Nothing good starts in a getaway car ᝰ Spencer Reid X Reader
Summary:Madeline and Spencer meet at an N.A. meeting and, almost without realizing it, extend their encounter beyond what was expected. Between sincere conversations, lighthearted moments, and small confidences, the two begin to build a connection based on understanding and companionship. By the end of the night, it's clear that this meeting wasn't just a passing thing—it was the beginning of something that will deepen.
word count: 4.0K
Pt.1, Pt., Pt.3
I take a deep breath and put my head in my hands. I don't pay attention to the music playing softly on the radio beside me, only to my trembling leg and the Narcotics Anonymous leaflet on my thigh.
I thought about it over and over again.
There are people in there who need more help than I do.
I was the idiot for trying it the first time.
They need this support more than I do.
They—
I don't have time to finish my thought. I scream and throw myself against the leather seat before looking out the window and seeing a man standing there with a guilty look.
"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to scare you, I swear! I'm really sorry, if you want I can leave!" He points to the path right behind him.
"It's okay, I was just unprepared. Can I help you?" I take a deep breath and take the opportunity to lower the window further.
"Well, this might sound strange, but I saw you here alone and thought you might be going to N.A." He gripped the handles of the briefcase he carried on his thin shoulders.
"I...I'm still thinking about whether I'll go, I'm not sure." I lowered my head and moved my hands together.
"You can go just today, and if you don't like it, you can just not come back. They really value our comfort, and you don't even have to give your name if you don't want to." I smiled; he seemed excited talking about it.
"I just think the people there need that support more than I do." I shrugged and crossed my arms.
"I thought so too. Sorry if I'm bothering you. I'm going in. You can go anytime you're ready." He smiled and gave me a confused goodbye, entering the gym.
Okay, it can't be that bad.
I enter the gym and see a circle of chairs, with some people sitting, including the guy who had spoken to me.
I try to avoid eye contact and sit in the last chair.
"Well, we're all here, let's begin! Any volunteers?" the meeting facilitator sits in a central chair with a welcoming smile.
"I can go!" A man around 40 years old raises his hand and the facilitator nods for him to start.
"Hello everyone! My name is Richard!" He waves and everyone responds with a "Hello" in chorus.
During Richard's story, I can feel the guy who spoke to me in the car watching me from afar, but looking away when I look back at him.
“Thank you for sharing, Richard! Congratulations on your courage! Anyone else?” The conductor seems to look directly at me, but disguises it well. I take a deep breath and use all my courage to raise my arm. She nods for me to begin.
“Hi,” I wave quickly.
“My name is Madeline, this is my first time here,” everyone responds with a “Welcome, Madeline!”
“I… I still don’t know if I can talk about this openly, but I was an addict. I used it for the first time on the recommendation of a college friend; she said she had some pills that would help me with my final exams, and I accepted. A short time later, I couldn’t go a single day sober.” I try to stop my leg from shaking, but my hands play with the hem of my skirt, and my mind is still a little foggy.
“What made you realize what was happening to your life, Madeline?” the conductor asks me.
"I overdosed. The doctors said they didn't know how I was still alive, and I saw this as a way to change everything. I graduated from college a few weeks ago and I'm starting a new job on Monday. But... I still feel the urge, that voice that whispers in the hardest moments, that if I use, everything will pass, even if only for a moment."The other participants look at me with almost the same look. Not a judgmental look, a look that understood everything I was going through.
They celebrate with some applause and manage to elicit a shy smile from me.
Other people give their accounts of how they are overcoming their stories, and an hour or two later, everyone finishes. Some don't give their accounts, but they applaud or offer words of support to those who do.
The chairs begin to be stacked little by little, the sound of metal echoing through the almost empty gymnasium. Madeline remains seated for a few more seconds, watching people say goodbye with shy hugs and tired smiles, heading towards a table with snacks, juices, and coffee. I take a deep breath before getting up, wondering whether or not to get a cup of coffee, which at that moment, just the smell of it relieves the weight on my shoulders. I take slow steps to the coffee maker and grab a half-full cup. Black coffee, no sugar.
“You were very brave,” the voice comes from beside me, too low to be intrusive.
I turn slowly. It’s the man from the window. Now closer, I notice his overly attentive eyes, as if he were always excessively analyzing the world.
“I don’t know if I felt very brave, I just… realized that these people have problems like mine.” He nods slowly, as if mentally organizing each word before agreeing.
“That’s quite something,” he says. “Taking years to realize that is also common.” He pauses briefly. “It took me a while.”
I hold the coffee cup with both hands, more to have something to rest my fingers on than because of the heat.
“Have you been coming here for a long time?” I ask.
“Long enough to know where the chairs that creak the least are.” He smiles slightly, eliciting a small smile from me. “Spencer. Spencer Reid.”
“Madeline Carter,” I reply, and the name sounds different when spoken aloud there. He nods and starts making coffee, adding a generous amount of sugar.
"Are you leaving now?" he asks, too quickly, and then seems to regret it. "I mean, no pressure, of course."
I take my eyes off the extremely sweet coffee in his hands.
I look around the almost empty gym. The fluorescent lights no longer seem as welcoming as before.
"I was going to…" I begin, but stop. "Actually, I didn't want to go straight home."
"Me neither," he says sincerely. "Sometimes, after the meeting, the silence in the apartment gets too loud."
The sentence seems to hit me with a different weight.
"I brought my car," I say, before thinking too much. "If you want… we can go for a drive. I was going to a bar on Fifth Avenue, you can come with me if you want."
"Are you sure? We've only known each other for a few hours, I could be a psychopath," he says too quickly.
“If you were a psychopath, you wouldn’t tell me this,” I joke, nodding for him to follow me.
The parking lot is almost empty when we arrive. I open the car and get into the driver’s seat. He sits next to me with exaggerated attention, as if trying to occupy as little space as possible.
“So…you said you recently finished college, what did you major in?” He shifts his attention between the road and my face. I start the car before answering, more out of habit than nervousness.
“Psychology,” I say. “Focusing on human behavior, you know, forensics.”
He nods, interested but holding back.
“You seem like the type of person who would go to college for something that seeks to understand and help people,” he gestures a lot with his hands.
“You’re quite intelligent, Mr. Reid,” I joke, and follow the directions to the bar.
“I have doctorates in mathematics, chemistry, and engineering, and bachelor’s degrees in psychology, sociology, and philosophy.” I look at him smiling, searching for any sign that it was a joke, but his face was serious and proud of his long resume.
“I hope I never have to compete with you for a job.”
He blinks a few times, clearly trying to understand if it was a joke or a comment too serious for that time of night.
“Statistically speaking, the chances are low,” he replies after a second. “But… I hope so too.”
I give a short laugh, shaking my head.
I park in front of the bar and turn off the car. The music leaks softly through the walls, mixed with the smell of beer, old wood, and cigarettes, along with the voices and laughter of the few people who were in a bar on a Tuesday night. A man sat alone at the bar, a trio of friends celebrated something in one corner, and a couple argued in another. Spencer and I walked past the seated man, and I'm almost certain I heard him crying. We sat at a table away from two upholstered stools.
"So," he began, carefully resting his elbows, "what made you choose forensic psychology?"
"I've always had a need to help people, I mean, not just people, even animals. Countless times I've made my father take home an injured cat or a bird with a broken wing. Everyone thought I'd go into medicine, but I thought it was better to take care of the pain that no one sees in people." He listened attentively to my words, seeming moved by them.
"Most people choose to treat the visible wound, the bleeding, but most are also afraid to know what's inside the human mind." His shoulders were relaxed, much calmer than when I first met him. “You seem to know a lot about this subject.” Before we could continue the conversation, a waiter arrived to take our orders. A non-alcoholic cranberry drink for me and an Italian soda with blackberry jam, which Spencer ordered after asking for extra sugar.
When the waiter walked away, he looked back at me, his curiosity now calmer, less defensive.
His eyes crinkled as he looked at the wall I was leaning against.
"Maddye☆" was written on the old wood, looking like it had been carved with a knife.
“It’s not my first time in this bar, and in my defense, I was 16 when I wrote that.” He smiled and playfully raised his hands.
“When the newbie told me you were here, I could hardly believe it!” The pot-bellied old man in a lemon apron interrupted the conversation.
“Hi Hank, long time no see.” I gave his heavy hand a light punch.
"You were a little kid who scribbled all over my menu when you went to college, and now you're almost an adult." He raises his hand above his head and teases me about my height.
"Have some manners, you grumpy old man!" I tease him.
"And look what we have here. You're not Georgina." Hank looks Spencer up and down.
"I don't think so." The boy jokes.
“He’s a friend, Hank. Don’t try to scare him with that ridiculous mustache and just bring our drinks,” the grumpy man says, rolling his eyes as he leaves.
“I’ve been coming here since I was a kid, this old man is a childhood friend of my dad’s,” Spencer observes the scene with a mixture of curiosity and discreet delight. He glances back at the crooked inscription on the wall, then at me, as if trying to piece together different versions of the same person.
“He’s… intense,” he comments, choosing his word carefully.
“Is that the polite way to say grumpy?” I joke, watching the old man making the drinks.
He lets out a low, surprised laugh, as if he hadn’t expected to laugh so easily.
“I was going to say protective,” he replies. “The kind who observes a lot, even while pretending not to care.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “He’s always been like that with me, and I’ve seen him break the nose of a guy who was bothering a woman.”
He nods slowly, understanding more than he asks. Before I can say anything, Hank returns, balancing the glasses with surprising skill for someone who grumbles so much. He sets the drinks down on the table with a light thud.
"Here you go. Sour red for you," he points at me, "and too sweet for you," he pushes the glass toward Spencer. "If you complain, I'll do worse next time."
"Thank you," Spencer replies, overly polite, as if he were speaking to an academic authority and not a bar owner in a stained apron.
Hank stares at him for another second, then gives a wry smile, leaving satisfied.
"He limps quite a bit," Spencer watches him go back behind the bar.
"That's the end of the story with the guy bothering the girl," he pauses for a moment and finally understands what I meant.
"You don't talk much about your life," I take a sip of the citrus drink and grab some shriveled peanuts from the jar on each table.
“She’s not interesting.” He takes a deep breath before continuing, as if carefully choosing how much to divide
“I was a… different child,” he begins, with a crooked half-smile. “Very intelligent, according to the adults. But that doesn’t mean it was easy. I didn’t know how to fit in. The other children thought it was strange that I preferred books to games, or corrected teachers without realizing it bothered them.”
He shrugs, downplaying something that clearly weighed on him.
“My parents…” he hesitates for a second. “They did the best they could. My father didn’t handle it all very well. He left early. My mother… she always tried to protect me, but the world was too heavy for her.”
“Today I have some people,” he adds, more quietly. “Friends. They help me when my head gets too noisy. I wouldn’t be who I am without them.”
“That makes your life interesting.” He looks at me, surprised, as if he’s not used to hearing that.
“You think so?”
"I think difficult stories are usually the ones that matter the most. They shape us, and we have reasons to become bad people to compensate, but by acknowledging what we've been through, we shape our future for the better." I shrug and he nods in agreement.
I break the almost awkward silence that settles in.
“Okay,” I say, lightly tapping my glass on the table. “Discussion officially closed before we start analyzing childhood traumas with bar napkins.” Spencer blinks, caught off guard. Then he lets out a short, genuine laugh, the kind that seems to escape before he can contain it.
“I completely agree. This environment doesn’t seem… clinically appropriate.”
“Exactly.” I point around. “Shriveled peanuts, loud music, and a guy limping behind the bar don’t inspire much emotional security.” He looks at the jar of peanuts, picks one up, examines it with exaggerated seriousness, and puts it back.
“Statistically, these peanuts have seen too much.”
“You just turned a collective trauma into a scientific analysis of peanuts.”
“It’s a gift,” he replies, feigning pride. Spencer takes another sip of the overly sweet drink and makes a dramatic face.
“I think I overdid it on the sugar.”
“You asked for extra sugar.”
"Yes, but I didn't consider the long-term consequences."
"Come on, let's switch—I pull out my glass and hand him mine, grabbing another straw and taking a full gulp."
"I can feel the sugar crystals—I run my tongue over the roof of my mouth, feeling the grains scratch my throat."
He drinks the citrusy beverage and makes another face.
"I think I need a middle ground between the drinks"He pushes the glass back and grabs a handful of peanuts.
"I'm sure Hank put more sugar than you ordered, but I can't prove it"I half-close my eyes, looking behind the counter.
I turn my gaze to Spencer, who was staring at me with a smile.
"What's wrong?"I ask accusingly.
"Nothing"He throws his head aside and takes his drink back.
The music changes to something louder, and the bar begins to fill up little by little. Laughter gets louder, chairs are dragged, voices overlap. The place is losing that almost intimate atmosphere that existed just for the two of us.
"Okay," I say, looking around. "Before this place officially becomes an overly lively Tuesday night bar… I think we should go."
Spencer follows my gaze, clearly noticing the change in the atmosphere.
"I agree," he says. "Noisy environments drastically reduce my ability to formulate coherent sentences."
"I noticed," I joke, getting up. "You become even more of a nerd."
"Was that possible?"
"Apparently yes, but I like nerds"—He blushes at my comment, but turns his head away to avoid me noticing.
We went to the bar and Spencer takes his wallet out of his pocket.
"Oh no, I brought you here, so I'll pay, and if you complain, Hank will show you how he got that crooked leg he has"—He puts his wallet back in his pocket, shyly.
I grab two bills and place them on the counter in front of Hank.
"Keep that money, girl, I already owe your father too much." He hands the bills back to me. I roll my eyes and look at the waiter who was cleaning the counter.
"Hey!" I call his attention. He couldn't be more than 20 years old. I put the bills in front of him and leave with Spencer behind me.
"I'll take you home, it's late."
Spencer hesitates for a second, as if he were going to refuse out of pure reflex, but ends up nodding.
"Thank you," he says, adjusting his backpack on his shoulder. "I... really appreciate it."
The bar door closes behind us, muffling the music and voices. The cold night air hits our faces, cleaner, quieter. We walk side by side to the car, our steps out of rhythm, but curiously comfortable.
I unlock the doors and get in first. Spencer sits in the passenger seat, fastening his seatbelt with the exaggerated care of someone who doesn't want to do anything wrong. I start the car, and the dashboard illuminates the interior in soft shades of red.
"Can I open the sunroof?" I ask, my hand already on the button.
"Sure," he replies, sounding genuinely excited.
The sunroof opens with a low noise, letting the night in. The sky is dark and clear, and the fresh air fills the car. I start the engine and drive down the almost empty street, the lampposts passing by at a pace too slow to prompt any conversation.
Spencer rests his head on the headrest, eyes half-closed, feeling the wind.
"This is… unexpectedly relaxing," he comments.
"It's my alternative therapy," I say. "Driving without a fixed destination, low music, and wind in my face."
"That makes sense," he replies. "Statistically, it reduces anxiety by… well, quite a bit."
"You know you have to, like, give me your address, right?" I stop at a red light while he laughs, entering the address from the car's GPS.
The light stays red for a few seconds longer than necessary. Spencer is still smiling when he finishes typing the address, as if he's laughing more at his own distraction than at the joke.
“Okay,” he says, fitting his cell phone into the dashboard holder. “Important logistical detail. I almost forgot.”
“I figured,” I reply, pulling away as the light turns green. “You seem like the type of person who would easily get lost in thought.”
“It happens with worrying frequency,” he admits, looking at the open sky above us. “But… I wouldn’t mind getting lost today.”
I glance at him quickly before turning back onto the street.
“Lucky for you I like detours.”
The music begins with soft, rhythmic, steady beats, filling the silence without invading it.
"One night, a few moons ago
I saw flecks of what could’ve been lights"
The wind enters through the sunroof, lightly ruffling his hair. Spencer closes his eyes for a moment, then opens them again, as if trying to memorize the sensation.
The city grows quieter as we drive on. The streets narrow, the buildings get lower, the lights more spaced out. The GPS announces the final turns with a voice too neutral for the gentleness of that moment.
I slow down as I enter the indicated block. Spencer's building appears discreetly, simple facade, few lit windows. I park near the entrance and turn off the car, but I don't immediately make a move to get out. The engine silences, the music continues softly for a few seconds before disappearing as well.
"But it might just have been you
Passing by unbeknownst to me"
The sunroof is still open. The cold wind enters more restrained now.
" It's here" — he says, pointing to the glass door. It doesn't sound like haste. Just an observation.
" It's beautiful " I reply, without knowing exactly why.
He smiles slightly, picks up his backpack and opens the door. I do the same. The air outside is colder than inside the car. We stand side by side for a moment, as if neither of us is sure how to end this.
"Life is emotionally abusive
And time can't stop me quite like you did"
"Thank you for the ride "he says sincerely. " And for the return trip.
"Thank you for agreeing" I reply. I take two steps back, then stop.
"Hey… wait."He turns around.
"Can I have your number?"The question comes out simply, without dramatization. Even so, he blinks once, surprised, and then smiles, an open, easy smile.
"Sure."He takes his cell phone, dictates the number too slowly, as if he wanted to make sure I would write it down correctly. I type, check, save. The name stays on the screen for a second longer than necessary.
"Done" I say. "Now you won't disappear."
"That wasn't in the plans" he replies.
We stare at each other for a short, comfortable moment. No promises. No rush.
"And my flight was awful, thanks for asking
I'm unglued, thanks to you"
"Good night, Maddie."
"Good night, Doctor."
"And it's like snow at the beach
Weird but fuckin' beautiful"
He enters the building. I wait until the door closes before returning to the car. I start the engine, close the sunroof, and only then do I notice the smile that remained on my face.
The journey back seems shorter. And, for the first time in a long time, arriving home doesn't feel like the end of something, but the beginning of something new.
Are we falling like snow at the beach?