering in his dark eyes.
“They,” you correct instinctively.
“Right,” Harrison murmurs. He doesn’t sound particularly apologetic for his blunder, but it’s not really like him to be easily embarrassed by that kind of slip-up. “They. They are not my biggest fan.”
You shrug, reaching for your new drink as you nonchalantly say, “I dunno, I don’t think—”
“Harrison!” Elsie’s voice cuts across the few feet that separate her from your booth. She quickly closes the distance and slaps her hands down on the table, fixing a saccharine smile on her lips. “So good to see you.” She nods at the booth. “Thanks for keeping my seat warm.”
Harrison offers a tiny smile, nonplussed by her assertive dismissal. “Sure thing.” He slides out of the seat, gesturing for Elsie and Cam to replace him in the booth. He nods at them before turning his attention back to you. “Nice to see y’all,” he says, lightly brushing past Elsie on his way back over to his friends.
Cam plops back down in the booth as Elsie glares over her shoulder, pretending to pick lint (or Harrison cooties, perhaps?) off her light blue dress.
“‘Y’all’?” Elsie mocks, shaking her head as she looks back at the two of you. She joins Cam on their side of the booth and questions, “What’s with the Southern charm bullshit? He’s from California.”
Cam snorts, “What did y’all talk about?”
“Not much,” you shrug, feeling a bit defensive as you add, “he just asked how I was.”
“What an ass,” Cam huffs, sweeping their fresh glass into their grip.
You blink, scrunching your brow as you ask them, “What… is that not a normal question?”
Cam has just taken a generous gulp of their drink, and Elsie is clearly too impatient to wait for them to speak, so she pipes up, “It’s the way he was probably asking it.” Let me guess: ‘Oh, it’s so nice to bump into you here. What a coinkydink. I totally didn’t come here knowing it’s your favorite bar or anything. How’s that twink boyfriend of yours? Have I ever mentioned that you would be much better off with a real man like me? I can bench, like, a lot. Wanna see my muscles?’”
“No, none of that!” you exclaim indignantly. With a surprised chuckle, you inquire, “Why do you make him out to be some kind of stalker?”
“She’s totally right!” Cam sputters, having barely swallowed the fizzy liquid in their glass. “He definitely keeps tabs on you. How do you not realize that he’s obsessed with you?”
“Because he’s not,” you retort incredulously. “We’re friends.”
“Mhm, best friends,” Elsie adds with an intense eye roll. She pointedly stares at you, raising a brow as she asks, “You’re telling me he didn’t even ask about S-P-E-N-C-E-R?” She props an elbow on the table, resting her chin in her hand as she knowingly awaits a response.
You shrink a little under her scrutiny, replying, “Well, he did, but he was just being polite.”
“Right,” Cam nods, pretending to be serious. Flatly, they muse, “Small talk before he tries to jump into your pants is very cordial.”
You laugh, the sound a bit breathy. You don’t believe a word they’re saying, but the thought that someone as attractive as Harrison might genuinely be interested in you is kind of exciting. It’s clearly the alcohol talking here; you value your friendship with him too much to seriously consider him as a potential suitor. Still, you find yourself asking, “What if he does like me? Is that such a bad thing?”
Pouting, Elsie complains, “Babe, he’s an airhead. You’re a doctor. Please have some more self-respect.”
“Weren’t you just telling me to have some fun?” you ask. You’re vaguely aware of how defensive you sound, but somehow during this conversation, standing up for Harrison became entwined with the whole concept of pursuing something casual. You continue, “The flirting, the sex? I doubt most people in here have a PhD. Respectfully.”
Cam drags a painted nail through the condensation on their cup as they argue, “But… he has more abs than brain cells.”
“Be nice,” you chide, floundering in an attempt to redirect the conversation. The longer you linger on thoughts of him, the harder it becomes to untangle yourself from the desire prying into your mind.
“Fine,” Elsie sighs. Throwing her hands up in surrender, she asserts, “I support women’s rights and wrongs. If you want a piece of that, I will not stop you.” She looks across the bar, muttering with disdain, “He is, tragically, insanely hot.”
“I didn’t say I wanted to hook up with him,” you say, though you pretty much did say exactly that.
“Not with your lips, but with your eyes,” Cam purrs, pointing at you accusingly.
“Okay, yeah, he’s attractive,” you relent. “Sue me.”
“If you even think about sending him a signal, he’s gonna take you home,” Elsie warns. Despite her blessing, she clearly prefers that you find someone else.
“Enough, I get it!” you squeak. “I’m not gonna flirt with him. Recipe for disaster.”
You take a hefty gulp of alcohol, resisting the temptation to look over your shoulder at Harrison. You’ll set your sights elsewhere, but as far as you’re concerned, Garcia’s advice is about to turn into a full-fledged course of action.
It’s time to get over Spencer Reid, once and for all.
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